Marnie put her hand in her pocket to call Zoe. The phone wasn’t there. She’d left it in the car.

Frustrated she turned and paced the other way. Then she turned back.

She didn’t know how long Will would be. She couldn’t wait for him.

She ran towards the house, staying on the lawn. The gable window was two storeys high; too high for her to throw pebbles with any accuracy and there was no way to climb up.

Instead, Marnie ran light-footed round to the back. It was dark, but she knew the house well. She tried the back door; it was locked. She hesitated but only for a moment before she picked up one of the ornamental plinths in the garden, hefted it to her shoulder and heaved it at the boot-room window next to the door. The glass shattered and fell. Marnie held her breath, expecting someone to call out, to hear a voice raised in fear and anger, but she heard nothing.

She pulled her coat sleeve over her hand and punched out the exposed shards before reaching inside to turn the key to open the door and within moments she was back inside. The floor was slippery. It still smelled of estuary mud and wet dog.

Marnie crept forward.

The clouds had moved and now moonlight fell through the windows, casting a dim, blue light and deep shadows. The big old house creaked and shifted. It felt to Marnie as if the house was observing her, aware of her footsteps, knowing exactly where she was. She heard a scuttering: mice perhaps or rain in the chimneys. She went into the hallway, reached the foot of the grand stairs, put one hand on the banister, one foot on the bottom step. By moonlight, she began to climb. She was almost halfway up, when she heard a door open above her, and the sound of Mr deVillars clearing his throat.

Marnie turned and jumped down the stairs. She darted through an open doorway into the dining room and pressed herself against the wall. Mr deVillars came down the stairs and switched on the hallway light. Marnie waited for some exclamation, some cry of anger or a gasp of alarm when he noticed something was amiss, but none came. He’d gone into the living room. She heard the chinking of ice against glass, the sound of something being poured. He was fixing himself a whisky.

This was her chance! Marnie nipped round the door and ran up the stairs, her footsteps muffled by the carpet. She scooted along the landing, and trotted up the steep stairs to the attic. The door was open and the nightlight glowed dim orange in the corridor. Marnie knocked gently on the door to Mrs deVillars’ room. There was no answer. She tried the handle. The door was locked.

‘Zoe!’ she called, but her voice was weak and the word a croak, not loud enough to rouse anyone.