Later, Connie stood at the front window. Kenneth had gone, but the man with the blue jacket stood in the street, smoking, taking those sharp drags before flinging down the dog end and grinding it with his heel. One quick, aggressive look at the house and he stalked off in the direction of the main road, hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

16

Marina

January 1992

It’s early morning. The house is quiet, but Marina cannot sleep. She sits up in bed, studying her notes. She has made a spidergram, circles with the names of tenants inside, lines spiking outwards from each one. Eva and Natalia. Dorothy Light. Thomas Littleton. Kenneth Quip. Eileen and Leonard. Victor.

She taps her pencil on her teeth. She needs facts about these people. She could go to Somerset House or maybe a library as Ron mentioned. Her eyes light on the phone book propping open the door. It’s not surprising that there is only one tenant left after all this time, but people often stay in or return to an area. Take Ruth, for example: born in Westbury, studied in Bristol, travelled around India, then moved back to Westbury.

She jumps out of bed, grabs the phone book and replaces it with a dictionary. Back under the duvet, she flicks through the pages, stops at Littleton and looks for Thomas. She finds addresses with the wrong initials and others with the wrong spelling, a y instead of an i. She tries Kolinski, but there is only N. Kolinski at Harrington Gardens. Flipping to the end of the book, she moves backwards and stops at Wallace. There are several more options here. There’s V. Wallace and then another V. W. Wallace, both in SW16. Could one of these be Victor? It’s worth a try.

It’s too early to call, so Marina gets up. She stands at the front window drinking coffee. It’s a boring street. Blank houses with closed curtains like shuttered eyes. Empty trees with spindly branches. A boy appears at the window of the house opposite. Marina gives a tentative wave. The child stares, but doesn’t react.

At ten o’clock, Marina picks up the phone. She hopes her nerve will hold as she taps in the first number. A woman answers on the second ring.

‘Yes?’

‘Oh,’ says Marina, unprepared. ‘Is that . . . Is that . . . Mrs Wallace?’

‘Yes.’ There is a pause. ‘Who’s speaking?’

‘My name is Zoe Alexander.’

‘Who?’

‘I’m writing an article . . .’ She flounders. ‘I’m trying to track someone down.’

‘Track someone down?’ The voice is disbelieving. Impatient. ‘Look, I’m in a hurry. Who are you?’

‘I’m writing an article,’ she says, speaking in a rush. ‘And I’m trying to find Victor Wallace. He used to live in Harrington Gardens.’

‘Never heard of him.’

The line goes dead. Marina sighs and then quickly taps in the next number. No answer.