‘Exactly.’ There was a catch in his voice, as though he was choked with emotion. Müller couldn’t see his face, and she realised there might be a reason for that – a reason other than ostensibly watching out for spies and eavesdroppers. He didn’t want her to see his face. Didn’t want her to see the hurt that she could hear in his speech. ‘I’m an orphan, Karin. You won’t need three guesses to find out why. Yes, I was raised by loving, adoptive parents, but it’s not the same, is it? You of all people would know that.’

Where Stasi officers were concerned, one thing never surprised her. The fact that they always did their homework. That they always knew everything about her. Possibly more than she did herself.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I can understand some of that. The strength of those feelings. But I still don’t understand their relevance.’

‘Think back to the start of all this.’

‘What, in Gorbitz?’

‘Exactly. Our Concrete Man who no one has, apparently, identified yet. Apart from some bungled attempt by Jäger to convince you it was a local drunk who’d got into a fight. You think your job is to identify the victim, and find out who killed him. Well that’s true, but only up to a point.’

‘Up to what point?’

‘Up to the point of finding out who killed him. I know who the victim was – well, I know approximately who the victim was, what he was, shall we say. But he will never be positively identified. Certain people have made—’ Bahlow stopped talking all of a sudden and pinched her leg, then changed the subject completely. ‘ . . . Of course we should co-operate more, Comrade Hauptmann. The Ministry for State Security and the Kriminalpolizei of the People’s Police are . . .’ Müller realised he was talking gobbledegook deliberately. The process of giving her useful information had come to an end.

She turned and briefly saw, just outside the theatre, the little that was showing of the face of the figure who had made Bahlow change tack. The man’s hat was drawn down over his forehead, and lapels pulled up against his ears.

She couldn’t be 100 per cent certain, but in the brief instant she saw his eyes she could have sworn she was looking at another Stasi officer, or at least someone who had claimed to be a Stasi officer, back at the Rolfs’ annexe.

The fake Stasi captain. Hauptmann Gustav Weiß. Or rather Gordon Breitmann of the Secret Intelligence Service.

Chapter 32

32

LOTTI

Sonnenstein, Pirna

June 1981