To pass the time, she takes a shower. There are two settings she has now discovered that actually work – boiling or lukewarm. She chooses the second and tries not to think about the previous person who stood where she stands now. She vows to chase Wayne as she emerges, shivering, and then hauls on her dressing gown and thick socks before bundling her hair up in a turban.

It’s an effort to take care of her hair. Maybe she should cut it off. A short, sharp pixie cut. Would it suit her? She stares grimly into the mirror. Since she’s been in London, she’s lost weight. Her face is thinner. There are dark smudges beneath her eyes. If Ruth were here, the roast would be in the oven, the crumble made in moments. She’d be piling up Marina’s plate, talking with studied nonchalance about anything that came into her head, pretending she wasn’t worried.

She’s always been like that, fussing in a bid to hide concern. Yet Marina never had typical teenage issues – was never prone to angst about appearance, eating disorders, emotional outbursts or even frequent tears. On the contrary, she’d been the sensible girl at school, the one who listened and gave advice.

Maybe, Marina thinks now, it was because she’d had other things to worry about. Like who she had actually inherited her looks from.

She does her make-up, piling on black eyeliner and mascara, painting her lips red. By the time she’s dried her hair and pulled on a pair of trousers and a thick, black turtleneck jumper to keep her warm, an hour has passed.

She settles in the armchair and calls the second number once again. This time, a man answers. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello.’ She gets to the point. ‘I wonder if I could speak to Victor Wallace.’

There is a long pause. Marina’s shoulders slump. Another wrong number.

Then he says, ‘Yes. That’s me. Who am I speaking to?’

Her heart accelerates. ‘My name is Zoe . . . Zoe Alexander, and I’m writing an article.’ She stops.

The man’s loud breathing travels down the line.

‘It’s about an incident that happened in the 1960s.’

‘Are you the police?’

‘Oh no, nothing like that.’

‘A journalist?’

‘No. I mean, I work freelance.’

‘So, what has this to do with me?’

‘Well.’ She transfers the receiver to her other ear. Despite the cold, her skin feels hot. ‘The article is about an abandoned baby.’ She pauses again before saying, ‘The baby was abandoned in the house you used to live in.’

More loud breathing.

Marina shifts in her seat. ‘It was 24 Harrington Gardens. I don’t know if you remember . . .’

‘Yes,’ Victor says, ‘of course I remember. What exactly do you want?’