They were in the back of a police car. Wilde was sitting sideways with his shoulder against the seat so as not to put any pressure on his wounded back. He had retrieved his address book from the house and had it clasped tight in his hands; Cashbone wasn’t going to get a look at it.

‘We’d better get you to hospital. Want to tell me where your lady and the girl are? They’ll be worried about you.’

‘Hospital yes, the other part no.’

‘God damn it, Wilde, I saved your life – you owe me!’ There was barely controlled rage in his voice.

‘You’re right, Cashbone, I do – but Klara doesn’t.’

‘You’re a sanctimonious prig, you know that? How the hell are we going to win the war if you’re worried about hurting the enemy’s feelings?’

‘She’s not the enemy, Cashbone.’

Cashbone shook his head in exasperation. ‘There’s no way out of this for you, Wilde. Your Brit friends have made it clear – they won’t cross us. You’re all alone, and we’ll find you.’

Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

Christmas Day at Trinity Villa was a strange affair. Klara’s temperature had come down and she had not developed a rash, so measles was crossed off the list. But she was still lethargic. Wilde’s back was in a bad way. The burns had turned to suppurating blisters and he could not lie on his back. His dressings had to be changed frequently so that the lint did not become embedded in the wound. Even in this wintry cold he spent much of the time wandering around the house with his shirt off. The hospital said he had been lucky, the flame being played up and down his back had meant most of the injuries were second-degree burns, but there were small patches where the wounds went deeper into the flesh. He would be left with a long, jagged ridge of scars.

Fortunately Harry Taylor had left half a wardrobe full of billowing Sea Island cotton shirts, and Wilde made good use of them. One day they would have to pay Harry well for the use of his house and possessions. They hoped he would understand.

Lydia had decided that come what may, they were going to have some sort of celebration and would sing ‘Silent Night’ in English and German. She had managed to secure a chicken on her ration card, and roasted it with potatoes and sprouts, which all went down very well. And she had found presents for them all. A bobble hat and a bag of oranges for Klara, a wooden toy car for Johnny and a bottle of whisky for Wilde.

Wilde was mortified. ‘Lydia, I’ve got nothing for you.’

‘I’ll have half the whisky, then.’

He laughed. ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

‘I’ll make sure you do.’