I shrug. What does that matter now? All this is irrelevant. My baby brother is dead and the bloody Germans killed him. ‘A bit.’

‘What sort of things did she say . . . about Hitler, for example?’

The questions are so stupid I decide I want to shock him. ‘She seemed to think the sun shone out of his bum, but I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’

My coarse language leaves him unruffled. ‘So, going back to my earlier question, given the way she revered Hitler, did it make you feel different about her after the terrible bombing Hull suffered, particularly as you lost your baby brother?’

The question’s too complicated. I find myself losing it – rage and despair whirling round my head. I jump up and try to grab at him.

‘Leave her out of it, you bastard,’ I shout, trying to pummel his face. In the commotion, his glasses fall off. ‘They killed my brother, the Nazi fuckers. You’ve no idea what that means. You’ve no idea what it’s like.’ Tears are streaming down my face as if trying to douse the fire of my rage. He’s not shouting for help, just holding my arms quite gently, trying to stop me striking and clawing at him.

Then my father bursts in, belt in hand.

‘Arnold! Come here this instant.’

I try to cower behind the man.

‘It’s all right, Mr Southwick. It’s not Arnold’s fault. He’s just a little—’

‘Don’t tell me how to look after my own son,’ spits Father, and drags me from the room. I know what’s coming next and I piss myself in fear.

Chapter 19

19

Kirnitzschtal

February 1982

When Tilsner had finally released the man sufficiently to allow him to speak, Müller realised they might have been presumptive in attacking him.

‘Who the hell are you?’ the man demanded after he’d caught his breath.

Müller produced her Kripo ID. ‘Hauptmann Karin Müller. And this is my deputy, Oberleutnant Werner Tilsner. Would you mind identifying yourself to us, Comrade? And can you explain why you are rooting around in a property which (a) doesn’t belong to you and which (b) is the focus of a murder inquiry?’

The man held their gaze, then produced ID of his own. The shield, rifle and East German flag on the logo already told Müller what she needed to know. He was a Ministry for State Security agent.

‘I’m Hauptmann Gustav Weiß,’ the man said, stretching his neck from side to side and gingerly stroking it, as though to check that Tilsner hadn’t done any permanent damage. ‘And I will be reporting this.’