John breathed hard. Arthur was a distance away, standing by the major, back to the bridge, his arms hovering over his head.

‘My offer is as follows,’ the lieutenant began. ‘You pass us information we require. We have interest in particular scientists, particular subjects. If you accept our offer, we give you our shopping list. In return, we keep this murder to ourselves. Your commanding office, Major Buchanan—’ he looked at John, he knew a great deal ‘— may never know you rape and murder innocent young woman.’

John’s mind was frozen, hard and cold as a glacier. ‘That’s preposterous,’ he said, his voice thin, reedy. ‘You have no evidence.’

‘We have all evidence we need to prove case.’

‘You wouldn’t be believed,’ John said.

‘You wouldn’t want to put that to test, would you?’ He clicked his heels, saluted, walked away, stopped. ‘I almost forgot. I meet you here next week. Same time.’

John watched until he was out of sight, then turned and walked back to Arthur. The major put his pistol away as John approached, went behind the broken bridge, hidden from view. Arthur lowered his arms, rubbed his aching muscles. He looked angry, said nothing as he joined John. John’s reckless, foolish passion had put Arthur in danger, implicated him in a crime, an accessory.

The evening was silent, save for the pigeons’ breathy calls and the grating screech of a grey hooded crow. There was a loud splash, as if a crescent wave had broken, or a body fallen into the canal. The surface of the water rippled, lapped against the shore.

The major came out from behind the bridge, wiping his hands down his trousers.

There is no way out, John thought.

Arthur’s silence was as loud as the plash of Lieselotte’s body as she was rolled into the canal. He couldn’t have known what the Soviet officer had said, but the way he held himself, the set of his cheek muscle, the veins in his temple told John that he understood its gist.

‘I owe you an apology,’ John said.

Arthur carried on walking, black army boots heavy on the broken pavement.

‘Sorry won’t get you out of this mess, sir,’ he said. ‘Not to me, not to anyone. Least of all that young woman.’

John swallowed. He should have said no, the bridge was too isolated, they’d meet by the Brandenburg Gate. He’d allowed his infatuation to colour his judgement. Her body had still been warm, though her skin had palled. He had smelled the damp soil in her hair, the blood caked on her hands and legs, the cloying scent of death. Her eyes had been open, bronze coins that had lost their lustre. He hadn’t closed them. Why not? It was the least he could have done.

‘If I report this,’ Arthur said, ‘you’ll be court-martialled.’