The car pulled up outside the town hall. The driver opened the car for the officer and the woman; the two sentries smartened up and saluted, military style. The man in black responded with his right arm outstretched. 'Heil Hitler.' It was the first time George had ever seen a Nazi salute, save in the newsreels.

The man and his woman companion approached George. 'Well, well,' the woman said. 'A British bobby! Years since I've seen one of these specimens. And look, Josef, he's not afraid of you.'

'Good for him,' the man said, also in English. 'Constable, is it?'

George felt confused. The man's accent was German, but the woman's was icy upper-crust English, Noel Coward stuff. And there was something very unsettling in the way she stared at him: blonde, tall, she was extremely beautiful. He said, 'I am Police Constable George Tanner, number-'

The man waved him silent. 'Yes, yes, man, I can see your wretched number on your shoulder board. I am Standartenfuhrer Trojan, and this is Unterscharfuhrer Fiveash. We are of the Schutszstaffel. That is the security service you may know as the SS. Do you understand me?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Oh, how formal,' the woman said.

George blinked. 'You're English,' he said to the woman.

'As you are,' said Trojan, 'but rather brighter, as she is fighting on the right side in this unnecessary war. So tell me, this is the centre of your town government? Your mayor is here?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I shall need to speak to him. We have much to discuss, the details of the occupation, and so forth.'

'I'll call him for you-'

'No.' Trojan held up a hand. 'Not yet. You will do for now. I think I rather like you, Constable Tanner! Now tell me – who is left in this town? It's pretty much deserted, isn't it?'

'We've tried to move out the bulk of the population, yes, sir. But there are a few who couldn't be moved – or wouldn't. The hospital is pretty full, what with the air raids and the land battles. The nurses and some of the doctors have stayed on for that. The mayor's essential staff are here, as are units of the police.'

'Very good. But why are you here, Constable Tanner? Why aren't you in the hills taking pot-shots at our tanks? Are you going to prove a useful collaborator?'

Fiveash laughed.

George stiffened. 'I have my orders. I'm here for the benefit of the remaining civilian population. Not to collaborate.'

Trojan nodded. 'No doubt that will be a fine distinction to make in the coming months.'

'I imagine it will, sir.'

'Well, we will have orders for you to implement. A census to be taken. Identity cards to be issued. Wireless sets to be collected from the population. Soon we will be arranging the delivery of food, and so forth. We will get your pretty little town functioning again, Constable!'

George said, 'What about clean-up?'

'Clean-up?'

George gestured. 'The bomb damage.' Buildings reduced to heaps of bricks and beams were visible even from here, and the air was still stained by the smoke of the fires.

'Oh, I don't think we're terribly interested in that. As long as you all have roofs over your heads – yes? Now' – he studied George – 'do you know where "Battle is, man?'

'Of course I know. Sir.'

'I intend to drive there later this evening.' He glanced at his watch. 'Another hour or two should see the place secured. This Wehrmacht fellow of mine is rather an oaf, and a clumsy driver. We are in England; it would be appropriate for me to have an English bobby as my driver, don't you think?'

Fiveash laughed. 'Oh, what a spiffing idea! But, mind, Constable, the Germans will insist on your driving on the right, continental style.'

George kept his voice steady. 'If you order me to come with you to Battle, I'll do it, sir. But I won't drive for you.'

'Ah, that fine distinction already! Even knowing that I could have you shot in a second if you refuse my requests?'

George said nothing; he stared back at Trojan, unblinking.

Trojan turned away. 'It would be a pity to waste such a promising character so quickly. And besides, I need to give these Wehrmacht chaps something to do while the SS gets the country sorted out. Very well, then – ride with me, Constable. Now then, where is that mayor of yours?'

So, at about eight p.m. that Sunday evening, George found himself gazing at the back of a Wehrmacht soldier's crisply shaven neck as he was driven in Standartenfuhrer Trojan's Bentley at speed along the road to Battle. The mayor had to content himself with a ride in a Kubelwagen following on behind. Of course this was a not very subtle slight, but Harry Burdon had shrugged. 'We'll have to put up with a lot worse before this wretched business is over, George.'

There were still refugees from the day's earlier flight limping up the road, lumps of misery and humiliation, some of them heading back to the town. Trojan insisted that the driver stick to the right, and men, women and children had to scramble out of the way; George was only glad that they got through the journey without anyone being run down.

At Battle more refugees lined up in the streets of the tiny old town, sitting on the pavements, hundreds of them controlled by a handful of strutting German soldiers. Remarkably a couple of officers were making their way through the crowd, asking questions, jotting down notes. Always methodical, the Germans, it seemed. The town itself showed signs of war damage – blown-out windows, the tarmac chewed up by tank tracks.

The car pulled up outside the Abbey gatehouse. The standartenfuhrer looked around curiously. 'So this is Battle; this is the Abbey – commissioned by William the Conqueror to commemorate his famous victory, am I correct?'

'Yes, sir,' George said uneasily. 'It's now a school… Look, Standartenfuhrer Trojan – the refugees – there are old people. Children. The ill. Some of them are wounded from the strafing. A night without shelter will be harsh. I mean, the most fragile could be taken into the Abbey.'

'Ah, but I need the Abbey as a billet for my soldiers.'

Julia grinned. 'The Germans have a name for such people, Constable Tanner. Useless mouths!'

George flared at her. 'They are English, madam, as you are.'

Julia made to snap back, but Trojan touched her arm. 'No, my dear, let it go. And besides, we have no wish to appear callous to the British, a people with whom we have no genuine quarrel, none at all. Constable, I'll see to it that something is done for the neediest. You may advise, if you wish.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Well, well,' came a familiar voice from the crowd. 'Just where I'd expect to find you, George – in harm's way.'

'Mary?' He turned around. She was walking towards him, limping a bit, and her hair was still grimy from the raids. But she was healthy enough. George took her hands. 'I wish I could say it's good to see you.'

'Yeah. Well, so much for fleeing; I didn't get very far.'

He forced a laugh. 'You should have stayed with me and hitched a ride in a Bentley. Listen,' he whispered, 'never mind these posturing arseholes. The invasion's not won yet…'

'Is that an American accent?' Trojan approached, with Fiveash at his heel.

George took a breath. 'Standartenfuhrer Trojan, this is Mrs Mary Wooler. She's a friend of mine, from Hastings. And, yes, she's an American citizen.'

'Ah. Then you have no need to hide amongst this rabble, Mrs Wooler. You are a foreign neutral, and your rights will of course be respected. Tell me, what brings you to Britain?'

'Long story. I'm a historian by profession. Since war broke out I've been working as a correspondent.'

He puzzled over the word. 'You mean a reporter? For which newspaper?'

'The Boston Traveller.'

'Really? Then I am very happy indeed to have met you, Mrs Wooler, at this propitious moment.'