‘Well, I think we need to know two things: first, why NatSec want your husband, and, second, why his former wife died. You can put money on it that one will tell us the other. Was she political?’

‘I don’t think so, but I only met her once.’

‘Did she make any political statements?’

‘No, nothing like that. Not that I heard, anyway.’ That evening I had met her, and the letters of hers that I had read, had left me with the impression that she was, by nature, interested in little more than her own world, floating above the rest.

‘Can you remember anything else about the scene of death that you didn’t say before?’ Tibbot asked.

‘No.’

‘There must be something. Think.’

‘There isn’t!’ And in a moment it all hit home. I needed air.

I ran out of the room, out the back door, and stood sucking in the air, damp as it was, in an attempt to cool my brain. In a neighbouring garden a little boy was kicking a football around, shouting to an unseen friend about the tally of goals between them. The friend yelled back at the same childish volume.

I calmed myself down and looked towards the house. This man, Tibbot – I knew nothing about him. Should I be telling him so much? For all I knew, he would report it all straight back to NatSec. It was a risk. But I thought it over a hundred ways and each time I decided that, no matter how dangerous it was, I had little choice. I needed to help Nick and I couldn’t do that alone, I needed someone who had been in such a maze before and could guide me through.

Still, I hadn’t yet told him about the book and carton I had found at Lorelei’s house, and I decided to hold off for now until I was a little bit more certain about him.

The boys nearby shouted again as one of them seemed to score a goal and, after another minute getting my breath back, I returned.

The second I stepped back inside, however, a sight made me stop dead. Tibbot was standing with the hall telephone in his hand. I imagined the line running straight to NatSec. ‘Who are you calling?’ I demanded.

‘No one,’ he replied, taken aback by my tone. ‘Someone’s called you.’

I snatched the receiver out of his hand. ‘Nick?’ I said urgently.

I glanced up the stairs towards Hazel’s room. The sound of the radio news was drifting down: ‘… since the Republic erected a barrier to prevent residents of north-west London from looting our stores for low-priced but excellent-quality food …’

‘Mrs Cawson?’ came the cautious reply. ‘It’s Charles O’Shea.’