She climbs the stairs, holding the bannister, imagining the people who have touched it before. Sometimes regret stirs and sweeps through her like the breath of a ghost. Mostly, though, the atmosphere is still, the stairway dark and claustrophobic. The air is musty with an underlying rottenness, the scent of damp and decaying wood.

From Mrs Hyde’s flat on the first floor, she hears a rhythmic thumping – the sound of an iron on an ironing board. Marina has noticed people coming and going, carrying bags of laundry. The radio plays, or perhaps it’s the TV. Songs of praise or evening services, hymns and chants and sermons in low voices.

On Eva’s floor, she stands on the small square of landing. The dark wood floorboards creak; there’s the sound of the piano, followed by light footsteps. She cannot resist the urge and knocks again. There’s no answer although Marina is certain Eva is inside.

She ventures through the door that leads to the attic. The stairway is narrow and dusty and she moves slowly, brushing her fingers against the cobwebbed walls, emerging into unexpected light. The room has a neglected smell like the rest of the house, and bare, splintered floorboards, but large windows are set into the roof and, despite the clutter, there is space. According to the estate agent, the loft is communal. It’s a place where tenants can store whatever they like. Marina suspects it hasn’t been cleared for years.

Boxes are piled high. She opens some of them and finds rubbish: damaged kitchen utensils, broken toys. There are other discarded items scattered around too: a vacuum cleaner, a faded footstool, a portable TV, trunks of old books. Marina roots through and finds a mixture of the classics, volumes of poetry and detective novels.

The books are second-hand with names and dates written at the front. Some have a note written in pencil: Not to be sold. She flicks through a book about the suffragettes and recalls one of the articles she read that mentioned Thomas Littleton being a bookseller. Maybe he’d owned a shop locally.

Battered orange crates are stacked against one wall and there’s an old chest of drawers that contains dried-up paintbrushes. She takes a crate, turns it over and sits. From this angle, she notices that several paintings have been slotted behind the chest. Curious, she pulls them out. Sunflowers and sunsets, a Van Gogh-style depiction of a starry night, an unfinished sketch of a woman in a cloak with hands clasped in prayer. She stares at these, her mind fizzing, wondering who painted them. They are good, she thinks, examining the details, the bright yellows and blues.