The farmwife shrugged and took away the remains of the soup, to go with a pile of other dishes and bowls at the side of a large ceramic sink. She wiped the soup from her hands on her grubby housecoat and set about untying Romy’s feet from the legs of the chair, and then retying them, ankle to ankle. Frau Kalt stood back for a moment, perhaps wondering how to do this. Even in her pain and distress, Romy could not help noticing the smell of the woman, as though she had not washed for months.

Johanna Kalt made up her mind. She pushed the chair over sideways with her captive still sitting on it. Romy was flung to the floor and grunted with pain as her shoulder hit the sawdust-strewn linoleum. Without ceremony, Frau Kalt knelt behind her and loosened her hands, effectively releasing her from the chair. A second later, she pulled her wrists together.

Romy tried to fight against her hands being bound, but the woman was used to controlling powerful farm animals and was far too strong. She bound her wrists together tightly, then untied her feet again and pushed her, stumbling, from the room, towards a small pantry.

*

Sunny Somerfeld’s car was a large grey Horch cabriolet with the soft top pulled up for the colder months. An expensive car, fit for a Luftwaffe Generalmajor and now for his widow, even though she was living in somewhat reduced circumstances, with no servants and little status.

The car was kept at the side of the house and had a coating of mud and oil which failed to detract from its handsome appearance. This was a fine car, even if the lack of a chauffeur had led to its being neglected. Wilde took the wheel, a peaked cap on his head and epaulettes on the shoulders of his chauffeur’s uniform. The outfit wasn’t such a bad fit. The trousers would have stayed up even without braces, and the jacket was not too loose. The cap was a little large, but nothing that a strip of newspaper tucked inside could not rectify.

‘Allons-y, monsieur.’

‘Oui, madame.’

The night was dark and quiet, the streets of Potsdam unlit, and no bombers or searchlights in the sky. Wilde drove north and they were soon out of town, skirting the Havel lakes, through the broad-leafed woodlands of Brandenburg, now stripped down to their winter nakedness. Wilde took the roads at a steady speed; nothing to disturb local police. The one thing that concerned them above all was the likelihood of meeting checkpoints. They had a story ready – Frau Somerfeld had been to a party at a great house in Potsdam and was returning to her country estate near Neustrelitz. A simple tale, and immediately plausible, so long as her questioners did not dig any deeper. And she had a pass from the president of the Berlin police allowing her to use the car and acquire petrol, in recognition of her husband’s outstanding service to the Reich.