The sky hangs low and claustrophobic and Marina loosens her collar despite the chill. She has an odd, prickling feeling as if she’s being watched, but the houses are as silent as they were last night, their windows shuttered – and when she looks back at number 24, there is no shift in curtains, no one looking out. At least she doesn’t think there is. On the top floor, there might be a movement, but the window is open and the wind stirs the curtains. A fat pigeon sits contentedly on the roof. While Marina is watching, it heaves itself into action and flies elegantly away.

Marina galvanises herself too. The public path alongside the house leads – tantalisingly – to St Michael’s Road. She puts off her quest for food and gives in to the temptation to seek out Sofía’s house. The path is muddy, a well-trodden shortcut, although stone walls enclosing the gardens on either side block out much of the light. Thick shards of glass have been cemented to the top of the wall of number 24.

At the end of the path, Marina halts. Ahead of her, to the left, is the grey church; she can see people spilling out through the entrance and spots the small figure of Mrs Hyde, alone in the crowd. The rest of the road comprises lines of neat-looking Victorian terraces. Marina checks the direction of the numbering and crosses, heading away from the church.

Sofía’s house sits in the middle of the street.

Hitching her bag more securely on her shoulder, Marina opens the gate and strides down the path. A firm knock. Nothing. She waits and then knocks again. On impulse, she holds back her hair, leans down and looks through the letter box. She spies a thick, cream carpet in the hall, a tidy line of shoes, adults’ and children’s. An abandoned truck on the stairs. There is a smell of food, roasting meat. No sign of any movement. Perhaps they’ve gone out and left their meal to cook: a sign they’ll be home soon. She lets the flap of the letter box fall.

Turning back towards the church, she heads down St Michael’s Road, passing the stragglers from the congregation. On Streatham High Road, she waits as the traffic hurtles past. In 1964, the streets would have been quieter, with milk floats and policemen on bikes. Now an ambulance shrieks past and cars and buses pull in to get out of its way. Marina takes her chance and crosses quickly, following the edge of the common before the aroma of fresh baking lures her to a side road.