It was hard to wash and dress with the pain gripping her insides. Connie gritted her teeth, moving clumsily, fixing her make-up with shaking hands. In the living room, she sat for a moment, recovering, before wrapping Sarah in the blue shawl. She soothed her, fed her and, when she was ready to go, her eyes lit on the money that Victor had given her. She would take it to the basement, put it into his post box. She had Sarah now and wanted nothing to do with his dirty cash.

Opening the door, she heard the tip-tap of a stick. Kenneth. Hastily, she stepped back inside. The tapping paused on the landing. She held her breath. A minute more and he carried on, doing his rounds. Tip-tap up the second flight of stairs and all the way back down.

Voices in the hall. Kenneth had been joined by Victor. Her heart sank. How would she get past them? At last, she heard a slam. They had gone. She must get out of this house, or else she never would.

Mrs Kolinski was playing the piano. The familiarity of the music gave Connie courage. Wincing, she picked up her suitcase, slung her bag over her shoulder and, with Sarah clasped to her chest, stepped onto the landing. There was a noise above her. She looked up. Little Eva in her purple dress, on the stairs, clutching her doll. Connie waved and then she put her finger to her lips.

Setting the suitcase on the floor and turning to lock the door, she rummaged in her pocket for her key. No luck. Feeling hot, she put Sarah down inside the flat, to the side, hiding her from view. She searched her bag. She plucked out her purse, her passport, the ticket. Nothing. Any minute Dorothy would be back. She’d stop her from leaving. Maybe she’d come with Barbara and the couple who wanted to steal Sarah.

Sweat dripped down Connie’s side. She scrabbled through her things. Almost crying, she pulled out the bank notes. No key.

And then she heard a voice.

‘Connie. Where are you going?’

She swung round. Kenneth. At least it wasn’t Dorothy. She leaned against the doorpost.

He was staring at her, his eyes travelling from the suitcase to her face, to the money in her hand. Slowly she tucked it into her pocket. Please God he hadn’t realised.

‘What’s that you’re hiding?’

‘Nothing.’

His eyes hardened. ‘Is it money?’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Your father owes me rent and you’re running around with that?’ His face darkened. ‘It’s not mine, is it?’

She stared back at him.

‘Have you stolen it?’

‘No, I . . .’ She stopped. What excuse did she have?

He raised his voice, spoke deliberately. ‘All this time I’ve been searching for intruders and the little thief has been right here, under my very nose.’