‘Rupert,’ he broke in before Weir could give anything else away, ‘there are things I have to tell you – but first, let me introduce you to Mr Bodie Cashbone of the US diplomatic service.’

Cashbone extended his hand. ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, doctor.’

Weir turned towards the American as though he hadn’t noticed him standing there and shook hands absent-mindedly.

‘And you, Mr Cashbone.’ Then the realisation seemed to dawn that Wilde had deliberately broken into his diatribe to introduce the man. ‘What brings you to Cambridge?’

‘I’m working with the professor here.’

‘Ah . . . secret stuff eh, Wilde? Well, I’ve had a devil of a night with the secret stuff. Been out at a village called Harkham looking at the corpse of a woman. Riddled with bullets. She’s now on the table in the mortuary.’

‘My God – the Old Rectory?’

‘Does the place mean something to you, Tom?’

Wilde nodded, his heart hammering. Please, God . . . not after Sunny.

‘Tom? You don’t look well.’

Wilde steeled himself. ‘Rupert, tell me everything.’

‘Looks as though she had a whole magazine from a sub-machine gun unloaded into her. Must have been pretty well instant, if that’s any comfort. A couple of MI5 lads turned up while I was there. Shut everything down. Threatened me with the Official Secrets Act and God knows what. I don’t actually react well to threats.’

‘The woman – did you get her name?’ Wilde asked, though, of course, he already knew it.

‘Mrs Kemp. Rosamund Kemp.’ Weir winced. ‘I can see from your face, Tom, that you knew the poor woman.’

‘We both did. Rupert, listen. We’ve just come from your house at Girton. Another woman, a woman we also know well, was shot and killed. We brought her here – she died just before we arrived.’

‘Dear God – Edie . . . Tell me she wasn’t there!’

‘No one else was there. But the killer broke into your house. He is trying to find Klara – the German girl – to kill her. I can’t explain everything at the moment.’

‘Damn it, Tom, I’m sorry, I have to go. I have to be with Edie.’

Wilde had never seen his friend look so distressed. But nor had he ever seen him when he felt his family and home were endangered in any way.

‘Go – we’ll talk later.’

‘This is too much to take in. Maybe she’s still at Harry’s place, do you think? Should I call in first at Trin—’

Wilde cut in. ‘Don’t say any more, Rupert.’

‘Sorry, old man. Still trying to get my head around all this.’

He looked abashed, nodded awkwardly to Cashbone, then turned and started walking briskly away.

Wilde watched him disappearing through the hospital doors, out on to Trumpington Street. What he didn’t notice was the kindly looking old lady with the blue-grey hair, standing between him and the reception desk, pretending not to listen to their conversation.

*