Russian and British soldiers never met, not to converse, not at ordinary level, soldier to soldier, not then. He was making it up.

‘She hadn’t turned up but they knew I had arranged to meet her, because they said they’d take me to her.’ He breathed in deeply and she saw his leg begin to shake, the tremors return.

‘How did they know that?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. They knew a lot about me.’

She looked at his face in profile, the bridge of his nose, the creases in his cheeks, his five o’clock shadow. Features once familiar and now strange. She’d been in love with this man, and even now there was desire that cut sharp as a scythe. It surprised her, shocked her even, nestling there as powerful and urgent as the need to injure him.

‘I didn’t know she was dead.’ His voice was soft as he went on. ‘I followed them, underneath the Lichtensteinbrücke. She was in the mud.’

He lurched forward, his head in his hands, shuddering. He paused a while before he spoke, his voice soft and cracked.

‘I cradled her. There were bruises on her neck where she’d been strangled.’

‘Was there a chain around her neck?’

‘A chain? No. Just bruises, ugly blue bruises. Whatever she’d been strangled with had broken the skin at one point.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps it was from a chain. Why?’

He stared into the distance. Betty followed his gaze, at the leaves in their autumn retreat, at the last of the summer’s dahlias. Perhaps John had told the truth.

‘She was wearing a chain,’ she said. She’d mention the key later. ‘What did you do?’

‘Nothing,’ John said. His eyes clouded over, and he wiped them on the back of his hand. His lips began to quiver. ‘I’m so sorry, Betty.’ He shook his head ‘I didn’t even shut her eyes.’ He held his head again, sobbing as if his body would break. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘You left her there?’

‘These two Russians,’ he said, ‘one was Anatoly and the other was an older man.’

She watched as his face twisted and contorted, as if he was squeezing out the memory, or squeezing it away. But the memory was already hers, had landed like an eagle on its prey, plucking at her heart, her guts, clawing at her flesh. She could see Vasily as clearly now as she had then. Boris too. Had he been the older man? Did it matter now, did it make a difference? Someone had grabbed Lieselotte, choked her to death. She must have struggled, tried to fight him off, eyes popping and lungs straining. She was small, weak. They were all weak. She hadn’t stood a chance. Lieselotte had been murdered.