The look was picked up by Bahlow, who’d now passed the cigarette on to his deputy, while lighting another for himself. ‘Sorry, not very patriotic smoking a western brand, I know. A relative on the other side sent them to me. Willy here and I rather like them, but please don’t snitch on us to our bosses.’

Müller gave a thin smile.

‘Anyway, let’s get down to business,’ he said, turning in his seat to face her again. ‘As I said, nothing to worry about, although Berlin informs us that you’re used to liaising with the MfS on your cases. Klaus Jäger has been your main contact, I believe?’

‘That’s correct.’ Müller felt surprisingly calm. Bahlow gave off an air of a younger Jäger. Before the older man had lost some of his zest and youthful vigour, and before Müller had discovered the secret from the war years that – to some extent – had neutered him. A melange of menace and bonhomie. Like the good cop, bad cop role incorporated into a single persona.

‘So you’re aware how we operate, and why sometimes we have to get involved in cases?’

Müller nodded.

‘At other times, we simply have a watching brief. I would say at the moment, from what I know, this is one of those cases. However, should things turn more – what shall we say? – more delicate, more political in nature, then we will have to immediately take control and you will need to hand all your information over to us.’

Müller jerked forward as the car made an emergency stop. She felt her stomach lurch upwards, as though her lunch might be regurgitated. Then they were underway again. Bahlow’s deputy shouted angrily and waved his fist at a motorcyclist who’d cut him up.

‘Does that seem fair?’ asked Bahlow, seemingly unruffled by the near miss.

‘It’s nothing unusual,’ said Müller. Was it fair? No, of course not. She would much rather see cases through to their conclusion. That was all any police officer would want.

Bahlow smiled. ‘Great. That was it really, from our side. Do you have any questions?’

‘Yes,’ said Müller, running her fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair. For the first time, now she’d tipped over into what might be described as the latter end of her mid-thirties, she’d started to dye it. Her looks were fading – it was a woman’s curse – something men didn’t seem to have to worry about for another ten years or so. ‘Yes, I have plenty of questions.’

‘Shoot,’ said Bahlow, as though he was in a slick American cop show, rather than working underhand for an organisation which, to Müller’s eyes, was little more than a pale copy of the Soviet KGB.

‘Do you know who the victim is?’

‘No.’

‘Why he was killed?’