In the early hours of the previous Saturday morning, she had left her cottage before dawn. She had received the message four days before: Not before Saturday, not after Wednesday. Wait there from three to six every morning until he arrives.

That message had terrified her out of her wits. She couldn’t sleep, lying motionless in bed, too frightened to move, bitterly regretting having been persuaded to do something against her better judgement years previously. She’d spent the years since first hoping and then assuming it had all been forgotten, leading as inconspicuous a life as possible: moving to a part of the country that felt close to the end of the earth, visiting the village church often enough for any absences not to be remarked upon.

He’d not turned up on the Saturday morning, nor on Sunday, and when it passed five o’clock on the Monday and she’d only have to wait another hour, she even allowed herself to think it was possible he might not arrive at all. If that was the case, she’d leave the area. She’d find another job easily enough and move somewhere they wouldn’t find her. One of those cities that had been bombed. There were plenty of them.

She was crouched behind a shrub just below the beach in the area where she’d been instructed to wait. Just in case anyone questioned her, she’d laid a trap to catch rabbits. It wasn’t much of a trap, and predictably no rabbits had been tempted by it, but with some luck it would allow her to explain her unlikely presence there in the early hours of the morning.

He appeared in front of her like an apparition. She’d assumed she’d hear him approaching – footsteps, perhaps, or breathing. But one moment she was crouched behind the shrub wondering what she would change her name to, and the next a wet and exhausted man was standing in front of her, a rucksack on his back and a dripping suitcase in his hand. Her first thought was how ridiculous the suitcase looked and how it would be impossible to explain away trudging across the fields with a man carrying one.

‘Could you tell me how to get to Lincoln?’ He had a strong German accent. She hadn’t expected it to be quite so marked.

‘Go to the village and by the church you can catch a bus.’ She couldn’t believe how farcical this exchange sounded, but she understood they needed to identify each other correctly. One more question from him, one more reply from her.

‘My name is Andrew Martin. I am from Liver Pool.’ Liverpool as if it were two words, with a long gap in between.