‘Are you off back to Gorbitz, Comrade Hauptmann?’ asked the man. ‘We’re heading up that way. Why don’t we give you a lift?’ He was holding open the rear door of a black Volvo saloon.

‘That’s kind of you,’ replied Müller. ‘But there’s no need. We’ve got a People’s Police pool car at our disposal. And we’ll need it at the scene. Also, you may know who I am, but I’ve no idea who you are.’

The man took his ID from his pocket and flashed it at Müller. The familiar insignia of a muscular arm holding a rifle, with a depiction of the Republic’s flag flying from its bayonet. ‘Major Rüdiger Bahlow, Ministry for State Security. It’s nothing to worry about.’ The man’s smile – on a youthful, carefree face – seemed genuine enough. But Müller knew better than to trust the Stasi. ‘I simply want to discuss whose patch is which, and make sure we don’t step on each other’s toes, as it were. If you need your car, your deputy can bring it, can’t he? Along with your forensic officer.’

Müller turned to Tilsner. He just shrugged, as though to say that she would have to talk to the Stasi at some stage – so it might as well be now.

‘I’ll see you two up there,’ she said to her team, climbing into the back of the Volvo. Bahlow shut the door after her. It closed with a muffled thud: the classic sign of a luxury western car. There was no need to slam it shut, as with the Wartburg.

There was another man in the driver’s seat.

‘This is Hauptmann Gottschald.’ The driver, thickset and ruddy-faced – from what Müller could see of his face – didn’t turn to acknowledge her, and instead simply started the car and drove off. ‘He’s a Sorb,’ said Bahlow, as though that explained everything. ‘Don’t worry if he seems grumpy. That’s what they’re like.’

The Stasi major flicked open a pack of cigarettes, lit one with a silver-cased lighter, and then offered the unlit filter end to Müller. She declined, but not before noting the brand: ‘West’, a new marque she’d seen advertised on western TV when she’d been at her adoptive mother’s in Oberhof, something she couldn’t watch here in Dresden. The whole city – thanks to its low-lying position in the Elbe Valley, surrounded by hills – was in a shadow area for transmissions from the west. Hence its nickname, Valley of the Clueless.