Adila sat back, thinking, then bent close. ‘Listen. We won’t ever know what explains them. We’ll never be sure. But we have two things: we have them, but more importantly, we have the concerto. If Kulenkampff has played it and Hindemith has arranged it and the Nazis have conscripted it and Menuhin has taken it and someone else has done it in Jerusalem and some idiots have thrown abuse at you over it, so what? Why should that matter? Before the messages, we didn’t have the concerto. Now the world has it. And next week you’re going to introduce it to Britain. So there.’

‘Adi, you’re incredible,’ Jelly snuffled. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

‘Sai, so are you. You are the blessed one, the goddess, the muse.’

‘Oh, what rubbish, darling. Can you ever forgive me?’

‘There’s nothing to forgive. Come along, Sai, we’re going to celebrate. Tidy yourself up and come down to the restaurant. Alec is there with the Boults, waiting for us. You’re here, you’re with us and we will never let you go. Later you’re coming straight home and tomorrow you’re going to practise that concerto knowing that it’s going to go down in history, observed by all of this world and the next. Yes? Promise me?’

‘Yes, Adi, I promise.’

‘For me, Sai. Play it for me.’

‘I already am,’ said Jelly.

*

Ulli Schultheiss wondered if it was worth ironing his shirt. Normally he would not be seen in public without everything perfectly placed: collar, cufflinks, jacket. But now he had to be selective, and fast. Nobody knew his plan. Everything must fit in one briefcase, a largish one, but a briefcase nonetheless. One shirt. A change of underwear and socks. His belt was buckled on its tightest setting, since he’d lost so much weight that his trousers would fall down without it. His most comfortable shoes were on his feet, for he would take no others.

He had to move quickly, not only in case danger might be imminent, if someone had followed him, read his mind and intended to stop him leaving, but because if he delayed he might never go through with it. After work he’d bade the Streckers goodnight, the bust of Wagner too, as if this day were no different from any other. Friday was normally his evening with Willy and family; he’d made an excuse about needing to see his mother. It was true enough: he did need to see her, for he had no idea when he ever might again. But he wasn’t going there tonight.