Heck stood back. He certainly didn’t recognise the voice. It wasn’t Miriam or her mother, Gila, he was sure of that. ‘I just want a minute of your time,’ he said, his voice as low and unthreatening as possible. ‘One minute. I can give you American dollars or English pounds for your time. I even have cigarettes.’

‘Who are you?’

He tried the door handle. It turned and the door began to open, but the woman inside was pushing against it, trying to keep him out. Heck was far too strong for her and the woman fell back. Heck found himself standing inside a dark hallway, facing a curiously smart woman; a contrast to so many of the down-at-heel Berliners he had seen on his way here from Foehrenweg. She was wearing an expensive-looking suit of short jacket and knee-length skirt. Her hair was blonde and braided in a crown on top of her head. He estimated her age at forty, or perhaps a little more.

‘How dare you come into my property like this.’ It was not a question but an expression of outrage.

‘I told you, I just want to take up a minute of your time.’

‘Get out, whoever you are. We don’t want your dollars or pounds. Go now.’

Heck had been brought up to respect women, but he elbowed this one aside and pushed through into the main room. It was far larger than he had expected and had two tall windows – still glazed – looking out over the street at the front. Remarkably, it was fully furnished, in the manner that Heck imagined the Rabinowitzes would have had it, with dark furniture and rather formal but comfortable sofas.

He turned back to the woman and saw that she had a pistol in her hand, a Mauser semi-automatic. He laughed. ‘Are you going to shoot me?’

‘If necessary, yes, if you don’t get out of my apartment this minute.’

‘I’ll get out when you tell me what has happened to the Rabinowitz family.’

‘Who are they? I have no idea who you are talking about.’

‘They are the people who used to live here. Solomon and Gila Rabinowitz, their daughter Miriam and their two boys.’

‘I have always lived here.’

‘I don’t think so.’ In one swift movement, he knocked her gun arm aside and the weapon fell from her grasp to the floor. Languidly, he picked it up. ‘Nice weapon, eh?’ He removed Miriam’s last letter and picture from his pocket and carefully removed them from the slim wallet. He unfolded the single-sheet missive and pointed to the address at the top. ‘There you go, lady. Number eighteen Wolfsstrasse. That rather shows you haven’t always lived here.’

‘Perhaps it’s one of the other apartments.’