Tony pictured him nosing down the darkened streets, making sure he was taking the correct turns. It was a complicated route with lots of potential to end up at the blind end of a cul-de-sac. ‘I wonder if he lost his way? Annoyed somebody by turning round in their driveway?’

Bernd looked at him as if he was mad. ‘You think we should do a door-to-door to see if he pissed anybody off?’

‘Probably pointless,’ Tony agreed. ‘But you never know. People can be very possessive about their property, especially if strangers make a habit of using their drive as a turning circle.’

Berndt had the expression on his face that Tony had seen from cops before. It was the physical manifestation of the thought that went something like, Fucking shrinks, haven’t got a clue about police work. He resolved to keep his mouth shut and save his ideas for Petra and Carol.

The car turned into a small road of a dozen houses that dead-ended in a tarmac semi-circle. They pulled into the drive of a house identical to every other in the road, save for the police tapes across the front door. ‘This is it.’ Berndt got out of the car and headed for the house without waiting to see if Tony was behind him.

Tony stood by the car for a moment, looking at the other houses in the street. Anyone glancing out of any of a dozen windows could have seen him clearly. ‘You’re not afraid of being seen, are you, Geronimo? You don’t mind if somebody catches a glimpse of you. You think you’re so insignificant they won’t remember anything about you.’ Nodding in satisfaction, he followed Berndt, impatient in the doorway, foot tapping and arms folded.

They walked in, both automatically attempting to wipe their feet on a doormat that wasn’t there. ‘Forensic took it away. Like they’re going to find some rare mud that only exists in a particular quarry somewhere in the Ruhr,’ Berndt said sarcastically. ‘It happened through here.’ He led the way to the kitchen.

Under the film of fingerprint dust, it all looked surprisingly domesticated. Tony even remembered the table. They’d sat around it discussing the possibilities of writing a paper together, drinking endless cups of coffee and glasses of cheap red wine. The thought that it had become the stage for Margarethe’s death made him feel queasy. He prowled around the room, taking in its neat order. It didn’t look like the scene of a brutal murder. There was no visible sign of blood, nor were there any of the smells associated in his mind with violent death. It was impossible to imagine this mundane kitchen as the location for so deliberately violent an act.

‘Nothing much to see,’ Berndt said. ‘Most murders look like a slaughterhouse. But this? Clean up the print powder and you could do dinner for six.’