Marlene looked at him and smiled. ‘Christmas greetings from the Führer,’ she said. ‘They have been waiting downstairs for hours. I only saw them because my daughter said no one should be left in the lobby at Christmas time, not even a Nazi.’ Her smile faded, and she looked intently at Archie. ‘She has no idea how much I hate them.’

‘What did they want?’

‘The same thing they always want. My triumphant return to the homeland. Sadly, you arrived before I could give them my answer. Sadly for them, but not for me.’ The smile came again, but this time it was more genuine. ‘Come in, Mr Penrose. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

A butler appeared from a side room to take his coat, and Archie followed his host through to the main suite. The sitting room smelt of cigarette smoke and perfume, something heavy and floral, and was spacious enough to contain everything that a guest could need with several extravagances that most would never use: a grand piano stood over by the windows, and a self-contained recess was dominated by a carved oak desk, whose size most boardroom executives would struggle to justify. French doors led out to a balcony, and the Mayfair 43rooftops were softly silhouetted in the dusk. In the corner of the room there was a Christmas tree, simply decorated like those of his own childhood; the snowman perched on top brought back a memory that he couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the company, but the apartment had the feel of a stage set, reminding Archie that luxury on such a scale was always a theatre of sorts, and he wondered why one of the richest women in the world would want to trade this in for a draughty Cornish castle.

‘My visitors are just one of the reasons I’ll be glad to get away,’ Marlene said, answering his unspoken question. ‘Please, Mr Penrose – take a seat.’ She gestured to a sofa and Archie sat down, surprised to find it more comfortable than it looked. The actress pressed a service bell in the wall and the butler returned immediately. ‘Pour us some champagne, darling, would you?’ She turned to Archie. ‘Unless you’d prefer something else? Whisky? A martini?’

Her voice was so familiar from the screen that he had to remind himself he was no longer a passive observer in the conversation. ‘Whisky would be lovely,’ he said, trying in vain to suppress a sneeze. ‘Thank you.’

‘You are not well?’

‘I’m fine. It’s just the end of a cold.’

‘William, bring Mr Penrose some of the chicken soup that Maria liked so much when she was here.’

‘No, really,’ Archie protested. ‘There’s no need.’

‘Nonsense, I insist. You will feel better before you know it. Go now, William. Leave the drinks to me.’

The butler was ushered from the room, and Marlene busied herself at the bar. She ignored the Dom Pérignon that sat on ice and poured two large whiskies instead, talking all 44the time about her daughter and what a fuss the hotel had made of her. Archie was struck by how English her accent was. Without asking, she added lemon to his drink and disappeared into another room, returning seconds later with a jar of honey. ‘Do you have children, Mr Penrose?’