‘This Paul Pfarr fellow was a high-flyer. Passed his juridicial in 1930, saw preparatory service in the Stuttgart and Berlin Provincial Courts. In 1933, this particular March Violet joins the SA, and by 1934 he is an assessor judge in the Berlin Police Court, trying cases of police corruption, of all things. The same year he is recruited into the S S and in 1935 he also joins the Gestapo, supervising associations, economic unions and of course the DAF, the Reich Labour Service. Later that year he is transferred yet again, this time to the Ministry of the Interior, reporting directly to Himmler, with his own department investigating corruption amongst servants of the Reich.’

‘I’m surprised that they notice.’

‘Apparently Himmler takes a very dim view of it. Anyway, Paul Pfarr was charged with paying particular attention to the DAF, where corruption is endemic.’

‘So he was Himmler’s boy, eh?’

‘That’s right. And his ex-boss takes an even dimmer view of people working for him getting canned than he does of corruption. So a couple of days ago the Reichskriminaldirektor appoints a special squad to investigate. It’s an impressive team: Gohrmann, Schild, Jost, Dietz. You get mixed up in this, Bernie, and you won’t last longer than a synagogue window.’

‘They got any leads?’

‘The only thing I heard was that they were looking for a girl. It seems as though Pfarr might have had a mistress. No name, I’m afraid. Not only that, but she’s disappeared.’

‘You want to know something?’ I said. ‘Disappearing is all the rage. Everyone’s doing it.’

‘So I heard. I hope you aren’t the fashionable sort, then.’

‘Me? I must be one of the only people in this city not to own a uniform. I’d say that makes me very unfashionable.’

Back at Alexanderplatz I visited a locksmith and gave him the mould to make a copy of Jeschonnek’s office keys. I’d used him many times before, and he never asked any questions. Then I collected my laundry and went up to the office.

I wasn’t half-way through the door before a Sipo pass had flashed in front of my face. In the same instant I caught sight of the Walther inside the man’s unbuttoned grey-flannel jacket.

‘You must be the sniffer,’ he said. ‘We’ve been waiting to speak to you.’ He had mustard-coloured hair, coiffed by a competition sheepshearer, and a nose like a champagne cork. His moustache was wider than the brim on a Mexican’s hat. The other one was the racial archetype with the sort of exaggerated chin and cheekbones he’d copied off a Prussian election poster. They both had cool, patient eyes, like mussels in brine, and sneers like someone had farted, or told a particularly tasteless joke.

‘If I’d known, I’d have gone to see a couple of movies.’ The one with the pass and the haircut stared blankly at me.