Snowdrifts several metres high, and bitter cold – Müller had experienced all this before some three years earlier on Rügen, during the case that had seen her demoted. But this time, despite the freezing weather, her heart was suffused with a warm glow as she watched Johannes and Jannika ski in front of her with neat parallel turns. They’d been staying with their adoptive grandmother, Rosamund, partly because of Müller’s new role as firefighting murder squad leader – called off to different parts of the Republic at a moment’s notice. But the main reason was a sadder one: Helga’s unexpected stroke. The twin’s natural great-grandmother – who they still called Oma and who was young enough to pass for their real gran – had been their main carer for several years in Berlin while different criminal cases took Müller herself away from the capital. Now that arrangement was at an end, and Rosamund had stepped up to help, for which Müller was eternally grateful, given their sometimes frosty relationship. Helga had returned to her own flat in Leipzig to be amongst friends. The outward effects of the stroke were now barely visible, but she still confused words, and had much less energy than before.

Energy was something the twins –especially Johannes – had in abundance. Heart in mouth, Müller watched as her son ducked into a schuss, ski poles raised at his sides, and headed for one of the smaller jumps formed from snow at the side of the piste. He was going too fast, surely? But he took the jump like an expert, then slid to a halt, his skis perfectly parallel. Not yet six years old, but already looking like a future expert. Not to be outdone, Jannika followed, though Müller’s daughter put in a few more turns before she ducked down and arrowed her skis straight ahead towards the mound of snow. She’d taken the jump slightly slower, but Müller noticed the trademark push just before the top of the mound, so that actually her daughter was airborne for longer. Like her brother she landed perfectly, then slid to a halt, as though it was nothing out of the ordinary for a child under six. Müller didn’t want to be outdone. She started from even higher than Johannes had done, racing down in her crouch, reminding herself of when she’d jumped for real as a schoolgirl – before her fear of heights had kicked in. That, and the fact that there were no official ski jump competitions for women, had shattered her dreams of becoming a winter sports star. She took the jump well, but on landing nearly lost her balance.

‘You need more practise, Mutti!’ shouted Johannes. ‘We’re better than you now,’ he added, cheekily.

Müller felt a flush of embarrassment. She’d been shown up by her five-year-old twins.

*