Detective novels, she said, were for simpletons and spinsters. But she translated them anyway – because someone she loved couldn’t live without them.

1936, London. Edie Adler slips into the back pew of a memorial service for her dearest friend, Vee Saunders – presumed dead, her body never found. As politicians murmur condolences to Vee’s powerful husband, Edie sits with a fury she can barely contain. She knows things about this marriage no one in the room would dare speak aloud. And she refuses to believe that Vee is gone. She closes her eyes and she’s back in the warm Mediterranean water – the salt on her skin, Vee’s hands keeping her afloat, that voice in her ear: don’t worry, I won’t let you sink…

1918, Malta. Edie, an officer in the newly formed Wrens, arrives on the sun-drenched island expecting cyphers, duty and discipline. What she doesn’t expect is Vee – a whip-smart nurse singing in the bathtub with a cigarette in one hand and a gin in the other. Vee teaches her to swim in secret coves, leads her astray in the basement bars of Valletta, and the two women forge a bond that will shape the rest of their lives.

As they take different paths – Edie to a small flat in Hampstead, swimming in the Ladies’ Pond each morning, long days as a social worker in the London slums – they stay bound by letters. Vee’s are vivid, full of mischief, then slowly, they darken. And then they stop. Two years of silence. Until a parcel arrives from Paris – three detective novels, all in French, no sender, no note – and Edie’s world shifts on its axis.

Spanning two decades from post-war Malta to the volatile Europe of the late 1930s, The Translator is a sweeping story of love, courage and quiet rebellion. Fans of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and Kate Quinn will be captivated by The Translator.