Charlie Jung looked up at the rather splendid little house. It was close to the beach, in the centre of the small coastal town of Schalhagen, next door to a boatyard. The thatched roof needed a bit of work, but other than that, it was a fine seaside holiday home befitting a bourgeois Berliner. He held up the photographs he had ripped from the album he had found in the Somerfeld house in Potsdam. Conveniently, it had a few words in black ink on the back. ‘Home from home! Schalhagen, July 1937. Sunshine, soft sand and fine wine. Our perfect summer.’ No doubt about it; this was the holiday home of the air ace Werner Somerfeld and his wife.

He walked through a side gate, and made his way to the rear of the house. The windows were all shuttered. There was a terrace and a pair of closed and locked French windows. Jung took in his surroundings. The house was separated from the boatyard by a two-metre-high wooden fence and did not seem to be overlooked.

Gazing out to the north, the Baltic was cold and dark. A pair of small grey warships were patrolling, cruising the 100-kilometre stretch of coastline between Stralsund and Swinemünde, protecting the Fatherland. These were not easy waters to get through, either into or out of Germany.

And yet they would come here, the unholy trinity of the child, the woman and the man; he was certain of it. If Kalt missed them, then they would make their way here, because this was their best hope of departing the country, the mighty Kriegsmarine notwithstanding; either Sunny Somerfeld had a boat of her own, or she knew someone who would take them. Most likely destination? Sweden, of course – along the smugglers’ route that brought illicit food and American cigarettes back to Germany for the black market. Jung had taken advantage of it himself these past two years. Man could not survive on ration coupons alone. Not when he had mistresses to feed.

Charlie Jung strolled back to the little inn. The landlady, Frau Winkler, a woman of thirty with five children ranging in age from infancy to eight to keep her busy, had been reluctant to open up for him.

‘My husband is away and our restaurant is closed for the winter, sir. We only do breakfasts and suppers for the naval men lodged here.’

Of course they weren’t fully open; no one came to Schalhagen on holiday in December, especially not when there was a war on and the beach was decorated with tank traps. But Jung had pulled out his wallet and discovered that money talked, as always. Then he had shown her the picture of the thatched house and had been directed three hundred metres down the street.

‘Just the other side of the boatyard.’

‘Thank you. It belongs to old friends.’

‘You know the Somerfelds, Herr Jung?’