James Goodfellow leaned forward, his head on one side, nodding encouragement. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, he said that all that was needed was to rid the Party of its rotten apples, like Admiral Dönitz had suggested, and Germany could rise again, complete its destiny. He said the Nazis who were prosecuted in Nuremberg were evil, but not to throw the baby out with the bathwater.’

She watched as the men made notes.

‘Did his views change?’ Frank Lloyd said.

‘A bit,’ Betty said. ‘Not much.’

‘How?’

‘He thought Germany wasn’t to blame for the Nazis,’ she said. Sitting at the end of the dining room table, knife and fork laid to rest, he waited until the dessert was served, lifting his spoon, waving it for emphasis. She wasn’t allowed to start before he did, had to watch the custard go cold, congeal, a thick skin forming. He knew she hated the skin. ‘He believed it could have happened to any country and said the Allies were happy to go along with Hitler when it suited them before the war. It just seemed unfair that Germany had to bear the brunt of it, he used to say, when it wasn’t Germany’s fault.’

Brian Cullis was nodding. ‘Strong views. Controversial. Did you agree?’

Betty stared at him. ‘Of course not. It was Germany’s fault. He couldn’t reconcile himself to that. It would mean confronting his past, coming to terms with it.’

‘Adenauer’s done a pretty good job. Bringing the country together, moving on. What do you say to that?’

This was not about her father’s views. It was about her own. Betty shook her head. ‘There needs to be a wider reckoning, don’t you think? An acknowledgement of what Germany did, and why, a shared responsibility.’

‘And how will that come about?’

‘I don’t know,’ Betty said. ‘But it will happen, I’m sure.’

James Goodfellow leaned back in his chair. His jacket fell open and Betty caught a glimpse of his waistcoat, the bulge of his paunch, the lie of his genitals beneath his trousers. She looked up, over his head, at the picture of the Queen on the wall behind him.

‘Did he discuss his views with anyone else?’ He tilted forward once more.

‘Not that I know,’ Betty said. ‘But I was away at college for years, and before that, when I was at school, I didn’t pay much attention to him. You could ask Mrs H. He seemed to be in her thrall. Perhaps he confided in her too.’

The men exchanged glances and Betty understood in that moment that Mrs H wasn’t just the housekeeper Betty had always assumed, but something more sinister.

‘Was she spying on us?’

James Goodfellow laughed, but it was a synthetic, patronising ha-ha. ‘She kept us informed, that’s all.’