Years before Auschwitz and the other death factories came into existence, Dachau had become a byword for brutality and murder. In the late summer of 1945 – twelve years after it was built as the first German concentration camp and three months after the war’s end – it was still used to incarcerate thousands of prisoners.

But the nature of those inmates had changed.

Now the SS guards were themselves held prisoner, along with many members of the Waffen SS – the fighting arm of the organisation – and other suspected war criminals.

Those guarding them were US Third Army soldiers and military police.

Wilde looked at the main entrance with dark fascination. The Nazi insignia of swastika and eagle had been torn down, but the impressive stone facade was still intact. On the right, there was a wall with tall trees behind it, as though this were some kind of rural holiday retreat, and on the left, a broad-fronted building that could have served as comfortable accommodation or an administration block. Jeeps and other US Army vehicles were parked haphazardly on the wide tarmac frontage.

So this was the brutal place that had helped terrify Germany into submission. He turned to Heck and saw the deep well of anger in his eyes. How could the man not be thinking that it was in just such a camp that his own family had been murdered?

Wilde and Heck had driven to this place, a little way north of Munich, in a large open-topped supercharged Mercedes, which had once transported senior Nazi officers and was now part of the US Army car pool at Nuremberg for the use of officers. Allen Dulles had arranged for it to be delivered to the hotel with a full tank and Wilde and Heck had left soon after breakfast. It had not been the easiest of journeys. A couple of river bridges had not yet been repaired and the crossings had to be made by ferry, which caused delays. But now they were outside the main Dachau gate, Wilde still at the wheel, both men alone with their thoughts.

‘You’d like to burn the place down, Lieutenant?’

Heck nodded. ‘With every fucking Nazi locked inside, pleading for their lives as the flames licked their arses. I can smell the bastards from here.’

Wilde reached out and put his right arm around the Dutchman’s shoulders. ‘I wish I had words to bring you comfort, Mozes.’

‘Words will never wash away what was done.’

‘Come on, let’s go and see if Boden’s here.’

Dulles had called ahead and they were immediately escorted through to the duty officer’s quarters. He was an amiable major named Clausen, who immediately ordered a pot of coffee and sandwiches for his guests.

‘Now then, fellers, I’m told you want to talk with one of our prisoners. I wasn’t given a name, though.’

‘The name’s Julius Boden, SS Standartenführer, which I think is something like colonel.’