The telephone rang at three in the morning. Ed was not asleep. He had not been sleeping well for weeks—Turing had been unwell, really unwell, the hormone treatments had stripped something essential from him and what remained was a man who forgot to eat and laughed too loud at nothing and could no longer work—and Ed had been sitting at his desk in the Bloomsbury flat, trying to write a letter to the Home Office about the indignity of the同志 laws, when the telephone shattered the quiet of the nigh...