And Berlin? The muteness of the women was thick and heavy as tarpaulin over a corpse. Nice girls don’t talk about that. Why keep this secret from John? Why pretend? John had never asked where she came from. Her English was flawless, she’d made sure of that, so why would he suspect? She couldn’t bring herself to say, I was there. I am German. Ich bin Deutsche. She was as guilty as her father.

She broke away from her thoughts, looked up at him, smiled.

‘No. Nothing. I was in town. In St Albans, as it happened,’ she said, adding, ‘It’s not far away from Hatfield.’

‘I know where St Albans is,’ he said. ‘What were you doing there?’

‘Sitting down,’ she said. ‘In the marketplace. With our CND banners.’ And her badge, now ground to dust in the garden.

‘You’re lucky you weren’t arrested.’

‘In St Albans? I think the police were bemused, that’s all. Everyone was so young. School children, really. I was by far the oldest.’

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I know how you feel. I’ll tell you about that later. Come, this is our stop.’

She knew he lived in Bloomsbury, but had no idea it was so close to the British Museum. She followed him into Bury Place, through a narrow door next to a café. The hall was dark and she had to adjust her eyes. A man’s bike was propped against the wall, ahead of them a flight of stairs with chipped brown paint, covered in torn green linoleum. It was dingy and shabby, and she thought of her father. He’d paint it all pale blue, rip out the old lino, put down Marley tiles.

‘One more flight,’ John said. ‘Watch the step.’ There was a grimy skylight that lit the last of the stairs and a small landing. John pulled out his key and opened the door.

‘Won’t you come into my parlour.’ Said the spider to the fly. Betty felt a small knot of excitement. She’d never been alone with him. They’d always met in public places. Would he have suggested they come here if she hadn’t mentioned it? Or was he, in his own way, luring her inside?

She brushed him as she stepped past into the sitting room, an inch too close but she couldn’t stop herself. He touched her hand, let it linger. Her skin fizzed. Ahead was the mantelpiece, bookshelves either side and on them, a clock. Her blood drained, made her giddy for a moment. She shivered.

‘Cold?’ he said.

‘No. Nothing.’ She smiled, added, ‘Someone stepped on my grave.’

Her parents had had an identical clock, until Lieselotte had sold it. Of course, thousands of them were made. The factory churned them out for years. Still, it was odd that John would have one. Perhaps he’d picked it up in Germany at the end of the war.