Already? Wilde looked through the window. The time had gone fast. It was dusk and it was raining.

‘Wish me luck, Dr Gray.’

‘Good luck, Professor Wilde.’

*

The motorbike was parked just outside the camp gate. A Harley-Davidson WLA in US Army livery. Not the fastest bike on the road – well short of his own Rudge Special back home in Cambridge – but it should do the job.

He sat astride the machine, the engine purring beneath him as he watched Lilly Marais and the man he believed to be Julius Boden duck through the rain and quickly climb into the back of a soft-top Mercedes. A driver was already at the wheel.

Wilde had borrowed an army waterproof and goggles from the GIs in the camp guardroom, but he doubted the outfit would keep him dry in this downpour.

The Mercedes pulled away. Wilde watched it gather speed for half a minute, then he turned the throttle on the Harley and began to follow it. The bike still had wartime blackout headlights, but he wasn’t going to use them until necessary. He would use the lights of the car ahead to show him the way.

He wasn’t surprised by the route Boden was taking. They were heading south, past Garmisch towards the high mountains.

The road was familiar to him, but it became increasingly difficult as the rain turned first to sleet and then light snow when they gained altitude. As the snow drifted and swirled, becoming heavier for a while and then lighter again, the tail lights of the Mercedes became hard to make out. The problem wasn’t just visibility. The snow wasn’t settling, but it was making the road slippery and treacherous.

The tyres of the Harley had little tread and were losing grip.

Wilde lost control completely on a right-hand bend. The bike just slid away beneath him and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was thrown clear, but the Harley careered into the cliff face, spun around and stopped.

Swearing as he picked himself up, he brushed the snow off his jacket then walked over to the motorbike and raised it up onto its stand. By the light of a torch from his pocket, he saw that the front wheel was slightly bent.

Sitting astride the machine, he kicked the starter, but there was no response. Either the engine was flooded, or worse. He waited a minute, then tried again. The engine spluttered, then roared into life.

Heading on up the steep, twisty road, the damaged wheel made the bike tougher to manoeuvre and he soon realised he had lost touch with the Mercedes. But that didn’t matter now, because he knew where it was going. This road led to only one place – Schwarzenkirche. Boden was taking his bride home.

*