‘Experience. With a post-mortem following a fire, one always keeps in mind the possibility that there has been an attempt to destroy evidence. It’s standard procedure. I found three bullets in the female, two in the male and three in the headboard of the bed. The female was dead before the fire started. She was hit in the head and the throat. Not so the male. There were smoke particles in the air passages and carbon monoxide in the blood. The tissues were still pink. He was hit in the chest and in the face.’

‘Has the gun been found yet?’ I asked.

‘No, but I can tell you that it was most probably a 7.65 mm automatic, and something quite hard on its ammunition, like an old Mauser.’

‘And they were shot from what sort of distance?’

‘I should say the murderer was about 150 cm from the victims when firing the weapon. The entry and exit wounds were consistent with the murderer having stood at the bottom of the bed; and, of course, there are the bullets in the headboard.’

‘Just the one weapon, you think?’ Illmann nodded. ‘Eight bullets,’ I said. ‘That’s a whole magazine for a pocket pistol, isn’t it. Somebody was making very sure. Or else they were very angry. Christ, didn’t the neighbours hear anything?’

‘Apparently not. If they did, they probably thought it was just the Gestapo having a little party. The fire wasn’t reported until 3.10 a.m., by which time there was no chance of bringing it under control.’

The hunchback abandoned his organ recital as the storm-troopers launched into a rendition of ‘Germany, Thou Art Our Pride’. One of them, a big burly fellow with a scar on his face the length and consistency of a piece of bacon-rind walked round the bar, waving his beer and demanding that the rest of the Kunstler Eck’s customers join in the singing. Illmann did not seem to mind and sang in a loud baritone. My own singing showed a considerable want of key and alacrity. Loud songs do not a patriot make. The trouble with these fucking National Socialists, especially the young ones, is that they think they have got a monopoly on patriotism. And even if they don’t have one now, the way things are going, they soon will.

When the song was over, I asked Illmann some more questions.

‘They were both naked,’ he told me, ‘and had drunk a good deal. She had consumed several Ohio Cocktails, and he’d had a large amount of beer and schnapps. More than likely they were quite drunk when they were shot. Also, I took a high vaginal swab in the female and found recent semen, which was of the same blood type as the male. I think they’d had quite an evening. Oh yes, she was eight weeks pregnant. Ah, life’s little candle burns but briefly.’