‘OK,’ Wilde said.

Heck shook his head. ‘No, it’s not OK. I’m going to have you hauled in for de-Nazification, Herr Stifter, along with everyone else in this godforsaken village. You are very lucky I didn’t kill you last night.’

‘Yes, sir, I understand. And please, accept the rooms and your food at my expense.’

Heck said no more to the Austrian, simply pushed away his plate and cup and stood up. ‘Let’s go, Professor. Work to be done.’

*

The last part of the drive became steeper and more dangerous, around a series of hairpin bends that zigzagged up the side of a mountain. The road was in bad condition. Rockfalls had narrowed the way, but Heck – who had taken over the wheel once more – seemed unconcerned by the precipitous edges they had to negotiate.

Finally, they got to Almrosen. It was a collection of no more than twenty buildings, one of which was the onion-domed church, and two of which were bombed-out ruins. The houses that had survived the war were all pretty Alpine chalets with balconies, beautifully decorated with boxes overflowing with masses of red geraniums. A place barely touched by war compared to the cities, but still with its own evidence of the hostile years.

‘Where does your friend live, Professor?’

Wilde had no idea. Walter ‘The Shell’ Schellenberg had told him no more than the name of the village and the fact that cousin Jaeger lived in the largest house. ‘I don’t even know if he’s still living here, Lieutenant Heck. Schellenberg hadn’t been in contact with him for many years.’

‘Then we’ll knock on a few doors and find him.’

The first house they came to was answered by a plump, grim-faced young farm wife wearing a bloodstained apron. In one hand she was holding a scrawny chicken by the legs, blood dripping from the neck where until a few moments ago its head had been attached. In the other hand she had a sharp knife. Her arms were bare and muscled.

‘August Jaeger,’ Wilde said. ‘Where is he?’

She pointed to a house further up the single street, on the right-hand side.

‘Is he in?’

‘Maybe, I don’t know.’

They left the jeep and strolled up the deserted street. The house the woman had pointed out was a large and very old timber chalet, its wood darkened with age. Wilde thought it was magnificent. The front door was overtopped by a vast set of antlers. He knew that Heck had his pistol out, and was holding it concealed in his jacket pocket. Wilde, too, had his Walther fully loaded and close at hand beneath his jacket.

Wilde knocked at the door, but there was no answer. They waited a few moments, then Heck took out his pistol, stepped forward and hammered with the butt of the gun. When no one came, he lifted the latch and discovered the door was open.

They both stepped inside the darkened hallway. Slippers, shoes and boots were clustered neatly on the floor to their side. Wilde called out, ‘Hello, Herr Jaeger!’ No reply. ‘I get the feeling he’s not here, Lieutenant Heck.’