Inside there was electricity, from a roaring diesel generator, but it was so dark that it took time for their eyes to adjust from the snow to the artificial tawny glow. Two doors were open, one in each end-wall, a line of prisoners with bowed heads came through the first and passed a table littered with a typewriter, handguns and helmets, a telephone and untidy piles of papers. Beside it stood the biggest steelyard on the island, as well as Leutnant Albert Emil Hargel and a Red Cross soldier. On the platform of the scales sat four prisoners squeezed together, their bony knees under their chins. Hargel slid the counterweights along the arm, found the balancing point and called out:

“Zweihundertvierzig Kilo!”

The Red Cross soldier noted it down and divided the number by four in a loud voice, was met with a “Ja, ungefähr”, thereabouts, from the Leutnant, who a moment later noticed Markus and signalled to him to come closer.

“Russian flab,” he said with a broad grin and shifted the weights to the left so that the platform hit the floor. The prisoners struggled to their feet and disappeared through the second door in a straggly line. Four new prisoners were called forward and squeezed onto the scales. Hargel repeated the process with the weights.

“Zweihundertzweiundzwanzig.”

He leaned forwards and said something to the soldier, who nodded and turned to Jenny, who was first in the queue, and asked what the ladies wanted.

The one who wanted to have her husband’s boat returned presented her case in such a strident voice that Ingrid had to look away. The soldier gave a faint smile and translated.

Hargel, with his back to her, said in German:

“O.K., O.K., just take it.”

Then he appeared to remember something that irritated him, turned and caught sight of Ingrid.

“Ah, die Inselbewohnerin, geht es Ihnen besser?”

The interpreter asked Ingrid if she was better, and she said twice that she was doing fine and asked the interpreter – without looking at Hargel – whether they had found out any more about the body in her barn.

The interpreter didn’t understand, she repeated the question, stumbling over her words, while Hargel followed with interest. The interpreter decided on a translation. Which took time to articulate. Hargel understood what he was getting at, shook his head and said:

“Ne ne, auch Russe.”

Then muttered something the interpreter translated, telling her that the man had been a Russian P.O.W., not a German officer, and Ingrid felt she was getting warmer, but not warm enough, and asked in a mumble whether there had been any Germans on board?

“An bord – wo?”

“On the Rigel.”

“Ja, sicher, viele.” Lots of them.

“How many?” Ingrid ventured in broken German.

“How should I know? Viele! Isn’t that good enough for you?”