The wedding took place at the Luther Kirche on Dennewitz Platz, just south of Potsdamer Railway Station, and a stone’s throw from the home of the bride’s parents. The father, Herr Lehmann was an engine driver out of Lehrter Station, and drove the ‘D-Zug’, the express train, to Hamburg and back four times a week. The bride, Dagmarr, was my secretary, and I had no idea what I was going to do without her. Not that I cared to know, either: I’d often thought of marrying Dagmarr myself. She was pretty and good at organizing me, and in my own odd way I suppose that I loved her; but then at thirty-eight I was probably too old for her, and maybe just a shade too dull. I’m not much given to having a wild time, and Dagmarr was the sort of girl who deserved some fun.

So here she was, marrying this flyer. And on the face of it he was everything that a girl could have wished for: he was young, handsome and, in the grey-blue uniform of the National Socialist Flying Corps, he looked to be the epitome of the dashing young Aryan male. But I was disappointed when I met him at the wedding reception. Like most Party members, Johannes Buerckel had the look and the air of a man who took himself very seriously indeed.

It was Dagmarr who made the introduction. Johannes, true to type, brought his heels together with a loud click and bowed his head curtly before shaking my hand.

‘Congratulations,’ I said to him. ‘You’re a very fortunate fellow. I’d have asked her to marry me, only I don’t think I look as good as you in uniform.’

I took a closer look at his uniform: on the left breast-pocket he wore the silver SA Sports Badge and the Pilots Badge; above these two decorations was the ubiquitous ‘Scary’ Badge — the Party Badge; and on his left arm he wore the swastika armband. ‘Dagmarr told me you were a pilot with Lufthansa on temporary attachment to the Ministry of Aviation, but I had no idea . . . What did you say he was, Dagmarr?’

‘A Sports Flyer.’

‘Yes, that’s it. A Sports Flyer. Well, I had no idea you fellows were in uniform.’

Of course it didn’t take a detective to work out that ‘Sports Flyer’ was one of those fancy Reich euphemisms, and that this particular one related to the secret training of fighter pilots.

‘He does look splendid, doesn’t he?’ said Dagmarr.

‘And you look beautiful, my dear,’ cooed the groom dutifully.

‘Forgive me for asking, Johannes, but is Germany’s air force now to be officially recognized?’ I said.

‘Flying Corps,’ said Buerckel. ‘It’s a Flying Corps.’ But that was the whole of his answer. ‘And you, Herr Gunther - a private detective, eh? That must be interesting.’

‘Private investigator,’ I said, correcting him. ‘It has its moments.’