‘And while I am here at the coast, I would like to buy some fresh fish to take home. Would anyone local be able to supply me? Herr Schmidt, perhaps? You know what, I think I must go and talk with him when I have eaten the excellent meal you are preparing. But first, I need to use your telephone again . . .’

He had tried to make a call to Kalt already that morning, but the guest house where they had lodged said he and Herr Brunner had gone out but had not yet returned. They had said they did not know when they would return. Now Jung called the guest house again.

The proprietor sounded wary; perhaps it was the click on the line.

‘Yes, sir, Herr Kalt is back here, but not Herr Brunner.’

‘Then fetch him.’

*

Otto Kalt was not a man given to fear, but he was uncertain how to proceed. He had lost Brunner and he had lost their transport. More than that, he had lost his civilian clothes and was now stuck in the field grey of a Feldwebel, a sergeant in the army – a uniform which had been hard come by, involving a visit to a bar near a barracks fifteen miles west of the dump he was now in. Brunner had found nothing to fit him except a greatcoat.

‘Herr Jung?’ Kalt said cautiously.

‘Are you alone? Has the proprietor gone?’

‘Yes, I’m alone. But this line—’

‘Damn the phone line, Kalt. What’s happened to Brunner?’

‘Dead. The man and the woman seemed ready for our checkpoint ambush. And then, I don’t know how, they were reinforced by two Luftwaffe officers and another man. I lost the van. Fortunately, I quickly got a lift back here.’

Fortunately? There was nothing at all fortunate about Kalt’s position. A man could only fail Martin Bormann so many times and survive.

‘Stay there, Kalt, and await my orders.’

Jung replaced the phone and went back to the kitchen. Without another word, he wolfed down the meal, then nodded briskly to Frau Winkler and strode off to the boatyard. This whole area was crawling with military personnel. Something was definitely going on: would Somerfeld, Esser and the girl really risk coming here? Jung was beginning to have severe doubts.

The boatyard was bleak and windswept. The only person in evidence was an old man who was varnishing the wooden deck of an expensive yacht, his knuckles white with cold. He stopped for a moment, looked up at the newcomer, nodded in acknowledgment and carried on working.

‘Are you Schmidt?’

The old man stopped his work again.

‘Yes, why?’

‘The people who own the house next door, I believe you know them – the Somerfeld family.’

‘Of course, everyone in Schalhagen knows them.’

‘Have they been in touch with you recently?’

‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Jung.’

‘Well, you probably want my son. He has always had more to do with the Somerfelds.’