‘And has he been put on trial?’

‘There’s a French saying: manger les pissenlits par la racine. How would you translate?’

‘It means to eat dandelions by the root,’ said Wilson.

She paused, looking at the others for a reaction. ‘It means he’s dead. Thank God.’

She smiled sweetly as she opened her handbag, removed her lipstick and proceeded to apply it. ‘That’s my story, so to find someone who knew le furet will be a pleasure. I will make some calls this afternoon and speak to people. Let’s meet back here at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.’

Paris had continued to feel like a honeymoon. On Wilson’s recommendation, they dined that evening at Fouquet’s on the corner of the Champs-Elysées and Avenue George V. They both had caviar and duck and agreed that after what they’d both been through Tom Gilbey would find it hard to deny this meal on their expenses. They toasted Gilbey with a champagne cocktail, and Prince explained how the talk was that Gilbey’s family had set up one of the most famous gin distilleries in England.

When they turned into rue de Duras just before eight o’clock the next morning, a heavy drizzle had made the cobbles slippery and a black Citroën was waiting outside the bar, its engine running. As they approached it, the passenger door opened and Marguerite gestured for them to get in the back. She turned round as it pulled away.

‘I think I have had some luck – maybe. We’re heading to Val-de-Marne, it’s about half an hour’s drive south of Paris. There’s a large prison there called Fresnes. The Germans used it as a place to imprison and torture many of our resistance comrades. Now it’s full of collaborators – we’re interested in one of them.’

‘But if they’re a prisoner, won’t this all need to be official?’

‘You don’t need to worry about that. The resistance still carries considerable moral authority. Last night we arranged for the prisoner to be moved to a section that is under the control of one of our former comrades. The only thing I ask is that you don’t speak until we’re in a room with them. Meanwhile, enjoy the journey. Do you like this car?’

‘It’s magnificent!’

‘One of the fleet of Citroëns the Gestapo had in Paris. My group borrowed them.’

An hour later, they were in a small office in the basement of the prison. The car had driven through a side entrance, passing through three security barriers until they reached a small cobbled courtyard, where a tall, strikingly handsome man in a black uniform was waiting for them in an open doorway. He shook their hands, introduced himself as Benoît and told them to follow him.

He led them into a room in the basement and closed the door. ‘I have made sure my most trusted guards are on duty today. They’ll bring the prisoner in and then wait outside. I can give you a maximum of forty-five minutes with her. Marguerite, you have the file there on the table. I’ll give you a few minutes to read it, and then they’ll send her in.’