She bent forward, feeling the heat of the candle flame. There was no movement nearby, not of snakes or anything else, just occasional shifting in the sound of the wood. Balancing, so as not to step onto plasterboard, she examined the empty sections between the joists. No bag. No case. No backpack. That store of surfeit, unnecessary money. Cash. Gold. Treasure. That kick, that drug, that habit. It was a need, hollow and hungry, and never filled up. Above, she heard the tiny steps of a bird on the roof.

She’d reached the end of the first long side. She couldn’t see the red plastic snake traps except one, near her foot. She put the saucer down, and lifted it, testing the weight. It moved easily. There didn’t seem to be anything there. She picked it up, with both hands, and shook it. Empty. She put the trap down and bent double, legs braced, holding out the candle, looking around. She could see the white lettering and red edges of another trap in the flickering light. Between her and the trap was a rolled-up carpet, a cardboard box and a rubbish bag, with dust on its plastic folds. The shadows loomed over the little group, like a time-lapse sunrise. Leaning close, she touched the roll of carpet; spiky coir and a rubber underlay, in squares, like French notebooks. She poked her finger into the carpet tunnel, circling the gap. She felt only air. She tried to lift it, but with one hand it was too heavy, and she lost her balance, arms splaying as she teetered on the beam. The candle fell. It hit the joist and went out, rolling into the darkness with little thuds.

‘Shit,’ said her voice.

She bent down and felt around the joists and plasterboard methodically, patting back and forth. Her fingers touched the candle and she picked it up and struck a match. The sulphurous burn-off stung her nose.

Illuminated, Bea organised herself. A dirty old rubbish bag seemed a good place to hide something valuable. She pictured Alex smiling, as he dropped the money in. Gingerly, she lifted the edge. The sides whispered on her hand. Between the damp and rigid folds of paper, groping, she touched something soft, and pulled her hand back. Firmly, she grabbed it again, and dragged the bag and pushed it open with her toe. The mouth gaped. She saw a mop head, not an animal, nothing dead. She carried on.