‘Well, yes. Flat 2.’ She holds out the letter from the estate agent as if to prove it.

‘Flat 2,’ he parrots. ‘But that flat . . .’ He stops, scratches his head.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, it’s empty.’

‘I should hope so.’ A light-hearted approach seems the best way to deal with this man who is looking at her as if she’s travelled in time.

‘I mean . . . it hasn’t been lived in for months. And months.’ He stops again, flustered.

‘It’s all right,’ says Marina. ‘I’ve seen the state of it and I also know what happened to the last tenant.’

The estate agent had explained that an old man had lived – and died – in the flat previously, which was another reason it hadn’t been easy to let.

‘Right.’ He looks at her warily.

‘And I’m not afraid of ghosts.’

‘Ghosts?’

‘Seriously. I don’t believe in them.’

‘Don’t you? I mean, that’s good.’

‘Or just as well.’

A smile curls on his lips at last. He is good-looking in a thin-faced, wolfish way, but there is nothing of the predator about him. He is too self-conscious, and even now he’s blushing as he grabs one of her bags and says, ‘Let me.’ Why not? They walk up the steps together.

In the entrance, Marina pauses. The hall is exactly as it was when she did the tour with the estate agent, but somehow it’s still a shock to Marina that she’s here, and she gazes about her as if she’s never set foot in the place, taking in the single ceiling bulb – its push-button switch on an automatic timer – that illuminates the black and white floor tiles and walls painted ice blue; the bronze sconces, once elegant, now rusted, their sockets empty. The sun struggling through the rectangular stained-glass window above the front door is the only other source of light.

The wide stairway dominates the space. A hundred years ago, it might have been a polished centrepiece. Now the red carpet running along the middle of the stairs is faded and threadbare, the visible treads and the bannister scratched and worn. The first flight hits a blank wall. The second angles away into darkness.

On either side of the staircase are the doors to Flats 1 and 2. Flat 2 is on the right. Marina produces her set of keys and fits first one and then another into the lock until she gets it right. Cautiously, she pushes open the door and steps inside. The flat has a sour smell, a mix of ingrained sweat, mustiness and dirt. She wrinkles her nose and goes straight to the window. Pushing the net curtains aside she heaves up the sash.

The man has followed her in. ‘I’m Ron, by the way,’ he says, setting her suitcase on a brown rug that looks like a flayed bear.