“Don’t let her die. She’s my mummy.”

“Stop talking to her, Eric.”

Cook flinched as King spoke to him from the front seat. He shook his hand free before placing it back onto Lotte’s wound, eyes downcast, unwilling to meet Anja’s.

ANJA STARTED TO cry again, quietly this time, shifting in her seat so that she could better cradle her mother’s head. She felt the car turn and looked up to see that they were now in a very different part of London than Regent Street.

Dark, brooding, run-­down blocks of buildings seemed to crowd in on the narrow road. The shop windows were empty. Anja saw an old man in an apron, watching them through distorted glass that made him seem to ripple as they drove past. Streetlamps were flickering to life in the gathering gloom, struggling to light the inside of their lenses.

Anja caught sight of a name above a shop: COHEN BROS BUTCHERS, WHITECHAPEL. The shop was boarded up but the sign remained, gold on blue paint, snow covering its edges. A yellow star of David was painted vividly on the boards across the windows.

The paint had run at the tip of the star; Anja thought it looked like it was crying.

Whitechapel? She’d heard of it, but couldn’t remember where. She tried to guess how long they’d been in the car. Twenty minutes? Maybe more?

Anja twisted her head. Each house looked the same: cold, closed, unwilling to help.

She stroked her mother’s hair; they were alone.

Over King’s shoulder, through the windscreen, she saw a public telephone box at the end of the road. It sat on the corner, outside another boarded-­up shop, bright red in the white and gray. The car started to slow even more and she dared to imagine that King was stopping to call for help.

He eased into the curb at the call box, then switched off the engine.

Silence.

Nobody spoke. There was no wind, no voices out on the street, nothing but silence.

Anja looked at Cook, who seemed to be staring at the back of King’s head. She followed his lead and saw that King was moving slightly, an inch this way and that, checking the street around them in the car’s mirrors.

Their reflected eyes met. He held her gaze a moment and then carried on searching the street. Anja did the same; she looked over her shoulder out of the back window of the car, and then back at King, who finally spoke.

“Stay here.” King got out.

He left the door open as he took a few steps onto the snow-­covered curb. He paused by the call box and then fished in his pocket.

“He’s going to call an ambulance,” Anja whispered down at her mother, then gently traced some hair off her forehead with her finger.

King turned from the call box and went to the narrow, peeling black door next to the boarded-­up shop. He pulled out a key, which Anja could see glinting in his hand, and opened the door. He had to push against the swollen wood a ­couple of times to get it to open. When it finally did, he pushed it ajar and returned to the car.

King surveyed the street, then opened the car’s rear door and looked in at Anja.

“How good is your English?” King asked in German.

“Excellent,” replied Anja primly.

King nodded and then spoke, this time in English.

“You will help him carry your mother; she needs to get inside quickly so we can look after her. Do you understand?”

Anja nodded.

“The tailor at the shop, he didn’t do as he was told. Remember what happened to him?”

Anja nodded. King stared at her a moment and then flicked his head, gesturing for Cook to get out of the car.

“Push her toward me,” King instructed Anja as he took hold of Lotte’s legs and dragged her forward. When she was half out of the car King gripped the semiconscious Lotte under the arms, and turning, swiveled her so that Cook was able to grab her upper body, taking her from him.

King turned back toward Anja as her mother slid the last part of the way out of the backseat.

“Take her legs.” King gripped Anja’s arm, pulling her toward her mother.

Anja did as she was told, and she and Cook carried Lotte into the building. Behind her she heard the car doors slam.

King entered the building and kicked the front door shut behind him, then flicked a switch that turned on a bulb at the top of the staircase. The stairs were narrow; Cook had to twist his head to look over his shoulder as they climbed, feet echoing on the wooden boards with each hesitant backward step. Anja, still holding Lotte’s legs, stared up at her mother’s gray face.

She could feel King’s hand occasionally on her back as they silently made their way up to the first floor. The naked bulb above lit a tiny landing.