Her life in England fell apart once more. And into place. The house in Hatfield, Mrs H, the school. Her father was an immigrant, but he had never struggled, not like the fathers of other immigrants in her class. He’d had it handed to him on a plate. Her father had never relinquished his goals, just swapped his paymaster. If the Third Reich wasn’t allowed to rid Europe of the Communists, then he’d carry on its work.

Did he now realise Germany had been a lost cause, all of it? Was that why he had taken the cyanide?

‘Miss Fisher’ – James Goodfellow leaned forward, clasping his hands, elbows on the table – ‘your father’s work was top secret, you must appreciate, and we had to protect ourselves, be sure that nothing jeopardised our national defence, no moles passing information to extremists on either side.’ He steadied his gaze on her. ‘We had to protect him, too. And you.’

She stubbed out her cigarette.

‘Vasily Kuznetsov,’ he went on. ‘You might know him as Anatoly Kuznetsov. What can you tell us about him?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I knew a Vasily once but have no idea of his full name.’

‘You are aware he is in London.’

She blew out, the questions coming closer, a steamroller out of control. She could feel her fingers quake, sat on her hands so no one could see. ‘Yes.’ Her voice was quiet.

‘When did you first meet him?’

‘In Berlin. He was with his superior, a major, Boris Somebody-or-other. He used to come to the apartment when Boris was…’ Three men. What did they know? What could they know? She breathed in, gave the word its full airing. ‘Raping my sister.’

Cullis and the other man looked down, but Major Goodfellow kept her gaze, nodding, continue.

‘Then they left. Only the morning after Lieselotte disappeared, Vasily came back to our apartment.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He wanted me. He wanted to rape me, but I shot him.’

‘Is that why he limps?’ Frank Lloyd asked.

‘Yes,’ Betty said.

‘A good shot,’ he said, and smiled at her.

‘I didn’t think that at the time,’ Betty said. ‘I was too terrified. I dropped the gun and ran.’

‘He came back after your sister had been murdered,’ Goodfellow said, looking at his notes. ‘You’re an intelligent young woman, as well as a pretty one.’ He smirked, but Betty sat, her face blank. It didn’t feel like a compliment, more like a threat. ‘Do you think he had another purpose in returning to your apartment?’

Betty stared at him.

‘Your father would have been quite a coup for the Soviets,’ Goodfellow went on. ‘Have you any idea how they could persuade him to come over to them?’

Betty shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Could they have argued their cause?’

‘It wouldn’t have made any difference,’ Betty said. ‘He was vehemently anti-Communist.’