In the kitchen, Connie looked in a cupboard and wrinkled her nose at a scattering of mouse droppings. They were on the floor too, running along the bottom of the skirting board and in the corners. Victor was going to buy a cat, apparently. Kenneth had agreed to bend the rules.

The smell made Connie retch. She twisted the key and opened the back door, which led onto a square of cement and a set of crooked steps to the garden. She flung the windows wide, trying to at least air the place, then filled a bucket with water, grabbed the Ajax and started cleaning the walls in the front room.

Late afternoon, she heard the voices of Victor and Kenneth. They were standing on the steps, discussing the abandoned carpet.

‘It’s an eyesore,’ said Kenneth, tapping his stick to the rhythm of his words. ‘It attracts attention, the wrong kind of attention. Tramps. Slackers. Criminals. They’ll think this place is empty and in they’ll come, as free as you like.’ On he went, exaggerating.

They were still talking when Connie emerged. Squeezing between the two of them, she mumbled to Victor about finishing off tomorrow and then hurried inside. Her father would be home by now, reading a book, waiting for his tea. She would make toad-in-the-hole from her mother’s recipe book and maybe a fruit flan.

Still. A few more minutes would do no harm. Passing the flat, she climbed the next set of stairs. Mrs Kolinski’s door was ajar. Connie could hear her calling to Eva. The door clicked shut.

Opening the door to the attic, she went up the steep staircase. Johnny had stored his paintings behind an unwanted chest of drawers. Jam jars containing brushes with stiff bristles and paint-splattered handles were stacked against the wall. Connie put the latter in the chest for safekeeping.

Light glinted on a fragment of glass embedded in the floor. She bent to prise it from the wood, remembering how it came to be there. Johnny had wanted Connie to model for his version of The Virgin in Prayer. She’d agreed but, restless, had moved too often. Frustration had turned to anger and Johnny had yelled at her to keep still. When she forgot and moved again, he’d flung a jar against the wall. The glass had shattered and Connie had been the one to clear away the pieces while Johnny had begged her to forgive him. ‘It’s my mother’s fault,’ he’d said. ‘We had a row earlier. She doesn’t understand me. She hates my art. All she wants is for me to cut up carcasses and decapitate cows.’ He’d sat on the floor with his head in his hands, pulling at his hair like a child.