These painful memories lay between them now, but Em wanted to forget the past; it seemed petty to dwell on things that happened when you were so young.

‘How’s your family?’ Katie asked politely. Em noticed that she spoke very nicely, with hardly a trace of an accent.

‘They’re all very well, thanks,’ Em said. She felt rather scruffy beside Katie, in her old frock and scuffed white shoes. ‘And yours?’

‘Yes, thanks. They are too.’

Another memory got in the way. Last year – it seemed another life, with the war still on. That was it, January 1944, that cold night, she knew she had seen Katie. That time Katie had almost run into her, rounding a corner not far from home. Em remembered it very clearly because she had seen such a look of wariness and desperation in Katie’s eyes as she hurried past, swathed in a big coat. And Em was sure she had not been mistaken in noticing that Katie had been cradling a tiny infant in her arms. But she could hardly ask her about that now.

‘That’s good,’ Em said. ‘Well, our mom’s much better these days.’ She found herself rattling out information in the hope that Katie might offer some back. ‘She’s very well, and she’s such a help to me because I’ve got a little boy, Robbie, he’s three and his dad’s away in the army. And our Sid – d’you remember him? He’s about to get married to his girl, Connie – they’ve been courting a good while.’

She saw Katie arrange her face in a pleasant, polite expression. She’d grown into a looker, Em thought. Her face was slender, pleasing in shape, eyes still that pretty sea-blue. While not unfriendly, it was clear she was not going to give anything away about herself.

‘Are you off to work?’ Em asked.

‘Yes.’ Katie made a gesture in front of her with her hand, but didn’t volunteer any more information. Perhaps her mom had made that suit, Em thought. They’d never seen much of Mrs O’Neill, who’d kept herself to herself, but hadn’t there been some talk of her being a tailoress? ‘Do you work in town too?’

‘Oh no!’ Em said. Again she found herself talking fast out of nerves. ‘No, the thing is, I’m going up to the nick – it’s . . . d’you remember Molly Fox, from over in the yard – and from Cromwell Street?’

A disgusted downturn of Katie’s mouth indicated that she did. She smoothed her skirt as if wiping away specks of dirt. ‘Oh my goodness, her. What a family!’

Em choked back the desire to snap: Well, she was a better friend than you ever were, you with your spiteful, stuck-up ways!

‘They’re hanging her brother today.’ It came out abruptly and she kept her eyes on Katie’s face, watching the shock register.

‘No! I’d heard about it, but I hadn’t made the connection – that brother, what was he called?’

‘Albert. Bert.’ Before she could ask, Em added, ‘He strangled his girlfriend.’