‘It’s a coffee house, in Soho,’ she said. ‘And a sort of meeting place. I can use their typewriters, so I typed up my article. Then I walked to meet John.’

‘And others can vouch for you?’

‘Loads,’ she said. ‘I even walked with someone to meet John.’

‘His name?’

‘Nick. I don’t know his surname.’

John reached forward to put his cup on the tray, glanced at her. Yes, she thought. His name’s Nick.

‘And you, sir?’ the detective said. ‘Where were you?’

‘I was at home marking,’ he said. ‘And no, no one can vouch for me. I live alone.’

DS Fielding flicked his notebook shut. ‘That’ll be all for the moment,’ he said. ‘Miss Fisher. Thank you for your time. You’ll be contacted later, I’m afraid. Others will need to talk to you.’ He stood up, held out his hand. ‘My constable will take your details.’ He turned to John. ‘If you don’t mind, sir, may I have a word in private with you?’ He led the way out of the room and John followed.

Betty turned to the fire, absorbed by the glowing coals and the warmth that was finally seeping into her body.

§

A Major Goodfellow rang her a few days later, wanted to meet her for a quick chat. He gave an address in Millbank, not far from the Tate. She took the morning off work, said it was to do with her father’s arrangements. The building stood behind innocuous ivy-clad walls. There was a bell by the gate, but no indication of what the building was used for. No plaque, no sign. The windows were dark and she sensed that even if she pressed her nose against them, all she would see would be her own reflection.

The gate swung open, clicked shut behind her. She walked to the front door. Another bell, another silent entry. She stepped inside. If he hadn’t been a major and therefore, in some way, official, she’d be worried, a young woman, alone, stepping into an empty building with no street number, no name.

‘Follow me, miss.’ A young soldier appeared and led the way up the main stairs, skirting round the landing, along a corridor. He knocked at a door, opened it. ‘She’s here, sir.’ He indicated for Betty to enter.

‘Miss Fisher.’ A tall man stepped from behind a table, smiled at her, his hand outstretched. ‘How very kind of you to come. I’m James Goodfellow. Let me take your coat.’ He walked towards her, standing close as Betty slipped the coat off, handed it to him, watched as he hooked it onto a stand.

‘Please sit.’ He pointed to a chair in front of a table at which sat two other men. They were all, she guessed, about her father’s age, with manicured nails and well-cut suits. James Goodfellow resumed his place between them, pointed left, and right.