But there was a chance she might get out, a hope that Lockhart had clung to over the next few days. He had barely slept, trying to work out if there was something he had forgotten. He regularly thought of trying to get to Holland, but he knew that it would be fruitless, if not impossible. He telephoned the house in Oxford every hour, asking Amy’s nanny if there were any telegrams. Each time she told him that none had arrived, he felt a little more hollow, more gouged out. After a week, he knew he had lost her.

As Lockhart lay in his cell, he knew that the hollowing process had been completed. Now that he knew she was dead, he felt like a husk. He did his best not to imagine the way in which she had died, but he couldn’t help it. His subconscious kept replacing Worstead’s face with Anna’s. In his mind, it was her blood seeping onto the cobbles, her brains that had been blasted out of the top of her head. Part of him died that night, but what remained was strong enough to continue, strong enough to fight on.

Strasser entered his cell at five-thirty in the morning.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

What Lockhart proceeded to tell Strasser was true, but not the whole truth. He told him that they’d had a few drinks at the Rosenstock, during which Worstead had told him that he was unhappy being a member of the BFC, that he was sick of being a traitor, and that he knew he would never see Beth and his son again. They had left the Rosenstock without having eaten, and when they were out on the street, Worstead pulled out a gun and shot himself.

“Just like that?” Strasser asked.

“That’s right,” said Lockhart. “It happened very suddenly. I didn’t have time to stop him. I had no idea he was so down, so depressed.”

“Neither had I,” said Strasser.

“So, what’s going to happen to me?”

Strasser paused.

“Things aren’t looking good for you, Lockhart.”

“What?”

“There’s a waitress.”

“Yes?”

“A waitress at the Rosenstock.”

“What about her?”

“She says that you dragged Worstead out of the bar after you’d had an argument. She also says that you looked as though you meant to harm him, that you were threatening him.”

“Jesus Christ! We weren’t having an argument, although I don’t deny our voices were raised. Worstead was bloody upset, and I was trying to calm him down—he was almost hysterical. I decided to call dinner off, and yes, somewhat against his wishes, I took him out by his arm. But the idea that I looked as though I meant to harm him is pure bunk. Besides, it’s not even evidence.”

“Well, it’s enough to make them hunt for more.”

“What?”

“I’m afraid they don’t believe your story.”

“This is absurd. Do they really think I would hang about next to somebody I had just shot? Can’t you do something, Strasser?”