Prologue

10 April 1951

London was glossy – the pavements shone with a slick of rain now the sun had broken through the clouds. It felt like spring at last. At the gates of Victoria Station newsboys scurried with bundles of papers – the early evening editions were hitting the stands. An old man carefully pasted the headline to a thin strip of wood. NAZI WAR CRIMINALS TO HANG AT LAST. Romana Laszlo turned towards the platform. Inside, the station seemed gloomy compared to the blaze of spring sunshine on the street. She stared down the murky platform, her first-class ticket clasped firmly between kid-gloved fingers. She wished they’d stop going on about the Germans. The war had been over for years and Romana, on principle, never took sides about anything. The smell of frying bacon wafted from the direction of the station café as she smoothed her sea-green taffeta coat, checked in case she was being followed, and then, satisfied that she was safe, set off for the Brighton train. In her wake a porter wheeled a large leather suitcase on a trolley. Her stilettos clicked delicately on the concrete.

A small huddle had formed beside the open door of the carriage. The passengers had all arrived at once and there was a flurry of porters handing up luggage and people trying to board the train.

‘Do you want me to put this into the luggage compartment?’ the porter asked Romana hopefully. It would be easier.

Romana shook her head. ‘No, here. I prefer to keep it close to hand,’ she said coldly, with only a hint of an accent.

The porter nodded and resigned himself to waiting.

The little group of passengers hovered on the platform. A man with thick spectacles and a briefcase, a tweed-suited lawyer with a bristling moustache and a grey-haired woman who might be his wife. Romana found her interest held by a tiny corner of cardboard protruding from the older woman’s pocket. It was a ration book. She honed in immediately and contrived to stumble against the woman, then, like lightning, skilfully removed the book, straight into her own pocket.

‘Oh, my dear, you poor thing,’ the old woman said, helping Romana to steady herself

‘So sorry,’ Romana smiled.

‘Not at all, quite understandable.’

The jam at the carriage door had dissipated and the old woman gestured. ‘Please, you first.’

‘You need a hand there, young lady?’ the porter offered when Romana hesitated, looking both wide-eyed and vague, as if she didn’t understand. Then, collecting herself, she gracefully proffered her hand. It was best to be careful while boarding. The porter loaded the leather case and hovered as she searched her handbag for a coin. It was a gold one. He smiled broadly. ‘Home soon, eh?’ he said cheerily.

Brighton was not her home, but that was none of the fellow’s business. Romana handed over the tip and gave an elegant shrug that made her sleek dark bob catch what little light there was. Then she turned her back and stalked into a compartment. As she sat down she slipped the ration book into her handbag. Nestling inside, had anyone bothered to look, there were three more ration books and four passports (none in Mrs Laszlo’s name). It was good to keep her hand in. Stations were excellent for that, Romana thought as she drew an enamel cigarette case from the inside pocket. At once a dark-suited man offered her a light. She stared steadily as she popped the cigarette into an amber holder and leaned into the flame. It seemed her entire concentration was focused on lighting that cigarette, although she was scanning him, of course, for any opportunity or, indeed, danger. Satisfied, she took a deep draw. ‘Thank you,’ she breathed.

Normally she would have fluttered her eyelashes to great effect and the nameless man would offer her a drink, but she couldn’t expect that now. Romana Laszlo was accustomed to being troubled by men. No longer. Her hand came to rest on her swollen stomach. She was looking forward to Brighton. London had been damp and cold for months. All winter the fog had strangled the city like a filthy shroud. Everything smelled of vinegar – cafés, restaurants and even the flat where she had been staying. Romana had heard good things about the attractions of the Sussex coast and the fresh air at the seaside would surely do her good.

As the train moved off she glanced back, just to be sure no one had followed her. The receding platform was completely clear and she settled back again, noticing the man staring at her stomach as he shifted in his seat.

‘Not long now,’ he said. ‘Your baby will be born in Brighton, won’t it?’

‘It will be like a little holiday,’ she replied turning towards the window to make it clear she did not want to chat.

Romana Laszlo had never been on a holiday in her life.