Igor’s footsteps come out of the kitchen, cross the lower part of the hall, and enter the little cloakroom. Eve holds her breath and then it comes, a bellow of surprise. He has seen the open window and surmised a break-in. They hear his footsteps coming closer as he heads back down the hall. Eve moves swiftly, ignoring the little ripping noise of fingernails on cloth as Grace tries to hold her back. She steps out, barring the front door. Igor comes to a halt in front of her, his face blank with shock. He looks familiar yet different, as if he had turned into his older brother or even his father. His cheeks are loose, the eyelids swollen as though he has been crying. He shoulders roughly past her and disappears out the door, shouting something in Polish. Eve fumbles for her phone while Grace starts after him before a policewoman appears, Eric at her shoulder, Igor hovering behind him. The policewoman is new to them, young and fierce-looking, her thick brows low as if angry. Eric’s are raised in disbelief.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is furious. “This is Igor’s house.”

“You can’t expect me to sit quietly at home, waiting for scraps of news,” Eve snaps back. “I had to do something.”

The hall feels cramped with bodies. Igor is breathing heavily, the policewoman watching him. Grace is standing close; Eric’s face has turned red.

“You aren’t allowed to enter someone’s home like this, it’s against the law. He has the right to privacy, like everyone else,” he tells her.

“The right?” She spits the words. “Igor had our daughter’s clothes under his bed and you’re worried about his rights?”

“He has no idea where Sorrel is.”

“We found this hidden behind a photo of his family.” Eve thrusts the picture of Sorrel at him.

Igor moves toward her but the policewoman steps between them and steers him toward the kitchen.

“There’s something you should know.” Eric takes her arm while Grace turns toward the front door.

“Don’t go,” Eve says quickly.

“This is between you and Eric,” Grace replies. “I’ll see you back at the house.”

Eve watches Grace walk down the path; guilt and gratitude jostle. She wants to run after her, thank her, tell her she needs her strength, beg her to return, but Eric is leading her into the sitting room.

“You’d better sit down.” He closes the door behind them.

She watches Eric pace about the room, frowning at the floor as if planning his words.

“Sorrel came here often,” he says after a couple of minutes. “She and Poppy gave Igor their own clothes for his family.”

Eve stares at him, astonished. “That’s utter rubbish. They hardly know him.”

“They spent hours here.”

“Who told you that? Igor?”

“They’ve been coming here for years.” Eric’s voice is flat. “They came to watch television. He made them jam sandwiches and gave them crisps, sweets, chocolate biscuits. Normal stuff that kids like, things we never allow them to have.”