After her meeting with Bahlow, Müller decided she’d had enough for one day. The case seemed to be constructed of lie upon lie upon lie. The truth? Well, from what Bahlow was saying – if he could be trusted – the truth was something they would never really uncover. It was as though the truth, solving the murder, was something that just didn’t matter. And that left a nasty taste in Müller’s mouth.

The flat she, Tilsner and Schmidt shared looked out onto the Neumarkt and what remained of the Frauenkirche. Before 1945, this would have been a sought-after address in Dresden, with either sky-high rents, or let out to tourists as a holiday flat. But being here wasn’t some reward. It was just conveniently near the People’s Police HQ, a walk of less than a hundred metres.

Tilsner had also arrived back, although Schmidt was nowhere to be seen.

As a result, when she looked in the fridge there was actually some food left.

‘Do you want me to cook tonight?’ asked Tilsner.

‘Wonders never cease. It’s not like you to offer.’

‘Well, greedy guts isn’t back yet, so I’ll have less to make, and won’t have to suffer him scoffing with his mouth open. Besides, you look utterly knackered, if you don’t mind me saying. How was the meeting with Bahlow?’

‘Less than satisfactory, as you can imagine.’

‘Care to tell me more?’

‘Not really.’ She kicked her boots off and flopped down onto the sofa with her legs up.

‘Are you making space for me?’

‘I thought you were cooking.’

‘I thought you might like to relax first.’

Müller gave a snort. ‘No thank you, Werner. I’ve got a headache. And I’m utterly fed up with this case.’

‘Suit yourself. Do you want a beer? Or something stronger?’

‘No. But if you’re making a coffee . . .’

‘Whatever Madam requires . . .’

*

Once her coffee came, Müller relented and briefed Tilsner on what Bahlow had said, including the untimely arrival of the man she thought was the fake Stasi captain, Weiß.

‘So Bahlow knows who Concrete Man is, but won’t tell us?’

‘And he implies it doesn’t really matter, anyway, as we’ll never manage to properly identify him.’

‘Well that’s just a heap of shit. The whole case is a heap of shit. My advice is this – you get on to Oberst Reiniger back in Berlin. He’s always had a soft spot for you. Well, hard spot, probably.’

‘Don’t be disgusting.’

‘You can’t deny that he’s sweet on you.’

‘Not in that way. He treats me more like a naughty daughter.’