‘We’re the police,’ he yelled down at the barge. Lehnhoff was yet another angry German. ‘And we’re investigating a murder up here. So mind your own business or I’ll come aboard and search you just because I can.’

‘It’s everyone’s business if the Tommy bombers see your lights,’ said the voice, not unreasonably.

Wurth’s nose wrinkled with disbelief. ‘I shouldn’t think that’s very likely at all. Do you, sir? It’s been a while since the RAF came this far east.’

‘They probably can’t get the petrol either,’ I said.

I pointed my flashlight on the ground and followed a trail of blood along the platform to a place where it seemed to start.

‘From the amount of blood on the ground he was probably stabbed here. Then he staggered along the platform a ways before falling onto the track. Picked himself up. Walked a bit more and then got hit by the train to Friedrichshagen.’

‘It was the last one,’ said Sergeant Stumm. ‘The one o’clock.’

‘Lucky he didn’t miss it,’ said Lehnhoff.

Ignoring him, I glanced at my watch. It was three a.m. ‘Well, that gives us an approximate time of death.’

I started to walk along the track in front of the platform and after a while I found a greyish green passport-sized book lying on the ground. It was an Employment Identification Document, much like my own except that this one was for foreigners. Inside was all of the information about the dead man I needed: his name, nationality, address, photograph and employer.

‘Foreign worker’s book is it?’ said Lehnhoff, glancing over my shoulder as I studied the victim’s details under my flashlight.

I nodded.