Harry shook his head. ‘I’m glad we’re following non-intervention.’

Phillips laughed again. ‘Non-intervention my fanny. If Baldwin had let the French give the Republic arms last year, they wouldn’t have touched the Russians with a barge pole. This is our fault. The Republic will lose in the end; the Germans and Italians are pouring in arms and men.’

‘And then what?’

Phillips stretched out an arm in the Fascist salute. ‘Sieg heil, old boy. Another Fascist power. Well, I must toddle off to bed. Got to do a report from the Casa de Campo tomorrow, worse luck. Wish I’d brought my tin hat.’

HARRY WENT TO Red Cross HQ next day and asked for Miss Clare. He was shown into an office where a harassed-looking Swiss man sat behind a trestle table stacked with papers. They spoke in French. The official looked at him seriously.

‘Do you know Miss Clare personally?’

‘No, it was her friend I knew. His parents asked me to contact her.’

‘She has taken it badly. We have given her a period of sick leave but we wonder if she might be better off returning to England.’

‘I see.’

‘It would be a great shame, she has been a tower of strength in the office. But she won’t go, not till she knows for sure about her boyfriend, she says. But she may never know for sure.’ He paused. ‘I have had a complaint from the authorities, I am afraid. She is becoming a nuisance. We need to keep good relations with them. If you could help her see things in some sort of perspective …’

‘I’ll do what I can.’ He sighed. ‘Perspective seems in short supply here.’

‘It is. Very short.’

THE ADDRESS was a block of flats. He knocked at her door and heard shuffling footsteps within. He wondered if he had got the wrong flat, they sounded like an old lady’s footsteps, but it was a tall young woman with disordered red hair and a strained puffy face who opened the door. There were bags under the startlingly green eyes half hidden by smeared glasses.

‘¡Sí?’ she asked without interest.

‘Miss Clare? You don’t know me. My name’s Brett, Harry Brett.’ She looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘I’m a friend of Bernie’s.’

At his name she came to life. ‘Is there news?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Have you news?’

‘I’m afraid not. Bernie’s parents had your letter, they asked me to come out and see what could be done.’

‘Oh.’ She was downcast again at once, but held the door open. ‘Come in.’

The flat was cluttered and untidy, the air thick with cigarette smoke. She frowned, a puzzled look. ‘I know your name from somewhere.’

‘Rookwood. I was there with Bernie.’

She smiled, her face suddenly warm. ‘Of course. Harry. Bernie talked about you.’

‘Did he?’

‘He said you were his best friend at school.’ She paused. ‘He hated that school, though.’

‘Still?’

She sighed. ‘It was all tied up with his politics. Looks like it’s done for him in the end, his bloody politics. Sorry, my manners are awful.’ She swept a pile of clothes from an armchair. ‘Sit down. Coffee? It’s pretty dire, I’m afraid.’

‘Thanks. That would be nice.’

She made him a coffee and sat opposite him. The life seemed to have gone out of her again. She slumped in her chair, smoking strong Spanish cigarettes.

‘Did you go to the Red Cross?’ she asked.

‘Yes. They said you were on sick leave.’

‘Nearly two months now, it’s been.’ She shook her head. ‘They want me to go back to England, they say Bernie’s bound to be dead. I believed that at first but now I’m not sure, I can’t be sure till someone tells me where the body is.’

‘Have you made any progress?’

‘No. They’re getting fed up of me, they’ve told me not to come again. They’ve even complained to old Doumergue.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘There was a commissar Bernie knew from the fighting in the Casa de Campo, a Communist who worked at army HQ. Captain Duro. He was kind; he was trying to find out what he could but he left suddenly, last week, transferred or something. There have been a lot of changes recently. I asked if I could go out there, to the lines, but of course they said no.’

‘Maybe it would be better to go home.’

‘Nothing to go home for.’ Her eyes went blank, inward-looking; she seemed to forget he was there. Harry felt desperately sorry for her. ‘Come for lunch at my hotel,’ he said.

She gave him a quick, sad smile and nodded.

HE SPENT most of the next couple of days with her. She wanted to hear all he could tell her about Bernie. It seemed to lift her out of herself for a while, though she kept slipping back into that withdrawn, glassy-eyed sadness. She wore old skirts and unironed blouses and no make-up; she didn’t seem to care how she looked.

On the second day he visited the British Embassy but they said what everyone else had: that ‘missing believed killed’ meant they hadn’t found an identifiable body. He walked back to Barbara’s flat. He wasn’t looking forward to telling her what they had said. He had promised to visit army HQ the next day, perhaps they would take more notice of a man; after that he didn’t see what else he could do. He was sure Bernie was dead.

He rang her bell and heard the dragging footsteps again. She opened the door and leaned against it, staring at him. She was drunk. ‘Come in,’ she said.

There was a half-empty bottle of wine on the table and another in the wastepaper basket. She slumped into a chair beside the table.

‘Have a drink,’ she said. ‘Drink with me, Harry.’

‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ he asked gently.

‘No. Take a cup and have one.’

He let her pour him a drink. She raised her cup. ‘Here’s to the bloody revolution.’

‘The bloody revolution.’

He told her what the embassy had said. She put down her glass. The inward look came over her face again. ‘He was so full of life, always. So funny. So beautiful.’ She looked up. ‘He said some of the boys at school got crushes on him. He didn’t like it.’

‘No. No, he didn’t.’

‘Did you have a crush on him?’

‘No.’ Harry smiled sadly. He remembered the night Bernie had gone to the prostitutes. ‘I was jealous of his looks sometimes.’

‘Have you a girlfriend back in England?’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘A nice girl.’ He had been going out with Laura for some months; he was surprised to realize he had hardly thought of her since coming to Madrid.

‘They say there’s someone for everyone, and there is, but they don’t tell you sometimes they’re just taken away from you again. Gone. Vanished.’ She clenched a fist against her forehead and began to cry, harsh wracking sobs. ‘I’ve just been deluding myself, haven’t I? He’s gone.’

‘I’m afraid it looks that way,’ Harry replied quietly.

‘Visit army HQ for me tomorrow, though, will you? Speak to Captain Duro. But if they’ve no more news. I’ll – I’ll give up. I’ll have to accept it.’

‘I will. I promise.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t usually get like this. I’ve shocked you, haven’t I?’

He leaned across the table and took her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’

She clasped his hand and leaned her head against it and wept and wept.

THE SOLDIER at the entrance to military headquarters was reluctant to let Harry in but he explained what he wanted in Spanish and that helped. Inside he told a sergeant he had come to see what he could find out about a soldier missing on the Jarama. He mentioned Bernie’s name and the name of the Communist Barbara said had helped her. The sergeant said he would consult an officer and showed him to a little windowless office to wait. He sat down at a table. He stared at a picture of Stalin on the wall, the screwed-up little eyes and the big moustache, a smile like a grimace. There was a map of Spain, too, pencil lines marking the shrinking areas the Republic held.

A Spaniard in a captain’s uniform came in, carrying a folder. He was short and swarthy and had a tired, stubbly face. There was another captain with him, a tall pale burly man. They sat opposite him. The Spaniard nodded curtly.