King Edward and Prime Minister Mosley waved shyly from the balcony at Buckingham Palace next to a triumphant Hitler.

There were crowds in the Mall.

That was the thing that had surprised Rossett when he saw the pictures.

Crowds.

Waving, cheering, saluting the new king and the devil who had put him there.

THEY PULLED UP outside Koehler’s apartment building in Kensington about forty-­five minutes later. Rossett could smell the booze on his own breath, mixed with the stink of cheap tobacco; he wiped his hand across his mouth as they stopped. A miserable, cold, solitary SS guard, the one Koehler had spoken to earlier, was standing under a damp, drooping swastika flag. He recognized Koehler and sprang to as soon as he climbed out of the car.

Koehler ignored him and leaned back into the vehicle.

“Wait here. I’ll get changed and get some cash and a ­couple of pistols.”

Rossett nodded, not wanting to say that he already had a knife and his Webley .44 in his pocket.

Koehler jogged up the steps and entered the building via the revolving door. He felt his cheeks burn with the warmth of the central heating. Through force of habit he looked across at the concierge’s booth and was surprised to see it empty.

It had been a tough call whether to go to his office or to the apartment first. As he saw it, there were arguments in favor of both. He needed to go to the office to write the order that he would use to bring Ruth from Cambridge to London.

But deep inside he had wanted to check the flat again just to be sure that this wasn’t a bad dream or sick joke, inflicted by someone with no heart, before he set off on a crazy adventure that he knew, in the deepest, darkest part of his soul, was never going to end well.

Rather than wake the building by using the rickety, clanging elevator, Koehler jogged up the stairs to his flat. His feet whispered through the thick red carpet as he thought about Anja and the races he always let her win on the same set of stairs.

A good memory.

He blotted it out.

The mission, always remember the mission. Look forward, never back. Eyes on the target.

The mantra he’d taught a thousand different men under his command.

“Focus,” he said out loud as topped the stairs on the third floor before walking along the corridor to his apartment.

He unlocked the door, entered the flat, and turned on the light.

Generalmajor Neumann was sitting opposite him in an armchair, stroking a sleeping Schwarz.

“Major Koehler, I was beginning to worry.” Neumann smiled.

Schwarz lifted his head, blinking.

“Who the fuck are you?”

“I am Police Generalmajor Erhard Neumann of the Kriminalpolizei. Excuse me for not getting up; I don’t want to disturb your delightful kitten,” Neumann rubbed a knuckle behind Schwarz’s ear and the cat leaned back into it and started to yawn. “The gentleman behind you is Lieutenant March,” Neumann continued, holding up his ID with the hand that wasn’t stroking Schwarz.

Koehler turned. He’d not seen the younger man. March nodded but didn’t speak.

“What is the meaning of this?” Koehler turned back to Neumann, who lifted Schwarz from his lap and lowered him to the floor.

Schwarz gave a low moan of disappointment, stretched, yawned, sat down, and then stared at Koehler while licking his lips.

All eyes in the room were on Koehler.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, Major. We had to search your flat and you weren’t home.” Neumann rose stiffly from the chair and Koehler realized they had been there for some time.

“My flat? What for?” Koehler looked back at March, nervous with him standing behind him.

“Your wife.”

Koehler rocked and then turned back to Neumann.

“My wife?”

“This is your wife’s identity card?” Neumann fumbled in his inside jacket pocket, theatrically looking into it, playing the game, then smiling and approaching as he held up Lotte’s card.

Koehler squinted at it and nodded.

“How did you get that?” His heart raced.

“I found it at the scene of a robbery this evening.”

“My wife has been robbed?”

Neumann frowned. “When did you last see your wife?”

“This morning. I’ve been out all day and ended up working late. I . . .”

Koehler was gulping for air. The police being involved changed everything. They were one step down from the Gestapo, and almost as dangerous. He heard a snatch of panic in his voice, but then Neumann rescued him by holding up his hand, gesturing for Koehler to slow down.

“Please, Major, take a breath. When did you last see your wife?”

Koehler paused, breathed, and then spoke.

“This morning at about eight o’clock, when I went to work. She was still in bed.”

“So you’ve been out all day?” Neumann slipped the ID card into one pocket and pulled out a notebook and pencil from another.

“Yes, as I say, I’ve been working.” Koehler glanced at March, then back to Neumann.

Neumann nodded, put the pencil into his mouth, and then flicked through the notebook looking for the final page of writing. Finally he removed the pencil from his teeth and looked up.

“The concierge said you came home around nine this evening, and that you remained here a short time before rushing out again?”

Schwarz licked his paw, wiped it across his face, and then looked back at Koehler before flicking his head to rid himself of an itch.

Neumann pointed to the door with his pencil.

“Is the concierge lying? I can have him brought up; he is downstairs with my men.”

“He isn’t lying.”

“So you came home?”

Koehler nodded.

Neumann scratched his cheek with the pencil, then sighed before looking back at the notebook.

“Maybe the major would like to take a seat?”

Koehler nodded. He crossed the room slowly, mind racing. He sneaked a glance at the French window that opened out onto the wrought-­iron balcony, briefly considering jumping.

Lunacy.

Three floors down.

He was no good to Lotte and Anja dead.

He sat down in an armchair, rubbing a hand across his face as Neumann dragged a dining chair across the room toward him.

March stayed at the door, watching.

Neumann sat down directly in front of Koehler before flipping through the notepad again. Koehler stared at the top of the policeman’s head, wondering if playing with the notebook was just a ruse to make him uneasy.

If it was, it was working.

Neumann looked up. “So, when did you last see your wife?”

“I told you, eight o’clock this morning.