‘Correct, Comrade Oberleutnant,’ said Schmidt. ‘It’s just over a quarter of a century old – 1954, if I’m not mistaken.’

As they climbed out of the car, Müller glanced over each shoulder quickly – a reflex response to make sure they weren’t being followed. Whenever the thought of the Stasi came into her head that was what she did involuntarily, as surely as night followed day. There was nobody obvious on their tail. Perhaps there would be a welcoming party inside the actual autopsy room. Müller had half expected the case to have already been taken out of their hands by the Ministry for State Security, given their presence when the body was being disentombed. So far, though, it appeared that they were being allowed to continue their investigation uninterrupted, embryonic though it was.

They were met at reception by a nervous-looking junior medic, and then ushered along a warren of corridors, down a flight of stairs into the basement, and then along more corridors. Müller steeled herself mentally before they entered the actual autopsy room. She’d never seen a body that had been encased in new concrete before – she wasn’t sure what to expect.

One thing Müller had learned as the head of a murder squad was that any pre-judged mental image of what a pathologist was going to look like was usually wrong. Nevertheless, Dr Berndt Giesler looked even more left-field than anyone she’d ever envisaged. His jet-black hair, greased or gelled back in a full-bodied quiff, looked like something a 1950s American pop star might sport, and although he wore spectacles, their square black rims were fashionable rather than functional. She was struck by the lack of magnification, positive or negative, through the lenses – almost as though they were made of non-refractive glass. In other words, he was simply wearing them for effect.

On the mortuary slab in front of him lay the corpse, and Müller was surprised to see it looked much like other naked bodies she’d seen in similar circumstances.

‘He’s cleaned up quite well, don’t you think?’ said the doctor, taking his forensic glove off and extending his hand for Müller to shake. ‘Berndt Giesler. I’m the senior forensic pathologist here. You must be Karin Müller?’ He rose an eyebrow archly. They each already knew who the other was – they’d done their homework. The man’s informality would have jarred with other police captains. No mention of rank, no ‘Comrade this’ or ‘Comrade that’, but Müller found it refreshing.

She shook his hand and introduced Tilsner and Schmidt, careful to give the latter his full Comrade Kriminaltechniker title. Schmidt was probably the most junior of the gathering, but appreciated all the little formalities. ‘Is it all right if they both sit in too, Dr Giesler?’