In Manchester he’d acquired the identity of Harold Hamilton, and then spent a few weeks working on a farm in Lincolnshire before he remembered Myrtle – he was surprised he’d not thought of her before – and reckoned his predicament now unquestionably qualified as a matter of life and death.

And from there it had all somehow worked out. From the art gallery he’d been sent to Marylebone station, and thence to Gerrards Cross. When he’d left the station he’d followed his instructions and kept walking.

Don’t look for Myrtle – she’ll find you.

Five minutes later, she’d sidled up to him as he’d passed a chemist’s, slipping her arm through his and asking how his journey had been, and turn right here, that’s my car over there, the dark blue one – maybe you should smile.

It was a small snub-nosed Standard Flying Eight with noisy brakes and a window on the passenger door that rattled in a worrying manner. They headed north for about thirty minutes: despite the war being over, there were still an absence of road signs and he knew better than to ask their destination. Soon after crossing a railway line, they turned off the road and headed up a long farm track, open fields to their left and woods to their right. Just before the track came to a dead end, she pulled up alongside a gate and told him to open it and then close it once the car was through. From there it was about a quarter of a mile along rough ground before they came to a small house, set back among the trees rather as he imagined the setting for a cottage in the Black Forest in a fairy tale.

And that was where he’d remained. She told him they were in the Misbourne Valley in the Chiltern Hills and that was as much as he needed to know. He wasn’t to leave the house without her permission; he was to make sure no one saw him, though in his whole time there he’d never spotted another living soul.

Edward Palmer – he preferred his true identity to that of Harold Hamilton – became a nocturnal creature, free to move around the house at night and walk in the woods surrounding the house, often for hours at a time. The house had two bedrooms: Myrtle slept in the larger one, and when the mood took her, she would summon him to join her. They would share the bed and each other’s bodies until such time as it was made clear he was no longer required.

When Myrtle was in a good mood, life in the house could be quite agreeable: the atmosphere was pleasant and she would be attentive and interested in him. She was not exactly forthcoming about his predicament – how long he’d be staying there, what the plans were – but he put that down to her being unsure herself.

But then for no apparent reason she’d change, becoming resentful at his presence, looking past him when she spoke, preferring to be on her own in the kitchen, staring through the window at the trees, all the while smoking.