‘And a compliment it is, my dear,’ he says, nodding vigorously. ‘I’m one of the troublemakers, if you were wondering. You might hear my name from time to time. A face-card. Jack of Clubs, let’s call it that. Have you got to the hierarchies yet? Basic structures? Oh, I shan’t spoil it for you. They do like to do things in the correct order and in their own good time. Suffice to say, I always have a little poke around in the heads of the new recruits. It’s incredible what one might find. I had such a good feeling about you when I saw the file. Bastard child, born to an unstable mother in ’42, father unknown, convent educated and bloody clever. Scholarship student. Grammar school. Up to Nuffield, Oxford, in ’62. Abandoned your studies when you fell in love. Wife of one Cranham Hemlock, civil servant. Your son, Stefan – meningitis, wasn’t it? I’m truly sorry for your loss.’

Cordelia doesn’t let her change of mood show in her face. Inside, she feels as though all the blood in her body has turned to smoke. She feels as though her face is a sponge full of tears, just waiting to spill down her bruised cheeks. But she doesn’t let it show. She’s very good at not letting it show.

‘Seems odd that a woman as beguiling as yourself should marry a gentleman of such astoundingly homosexual persuasion,’ he says, with a little shake of the head. ‘I’m not a romantic, I’ll leave that to the French, but I should imagine that it causes one or two problems from time to time. Still, least said, soonest mended, as they say. And you have done rather well out of the arrangement. That’s the establishment, for you – everybody knows, but nobody lets on.’

‘He’s not part of this,’ says Cordelia, coolly. ‘Cranham doesn’t even know. If you think I got special treatment because of who I’m married to …’

‘Whom, my dear,’ he corrects her, with a smile. ‘Gosh, you become even more of a coal miner’s daughter when you’re cross, don’t you? And please, do accept my apologies if I implied that you were being given special treatment. I very much doubt that Cranham would spot a trainee spy if it sat on his face and started reading Tolstoy. No, have no fear on that score, my dear. I’m more than aware of what you’ve done. Mind sharp as a razor, that’s what your instructors say. They fear your political affiliations, of course. You’re not, shall we say, one of us. The whiff of the socialist about you, and they’ll never understand that a whiff of socialism falls well short of a love of communism. I’m a firm believer that we need a few more like you.’