She swallows, moves the receiver back again. ‘I was wondering, if it would be possible to meet you. I’m looking for people to interview, tenants I mean, connected with the house.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘In the phone book.’

‘Have you interviewed anyone else?’

‘No,’ she admits. ‘Not yet. I thought . . . I thought I would try to find you first.’ She injects a smile into her voice, a hint of flattery. ‘I’m guessing as you still live in the area, you know it very well.’

‘Well, yes, I do.’

There. It has worked. She can hear his satisfaction.

‘So . . . would you agree to meet?’

There is another long pause. Then he says, ‘All right. Since you tracked me down you’ll know my address. You can come tomorrow.’

‘Actually, I wondered if we could we meet in a cafe. I’ll buy you a coffee to say thank you.’

‘All right.’ There is a hint of amusement in his voice. He goes on, ‘I’ll meet you in the greasy spoon on the corner of my road. The Golden Egg. Midday.’

She agrees and they finish their call. She considers his voice and wonders what he looks like. She can’t remember having seen his photo. Jumping up, she grabs the folder. Sorting through the cuttings, she finds the quote that originally gave her his name.

Victor Wallace, who lives in the basement flat, said, ‘I was with my girlfriend at the time. When I arrived that afternoon, the baby had gone.’

Sounds like an alibi, Marina thinks cynically. She searches again in case she has missed a photo. There are photos of Kenneth Quip, Natalia Kolinski, Eileen Clarke and Leonard Crisp but none of Victor Wallace.

Neither, now she comes to think of it, is there a photo of Thomas Littleton. No quotes either. Only a reference from Kenneth Quip, the landlord, who describes the layout of the house and mentions that the residents of Flat 4 had been away. Marina frowns at the use of the plural. She has only ever come across one name for that flat – Thomas Littleton. Who else lived there?

The next day, Marina arrives early at The Golden Egg. The place is almost full, the atmosphere lively. She scans the men at the Formica-topped tables. Many are young builders in hi-vis jackets and none are candidates for Victor, who Marina guesses must be at least fifty.

She orders coffee and settles by the window. Outside, drizzle turns to rain and drops of water trickle down the glass. A man opens the door and steps inside. He is middle-aged, tall and broad, in a green jacket and black trousers. His hair, which is mostly grey, is thick and swept away from his forehead. He is unnervingly good-looking. Their eyes meet and he smiles, lifting one corner of his mouth. There is a fleck of shaving foam on his chin and when he comes closer she catches the scent of spicy aftershave.