‘Well, Christmas has come early.’ He grinned. Then he looked at her with a serious expression. ‘Now, I’m sorry, but I have to go.’

‘What do you mean? Where?’

‘I’ve got to go to London. There’s something I have to do. We can’t just let this situation ride. I have to sort things out.’

‘Tom, what am I supposed to do?’

‘You’ve got to stay indoors, all three of you. You’ll be safe. In the unlikely event of anything happening, I noticed a telephone box across the road. Go no further than that – just call Doris and get her to do whatever needs to be done.’

He was sure their loyal cleaner would do anything for Lydia if called on.

‘I take it you have some sort of plan?’

‘The beginnings of one.’

*

Jung looked at the picture. So, that had indeed been Thomas Wilde at the door. If only he had seen the picture before his meeting with the man who called himself Fletcher. And the woman with him – letters he had seen on a table suggested her name was Lydia Morris. So they weren’t married, but they had a child. He rather liked the look of Lydia Morris. Intelligent, warm eyes. Not really his type, but if the opportunity ever presented itself, why not?

He put the picture down on the front passenger seat and turned his attention to his other acquisition from Wilde’s house. An address book from the hall stand by their telephone. Now that might produce some interesting results.

*

Wilde rode at a steady pace, trying to conserve petrol, but conditions were hard on the road south – light snow flurries misting his goggles, and ice on the road increasing the risk of skidding. Once he reached, London, the bomb-damaged streets, with heaps of rubble lying in the roads, proved equally treacherous. The journey took almost three hours and he was relieved when he arrived close to Philip Eaton’s home in Chelsea. He parked in the next street, so that he could approach the house unobserved.

It took a full two minutes for Eaton to answer the door. He was in pyjamas and dressing gown, the sleeve of his missing left arm neatly tucked into the pocket.

For a few moments he simply looked at Wilde, standing there with his goggles perched on his head, then sighed.

‘I was hoping I might hear from you, Wilde, but I wasn’t expecting you to just turn up. What in God’s name do you think you’re doing?’

‘Are you going to invite me in? It’s bitter out here.’

He stepped back and held the door open.

‘I suppose you’ll want a whisky, too.’

‘Thank you.’

He followed Eaton through into his large sitting room with its comfortable old furniture, its worn Morocco and picture-strewn walls. He had never been here before, but he had heard all about it from Lydia.