Knees twisted to one side, torso to the other. Her skirt was ruched around her thighs and there was blood on her legs. Her hair was fanned around her, a rich, dark halo against the thin ivory of her skin. He rushed to her, knelt down, cradling her bloodless face, wiping ash and leaf mould from her cheek. There was bruising on her throat, scratches on her arms. He ran his fingers down her neck, feeling for her pulse. Her dead pulse. Her blouse was torn and a shoe was missing.

‘Who did this to you?’ he said, his words thick with grief. ‘Who did it, Lieselotte?’

A clock tolled the half hour, deep, solemn, dong, dong. John saw it a few feet away, lying in its walnut case in Lieselotte’s string bag, cast away in the frenzy of her life.

‘Who did this?’ He tried to lift her, cradle her.

‘You did.’ The words were sharp in his ear. He turned. The officer’s dusty boots were close to his chest. John hadn’t heard him approach.

He laid her head back gently and stood up. The other soldier was walking towards him. He was thin, young, gangly, his skin punctured with weeping spots. John saw the chevrons on his sleeve, the stripes on his collar. He, too, had the ranking of an officer, a lieutenant perhaps, like himself. He stopped close to John. The two Russians, crowding either side of him. He wanted to stretch his arms, push them back.

‘You murdered her,’ the major said.

John looked from one to the other. His stomach lurched, his throat choked. He vomited into the charred earth, his frame heaving. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

‘That’s nonsense,’ he said. His voice quavered but he willed it firm. He stood straight, jutted his chin, added, ‘And you know it.’ He leaned forward as another wave of nausea swelled inside.

The major smirked. The younger officer was nodding. The Russians stood their ground, John caught between them. Lobster claws, large and small, lethal. John wiped his forehead. He was sweating hard, his knees trembling as if detaching from his legs. He was dizzy.

‘You have no evidence.’ John groped for the words, pointed towards Arthur standing a few yards away. ‘I have a witness.’

The younger officer produced a camera which he’d been holding behind his back.

‘We have what we need,’ he said in slow, minted English. John stepped back, arms flailing for balance, brushing the Russians as he fell. Had they taken pictures as he crouched over Lieselotte’s body, held her face, hands on her neck, feeling her pulse?

John pushed himself up. ‘No.’

He elbowed the lieutenant aside, stalked past the major, who grabbed his arm, spun him round, face up close so that John could see the bristles on his cheeks, the blackheads on his nose, smell his breath when he opened his mouth.