‘Dead, probably,’ said Mayhew flatly, concentrating on rolling a smoke. ‘I helped to bury more than enough of them.’

This seemed to spark something in the other men, and soon they were remembering comrades they’d worked alongside, men they’d helped to bury, others with whom they’d shared their food and tended until they simply gave up the struggle and passed away. They talked about being force-marched from camp to camp; the guards; the senseless beatings of men too frail to stand, and the back-breaking work they’d been forced to do in a remote coal mine, despite being weak from hunger and suffering all manner of fevers.

Jim could picture it all too well, but he tamped down on the acid burn in his throat, kept his expression unreadable and wrote it all down – adding the names of the dead and the approximate position of their burial.

When the men finally fell silent, he knew they’d had enough. He thanked them, wished them a safe journey home and went to the canteen. He needed something to wash away the sourness in his throat that always came after such interviews. They were young boys – not much older than his son Bob – but they’d been turned into old, bitter men by their experiences. Would they ever be able to put those memories to the back of their minds – or would those years in the jungle taint their lives for ever?

He sat in the canteen feeling suddenly awkward, overfed and over-privileged amongst so many who’d had a much harsher war than he, for the POWs had clustered together and were ignoring him as they sat a careful distance away and talked in murmurs.

Jim knew that the ordeal they’d gone through had brought them closer than brothers – probably closer than any wife could now be – and it seemed it was only to these comrades that they felt able to talk and share their fears for the future. His presence here and the reason for it would be common knowledge, and their reluctance to talk to him was something he just had to accept with grace and understanding.

Jim finished his second mug of tea and lit a cigarette. Checking the time, he found it was already mid-afternoon, and he still had the major to talk to before he could return to the office. Gathering up his briefcase, he strolled away from the canteen and headed for row one, tent 335.

Major O’Keefe was lying on his camp bed deeply engrossed in a book and, before alerting him to his presence, Jim took this brief moment to gauge his man. He could see that although he was in his mid-thirties, he looked much older. He had big, gnarled hands and feet, brutally short black hair streaked with silver, and a six o’clock shadow on his chin.

Jim knew from his records that O’Keefe was a career soldier in the Irish Guards and had been captured shortly after arriving in Singapore. By the looks of him, he’d lost two-thirds of his body weight, and the khaki shirt and shorts hung off him.