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sir?’
    â€˜Lord, no. For all that’s in them, tomorrow will do.’
    â€˜May I go?’
    â€˜By all means.’ He rocked back on the chair, hands behind his head, like a captured prisoner. ‘Just before you do, tell me, Miss Hooper, what do you make of them?’
    â€˜Make of what, Mr Willets?’
    â€˜The first crop of ideas,’ he said. ‘Please, be frank.’
    Susan perched on the edge of her desk, folded her arms and pondered an answer.
    â€˜I think,’ she said at length, ‘you put them on the spot.’
    â€˜Really?’
    â€˜Which,’ Susan went on, ‘was rather unfair. You gave them no advance warning of what you expected from them, therefore they had nothing to say.’
    â€˜Go on.’
    â€˜I believe you have ideas enough of your own, Mr Willets, and you called another late-night meeting simply to forestall criticism that you’re …’ Susan hesitated.
    â€˜Yes?’
    â€˜Uncooperative.’
    He snorted again. ‘I see I’ll have to keep an eye on you; you’re too clever by half. Now, what do you make of
The Times
listing the wavelengths of German radio stations for the benefit of its readers? Why do you suppose German broadcasts in English are so popular here?’
    â€˜They have top-notch newscasters.’
    Mr Willets brought the front legs of the chair to the floor and propped his elbows on the desk.
    â€˜Precisely,’ he said. ‘They have radio “stars” backed by excellent research. The Germans also have the advantage of uncertainty, of being able to trade on our doubts and fears. Something we – I mean this department – won’t have when it comes to broadcasting to America. What we need first and foremost is a strong, convincing voice that people will trust.’
    â€˜Must it be someone from within the Corporation?’
    â€˜Not necessarily.’
    â€˜Perhaps an American might best fill the bill.’
    â€˜Hmm,’ Mr Willets said. ‘You know, I never thought of that. Trouble is, the best of the American journalists are already under contract to CBS.’
    â€˜Not all of them,’ Susan said.
    He cocked his head and studied her.
    â€˜Do you have a candidate in mind, Miss Hooper?’
    â€˜Actually,’ Susan heard herself say, ‘I do.’
    The cable of the lamp wouldn’t stretch as far as Danny’s bedside and the room’s only electrical socket was over by the window which was why the lamp had been placed on the floor and Danny, wrapped in quilt and blankets, was seated on the side of the mattress with Susan’s letters scattered around him.
    It would have been simpler to use a pocket torch but Griff claimed they were running low on batteries and must economise. With the sheepskin coat over his shoulders, a cigarette in his mouth and an ashtray balanced on his chest, he appeared content to sit up in bed and watch Danny pore over the letters from home.
    Danny wasn’t surprised when the Welshman said, ‘Can you hear her, boyo? I swear I can. Breathing as gently as a summer breeze on her scented pillow next door.’
    â€˜She’s snorin’, that’s all,’ said Danny.
    â€˜Beauties like our Miss Cottrell do not snore.’
    â€˜She isn’t our Miss Cottrell.’
    â€˜Not yet,’ said Griff. ‘But fate has been kind to us, Danny boy. Fate has been very kind, indeed.’
    â€˜Fate has nothin’ to do with it. Some erk in admin cocked up,’ Danny said. ‘It’s just as well Mrs Pell saw the funny side, an’ had a bed to spare. I wonder what happened to the letter from Welfare. Lost in the post, like as not.’
    â€˜Now we have her, I trust we’ll keep her.’
    â€˜Don’t be so bloody daft. She’s a clerical error. By tomorrow night she’ll be settled somewhere else.’
    â€˜Mrs Pell is much taken with her.’
    That much was true; precious few