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did not wait for Henrich to answer. Instead he went down the hall to one of the interrogation rooms. The older offices had been remodelled into the rooms. They were little larger than walk-in closets, with none of the charm. A single unprotected light bulb hung above a sturdy metal table. The chairs were made of painted wood, and the windows had been boarded over long before. He took the first available room, pleased that it had been cleaned since the last time he used it. The single bulb illuminated the table but left shadows in the corners, shadows he paced away. He leaned against the boarded window while he waited for his first witness.
    After a moment, Henrich opened the door. The stout woman entered. She walked with a slouch, her back already pushing up into a dowager’s hump. Despite the warmth of the day she wore a homemade sweater over a cotton dress, and high button shoes that dated from before the war. Tears had left deep shadows under her eyes.
    Fritz stepped forward and extended a chair for her. Henrich closed the door and disappeared down the hall.
    ‘I am Detective Inspector Stecher,’ Fritz said.
    ‘Marlena Reichert,’ the woman said, as she slipped into the chair. She did not meet his gaze.
    ‘I have a few questions for you, Frau Reichert,’ Fritz said. ‘I understand that it has been a trying day.’
    The woman nodded. Her dark hair was curled, and threaded with grey. She clutched a large bag to her chest.
    ‘Do you work for Herr Hitler?’
    ‘I help in the kitchen,’ she said. ‘And with other chores. Frau Winter is the housekeeper.’
    ‘Where do you live, ma’am?’
    ‘In the apartment,’ she said softly. ‘I share a room with my mother.’
    ‘And is your mother here?’
    ‘No,’ Frau Reichert said. ‘She is still in her room. She does not want to come out. It is a house of death, she says, and she says she will not leave the room until I find her somewhere else to stay.’
    ‘A house of death?’ Fritz asked.
    ‘My mother,’ Frau Reichert said softly, ‘she is old.’
    He pulled out the other chair, and sat on its flat seat. He did not need to intimidate this witness. She was upset enough as it is. ‘Tell me what happened this morning.’
    She clutched her bag tighter. ‘My mother and I overslept. When I got up, Geli was not out of bed. I got worried, and I tried the door to her room. It was locked. She did not answer my knocks, so I finally called HerrSchwarz. He came with Herr Amman, and together they broke down the door.’
    Zehrt had mentioned Schwarz. Fritz made a mental note of both names and watched her as she spoke. Her hands twisted the handle of her bag, over and over, bending and scarring the leather.
    ‘Then what happened?’ he prompted.
    ‘She was – at the foot of her sofa, in her blue nightdress, still holding the gun. The wound was tiny in the front, but the blood –’ Tears filled the woman’s eyes.
    ‘You were close to Geli?’ Fritz asked, watching the tears, remembering the woman’s deep grief in the apartment.
    ‘No,’ the woman said. ‘No.’
    Her response surprised him. He had thought she was in mourning. He would come back to this. ‘What position was she in?’
    Frau Reichert opened the clasp of her bag and retrieved a wadded handkerchief. She wiped at her eyes. ‘She was on her back, her eyes open. She looked so surprised.’
    ‘Was it her gun?’
    Frau Reichert shook her head. ‘It was one of Herr Hitler’s. He kept a collection in his room.’
    ‘Where is the gun now?’
    She shrugged. ‘I do not know. I did not go back to her room after they took her away.’
    ‘Did you hear anything? A gunshot? Any shouting?’
    ‘Not in the night.’
    ‘In the morning?’
    ‘No,’ Frau Reichert said.
    ‘Was there a note?’
    Frau Reichert shrugged. ‘I did not go into the room. The men went in.’
    ‘What made you call Herr Schwarz? Didn’t you have a key?’
    She glanced up at him, quickly, then down again. ‘I – I was worried,’ she