Apparently, my unit had rounded up five times more than the nearest unit. I got a promotion and this job, and to cap it all, I got to work with you, my friend.” Koehler beamed across the table at Rossett, who found himself smiling back.

“Lucky me.”

“So, just make sure you remember”—Koehler leaned forward again and picked up his pint—“if you fuck up and I get sent back to Russia, I’ll kill you before I go, Victoria Cross or no Victoria Cross, understand?” Koehler winked and Rossett smiled back.

IT WAS KOEHLER who had convinced Rossett to join the British Nazi Party. At first, Rossett had refused, telling his boss that he had no interest in politics, that he didn’t see how it would make any difference in his work. But Koehler had quietly sat at his desk one afternoon and explained that if he wished to remain with the Office of Jewish Affairs, it was best that he joined.

“If you don’t, things may become difficult. You may have to leave here. You may have to leave the police. If you have no job, you’ll be forced to join the National Labor Service—poor money, poor food, and always the chance that you’ll be sent out east to work on the defenses against the Russians. Just sign the papers, Rossett, don’t be a fool.”

“I don’t have to be in the party to stay in the police? I can change departments.”

“Nobody will have you. You’ll be out, especially after doing this job. Your hands are dirty now. Just sign the papers, it’s only a formality.”

Your hands are dirty, thought Rossett. The phrase seemed to crop up more and more but mean less and less the dirtier they got.

And so he’d signed, and a week later he’d stood in front of the Southeast Area Commander of the SS as he’d pinned the tiny swastika onto his lapel and handed him his party membership card. When the German had raised his arm and said “Heil Hitler!” Rossett had stiffened, but then did the same, embarrassed to hear the medals on his suit banging together as he did so.

Once he was in the party, things had changed—ever so slightly, but change they had. He started to find that sometimes when he shopped, his ration tickets weren’t ripped out by the shopkeeper. One day, the butcher had slyly winked and passed his money back. Rossett had returned later that evening to pay for the goods and to explain that such favors would not be accepted.

“But Mr. Rossett, if I can make you happy with little things, well, you know . . . we can make each other happy, look after each other, you know what I mean?”

The butcher had tapped his nose and slid something wrapped in paper toward Rossett, who noted the blood soaking through and leaving a trail on the counter. He quietly shook his head and whispered, “I am the law. I live by the law. I do what’s right. Mark my words and remember them.”

He had then turned on his heel and left the shop, not sure if what he had said was true or not.

That night, he’d not slept a wink, and it was that night he’d opened the Scotch again.

Other things had changed. He was given the Austin and enough fuel to allow for some personal use. Occasionally, he would drive out to Southend and stare at the sea. One afternoon, he had taken Mrs. Ward, his landlady, and they’d sat on the beach drinking tea from a thermos.

After some time, he’d noticed he was crying and that she was holding his hand.

They never spoke of it again, nor had they ever again taken that drive out to the sea. It was forgotten, like so many other things.

“SERGEANT ROSSETT, GOOD morning.” Koehler reached across and shook Rossett’s hand, then gestured to the other man who had stepped out of the Mercedes. “This is Schmitt of the Gestapo, just arrived from Paris. I’ve brought him along to see how we do things here. He’ll be working with us for a while.”

Rossett nodded to Schmitt, who ignored him and peered around the corner of the still-silent street.

“How many are in the building?” Schmitt asked, his thick German accent contrasting sharply with Koehler’s excellent English.

“About eighty,” Rossett replied.

“About?” Schmitt turned and raised an eyebrow.