They’d left the house in Scorcola while it was still dark and walked in small groups down the road, each group climbing into their allotted van or lorry. Hanne and Prince followed Marija into a small van; half a dozen of them squeezed into the rear. Marija explained that Jožef was already in position, and once Edvard had secured the front of the building and Jožef had followed Giuseppe to the first floor, then they’d follow.

By the time the van parked a block away from the building, dawn was rising over Trieste. In the few minutes between the van stopping and the order to move in coming over the radio, the sun had risen. They’d watched the short figure of Giuseppe head into the building, and now they hurried in too.

From the entrance hall they heard shouts upstairs. Hanne and Prince had both drawn their Berettas and now they ran up the stairs after Marija.

The office door was wide open: on the floor inside was the body of a one-armed man, his blood turning the pale brown lino flooring dark red. Prince shouted to Hanne to go the left, he’d go right.

The first thing Hanne saw was the terrified figure of Friedrich Steiner on his knees by the window with his hands tied behind his back and a deep gash across his forehead. Lines of blood ran down his face like a spider’s web as his body trembled violently and he whimpered something about being innocent and needing to leave. He was surrounded by Slovenians, who appeared to be arguing with each other about what to do with him. One of them held a knife to his throat and the blade had already drawn some blood.

Hanne spotted one of the Slovenians release the safety catch on his pistol, and she stepped forward. ‘Not here – don’t kill him here!’

There was a shout from the back of the office, and Prince called her over. Slumped on the sofa was the body of Edward Palmer. He was on his back, gazing at the ceiling with a surprised, unblinking stare. His jacket had fallen open, revealing a white shirt with a growing patch of blood and the hilt of a knife protruding from the centre of it.

Sitting in a chair alongside the sofa was a woman, her hands gripping the sides. She was bloodstained but appeared uninjured. Her face was pale and there was a nervous look on her face alongside the trace of a smile.

‘It’s Myrtle Carter, isn’t it?’ Prince was leaning in front of her, his hands on his knees so that he was at eye level. He was still holding his Beretta. ‘We’ve met before. That’s Edward Palmer – did you kill him?’

The woman shook her head and said something in a voice so quiet Prince asked her to speak up, and she replied that she didn’t have the faintest idea who he was and what he was talking about.

‘I’m a prisoner,’ she said.