There was so much paperwork on Spahn’s desk, and none of it seemed to refer to anyone called Otto Kalt. Everyone else was flummoxed, too. But Freest had been told he had to come up with answers, and quickly. Himmler himself was taking an interest and wanted to know why one of the SD’s longest-serving men had been shot.

The only information Spahn had given Freest, however, was that they were going to Alexanderplatz to arrest an enemy of the state. Was the assassin, Otto Kalt, the man they were to have brought in?

He did find another possible clue on a notepad on Spahn’s desk: a time – 20.30 – and a railway station, Potsdamerbahnhof. All in black ink. But no name of any passenger.

Eventually Freest was called to Himmler’s office and explained his difficulty to the Reichsführer in person.

Himmler listened, then rose from his desk and shook the young man’s hand.

‘Well done, Freest. I will be recommending you for an award for the way you dealt with the assassin. But your duties do not end there. Spahn was one of my best men,’ he said. ‘We need to find out who was behind his death, and their motive.’

Freest had never met Himmler before, and he had been understandably nervous. He saluted stiffly and promised that he would bring those behind the assassination to book.

But now, back in Spahn’s office, he had his doubts. Who was to say the killer wasn’t a lone wolf? Many people working in the SD had enemies and Spahn must have had more than most. The problem with finding out who they were, however, was that Spahn was one of those men who kept things to himself. Now that he was dead, all his knowledge was gone, too.

Well, he would go along to Potsdamerbahnhof at 8.30 p.m. and see what he could find, but he didn’t hold out much hope. He didn’t even know who – or what – he was looking for.

The only other things of note in the office were a couple of box files. One was for a man named Vanderberg, the other an American resident in England named Wilde. God alone knew what these two men had to do with any investigation involving Horst Spahn. And there was nothing to suggest either of them had anything to do with the assassin named Otto Kalt.

Freest put his feet up on his old master’s desk and sipped a black coffee. With luck, this whole thing would blow over and Himmler, who had plenty more on his plate, would forget all about it. Still, one good thing had come out of the murder. No one would ever call him Baby-face again.

*