Peter told him the US Air Force had taken over the investigation into Jack’s death, but so far, no one had come to ask him about the night of the flood. Neither the local police nor the RAF, nor the US Air Force. He didn’t know what to make of it. Peter said the local police had tried to keep hold of the case but the Americans had insisted they must have jurisdiction – and given no explanation. It confirmed to Arthur that they were hiding something. If Jack had military secrets, they wouldn’t want anyone getting hold of that, would they? And he had to keep reminding himself: no one knew he’d been with Jack in the boat. That spotty youth of a copper had been funny with him but he didn’t know. No one could know what had really happened. But the very fact of Jack’s body being found made him nervous. He wondered if anyone knew about the key. What was it for? He was certain Jack had been involved in something secret. If he could find out what it was, perhaps Verity would come back to him. She had screamed when she’d seen the body. But it was him she had been with the morning of the flood. Him, not Jack. And Jack was gone now. He was gone and he’d been a traitor. Arthur had seen him in Norwich, passing something to that man. Could it be negatives of bomb sites, targets in the Eastern Bloc? If she could only see what he’d seen. But he needed proof. It went round and round in his head with no answers, no resolution.

He hated being at the flat on the quay – the wrecked shop and his mother with her frenzy of restoration and cleaning. It wore her out and sent her, sighing, to her bed. He asked her if she’d seen the doctor again and she said she didn’t want to bother him, not at a time like this. But her face was drawn in pain and she lay fully dressed on her bed, clutching her stomach. He knew nothing about cancer and what he should be doing.

In Askey’s, he was half eavesdropping on the young kids in the milk bar and their talk of American music. He saw in them the same desire to get away, to hear and feel the world, but they were talking about pubs and jive nights in Norwich – it wouldn’t occur to them to see beyond Norfolk – and they possessed a contentment he had never had. He envied them their easy, untainted consciences and their talk of be-bop and jive, as if these were the only things that mattered.