Page 14 of V2

She’d had no idea how close Mike’s flat was to his office. Five hundred yards further on, the massive grey-stone edifice of Adastral House occupied the entire eastern corner of Aldwych. Damaged by a flying bomb in the summer, it looked grimy and battered, like a government building that had survived a siege by a revolutionary mob, its entrance protected by a rampart of sandbags and guarded by soldiers, its high windows criss-crossed by tape, an array of wireless antennae rising from its roof.

Starr leaned forward. ‘Don’t speak unless I tell you to, all right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Inside, the ministry on a Sunday afternoon was quiet. Starr went over to talk to the airman at the reception desk. Kay looked around the gloomy marble hall. In the centre was a display of propaganda posters: Lancasters, picked out by searchlights, bombing a city. The Attack Begins in the Factory. The big raids on Germany continue. British war plants share with the RAF credit for these giant operations. She heard a noise and glanced over her shoulder. A WAAF had come in and was holding the heavy door open for a man on crutches, his right leg in plaster, a bandage around his head. It took her a moment to recognise him. She jerked her gaze back to the posters in shock. Never was so much owed by so many to so few.

‘Good afternoon, sir.’ Starr’s voice.

‘Hello, Les.’ Mike’s reply sounded hollow in the deserted stone mausoleum of the reception.

‘You look as though you’ve been in the wars, sir.’

‘Bit of a close one. Nothing serious.’

‘Nothing serious?’ The woman’s voice cut in: clipped, confident, exasperated. ‘It’s a miracle he’s still alive, sir. Our flat’s completely destroyed.’

Kay could hear her own pulse, her blood rushing in her ears.

‘My God, sir, when was this?’

‘Yesterday morning.’

‘Not the V2 on Holborn?’

‘That’s the bastard.’

‘Are you here for the meeting?’

‘Of course I’m here for the bloody meeting. It’s my show. I’m chairing it.’

‘If you don’t mind my saying, sir – shouldn’t you be in hospital?’

The woman’s voice again: ‘That’s what I told him, Wing Commander, but he discharged himself.’

‘Well, he’s the boss, I suppose. I’ve brought along one of our interpreters, sir, if it’s all right with you. Section Officer! Come and say hello to the air commodore.’

Kay made an effort to compose her face, then turned, and walked the few paces to where they were standing. She saluted. ‘Sir.’

Not a flicker of recognition on his gaunt white face. He nodded, smiled vaguely then peered at her as if he were trying to place her. For a moment she wondered if he might be concussed. He said, ‘Haven’t we met at Medmenham?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘This is my wife, Mary. Mary, this is …?’ He cocked his head enquiringly. Was it really necessary to introduce her? She felt unnerved – humiliated even – that he should force her to play along. Besides, the act was all a bit too obvious. She sensed his wife had noticed it as well: in her suspicious glance could be read a whole volume of their marital history.

‘Kay Caton-Walsh, sir.’

‘Hello.’ Mary Templeton put out her hand.

Kay took it. ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Looking at her was like facing a mirror: the same uniform, the same rank, the same thick auburn hair pinned up under the same cap, the same height and trim figure, the same age, more or less.

Starr said, ‘I take it you weren’t in the flat at the time, Mrs Templeton?’

‘No,’ she replied. She was still staring at Kay. ‘Luckily for me, I was supposed to be on duty in the Midlands all weekend.’ And now she was looking directly at the cut on Kay’s forehead. ‘But here’s the oddest thing: I noticed at the hospital that I’m listed on the casualty sheet as “walking wounded”. Apparently I was treated at the scene for a head injury.’

It was Starr who broke the silence. ‘They must have confused you with someone else. Same thing happened to an aunt of mine.’

Mary Templeton’s smile was bright and brittle. ‘Yes, in the chaos, I suppose it must be easy to get wives muddled up.’