‘Do you really have to tell the police? I mean, if you believe I’m not a spy?’

‘They won’t take any action, not this time. They will just hold it for their own records.’

‘You mean, just because . . .’

He silenced her with an upheld palm. ‘Enough, Miss Motts. You have shown a serious lack of judgement and are fortunate that, for now, I have decided not to take it any further. So off you go before I change my mind, and don’t let us ever catch you “birdwatching” around here again.’

‘Honestly, Kath, what an idiot,’ Joan said, when she’d stopped laughing. ‘You could have got yourself properly arrested for spying.’

‘I was properly arrested. They locked me in. Cripes, they really mean business over there.’

Joan didn’t seem to be taking her seriously. ‘Do you remember what Charlie said?’ She mimicked his Suffolk lilt. ‘Curiosity killed the cat, in’t that what they say?’

‘Do you really think they’ll tell the police? I could lose my job.’

‘Nah, I think they were just trying to scare you,’ Joan said. ‘Look on the bright side. They didn’t shoot you at dawn, or whatever it is they do with spies.’

6

Vic could hardly believe he’d been at the Research Station for nearly nine months.

His first few weeks had been a blur of information about the various aspects of what they’d been instructed to refer to, even among themselves, as Radio Direction Finding. As the months went by and others arrived, he had begun to feel less like a raw newcomer, growing increasingly confident of his place and often finding himself in demand to help solve the knottiest problems.

Never before had he felt filled with such sense of purpose. No longer was he researching dry academic theory behind laboratory doors, or devising complex theorems inside workbooks. Now, he discovered, his ideas were often pressed into practical application, almost at once. Engineers would beaver away on adjustments to existing equipment or developing additional bits of kit, reporting back within days on whether the trials had been successful or not, and whether more refinements were needed. It was hugely satisfying.

Most mornings, Watson-Watt would drop into their team meetings to check on progress. More often than not they would have to admit they were ‘still working on it’. Vic longed to be able to reply, ‘Well, yes, we might be onto something.’

Sometimes, after days of wrestling with a particularly complex problem and frustrated by others who would insist on leading their calculations down what he considered to be blind alleys, Vic would take long, solitary walks to clear his mind. Conscious only of his breathing, of taking one step in front of the next, distracted from time to time by the nature around him – a low-flying owl quartering the marshes for prey, or a badger snuffling in the hedgerow – he found tranquillity and clarity. Somehow, although he was never conscious of this happening, it allowed the thoughts in his head to disentangle and reorder themselves.