‘Interesting,’ Kalt said. ‘Most interesting.’

Brunner looked at his master expectantly. A look that Kalt knew well. Kalt shook his head.

‘Not yet. Not until we know she is telling the truth.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Take care of this woman, Johanna, give her a little cabbage soup. This is Oberst-Gruppenführer Dietrich’s cousin. A little cabbage soup and perhaps some straw to lie on until we return.’ He turned his head towards Romy. ‘And you, I hope you have told me the truth, for if you have not, I shall make an early Christmas gift of you to my friend Brunner here, to enjoy at his leisure.’

CHAPTER 8

The knock at the door was heavy. There was a pause and then it came again, even more forcefully. Wilde was in the large room, in front of the fire, trying to read a French book that Sunny had given him. The blackouts were firmly in place, so surely no light was getting out – nothing to disturb the air-raid people on their evening rounds, nor let any police or other officials know that someone was at home.

Wilde kept utterly still. He didn’t even put the book down, imagining even the rustle of a page could be heard. The fire was lower now, but still he thought he could hear it crackling, along with the soughing of the wind down the chimney. Someone must know he was in here.

She had been gone more than three hours, so surely she should be back by now? But that couldn’t be her at the door; she would simply let herself in. Silently, Wilde placed the book on a side table, then bent down and undid his laces before slipping his feet out of his shoes. He padded from the room into the large and gloomily lit entrance hallway and approached the front door. The floor was stone so there was no creaking of boards. From outside, the hammering had become more insistent. He put his ear to the door. He could hear an angry voice – a woman’s voice. He did not catch most of the words, but he heard the name Somerfeld, he was sure. Someone believed Sunny was here and was demanding she open the door.

He heard another voice and relief washed over him: it was Sunny. But her voice was raised. So was the other woman’s in reply. There was some kind of trouble. Caught between wanting to help Sunny and the impossibility of making his presence known, he stayed behind the door.

He heard the dull clatter of a key entering the lock and began to back away. But it all happened too fast. Even as he scuttled back towards the big room, the front door began to open.

Wilde turned at the last moment. Sunny was there, but so was another woman of a similar age, clutching the hand of a small fair-haired boy of six or seven with one hand and, in the other, holding a bright red tin. His eyes met hers. He nodded and flashed a nervous smile, then vanished into the room and shut the door behind him.