Two days later, Wilde, Klara and Sunny were on their way by train to Stockholm. It seemed as if there was colour in their life for the first time in days: the pretty houses; the green fir forests sprinkled with snow; the still dark lakes; a touch of blue peeping through the clouds. It was such a contrast to the harsh, regimental greyness of Germany, a monochrome world in which the only permitted colour was the red slashes of swastika pennants.

It was already turning to dusk when they arrived in Stockholm and were met at the station by the attaché, Bertrand Harrison.

‘Welcome to civilisation,’ Harrison said, sounding a great deal more accommodating than he had done when first they spoke; conversations with Philip Eaton of MI6 could have that effect, Wilde mused. ‘And an auspicious day it is, too,’ Harrison continued. ‘You may well feel as though you have emerged from darkness, for today is the Feast of St Lucy, otherwise known as the Festival of Light, when all our Viking cousins light candles, eat saffron buns, drink mulled wine, and girls stick lighted candles in their hair.’

‘Sounds dangerous,’ Wilde said.

‘It’s all very pretty actually – all about looking forward to the days beginning to lengthen again, which you need when you only get five and a half hours of sunlight in the day. Hopefully, you three will also have more light in your lives from now on.’

‘Thank you.’

Wilde accepted the man’s good wishes in the spirit in which they were intended. But in the days and hours since being picked up by the pilot, his initial feeling of relief and optimism had evaporated. He wouldn’t feel totally at ease until he was home with Lydia and Johnny.

‘We have two rooms booked for you at the Excelsior,’ Harrison continued. ‘One for the young lady and Frau Somerfeld, and an adjoining suite for you, Mr Wilde. You’ll be flown home as soon as feasible. These things can take quite a long time to arrange, but you do have priority – London’s orders. I know you have also been in touch with the US Mission and they have agreed that we should deal with your needs on their behalf.’

Wilde smiled dutifully. ‘Thank you, Mr Harrison. The hotel, then. I think we could all do with a bath, a meal and a good sleep.’

Harrison led them to a chauffeured car with CD plates and they made their way through the largely traffic-free streets to the tall, elegant Excelsior. Before they got out, Harrison turned from the front passenger seat. He smiled reassuringly in that way that only English envoys can, as though once the British diplomatic service was involved all was well with the world.