My name’s Ed Lane. Are you by any chance related to a Sergeant Iain Alasdair Ross reported lost when the Duart Castle was torpedoed in February, 1944?’ ‘He was my brother.’ ‘He was?’ The voice had a vaguely American accent. ‘Well, that’s fine. Didn’t expect to strike it that fast – you’re only the fifth Ross I’ve telephoned. I’ll be with you inside of an hour. Okay?’ And he’d rung off, leaving me wondering what in the world it was all about. I was working on another book jacket for Alec Robinson, but after that phone call I found it impossible to go back to it. I went into the little kitchenette and brewed myself some coffee. And after that I stood drinking it at the window, looking out across the rooftops, an endless vista of chimney pots and TV aerials with a distant glimpse of Tower Bridge. I was thinking of my brother, of how I’d loved him and hated him, of how there had been nobody else in my life who had made up for the loss I’d felt at his going.
