‘Why didn’t you tell us where you wanted to go?’ she asked.

‘I couldn’t do that, Mummy,’ said Ruth, ‘because Uncle Herman would have stopped me.’

‘He might have tried to talk you out of it.’

‘That comes to the same thing. He’d have got his way. I’d have been kept here and might never have been able to screw up my courage again. Don’t you see? I had to go.’

‘To be candid, Ruth, I don’t see.’

‘I had to overcome my fear of those two men,’ explained Ruth. ‘I was terrified of seeing them again in court when I gave evidence. I wanted the whole case to be dismissed. Then I saw how weak and cowardly that was of me, so I did something about it.’

‘Yes,’ said Miriam, ruefully, ‘you frightened the life out of me and your Uncle Herman. He thought you’d been kidnapped.’ ‘I’m sorry about that, Mummy. I rather hoped that you wouldn’t even notice that I’d slipped out. I hoped to be home before either of you even realised that I was missing.’

‘We were on tenterhooks for hours.’

‘I didn’t mean you to suffer.’

‘Your uncle was so frustrated,’ said her mother. ‘He couldn’t go looking for you because he didn’t have his car, and he couldn’t use your father’s car because that’s still in the West End garage where the police had it towed to examine it. It was maddening, Ruth. However,’ she went on, taking her daughter by the hand, ‘if going back there helped you in any way, then I’m glad you did. I just wish that we’d known about it in advance. Didn’t you trust us to understand?’

‘No, Mummy, I didn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I didn’t understand myself until I got there.’

Miriam leant across her and gave her a kiss. When she sat up again, she took out a handkerchief and mopped up the tears that were forming in her eyes. She’d always believed that she had a close and trusting relationship with her daughter but the last week had fractured that illusion. Ruth was a complex and conflicted young woman. Adversity had reduced her to a point where her whole life had seemed pointless. Somehow she’d rallied. With no assistance from anyone else, Ruth had found the nerve to risk climbing out of the house in order to visit a place that Miriam could never bring herself to go because of its associations. Her daughter had somehow shrugged off those grim associations. She seemed completely restored.

‘It wasn’t just for my own benefit,’ said Ruth, happily. ‘It was for all the family. I wanted to make you proud of me again. I wanted you to see that I’ve got the strength to live through this. I’ll get better,’ she went on. ‘I know it. I’m not going to let this ruin my life. I owe it to Daddy. It’s what he would have expected of me.’

Bursting into tears, Miriam stood up and put both arms around her. The worst was over. The daughter that she knew and loved had come back to her at last. It was a miracle.

Irene was baffled. Her sister was so odd and nervous over breakfast that she wondered if she was ailing in some way. Dorothy insisted that she felt fine and left the house much earlier than usual. It was almost as if she’d wanted to evade scrutiny. Irene washed up the breakfast things and wondered what had provoked the strange behaviour. She continued to worry about her sister until the mail finally arrived. All of a sudden, Dorothy vanished from her mind to be replaced by someone else. As she read the latest cutting sent by her landlady, Irene felt so dizzy that she had to sit down. To make sure she’d not been mistaken, she read the piece again. There was no error. His name was there in front of her. She needed a nip of brandy to help her recover.

She was in a quandary and needed advice. Yet the only person she could turn to was her sister. Miss James was in the house but she couldn’t possibly be told what Irene had learnt. It would distress the old lady too much. Dorothy was the person to help. Forgetting the strain existing between them at breakfast, Irene put on her coat and hat before venturing out. The cutting from the Liverpool Echo was in her handbag and its contents had lost none of their power to shock and frighten. They haunted her all the way. When the shoe shop finally came in sight, Irene almost ran the last forty yards.

Dorothy was astonished when her sister opened the door and stepped breathlessly in. She could see at once that something was amiss. One of her assistants was serving a customer, so Dorothy took Irene into the storeroom and closed the door behind them.

‘You look terrible, Irene. What on earth has happened?’

‘This has happened,’ replied Irene, taking the cutting from her bag and handing it over. ‘It’s him, Dot.’

Dorothy read the item with rising horror. She could hardly breathe and prickly heat broke out all over her body. A sense of profound guilt burnt inside her. The article disclosed that the police conducting a murder inquiry in Liverpool were searching for a man named Ernest Gill.

‘What am I to do, Dot?’ asked Irene. ‘He’s my friend.’

‘I know.’

‘It must be a mistake. He’d never do such a thing. He swore to me that he wasn’t involved. Should I believe him?’

Dorothy bit her lip and wrestled with her conscience. This changed everything. Her sister deserved to know the truth.

‘I’ve got something to tell you, Irene,’ she said.

‘Have you?’

‘It’s about Ernie.’

Cyril Burridge sat on a bench in Green Park and ate the sandwiches his wife had prepared for him. His new colleagues preferred to have their lunch in a nearby restaurant but he spurned their company. Whenever possible, he liked to be out in the fresh air, especially on such a warm day. In his immaculate suit and homburg hat, he looked rather incongruous eating out of a lunch box but he ignored the curious glances he attracted. There was no escaping the fact that there was a war on. Soldiers on leave strolled past him in uniform with wives or girlfriends on their arms. Recruiting posters were featured on a hoarding. As he’d passed the vendor at the gate, Burridge had noticed that the newspaper headline told of more bombs being dropped on London by Zeppelins. The Germans were spreading their attack and causing grave concern in the capital. It was not shared by Burridge. He was more interested in tearing off a piece of bread and breaking it up so that he could toss it to the birds dancing around his feet. They pecked thankfully at the crumbs.

When someone sat down beside him, the birds flew away. He turned to berate the newcomer, only to discover that he was next to Inspector Harvey Marmion.

‘Good day to you, sir,’ said the detective. ‘Your employer told me I might find you here.’

‘I like to feed the birds.’

‘That’s a laudable habit, Mr Burridge.’

‘Then why did you frighten them away?’

‘They’ll be back when they realise I’m no threat,’ said Marmion. ‘Those crumbs are far too inviting to leave.’

Burridge glared. ‘What are you after this time, Inspector?’

‘I want the usual thing, sir — more information.’

‘Get it somewhere else. I know nowt.’

‘I think you’d be surprised what you know. You just don’t happen to think it’s relevant. Tell me about Mr Cohen and Mr Fine.’

‘I disliked them both.’

‘How well did they get on together?’

Burridge spluttered. ‘How should I know? I were there to work, not to watch the others.’

‘Do you think Mr Cohen was aware of Mr Fine’s … inclinations?’

‘No,’ said the tailor, ‘he were taken in along with Mr Stein. I’ve got a sharper eye for these things.’

‘Would you describe yourself as a prejudiced man?’

‘Aye — and I’m proud of the fact. I’ve got my standards and no time for them as don’t meet them. Howard Fine fell well short of those standards. I were glad when he went.’

As he fired the next question, Marmion looked him in the eye. ‘Did you dislike him because he was a homosexual or because he was a Jew?’