Twenty past. He swallowed. He had no way of knowing where she lived, of contacting her. He’d had a German penfriend when he was at school, before the war. Her name was Gisela and she lived in Mannheim. They wrote stiff, stilted letters to each other, exchanged photos, had nothing in common. Lieselotte would be different. He’d take her address this time. She was passionate, he could see. She loved to dance, to sing. Did she love music? Art, literature? She was cultured, not rough and ready like some of the women he saw on the Kurfürstendamm or loitering by the barrack gates. Their letters would be full of life and joy.

Two soldiers were walking towards them along the Tiergartenufer. He recognised the uniforms and caps of the Soviet army. They looked different from the Red Army guards around the Brandenburg Gate. Officers, most likely. One was a squat man with a rolling gait, the other taller and more slender. The Russians stayed for the most part in their sector now the Allies had arrived. John wondered what they were doing this side of the Tiergarten. They drew close. Arthur had his hand on his pistol, but they seemed harmless, talking. As they passed, the squat one stepped forward.

‘Guten Abend,’ he said, removing his cap, nodding politely.

‘Guten Abend,’ John said. ‘Es ist ein schöner Abend, nicht wahr?’

‘Ja, ja.’

‘Genießen Sie Ihren Spaziergang? Are you enjoying your walk?’ the squat Russian asked. His German was thickly accented but plain enough. He smiled, added, ‘Or are you waiting for someone?’

The question was direct and John jolted. He tasted metal, began to sweat. Two British soldiers, alone by the empty canal. They should leave, not wait for Lieselotte. Arthur was right. The Russian raised an eyebrow.

‘Perhaps we can help?’ he said. ‘And take you to the young lady?’

John’s breath was shallow, perspiration on his lip. ‘What do you mean? How did you know?’ He wanted to drag the words back. He’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book. They had their confirmation.

‘Follow me,’ the Russian said.

John looked back at Arthur. ‘Keep your distance,’ he said. ‘But cover me.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘The Russian wants me to follow him.’

‘It’s a trap, sir.’

‘It’s about Lieselotte,’ John said.

‘Don’t go.’ Arthur stepped in front of him, added, ‘Sir.’

Arthur was right, but Lieselotte was drawing him like a magnet.

‘Move aside, sergeant.’

Arthur stepped back, hand still on his pistol. John nodded at the Russian who, he now saw, wore the insignia of a major, and walked after him towards the ruins of the bridge. The other Russian had disappeared. The officer stopped, beckoned John closer, pointing beneath the bridge and the contorted posts that had once supported it. John stood on the shore and peered into the hollowed space beyond.

Lieselotte.