They had been butchered by Kalt and Brunner at the beginning of 1937, in his wife’s parents’ beautiful home in Dahlem. Brunner had gone with his knife to the parents’ room while Kalt dealt with Frau Miriam Jung himself. It had been a bloody business, but the police had not been particularly interested. No one inquired too deeply into the deaths of Jews in case the Party had a hand in it. The Berlin newspapers made a page lead out of it, but then dropped the story. The law shrugged and looked away.

Jung had met Miriam Höffle in 1921, a year after arriving in Hamburg from Tilbury docks. Her father hired Jung, even though he was just eighteen years old, because he wanted a well-bred English-speaker in the auction room. Jung’s smoothness worked well and old man Höffle liked him, which was all that mattered. Miriam was a plain and obedient girl. It did not take Charlie Jung long to realise his suit would be well received by both father and daughter. Only the mother had doubts. She told him once that he was a chameleon, and it had been meant as an insult. Jung took it as a compliment.

And Höffle was prospering. The early 1920s was the time of the great inflation and he was making use of it, buying up great artworks dirt cheap from families desperately fighting to save their businesses and estates by selling off their heirlooms at a fraction of their true value. The worse the inflation, the richer Höffle became, selling the works abroad; but Höffle was also storing up trouble, because with wealth came envy and hatred from all those who had come to grief. With the arrival of the Nazis, prosperous families such as the Höffles had no hiding place. And few tears were shed when the family was murdered.

In the remnants of his soul, Jung cringed at Bormann’s choice of language. The coarseness of Martin Bormann never ceased to appal him. Some years ago, Bormann had served a purpose and had been paid well for it; why did the ghastly man still have this hold over him?

There was a knock at the door.

‘Enter.’

‘Your coffee and brandy, Herr Bormann.’

‘Good girl, Heidi. Turn around if you would for Herr Jung, show him your arse.’

The young secretary did as she was bidden.

‘Well, Charlie – how does your pretty Dane compare to that?’

‘I’d have to see them together to be sure.’

‘Let’s see if we can’t arrange that, then. Now drink your coffee and brandy. You have no time to lose – and my master needs me, as always. After you have seen Todt, come back here. Heidi will give you a code. It will be very basic, but there may be times when you find it safer to use a transmitter than a telephone to communicate with me. Get to it, Charlie.’

*