‘I’m worried we might stick out. You know – if anyone hears us talking. And if we have been followed—’

‘I suppose you could be right. But I don’t think it’s healthy for Klara to be cooped up inside the whole time.’

‘Ok, you go, Tom. I’ll stay here.’

‘Just a short stroll, and I’ll make sure we don’t do any talking in hearing distance of nosy locals. And you can have a bit of time to yourself.’

Sunny looked pensive, then nodded. ‘I’ll get her for you. But don’t go far, please.’

Two minutes later, she returned with Klara, all wrapped up in her winter clothes from Stockholm.

‘Come on,’ he said with a smile, ‘we’ll walk as far as the pub.’

‘That means nothing to me,’ Klara replied.

‘No matter.’

Wilde ushered her towards the door before Sunny could change her mind. Mrs Kemp was standing there.

‘I’m unhappy about this, Mr Wilde. My instructions—’

‘Oh, to hell with your instructions, Mrs Kemp. This is still a free country and I am a free man.’

He brushed past her with Klara in tow.

*

Lydia had been waiting for two hours and was beginning to wonder whether she had made a mistake about the location.

Johnny had had enough, however, and was becoming increasingly fractious. He was normally a placid child, but this was too much for him and he was crying and wriggling as she tried to settle him. Dear God, the boy was becoming as strong as his father.

And then she saw him, turning right into the street, fifty yards up the road. But he wasn’t alone. There was a girl with him. A child. What was going on here? Lydia immediately opened the car door and got out.

‘Tom?’

He was smiling, but she knew him well enough to see the tension beneath the easy-going surface. He gave her a perfunctory kiss, then said, ‘Lydia, I want you to meet someone. This is Klara.’

‘Hello, Klara.’

It was more a question than a greeting. Who was this girl?

‘And Klara, this is my wife, Lydia.’ His eyes flashed Lydia a warning not to correct his description of their marital status. ‘And in the car, you will meet our little boy, Johnny. He’s one and a half years old, so he doesn’t really speak yet.’

‘Hallo,’ Klara said to Lydia, with a little click of the heels and a bow of the head.

For a brief moment Lydia wondered if the child was about to give a Hitler salute, but mercifully, she didn’t. It was clear to Lydia that the girl was German. More than that, she was a very well-brought-up German girl, clear-voiced and confident in the presence of strange adults.

‘Very pleased to meet you. Are you German?’

‘Yes, Mrs Wilde.’

‘Well, I speak a little German. So we can mix it up.’