‘Correspondence courses, sir. University of London. Couldn’t believe my luck. Never thought I’d have a second chance. Kept it quiet, just in case, you know?’

‘You’ve every right to brag now,’ John said. ‘You must be very proud.’ He lifted his drink. ‘Here’s to you, sergeant.’

‘And all who sail in her.’ He clinked his glass against John’s. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’ve we got here?’

John turned. A young woman was approaching their table. Her hair was tucked inside a scarf tied in a turban, her face was soft, with clear, even features, her body lithe and petite, like a ballet dancer. She was, John thought, the prettiest girl he had ever seen.

Arthur was beckoning John to lean forward, elbows on the table.

‘Bit of fatherly advice, sir. Don’t even think about her. Or any of them. They’re riddled with it.’

‘Riddled?’

‘Syphilis. VD. You name it, they’ve got it.’

The young woman approached their table, stopped, smiled, nodded. ‘Guten Abend.’

Arthur flicked his hand without looking at her. ‘Nein. Not interested.’

She looked puzzled, turned to John, lifting a string bag and placing it on the table. She pulled out a package wrapped in newspaper and laid it down carefully, opening it up. A clock. Modern, simple, elegant, an unfussy face with Roman letters and a chrome base.

‘Das ist sehr schön,’ he said. ‘Beautiful. Don’t you think, sergeant?’

Arthur had leaned back in his chair again, rolling his eyes.

‘Sie sprechen gut Deutsch,’ she said.

‘Danke. Thank you,’ John said, continuing, ‘But it’s very formal, very old-fashioned. My everyday German is non-existent.’

She shrugged. ‘You need to practise, that’s all.’ She pointed at the clock. ‘Would you like to buy it?’

The slender clock hands stemmed from a simple disc in the centre of the face. John turned the clock round to reveal the mechanism at the back.

‘Eine Acht-Tage-Uhr,’ she said.

John whistled. ‘Eight days, eh? Does it work?’

She pointed to the hands, and John checked his watch.

‘It keeps perfect time,’ she added.

‘Is it Bauhaus?’

Arthur was scowling, shaking his head. John ignored him. Anyone could see they were talking about a clock.

‘You know about the Bauhaus?’ She seemed surprised.

‘Not much,’ he said, thinking fast in his stilted, formal German. ‘Form follows function and all that. Seems like that clock embodies it all.’

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘It is for sale, if you’d like it.’

‘Really?’ It was, John thought, perfect in its simplicity and honesty, with its smoked glass front and silvered surround, its neat, discreet mechanism. ‘How much?’

‘One hundred marks.’ Everything in this city was bought and sold for a hundred marks. It was, John thought, nothing.

‘I could give you five cigarettes,’ he said.

‘Haggle,’ Arthur whispered. ‘It’s a bloody awful clock. Not worth it.’

John pulled out his cigarettes and, counting out five, gave them to the young woman.