Nic zipped shut his laptop bag. ‘“Tunnelling”.’

‘For God’s sake, what are you talking about?’

But Laure knew precisely what he was talking about and a frisson went through her.

‘“The nation is on its knees but we’re not. We’re upright”.’ He lowered his voice. ‘“The raw emotional power of music is superior to the word”.’

She pressed her hands down onto her desk. ‘Where did you dredge those up?’

‘Have you heard of the internet?’

‘Stop it, Nic.’

His answer was to toss an envelope down in front of her. It was addressed to her personally. ‘Look inside, Laure.’

The envelope was bulky and had an elusive scent but not a feminine one. A herb? An aftershave? For some reason, her pulse was raised as she extracted from it a black-and-white photograph sandwiched between two leaves of cardboard.

It was taken in evening sunshine in a large park or garden in front of a building probably built in the late eighteenth century. The space was crammed with people – young and middle-aged, with one or two elderly leavening the mix. Most were dressed conservatively: the men in ill-cut jeans or shorts, the women in knee-length skirts and blouses. But there was a good percentage who had got the bit between their teeth and were wearing T-shirts with plunging necklines, flowing skirts and leather fringes.

In the distance on a raised platform were three figures. They had unkempt hair, T-shirts and embroidered waistcoats. Two were on guitars and the third on the drums. One of them, a slight, handsome, rakish figure, had taken up position at the central microphone. The camera caught an absorption, a passion. A tension.

The press was thickest around the stage but several nearest to the camera had linked arms and swayed in a tightly constructed human chain across the foreground.

There was no litter and no vendors, at least in the camera’s sights. It looked hot, magical and raucous.

Nic was smiling in an irritating way. ‘Recognize?’

A painful lump forced its way into her throat. ‘Can’t say I do. A pop concert somewhere?’

Nic’s smile widened. ‘My mother always taught me to tell the truth.’ He bent over and tapped one of the figures closest to the camera. She had long hair, a flowing patterned scarf and huge shining eyes. ‘If I’m not mistaken that’s you.’

CHAPTER 12

Prague, 1986

LAURE’S ROUTE ACROSS THE CHARLES BRIDGE TO THE Old Town Square was becoming well worn. Straight on from the bridge, avoid the pothole by the crooked house and keep the Disney church towers in line of sight.

‘I’m often at the marionette theatre in the evenings. Or, someone there will know where I am. Will you come?’