Peter had survived the landings and had made it back to his base near Portsmouth, and so she’d been able to hear first hand about the horrors and successes of the operation. He had come through unscathed, and full of admiration for the way it had been planned. ‘That was down to you too, my darling,’ she’d told him, on the one night they’d managed to snatch at his uncle’s flat. ‘Those boring old meetings paid off.’ She was terribly proud of him, and mightily relieved he was back in one piece, but there was a strong likelihood he would be back at sea shortly. However, he had taken to persuading colleagues who were sent to London from their south coast base to seek her out if their paths looked likely to cross, passing her messages to cheer her up. It was an unconventional way of getting news, but it made her day to know that he was thinking about her.

It was one such encounter that had brought about her state of indecision. Yesterday she had just stood down from duty and had chosen to walk through Regent’s Park to make the most of the sunny day, glad to have finished her shift driving a particularly unpleasant naval officer, who seemed to think that her company later in the evening would be part of the service. She had put him right politely but firmly, wishing she could have told him exactly what she thought of him. If he tried it again she’d report him, she thought angrily. She’d been wandering down one of the less frequented paths when a man in a drab grey jacket had approached her, his distinguishing features blocked out by the brightness of the sun behind him. ‘Miss Fawcett?’ he’d asked, in a voice she could only have described as nondescript.

She’d looked directly at him, neither denying nor confirming her name – she had no idea who this was and the light was such she would have struggled to recognise even a reasonable acquaintance.

‘Message for you,’ he’d said, pressing a small piece of paper into her hand, then he was gone.

Well, that was a new twist from Peter, she’d thought, and made her way back to the rather grim little attic room, which was too hot in the summer and would probably be freezing in the winter. She’d opened the flaking window as far as it would go, and stood by it before taking out the paper and unfolding it.

If it was from Peter, it wasn’t his writing. It was a scrawl, almost as if it had been deliberately disguised.

Back soon. Safe and well. Don’t worry.

It had no name, date, or any way of telling where or who it was from.