A crow calls. Marina glances up as it flies from the roof of the church. Still curious, she crosses to where the flowers lie, and kneels on the ground. Ivy and something that might be bindweed reaches from the wall, curtaining the earth. Gently, she sweeps the plants aside and there, right at the back, she finds a tiny wooden cross. She leans back, frowning. It must be a pet. Yes. A beloved pet that Dorothy has buried. How complex she is. A woman estranged from her son, and seemingly utterly without charm or warmth, yet she cherishes her cat or dog or whatever else it is hidden beneath this earth.

Impulsively, Marina leans forward and takes the cross from the ground. No name. No date. It is simply two small pieces of wood nailed together. Not much of a marking for a grave. She replaces it gently.

Sardine appears as Marina steps into the main part of the garden. He winds around her legs and she stoops to stroke his fur. Ahead of her the house looms darkly.

She has made up her mind. She will go straight to Dorothy and ask her what she knows.

But Kenneth Quip is at the foot of the front steps when Marina rounds the corner. He wears the same dark and shapeless suit that he wore before, and has a battered briefcase clamped beneath one arm. If anything, his body is more wasted than it was last time Marina saw him. He is unshaven and his eyes are bloodshot. He looks like a man who hasn’t slept.

At last, Marina thinks, he has come. Dorothy can wait. Now she will question Kenneth.

‘Are you here to fix the boiler?’ she says, innocently.

He stares back at her and bows his head.

It starts to rain. ‘Shall we go inside?’

He bows his head again.

She leads the way. It’s as cold inside as it is out. Behind her, Kenneth closes the front door and the hall descends into darkness.

33

Connie

5–7 August 1964

Another day passed. Connie lay fretfully in the darkened room, but she was resolved. She was going to leave for Paris as she had originally intended. It would be a struggle, she knew that – she was still bone-tired and sore, and so far she’d barely left the room, let alone the house. Travelling across London and then on to Paris with a newborn child was insanity – but Connie had no choice. She couldn’t risk whatever it was that Dorothy was planning.

Dorothy had said nothing more about adoption. Perhaps she had changed her mind. Sometimes, Connie caught her looking at Sarah with a fixedness, a fascination. Yet that afternoon, Connie had woken to hear voices outside the room. Barbara again. Panicking, she had struggled upright, but her daughter was still asleep on her makeshift bed on the floor.