A photograph of a couple I recognised as Anna’s mother and father was displayed inside one of the cabinets. From the style of the clothes, I guessed it must have been taken in the 1960s. They were dancing in this very room; she, with her black hair set in waves, was wearing a satin off-the-shoulder dress and heeled shoes, her feet precise, her neck taut, her chin pressed up to the air and a delightful, unselfconscious smile on her lips. She was a happier, more carefree version of the woman her daughter would become. He was handsome as a film star with his natty moustache and oiled hair, wearing a fine suit, a pressed shirt, one hand holding hers, the other resting on her waist, his eyes fixed on her face. Perhaps they danced and then he, Signor DeLuca, took his wife’s hand and led her outside. Perhaps he lit a cigarette for her, passed it to her and then, while she smoked, he made cocktails for them both. I liked to think of him handing a Martini glass to his elegant wife. And where was Anna? Had she watched her mother and imagined herself following in her footsteps, dancing with her devoted husband in the Sicilian villa she knew she’d inherit one day? Had she imagined herself married to a man who would love her more than life itself? And if she had, then what had led her to Patrick Cadogan, to that cold, emotionless man, the man who humiliated her at every opportunity, who bullied his children, who made it clear he had no affection or regard for his family at all?

I put the photograph down and carried on searching. In the cupboards built into the recesses behind the huge old chimney breasts in the downstairs rooms, I found boxed board games, candles, bowls, crayons, paper and more mice, but no paintings. In the smaller of the three reception rooms, I found a music cabinet that could play everything from vinyl records and cassette tapes to CDs. Boxes of eclectic music in its different formats were stored beneath. In another huge cupboard off the kitchen, I found an old vacuum cleaner, a disintegrating bag containing several pairs of trainers, tennis rackets, balls, a child’s satchel, a tangled badminton net and some ancient fishing equipment. Everywhere I looked, I found the paraphernalia of family life, but no painting of the Madonna.

Joe came downstairs.

‘Any luck?’ he asked me.

‘Nothing.’

‘Me neither.’