‘That would be Ulrich Taube,’ the driver said as he pressed the button to close the doors, and started to drive off. He fell silent for a few moments as he concentrated on the traffic. Then he glanced at Müller quickly before concentrating once more on the road ahead. ‘You might be in luck, because he’s a nosy bugger. Always likes to know other people’s business at the depot. So I suspect he’s the same with his passengers, especially women – although it’s usually the younger ones he’s interested in, dirty old man. He’ll probably take a shine to you if you butter him up the right way.’ He again glanced away from the road momentarily to check his wrist watch. ‘If you get off at the next stop but one, Doktor-Pienitz-Park, then cross to the other side of the road, you should be able to pick up his bus in a couple of minutes. You know who the good doctor was, don’t you?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Müller. She wasn’t sure she cared, either.

‘He was one of Pirna’s most famous sons, back in the nineteenth century. A psychiatrist – one of the first to actually try to heal the mentally ill, rather than just lock them up. So there you are. That’s your free tour guide spiel for Pirna.’

The bus had braked to a halt again, jolting Müller forwards then back on her heels as she stood by the driver’s booth. The doors whooshed open. Müller made as if to step off, before the driver intervened.

‘Not this one, love. The next.’ He pointed through the windscreen into the gloom of the February evening. Snow had begun to fall, and Müller could barely see as the giant wipers made a poor job of clearing the glass. ‘That one there – a couple of hundred metres ahead. We’ll be there in a tick.’

*