‘There was a pub she liked. She’d order a drink then chat up a bunch of blokes, who’d humour this old lady. Then she’d start to gamble with them, and before they knew it she’d have cleaned them out. I did get a few stories out of her after several beers, which she always drank through a straw.’ Tim paused. ‘It was sad, really. She was married, you know. A Scandinavian-American called Pearson. And while I never got a straight story or the facts, it seems it wasn’t a happy marriage; maybe it was an escape. And there’s the unanswered question about their child. A son.’

‘Oh no! What happened to him?’ asked Grace. ‘I don’t think she mentions him in her book.’

‘I think he died. Maybe a car crash. We don’t have all the details, but she told me that was the real reason she ran away from Hollywood. I always felt Pito, whoever he was, filled that role for her,’ said Tim softly.

Steve looked down at his coffee and said quietly, ‘For all her heroism, it sounds like she was a lonely woman.’ He turned to Tim. ‘You were, what, in your twenties when you met her? Do you think she ever saw you as a son figure in her life?’

‘I sometimes wondered,’ admitted Tim. ‘We had a . . . well . . . “challenging” relationship. She was difficult, obstreperous, arrogant, tricky and feisty. She made me work for every answer. It was a constant war of words. I’d ask a question, and she’d give a wicked, impish grin and say, “Ah, that’s for me to know and you to find out, sonny boy”. It was her favourite saying.’

Grace shook her head. ‘How frustrating.’

‘She once said to me, “The Japs tortured me for months and I didn’t tell them a thing. What makes you think I’ll tell you?”’

Steve and Grace burst out laughing.

‘What a character. How did you ever find anything out?’ Grace asked.

‘Well, the deal was that she wouldn’t acknowledge or admit anything unless I put irrefutable evidence down in front of her.’ Tim smiled. ‘I was running all over the place – to archives and libraries, lodging FOI requests, digging through people’s memories in Bali, Jakarta, America . . . Then I’d present it to her and she’d kind of wink and give a grudging smile and say, “Well, ya got me there, sonny boy”. I saw the discrepancies between her novel and what I was learning from her, and what I was hauling out of the archives.’

‘And this went on for years?’ asked Steve.