“No, they were supposed to,” Ruth said, sounding more uncertain. “They wanted to take the baby as soon as they could.”

“You mean as soon as I gave birth.”

There were tears in Ruth’s eyes, and she raised a hand as if she wanted to offer comfort. “I am sorry for that, Alice. It would have been better for everyone if they had taken her straightaway, but you went into labor early. You wouldn’t have formed such an attachment—”

“Do I know them?” Her voice came out as a whisper.

“No, they only visited Brighton once,” Ruth said earnestly, as though she had been doing Alice a service. “They wanted to be certain.”

Alice recoiled, rushing over to the sink and reaching it just in time.

Eleven

London, March 19, 1943

“You’ll have to sit and wait,” the old officer behind the desk said gruffly. “There’s no telling how long it could take.”

“I understand,” said Alice. “I’ll be right here.” She sat gently on the closest bench, feeling uncomfortably hot, with cramps in her abdomen.

She had been heading to her old friend Penny’s house when she’d had a change of heart and decided she had to try the police again, so she’d stopped off at Marylebone Lane Police Station on the way. In light of what her mother had said, she couldn’t afford to wait or to worry about revealing Rupert’s identity. And she’d realized that she didn’t need to; she would simply claim she didn’t know who the father was.

Around her were benches packed with members of the public in varying states of disgruntlement, victims of London’s crime epidemic. The newspapers were filled with stories of how the city was rife with lootings, murders and gang activities, which added to the wartime atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. The police would see Alice as one of many victims, but she was determined not to put up with the same treatment as before. It’s the best thing for you to go home and get some sleep, indeed! This time they had to believe her.

Half an hour passed before a middle-aged officer, his uniform too small and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair too long, showed her into a small interview room. Under different circumstances she would have been disturbed to be enclosed in the white-tiled room, with its dreary concrete floors and barred window, but as she sat on the opposite side of the desk Alice wheeled between impatience and relief.

In the waiting room the officer had introduced himself as Special Constable Bobby Relf, and she’d given him her name, but now he didn’t remember. “Is it Miss or Mrs. Cotton?” he asked, pencil balanced between his fingers.

“Miss.”

“And can you tell me why you’re here, Miss Cotton?”