‘I came here looking for my mother,’ she says. ‘I have information, but I need more.’ She is bold now, moving in front of him, blocking his exit. ‘Tell me about Connie. Connie Littleton. She disappeared in 1964 – ran away to Paris and never came back, even missed her father’s funeral. Only I don’t believe she ever went. I don’t believe she would have just left me.’

‘You.’ He wipes his face with the handkerchief.

‘She was my mother.’

He shakes his head. ‘You are deluded.’

‘I have a letter to prove it.’

‘Prove it,’ he says quietly.

She is not sure if he is throwing down a challenge or whether he is simply repeating her words. She exhales slowly.

He speaks again. ‘You are out of your depth and should leave.’

Is he threatening her? She straightens, planting herself more firmly in his path.

‘It would be better if you moved,’ he says.

‘First, I want to know what happened to my mother.’

‘What makes you think I can help you with that?’

He is still water, she thinks suddenly – dead and quiet on the surface while underneath there’s a mass of dangerous currents and tangled weeds. She wants to take a stick and stir things up.

‘You knew her,’ she says, finally answering his question.

His expression is impassive.

‘Did you know that she was pregnant?’

He glances towards the door. There are familiar sounds, the sigh of the house, the creak of the stairs. Marina looks too and then back at Kenneth.

His face is hard and she feels a shiver of fear, despite his age.

‘You should go.’

‘I won’t.’ She steps forward, her face close to his. ‘I told you. I have proof that Connie was my mother and I’m not leaving until I know what happened to her.’

He looks at her, eyes flashing. Marina remembers what Victor said about him. Kenneth is racked with guilt. Anger too.

‘And I told you,’ he says slowly, ‘that it would be better for you to leave. Yet here you are still.’ He thumps his cane in time to his words.

‘Victor told me about the money.’

He is silent.

‘Did she take it? Is that why you’re so angry?’

He recoils. She has hit a nerve.

She goads him. ‘She was young, wasn’t she? How could you let someone so young get the better of you?’

He shakes his head. ‘You don’t understand.’

She grabs his arm, pulling him back. ‘Explain then.’

Her touch ignites him. Suddenly he snaps and pushes her away. She takes a step backwards, colliding with the sofa.

‘I gave you a chance,’ he says, ‘an opportunity to go without fuss. Get out of my house now or . . .’

‘What?’