‘Those doubles. It’s because she was lazy. Say she has to drop a false three in; it has to come somewhere before the first genuine three so she knows that the new first three is the false three. Sometimes she couldn’t be bothered finding a random place for it, so just stuck it right in front of the genuine one. She wasn’t always that lazy, but she was enough times for it to stand out.’ I was impressed.

The street was busy again as people returned home from the Liberation Day parade. Across town, the Politburo would be taking its fleet of black limousines to the faceless prefabricated block next to the National Observatory in Greenwich Park that some unknown wag had dubbed the ‘Concrete Kremlin’. From the top of that hill, they could look down on all eighteen million citizens of our new republic – or across to DUK London if they wanted to see what they were missing.

We entered the call box, ready to find out what Lorelei had been hiding. I dropped a penny in the slot and dialled 0 for the operator.

17

‘What number, please?’ she asked.

‘Exchange 213; number 4598.’

‘Please hold, caller.’ I waited. So much was riding on this. There was silence, a few clicks, and then the operator was back. ‘That number does not exist,’ she said. I thumped the side of the box in fury.

‘No line?’ Tibbot asked, disappointed.

I didn’t answer, as if acknowledging the failure would make it solid. I spoke again into the receiver. ‘Try exchange 812, number 9932.’

‘Please hold, caller.’ Again, I waited. Then the same deadpan voice. ‘That number does not exist.’ When the next number produced the same result, the operator’s tone changed. ‘Please stay on the line,’ she said. I heard muffled voices, as if she were speaking to someone behind her. Then she returned.

‘Caller, who are you trying to reach?’ There was something frightening about that question, as if it were something she had been instructed to ask me. I hung up immediately.

‘What’s wrong?’ Tibbot asked.

‘She was speaking to someone. About us.’

‘No, no, they get these calls all the time.’

‘She was!’

He huffed and blew out his cheeks, not wanting to argue more. ‘Maybe they aren’t telephone numbers after all,’ he said, changing the subject. It couldn’t be true – we had both been so certain. ‘Still, let’s try the rest.’ I must have looked worried. ‘It’s fine,’ he insisted.

I dialled 0 once more, hoping that it would be a different operator. It was, thank heaven – a warm Scottish accent asking me for my desired line. Still tense, I tried another number, hoping.

‘That number does not exist.’

At that, Tibbot gestured to me to hang up. ‘Hazel told you that the book has been up there since before her parents divorced, yes?’ he asked, when the receiver was down.

‘That’s right.’