‘The younger of the two, Anatoly, took me aside,’ John was saying, his voice so soft Betty didn’t hear him speak at first. ‘They wanted information that I had access to. They were going to blackmail me with Lieselotte’s murder.’ He ran his hand over his face, through his hair. His eyes were heavy with tears and his knee was shaking in a violent spasm. She understood the cost of his pain.

He sat up straight then, shoulders back, and she saw him as a soldier looking brave. Or an actor squaring up to his audience.

‘And?’

‘I’ve already told you more than I should. I’m sorry. I can’t tell you more.’

‘You spied for them?’

He shook his head. ‘No, it’s not as simple as that. Please, Betty, trust me.’ He looked at her and she found herself shaking her head. ‘I can’t answer that.’ He was telling her a barefaced lie, she was sure. He had been an eighteen-year-old conscript. What could he possibly know that was of interest to the Russians? He was an English Walter Mitty, living on fantasy and lies.

If the older man had been Boris, could he have killed her? It seemed unlikely. In his way, he had been fond of her sister.

‘And Lieselotte? What happened then?’

He fidgeted on the seat, crossing, uncrossing his leg.

‘The older man rolled her into the Landwehr canal.’

Betty cried, hand over mouth, trying to take it in. Her beloved sister, tossed into the water, carrion for the pike and eels.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She’d seen them dredging the corpses from the canals and lakes. Was Lieselotte buried in some mass grave, or was she still in the water, her bones stripped and her skull gaping?

Had Vasily murdered her? Ripped the chain from her neck and strangled the life from her? A pointless, needless murder. Had he wanted her for himself? He want good girl. Clean girl. And then he had come for her. Or could it have been Boris, after all? Questions moiled in her head, churned into waves, smashing against the walls of her mind. Perhaps Boris had wanted to marry Lieselotte, like he said? Had she spurned him? People murdered for less. Or had she told him she was expecting his child? That she was on her way to see a doctor? Had he flown at her in a rage, choked her life away? She had no doubt that Boris was capable of murder.

But it was Vasily who had made contact with John. Was he looking for her, Betty, after all these years? Was her father just a ruse to hoodwink John? Nothing made sense.

‘How could you?’ she said, her voice icy. She stood up, walked away fast, down the path, across the gardens. She heard him run after her, grab her elbow.

‘Betty, please, listen.’