‘My colleagues, Frank Lloyd, Brian Cullis.’ They smiled, backs straight, heads tilted in acknowledgement. Betty had no doubt who they were: military men, and this was a delegation from the Security Services.

‘Please let us offer our condolences,’ James Goodfellow said, and his colleagues nodded in agreement. ‘And our apologies for bringing you in at this sensitive time.’

Betty sat, hands on her lap, threading and rethreading her fingers.

‘There are just a few small things we need to clear up,’ James Goodfellow said. He looked at his colleagues, as if waiting for their approval to proceed. ‘We understand you are aware of the nature of your father’s work.’

‘I am now,’ Betty said. ‘But I had no idea. He never said a word. No, well…’ These formal, formidable men in suits were in a strange way comforting, and for reasons she couldn’t fathom she wanted to blurt out everything. ‘He did. He said he worked for de Havilland. He gave the impression he was some kind of engineer, a factory worker.’ She swallowed. ‘That’s what I thought. I trusted him. He was my father. He didn’t talk about his work, except about the Comet. Its teething problems, metal fatigue and stress and turbojets and boring stuff like that.’

Should she have paid more attention? She had her own problems to cope with, settling into a new country, a new language, school. He hadn’t given a toss about what she was going through, had never asked how her day had been.

‘He lied.’

‘A little white lie,’ Brian Cullis said. ‘I’m sure you forgive him for that.’

‘Actually,’ Betty said, inhaling, shoulders rising, head high, ‘I don’t.’

Cullis coughed, pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped his mouth.

‘Did your father ever talk about Germany with you?’ Frank Lloyd said.

Betty shook her head. ‘Hardly ever. He wouldn’t even speak German.’ He denied me language, she thought, the language that shaped me, my thoughts and feelings, loves and hates. Perhaps that’s why he was so bitter too, the loss of his language had puckered his heart.

‘Did he talk about politics?’

‘We didn’t really talk about very much at all,’ Betty said, adding, ‘He pontificated.’

Frank Lloyd smirked. ‘About what?’

‘Communism, mainly.’ There was a silver cigarette box on the table. ‘May I?’ she said, leaning forward. James Goodfellow flipped open the lid and passed it across the table to her. ‘Thank you,’ she said. He scraped back his chair, walked round with his lighter, smiling as if she was a dinner guest, leaning over her as he lit her cigarette, close enough for Betty to see the hairs in his nostrils. ‘Thank you again,’ she said. She felt suddenly gripped by nerves. She sucked the smoke inside, feeling it swirl through her blood, tightening her thoughts.

‘Such as?’

‘He did once say that the Third Reich had been right to try to purge Europe of Communism.’