‘Are you saying that Cashbone didn’t tell you anything before that?’

Whitney was silent, his jaw tight and grim.

‘Bodie, help me out here,’ he said. ‘You did mention something about the girl before Donovan ordered us to act, didn’t you?.’

Cashbone shrugged, but he didn’t look comfortable.

‘Sure, come to think of it, I did mention it to you in passing that there was a rumour from our boys in the Berlin embassy that Hitler had a secret daughter.’ He tilted his double chin at Wilde. ‘So what, professor? What are you trying to suggest? And I’ve got a question for you – where is she, goddamn it?’

Wilde had a briefcase with him. He clicked it open.

‘I’ve been doing a bit of research on you, Cashbone. Actually, some friends in America have been doing the work for me. Easier that way.’ Juliet Vanderberg, to be precise. But he wasn’t going to tell Cashbone that. He had called her from Philip Eaton’s office. Oh, she had been more than happy to delve. The daughter of a celebrated lawyer and the granddaughter of a senior judge, Juliet Vanderberg knew where to dig for bodies.

‘Here, let me read you a couple of things, Mr Whitney. You know who Sunny Somerfeld is?’

Whitney scowled. ‘Of course I do, Wilde. She helped you get the girl out of Germany. Now she’s dead.’

‘And you knew she was American by birth?’

‘I did. You’re not telling me anything.’

‘Did you know her father was a man called Berthold Falken?’

Whitney seemed momentarily taken aback. ‘No, and the name means nothing to me.’

Wilde turned to Cashbone. ‘But it means something to you, doesn’t it, Cashbone?’

Cashbone looked uneasy. ‘Not that I can recall, no.’

‘Well, it should do. He ran your family’s oil business for the best part of a quarter century. Look here . . .’ He tossed a paper on the desk. ‘Berthold Falken, chief executive officer Cashbone Oil International.’

Cashbone feigned ignorance. ‘You mean Berthold was Sunny’s father? Hell, I never knew that.’

‘Bullshit, Cashbone. You’ve known her all your life. I saw the closeness between you at the house in Harkham. That little squeeze of the hand? You weren’t strangers.’

‘You know nothing, Wilde.’