‘And though you admit our visit to Carinhall was planned, you still haven’t explained the Görings’ role in all this. I suppose you were working on their behalf, but I’m still not sure what they wanted from you.’

‘Tom, you’re being ridiculous.’

Wilde shrugged. ‘Really? In what way?’

‘Am I being interrogated? This is like the Gestapo – a fine way to welcome me to England after what I have been through to get you and the girl out of Germany.’

Wilde felt her hostility, but ploughed on regardless.

‘No, of course I’m not interrogating you – but I do have one question. Why would the Göerings have helped us if they weren’t getting anything in return?’

‘This is too much—’

‘OK, let’s go back a bit. Why now, ten years after the child was born and her mother, Geli Raubal, died, did Bormann suddenly bring all this back to the surface? He must have discovered something – but how?’

Sunny gave him a look bordering on loathing, something he had not seen from her before.

‘That is something you will have to ask Martin Bormann, I’m afraid. You know, Tom, I thought we could relax together for the first time, enjoy a drink and get to know each other a little better. But instead all I get is this – Tom the policeman. So goodnight. I am going to bed.’

*

Charlie Jung parked outside a prim-looking house in a tree-lined street in Sevenoaks in the south-eastern county of Kent. By the standards of most people, the building was quite large and desirable, but for a man who had grown accustomed to great wealth, it was a little pokey and middle-class.

Once back in Germany, he would have to ask Martin Bormann if he would use his influence to have this quaint, self-satisfied little town bombed. Flatten it – reduce this suburban house and all those like it to rubble.

He climbed out of the Bentley and approached the front door. He knocked, then took a couple of paces back, fixing a smile on his face. A maid answered the door wearing a black dress and white lacy pinafore.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Are Mr and Mrs Young at home?’

‘May I ask who you are, sir?’

He smiled. ‘I’m their long-lost son, Charles. They may or may not remember me.’

The maid looked flustered. ‘Sir?’

‘Don’t worry.’ He stepped inside the hall. ‘I’ll announce myself. I want to see their faces.’

*

Philip Eaton arrived at the Old Rectory at 10 a.m. His limp was no better, but Wilde’s initial judgement that he was recovering seemed justified. Despite the loss of his left arm and difficult fractures to his left leg, the two and a half years since the road crash had worked in his favour. Perhaps the war helped; Eaton had always been one of those men who thrived in interesting times.

He smiled warmly as they shook hands.