Stasi Winter

by David Young

  Müller nodded. ‘OK. Touch base again with Bergen People’s Police, and I’ll try to track down our Miss Behrendt, though I don’t know how co-operative she’ll be. And I’m not sure how the hell I’ll get to Sellin in this weather. After that, we need to think how we’ll ask questions at the Jugendwerkhof without raising suspicions. Perhaps at the Fallschirmjäger base in Prora too.’

  13

  Knowing the logistics of getting from Binz to Sellin were likely to prove difficult, Müller checked with the People’s Army emergency co-ordinator that it was actually possible. It was, by hitching a lift on a personnel carrier to the supply depot at Bergen, in the centre of the island, and another to the coast. But there was no point turning up at the campsite run by Irma’s grandmother unannounced – much though Müller favoured the element of surprise. The campsite would be closed for the winter. There was no guarantee either Irma – or her grandmother – would be in residence.

  When she rang the phone number, she half expected no one would pick up. But after a few seconds an elderly woman’s voice came on the line.

  ‘People’s Camping Ground Sellin. I’m afraid we’re closed.’

  ‘Is that Frau Behrendt?’ asked Müller.

  ‘I’m Irma’s grandmother, if that’s what you mean. My surname is actually Baumgartner. Or were you wanting my daughter?’ There was a catch in the woman’s voice. ‘If so, I’m afraid she’s unavailable.’ Müller was aware of that – Jäger had informed her the woman was back in jail. He hadn’t said why, but given her past history as related by her daughter Irma, Müller could guess.

  ‘It’s actually Irma I want to speak to. Is she there?’

  ‘She is, yes.’ The woman sounded wary. Had she recognised Müller’s voice? After all, she and Schmidt had spent an hour or so interviewing her about her missing daughter nearly four years previously. ‘Can I ask who’s calling?’ Clearly, time – and the fact that she wasn’t seeing the detective in person – had rendered Frau Baumgartner forgetful. Müller chided herself – she’d known Irma’s grandmother didn’t share her granddaughter’s surname. Time had erased that from her memory too: a memory that Müller normally prided herself on being near photographic.

  ‘It’s Major Karin Müller of the Kriminalpolizei.’ She heard the woman give a slight gasp. ‘Don’t worry, Irma’s not in any trouble. It’s simply that I’ve been sent to Rügen on a case, and Irma and I . . . well, as you know, we went through a lot together in the Harz mountains that time, as she’s probably told you.’

  Frau Baumgartner still sounded wary. No doubt having a daughter incarcerated did that to you, thought Müller. ‘She mentioned it, I think,’ said the woman.

  ‘Well, I thought it would be nice to meet her as I’m here, and catch up on her news.’

  Perhaps Müller sounded friendly. The woman seemed to thaw. ‘Of course. I’ll get her for you. I think she’s clearing the snow off the roof of the toilet block. We’re a bit worried it might collapse. There’s been so much of it. It’ll be a couple of minutes while I fetch her for you.’

  Müller was ringing from her hotel room. She spent the time looking at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. Was that a crow’s foot in the corner of her eye? She smoothed it out and told herself it wasn’t. In this weather, anyone’s skin would dry out. There had been the white hair she’d found the other week. A single mother, in her early thirties. Still attractive, perhaps. But with Emil out of the picture – thank God! – it was time she found someone else to share her life with. Someone who could be a good father to the twins and, more to the point, someone who would stop her being an old maid married to her work.

  The line crackled as someone picked up the handset.

  ‘Frau Müller,’ a young woman’s voice said. ‘What a lovely surprise. And a major now too, my grandmother tells me. I’m honoured, Major Müller.’

  There was a hint of sarcasm in Irma’s voice, but she sounded genuinely pleased to have received the call.

  ‘It’s good to hear your voice, Irma. You sound much more grown-up now.’

  ‘I suppose I am, Major Müller. But still the same girl at heart.’

  ‘Still a bit of a rebel?’ Müller wanted to take back the words as soon as she’d uttered them. But Irma seemed unfazed.

  ‘Oh no. I’m a good citizen.’ She gave a tinkling laugh. ‘A right virtuous little lamb.’

  ‘That’s good to hear, Irma. But you were put through a lot when all that happened, I felt for you.’ Müller paused, but Irma said nothing. Instead, Müller got round to the point of the call. ‘Your grandmother may have mentioned that I’m visiting Rügen on a case. As you’re one of the few islanders I know, I wondered if I could buy you a coffee and pick your brains for a bit of local knowledge.’

  It sounded a little lame, and Müller could hear the hesitation – perhaps even wariness – in Irma’s reply.

  ‘Well . . . that would be nice, of course. But I don’t know if anything’s open in this weather. And I’m pretty much trapped in Sellin.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I can come to you. Isn’t there a café open where people can warm themselves?’

  ‘Most of them are seasonal,’ said Irma. Then, and it sounded to Müller as though it was slightly reluctantly, she came up with a suggestion. ‘There’s a café halfway along Wilhelm-Pieck-Straße – the street that leads to the coast and what remains of the Seebrücke. Would that suit you?’

  ‘Perfect.’ Müller looked at her watch. With having to go via Bergen and using army transport, she’d have to leave enough time. ‘Shall we say in two hours? At noon.’

  ‘I’ll see you then,’ the girl replied. Müller couldn’t be sure, but there seemed a note of reticence. There again, passing the time of day with a police officer – especially in the Republic – probably wasn’t every citizen’s number one choice of activity.

  *

  Müller was a few minutes late. She’d overestimated how regularly supply vehicles would be heading to Sellin from Bergen, especially on New Year’s Eve. As she opened the café door, and luxuriated in the sudden suffusion of warmth after the bitterness outside, she spotted Irma’s shock of red hair. The girl was sitting in the corner, near the open fire. Seeing her, Müller almost felt maternal – she was glad that she appeared healthy, and hadn’t succumbed to the latest craze of punk hairstyles which seemed to be being imported from the West.

  Irma started to stand as Müller approached, and the detective moved towards her as though to offer a hug. Instead, Irma rather formally extended her hand, and Müller shook it, aware her own hand was still icy from the journey.

  ‘Cold hands,’ laughed Irma. ‘At least you’ll be able to warm them up in here.’

  ‘It’s good to see you after so long, Irma. You’re looking well.’

  The girl reddened under Müller’s gaze. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Life’s OK, I suppose. I’m still working at the campsite, though.’

  ‘You didn’t fancy university?’

  Irma snorted. ‘With my past, and my mother’s track record? They would never accept me. You must know that, surely?’

  Müller felt a tug of anger. The girl had done little wrong – well, perhaps that wasn’t strictly true, given two people had died by her hand – and one of those killings, Müller had witnessed. But no charges had been laid. In reality, there was nothing that should hold Irma back, and she certainly used to be determined enough, thought Müller. But one of the shortcomings of the Republic was that the sins of the parents often led to disadvantages for their offspring. With her mother in jail for counter-revolutionary or dissident activities, Müller knew that Irma had little or no chance of entering higher education. It had been foolish to mention it.

  ‘Sorry. It’s ridiculous, but yes, I’m aware of your mother’s situation and how that must affect you. You don’t seem to be letting it get you down, though.’

  The girl shrugged. ‘I do all right for myself.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Müller, rubbing her hand
s together in the direction of the fire to try to warm them, ‘what would you like to drink? I’m buying, of course. And if you want to order something to eat too . . . ’

  ‘Thank you. But a coffee is fine.’

  *

  Once the coffees were in front of them, Müller turned the conversation round to the matter in hand – though she was aware she still had to tread carefully.

  ‘Do you keep in touch with anyone from the Jugendwerkhof?’

  Irma gave her a fierce look. Then mouthed a ‘shush’. This time it was Müller’s turn to blush. It had been stupid of her to ask the question while others could overhear. It was a period in her life that Irma would almost certainly want to forget. Attending the reform school was a badge of shame that she didn’t want advertised, and Müller should have been more sensitive to the girl’s feelings. She steered the conversation to neutral territory, asking about the weather, how Irma and her grandmother were coping. Irma asked Müller about her former husband, Gottfried. Müller gave a heavily abridged version of the truth, admitting that they’d broken up and that he had since unfortunately died – without going into the gory details as to how. She didn’t want to remember the hooded excursion to the forest north of Berlin – to what Jäger had assured her was Gottfried’s execution site, despite the fact that she’d received a letter from her husband postmarked in the BRD indicating he was still alive. She could only assume, now, that his letter had been faked by the Stasi. The more she’d learnt of their methods, the more feasible that seemed.

  Once their conversation was exhausted, Müller tried to finish the coffee as quickly as possible – hoping Irma would follow suit. When she had, Müller made it clear she was ready to leave.

  ‘I’ll walk you back to the campsite,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, you don’t have to. I’ll be fine on my own.’

  ‘No, I insist,’ said Müller. ‘Conditions underfoot are awful. I couldn’t forgive myself if you fell when it was me who urged you to come out to the café in the first place.’

  *

  Wilhelm-Pieck-Straße had been partially cleared of snow – or at least a pathway had been trampled down its midsection. There was little or no traffic venturing out, other than army vehicles.

  As they fell into step together, Müller apologised.

  ‘I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. You probably don’t want your time there broadcast to all and sundry.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ shrugged Irma. ‘I guess you weren’t to know.’

  ‘If I tell you something, can I trust you to keep it secret?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Irma.

  ‘The case I’m working on, it concerns the Jugendwerkhof.’

  Irma didn’t say anything. She seemed to be concentrating on watching where she was putting her feet, ensuring she didn’t slip on the narrow and icy path cleared through the snowdrifts.

  ‘It’s someone you never got on with.’

  Irma was still silent. Isn’t she curious? thought Müller.

  ‘You know the woman who was found dead near Binz?’

  ‘I’d heard of it, yes, of course.’ Irma was head down, as though feigning disinterest. Müller thought the girl’s face had coloured up – but perhaps it was the icy wind coming in off the Ostsee.

  ‘They’re saying the woman hasn’t been identified. But I knew who it was as soon as I saw the body in the mortuary. If I tell you, you mustn’t repeat it, and you mustn’t say the information came from me.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s better I don’t know, then.’ It wasn’t the reaction Müller was expecting. She’d anticipated a little inquisitiveness on the part of the girl. Whatever, Müller was determined to tell her – and hang the consequences. If Irma still had any connections with former reform school inmates, they might have heard whispers about their former deputy director’s fate.

  ‘It was Monika Richter.’

  Irma said nothing in response, continued trudging along the path, seemingly watching her step even more carefully.

  ‘I was wondering if you knew anyone . . . anyone that had a particular grudge against her.’

  The girl stopped dead, and stared Müller down. ‘You’re not suggesting I did it, I hope?’

  Müller sighed, shaking her head. ‘No, of course not. And officially she died of natural causes.’

  ‘And that’s why they sent you all the way from Berlin? Pull the other one!’

  Müller exhaled slowly, then continued to walk. ‘OK. You’re right. But you must not talk to anyone about any of this. And to return to my question, do you know anybody who would wish Frau Richter harm?’

  Throwing her head back so that her red hair escaped from the anorak hood, Irma shook with laughter. ‘Oh my God. The list of people who’d want her out of the way would probably stretch from here to Sweden.’ She turned to Müller, her face deadly serious. ‘You’ve met her. Other than Neumann, the old director, I find it hard to think of a nastier, more vicious person. I didn’t do it, but if someone else did, I’m glad. If you find them, please introduce me. I’d love to buy them a drink to celebrate.’

  ‘So you don’t think you can help?’ pleaded Müller.

  ‘I’ll have a think. I owe you that, I suppose. But I can’t promise you anything. I have nothing to do with that place any more, thank God, and don’t want reminding of it.’

  Müller understood the way Irma felt, though her vehemence was a little surprising. By now, they’d reached the run-down white clapboard house that served as Irma and her grandmother’s home, as well as the campsite reception.

  ‘I guess this is goodbye,’ said the girl. ‘Thanks for the coffee. If I do think of anything, is there a number I can call you on?’

  ‘Just ask for the FDGB Heim Rugard in Binz. Room 1041. If I’m not in, leave a message and I’ll ring you back at the campsite.’ She smiled at the girl. Her maternal feelings were back. They’d been held in captivity together on the slopes of the Brocken, and faced what looked like certain death together. Maybe I’ll always think fondly of her, thought Müller. She pulled the girl – now a young woman – in for a hug.

  ‘Look after yourself, Irma. You’ll make someone a fine wife one day.’

  ‘Ha!’ laughed the girl. ‘That should be the limit of my ambitions, should it?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ Müller squeezed her hard. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  Irma pulled away but continued to hold the policewoman’s gloved hands. ‘I know it wasn’t. And thank you. Actually, there is someone.’ She grinned shyly.

  ‘He’s asked you to marry him?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s far too soon. But he’s nice. You’d like him. He’s a bit of a rebel like me, though. He wouldn’t approve of me having a policewoman as a friend.’ She gave Müller a broad smile.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you, Irma,’ said Müller as she turned to go.

  ‘Maybe. Who knows?’

  *

  Once she was back at the hotel in Binz, Müller made a point of tracking down Schmidt. She’d asked him to liaise with Dr Tritten and go over exactly what the young pathologist had discovered.

  She found the forensic scientist in his room, at the back of the hotel, overlooking the road. Both he and Tilsner seemed to have drawn the short straw – it was a smaller room, without a view. Unlike Müller’s, which was more the size of a suite with private bathroom, balcony and magnificent view of the promenade and – through the trees – the frozen Ostsee.

  ‘Ah, Comrade Major. Just the person I wanted to see,’ said Schmidt as he opened the door. Once he’d closed it, he asked if she and Tilsner had made any progress with the inquiry.

  ‘Remarkably little, Jonas, I’m afraid. What about you? How did you get on with Dr Tritten? I phoned her earlier and asked her to co-operate fully with you, with my authority.’

  ‘Yes. She was open and helpful. Or at least, that’s the way it seemed to me.’

  Müller surveyed Schmidt’s room. It was a mess already, with papers strewn over the de
sk. ‘But did she have anything new to tell you, anything that might lead us to a breakthrough?’

  ‘Not really. But there were one or two interesting things.’

  Müller sat on the bed, while Schmidt took the chair by the desk. ‘Go on. Tell me more.’

  ‘Well, in her view the level of succinylcholine used had been precisely calculated. The correct level to induce almost complete paralysis.’

  ‘Does that tell us anything?’

  ‘Possibly not,’ said Schmidt. ‘But it might be an indication that the perpetrator had some sort of medical training. Perhaps as an anaesthetist.’

  ‘In a hospital?’

  ‘Who can say, Comrade Müller?’ Müller mentally winced at her forensic scientist’s continued refusal to use first names. It grated on her – but he was never going to change. She’d tried hard enough. ‘It’s one possibility, of course,’ he continued. ‘But not the only one.’

  ‘Anything else of interest?’

  ‘Yes, there was. Although at this stage it’s only speculation.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with speculation, Jonas.’

  The Kriminaltechniker pushed his thick spectacles back up his nose. Their heaviness caused them almost immediately to slide down again. ‘No, of course not. But I chewed the fat with the young doctor over where someone might get hold of sufficient quantities of this succinylcholine.’

  ‘Presumably in a hospital?’

  ‘Well, yes. But interestingly, that wasn’t Dr Tritten’s first answer. I think it was because I asked her where the nearest place would be where one might find stocks of the drug.’

  ‘And where’s that?’ As she asked the question, Müller could predict the answer. And perhaps it made Frau Winter’s account of what she allegedly saw a little more believable.

  ‘At Prora, Comrade Major. The People’s Army barracks at Prora. Army medics need to carry stocks in case of injuries in battle, and while we’re not – of course – at war at the moment, and heaven hope we never will be, they need to have supplies in case they have to operate in the field.’

  Prora. It was a guess, of course. But Hitler’s unfinished, monolithic holiday camp had a nasty habit of rearing its head at every opportunity. For Müller, it was a lead worth pursuing.