George remains silent as I take him up the short staircase to the top floor. This is in the oldest part of the house, built in the 1740s. In many ways, the house is misshapen with different levels and small sets of stairs where you least expected them. It is part of what I love about Boskenna, not all is revealed at first meeting.

The door is open and through the window the view is all blue sea and sky. In the distance I make out the sail of a yacht making way towards Gribben Head and then onto Fowey. Allan. I turn to George. Tom is downstairs, and this is his chance or mine to say something unheard by him.

He places his bag on the bed and looks at me and not the view. ‘From this point forward, you will no longer relay any information to Tom or to your husband.’ His voice is quiet and even. It is a command.

I remain silent.

‘MI6 has become a leaky sieve and Victor is too key to lose with Khrushchev flexing his muscles in Cuba.’

I nod.

‘You have to put Victor before yourself, your family, and your friends.’ He glances to the door. ‘We can’t swap you out before the next drop.’

I swallow.

‘I need you to be alert to everything and everyone.’

I cross my arms. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’

A slow smile spreads across his face. ‘You don’t.’

I am alone. A cool breeze drifts in through the open window and goosebumps cover my arms.

38. Diana

38

Diana

4 August 2018, 11.30 a.m.

With a notebook in her hand and the information Diana had a colleague pull off the internet, she went to her mother’s room. Her fingers worried the wire of the binder. According to the material, she had seen her father’s body on the beach. That was in the transcript of the coroner’s court. Local police had handed over to CID swiftly.

On the threshold of the bedroom she heard her mother. ‘I had no choice.’ This time she spoke in English. George sat beside her, stroking her arm and murmuring to her, trying to soothe her but Diana saw how troubled she was.

She cleared her throat and George looked up. ‘May I have a few minutes alone with my mother?’

He turned to Diana, his look almost pleading, but he stood – ever the old-school gentleman. ‘Of course, Diana. She’s not very . . . she’s . . .’

‘Dying.’

His head dropped down to his chest. Her hand clenched as she watched him shuffle out the door. Once he was out of sight she went to her mother’s bedside and sat down and picked up her cold hand. Her circulation was slowing but Diana knew she could still hear her.