‘You’re wrong. It will raise a cheer in every bar from Boston, Lincs to Boston, Mass. Songs will be written. Everyone in Germany will know that their godlike dictator is no better than the rest of us. And, more seriously, there will be difficult questions about the death of the girl’s mother ten years ago. It will tear a gaping hole in the upper echelons of the Nazi Party – and in Germany as a whole. This is gold dust.’

Wilde finished his whisky. It was a delightfully peaty single malt from Islay.

‘Another?’

‘I’ll get it, if it’s OK with you.’

‘Help yourself.’

‘Tell me, Eaton. Have you had a man outside Cornflowers? Has it been under surveillance today?’

‘Do you think I’d tell you if I had?’

‘Please don’t play games. There was a man there when I went to get the Rudge. He broke in and stole a picture.’

‘I can assure you that wasn’t my man.’

‘Is Cashbone running a separate operation to you?’

‘If he is, I know nothing about it. But I seriously doubt he has the manpower. The COI is barely up and running. Look, Wilde, you still haven’t told me – why exactly have you come here? There’s nothing I can do for you – except give you advice which you’re going to ignore anyway. Other than that, all I could do is place you under arrest.’

‘I want you to take me to see the E-boat captain. I want to know what he knows. Where are you holding him?’

‘Come on, Wilde. He’s a prisoner of war.’

‘Bullshit. He was sunk on an espionage operation. We’ve got him and we can give him a hard time.’

‘We don’t do torture,’ Eaton said firmly.

‘Of course we don’t – but we can explain to him that the penalty for espionage is a great deal more severe than just being incarcerated in a PoW camp on the Isle of Man.’

Eaton thought for a moment, then held out his brandy glass.

‘Fill mine, too, would you? I’m going to get dressed. Our E-boat skipper, Kapitänleutnant Gustav Flettner, is not a million miles from here. Let’s go and say hello to the fellow.’

Wilde sat on the Morocco, nursing his whisky, and waited. There was a newspaper on the coffee table. A very thin copy of the Evening Standard. He picked it up and looked at the front page. It was all bad news: Japanese advances in the Philippines; Bulgaria and Hungary entering the war on the Axis side; shipping lost. But then he turned the page and a story closer to home caught his eye. Murder and rape in the home counties.

The details were chilling enough, but it was the names of the victims that got Wilde’s attention.