‘Well, he’d never got over the loss of the big love of his life. Got ditched at the altar by all accounts. His wife-to-be went off with his best friend. Mind you, I never knew him then, and it must have been forty or so years ago – during the war I think – but that was what set him on such a self-destructive path.’

Tilsner leant forward. ‘How did that manifest itself?’ he asked.

‘Drinking himself silly. Virtually every night. I don’t know where he got the money from, to be honest. He must have had some stashed away. But if all this hadn’t happened, I doubt he’d have lasted long anyway.’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Müller.

‘He didn’t look well, he was always getting into fights because of the drink, and eventually I’m sure his liver would have given up, wouldn’t it?’

‘We’re not doctors,’ said Tilsner. ‘We’re police officers. But you’d be surprised how long some of these alkies can keep it up for.’

Müller tried to focus the questioning on what they really needed to know. ‘So, on his face, were there visible signs of these fights and his alcoholism?’

‘Oh yes. Come over here, I’ll show you.’

Planck led them over to a side table filled with various trophies, above which were several official skittle team photos from down the years, together with some unofficial celebration snaps.

‘Although Gorbitz – as in the new-build part of Gorbitz – has been here for less than a year, the Gorbitz skittle club’s been going for decades.’ He waved his arm over all the trophies. ‘As you can see, we’ve had our fair share of success.’ Then he pointed to one of the unofficial celebration photos. The team holding aloft the latest trophy they’d won. ‘There’s Bodo,’ he said, pointing at a man in the back of the photo. ‘He wasn’t part of the team, of course, just the celebrations. But does that answer your question as to whether his drinking had affected his physical appearance?’

Müller could tell it had. It was a colour photograph – and the red, bulbous nose, the blood shot eyes, and the broken veins on the skin of his face were evidence enough. But that wasn’t what really interested Müller. She was looking at the man’s manic laugh, mouth open wide, terrible stained teeth on display. On display at least where he actually had any teeth to show off.

Because what was glaringly obvious was this set of teeth in no way matched the drawing Schmidt had produced based on Jäger’s dental records for Achterberg.

Two of the upper incisors were completely missing.

Jäger’s supposed copper-bottomed identification of Concrete Man was nothing more than a fabrication.

Whoever he was, he certainly wasn’t Bodo Achterberg.

Chapter 21

21

Dresden

15 June 1944

Dear Arnold,