‘Wilde, buddy, stop this!’ Cashbone boomed. ‘All’s well that ends well, for pete’s sake. And you’re a hero. Now how about some coffee and we’ll tell you what’s next on the agenda. Where’s the scary Mrs Kemp?’

‘Wait a minute,’ Wilde said. ‘I want to know why this guy’s here.’ He pointed at Bromley. ‘And what’s in the briefcase?’

Cashbone put his hands on Wilde’s shoulders.

‘Calm down, buddy, calm down. You’re still wound up. We’ll take it from here. You’ve done your bit – now you can relax and leave the rest to us.’

Wilde wrenched himself free. ‘My bit? Are you talking about saving a girl’s life – or something else?’

While they were talking, Bromley had put his briefcase on the table and was opening it up. Papers, photographs and a pair of steel calipers spilled out.

The door opened and Sunny Somerfeld appeared. Cashbone smiled broadly.

‘Frau Somerfeld, I’m Bodie Cashbone – let me shake you by the hand.’

He moved towards her and for a moment Wilde thought the American was going to envelop her in one of his bear hugs. Instead he took her hand formally.

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Cashbone.’

‘Likewise. Now where’s our other girl?’

They all turned as Klara walked into the room. Her eyes were wide and questioning, flitting between the three newcomers before coming to rest on Wilde. She was shivering, though the room was warm, a fire burning nicely in the grate.

‘Tom?’

He tried to smile reassuringly at her, but knew it would be false.

‘Hello, Klara, these men are here to help us. We’re just having a little chat.’ He moved towards her and tried to shepherd her back towards the door. ‘Why don’t you wait in the kitchen for a few minutes? Ask Mrs Kemp for some breakfast.’

Klara hesitated, then nodded briskly, taking the hint, and closed the door behind her.

‘I think I had better go with her,’ Sunny said.

*

‘So that’s Hitler’s daughter. Well, well, who’d have thought the greasy guy with the toothbrush moustache had it him. Pretty little thing, ain’t she?’

Cashbone had parked himself on the sofa and was grinning.

Had he really said that? Wilde was aghast.

‘Maybe she takes after her mother,’ Cashbone added.

Wilde turned to Eaton. ‘Is this really happening?’

Eaton looked more ill at ease than Wilde had ever seen him.

‘This is an American operation, Wilde – I’m just here to observe and assist.’

Wilde had had enough. He stabbed a finger at Cashbone. ‘Goddamn it, don’t talk like that,’ he said, his voice an urgent whisper. ‘She might hear you. She speaks English. She doesn’t have any idea about her real parents. Eaton, tell this moron to shut up.’