by David Young
‘No! No! No!’ cried the woman, beating her hands on her husband’s abdomen.
Müller allowed the Nadels a few moments to comfort each other. ‘I’m sorry, Frau and Herr Nadel. Truly, I am. But I am afraid we will need you to go to the mortuary in Hoyerswerda tomorrow to formally identify him. An officer of the People’s Police will accompany you.’
7
Later that evening
Eisenhüttenstadt
‘That didn’t go so well,’ said Tilsner. ‘Maybe we should have strung them out a bit longer.’
‘I didn’t have the heart to, Werner, to be honest.’
The interview had pretty much come to an end as soon as Müller had revealed that the police were certain Dominik was dead. Müller hadn’t gone into the sickening details of the cause of death, but even so, the two detectives could tell that the Nadels weren’t going to say much more. Before they finally left the apartment, Müller had managed to get some contact details for Dominik’s friends, few though they were: a couple of mates from his footballing days, and the names of fellow apprentices at the steelworks. They hadn’t managed to find out any more about the mysterious motorbike club. When the initial shock of the news about their son had sunk in, they could try the parents again. Even if they had no further information, Tilsner assured Müller that by talking to motorbike dealerships the club – or gang – ought to be easy to track down.
Darkness had fallen as Tilsner drove out towards the steelworks along Lenin-Allee. Müller watched the queues outside the theatre, with its classical façade, and wished her own evening’s entertainment were something a little lighter than a murder inquiry. She chastised herself too that she hadn’t yet phoned home to check that Helga was coping with the twins. Neither had she phoned Emil. She looked across at Tilsner, his square jaw even more be-stubbled than usual, highlighted in a flashing yellow glow as they drove past each street light into semi-darkness. It felt easy, comfortable, slipping back into the old routine. She and Tilsner working together.
Directly ahead, the glow of the steelworks illuminated an ever-present plume of pollution. With the wind having finally dropped, it looked like a stairway of white cloud connecting to the heavens.
The steelworks of Ironworks City – known to the locals as EKO.
She and Tilsner hadn’t understood the reference to start with, as the Nadels – through their grief – reluctantly gave them a list of Dominik’s contacts, most of whom they already knew from liaising with the local police team. It turned out it was an acronym for the plant that was the beating heart of this town, and one of the beating hearts of the Republic. EKO. Also known as Eisenhüttenkombinat Ost – the former workplace of Dominik Nadel, deceased.
*
After showing their Kripo IDs at the reception, Müller and Tilsner were kitted out with hard hats, protective overalls, and steel-toed boots before being allowed to venture further into the complex. And even then they were accompanied every step of the way by a senior worker.
Müller found herself working up a sweat under the heavy overalls. Although the night-time air had cooled, here in the complex it felt like high summer. The two detectives had established that Dominik had been – until recently – an apprentice in the blast furnace area, one of the most unforgiving jobs according to the stocky, ruddy-faced worker who was showing them round.
‘I managed to get out of it,’ he said, gruffly. ‘It’s a hard job. You go home at the end of each shift feeling like you’ve been baked in the oven, rather than the iron. I don’t think it was the most popular of apprenticeships. But once you’re skilled in doing it, it’s a job for life – if that’s what you want.’
Müller bit her tongue. Every job in the Republic was a job for life, if that was what the worker wanted.
They came to another changing area, with lockers and hooks covered in overalls similar to the ones they were wearing.
‘You’ll have to change again here, I’m afraid, if you insist on actually seeing where Nadel worked.’
Müller watched Tilsner nod at the man with a resigned expression. On the way, he’d argued that all they needed to do was find out if any of Dominik’s old colleagues were on shift, and then call them away to a side room to interview them, rather than actually going into the work area itself. Müller had demurred. The best policing, in her view, was policing that actually reconstructed the life of victims and possible perpetrators.
That’s how you got under their skin. Discovered what was really driving them.
You entered and understood their lives.
You actually lived it.
*
So this must be how a Cosmonaut feels, thought Müller. Except they have the advantage of weightlessness in outer space. Instead, she and Tilsner were horribly weighed down by heat-resistant white suits and overboots. Worst of all, though, was the face mask, with its heat-proof shield. Tilsner looked like something out of a western science fiction movie, and although there was no mirror for Müller to examine herself in, she was sure she looked equally ridiculous.
Heat-proof was in any case a bit of a misnomer. Inside, Müller felt her temperature rising as she struggled to put even one foot in front of the other. Their escort had given up trying to communicate verbally and was simply using basic hand signals to direct them. Her earlier decision to overrule Tilsner’s idea of conducting the interviews away from the work area was now looking misguided, if not downright stupid.
Their escort – who, inside his oversized suit, looked more like an inflatable figure, one that would surely explode in this heat – had now changed his arm gestures to a kind of all-encompassing circular wave. Müller surmised that it meant they’d finally reached the exact site of Dominik Nadel’s former workplace. They’d been told that one of the workers currently on shift had been a fellow apprentice with their victim. Now their companion was pointing towards a figure wielding some sort of long-handled shovel, who was using it to feed material into a white-hot ball of fire. Even with the protective shield on her face mask closed, Müller found herself having to clumsily lift her forearm to protect her eyes from the glare. One thing was obvious – Tilsner had been correct. There was no way, no way at all, that they would be able to interview the worker here.
*
Once they’d retreated to a side office, away from the stifling heat of the blast furnace, Müller loosened the protective clothes as quickly as possible. Their escort opened a floor-to-ceiling cupboard and threw Tilsner and her a towel and fresh set of overalls each.
‘I’ll go and get someone to relieve him at the furnace, and I’ll bring him here,’ he said.
Müller waited for the man to exit the room before she took her outer layer of clothing off completely and started to wipe down her body. Both her knickers and T-shirt were soaked with sweat. She was grateful she was wearing a bra. Before having the twins she hadn’t always bothered. Even now, Tilsner was showing an unhealthy interest.
‘It’s sweat, Werner. That’s all it is. Perfectly natural.’
Tilsner said nothing, but unpeeled his own shirt and started rubbing himself down. She, in turn, found herself staring at him. I’ve never seen him do any exercise. How the hell does he keep so toned? Tilsner suddenly looked up and caught her gaze, even though she quickly dropped it.
‘It’s sweat, Karin,’ he mimicked her. ‘That’s all it is. Perfectly natural.’
Müller’s face burned with embarrassment – even more than it had earlier from the heat of the steel mill.
Before they’d had a chance to get into the overalls, there was a knock on the door.
‘Just wait a minute, please,’ shouted Müller.
She hurriedly dressed, then checked her hair and make-up with her compact mirror. Her face was flushed and her eyeliner had smudged. She tried to effect some running repairs with the end of the towel, and then smoothed down her blond hair, trying to get it back to its usual sleek straightness, even though it looked like she’d been out in a force eight gale in driving rain.
‘Come in,’ she shouted.
The youth, little more than a boy, really, thought Müller, stopped as soon as he was through the doorway, struggling to meet their eyes and shifting from foot to foot as though he needed to use the toilet.
‘Citizen Schneider said you wanted to talk to me about something,’ he finally said.
‘That’s right,’ said Tilsner. ‘I gather you used to work with Dominik Nadel.’
‘For a few months,’ shrugged the youth. ‘I don’t know him very well.’
‘OK,’ said Müller. ‘Well, this is Hauptmann Tilsner, and I’m Major Müller. We work for the People’s Police. And you are?’
‘Robrecht. Robrecht Manshalle. I was an apprentice with Nadel for a short time. But we were never friends.’
‘OK. We understand that, Robrecht,’ said Müller. ‘But anything you can tell us will be very useful.’
The youth was silent and continued to shuffle from one foot to the other.
‘Well?’ bellowed Tilsner. ‘You heard the Comrade Major. Start talking. Now.’
‘I didn’t like him. Not many people in Hütte do. We didn’t get on.’
For an instant, Müller was confused by the use of ‘Hütte’. Then she realised it was probably the nickname locals used for Eisenhüttenstadt.
‘Not liking him isn’t particularly useful for us,’ said Tilsner. ‘You’ll need to try a bit harder than that. Failing to pass on relevant information to the police is a crime. If we arrest you, that’s your safe little steelworks job out the window in no time.’
The youth sighed and brought his hands up to cover his face.
‘OK. Well . . . I don’t know this first-hand, you understand. I’m not like that. I won’t have anything to do with guys like that.’
‘Guys like what?’ asked Müller.
‘You know, that sort.’
‘What sort?’ shouted Tilsner. ‘Spit it out. Don’t talk in riddles.’
But Müller had guessed what the youth meant even before he’d vocalised it.
‘Queers,’ Manshalle finally said. ‘Dominik Nadel was a queer.’
8
Six months earlier (March 1976)
The road to Frankfurt an der Oder
We seem to be going further this week. Last week we took the turning to Stienitzsee lake and hung out at the Strandbad. But this time, Jan, who’s leading the motorbike convoy, with me riding pillion, just carries straight on, on Fernverkehrsstrasse 1. I don’t know where we’re going. I hope we won’t be late again. Mutti and Vati were angry enough last week.
I move my head forward and to the side, trying to get as close to Jan’s ear as possible. ‘Where are we heading?’ I shout.
He says something back, but it’s lost in the onrushing air.
‘What?’
He turns his head slightly towards me, while trying to keep half an eye on the road.
‘You’ll see. It’s a surprise.’
I’ve never been one for surprises, really. I like a bit of certainty in my life. But to be with Jan, to be part of their gang, I’m happy to go along with it. I hug my arms round his midriff again, tightly. And just as he did last week, he takes one hand from the handlebars and presses it against mine. There’s a slight downward pressure. My hands slip down his leathers a couple of centimetres. I feel a little embarrassed, but there’s also a warm feeling in the pit of my stomach.
I feel wanted. Needed.
*
We stop on the outskirts of Frankfurt, in what looks like an old, disused industrial area. Everyone dismounts and heads towards one of the low buildings. I can hear the boom of loud rock music through the walls even before anyone opens the doors. When they do, the noise is overwhelming. It looks like everyone else has been here before. The man on the door lets them all in.
But then he stops me, with a heavy hand against my chest. When he realises what’s happened, Jan, who’d gone on ahead inside, turns back and grabs my hand to pull me in.
‘He’s with me,’ he tells the doorman. It sounds proprietorial – as though he owns me.
I rather like it.
*
Inside all is in semi-darkness, even though it’s still daylight outside, except for the flashing coloured lights that seem to pulse to the same beat as the music. I’m not even sure what music is being played. Jan is still holding one of my hands. With the other, I try to waft away the smoke. So many people are smoking in here and the smell is pungent, sickly sweet, like nothing I’ve ever smelt before.
Suddenly I know what it is, and I’m frightened.
Weed, pot.
Jesus, these people would be jailed if this place were raided by the police. I also feel disloyal. My father is a policeman – well, he’s a forensic scientist – and he’s warned me about places like this.
But Jan seems unconcerned. He pulls out a sheaf of cigarette papers and a packet of rolling tobacco. He pinches some of the tobacco between his thumb and forefinger, then spreads it over one of the unwrapped papers. Then he fishes in his pocket for something else. A small block of something wrapped in a twisted paper wrapper. He opens the package, breaks off a small piece and starts crumbling it into the tobacco, spreading it out. He rolls the cigarette up. Someone offers him a light from their own joint. He bends over and I see each of the tips glow orange in the darkness – two tiny spots of fire.
He turns to me.
‘Do you want to try some, little Markus?’
I don’t like it when he says that. ‘Little Markus.’ It’s like he’s making fun of me, like I’m his plaything. I’m nervous, but I don’t want to let him down. Don’t want to be the spoilsport, the teacher’s pet of a policeman’s son.
I hold out my hand, expecting him to pass me the joint.
But instead, he grips my hand and pulls me towards him so we’re face to face in the gloom. ‘Like this,’ he whispers. I watch him take a long drag as I breathe in the aroma of sharp sweetness.
Then he leans forward, and we’re not just face to face but mouth to mouth. I open my mouth and breathe in the pungent fumes. He pulls his face away slightly, but keeps staring right into my eyes. As though he can suck the soul from my body.
‘Hold it, breathe it right down into your lungs, then just let it out slowly.’ I do as he says, conscious all the time that his arm has stayed round my waist, pulling me tightly into him. I let the smoke trail languidly from my mouth and nose, feeling the hit from the drug almost instantly. I feel light, giggly, happy, as though I’ve finally found myself.
Jan leans in again and I assume he’s about to feed me another hit, mouth to mouth like before. I don’t realise until his lips are on mine and both our mouths are open that there is no smoke in his lungs this time. He’s not feeding me cannabis fumes. Instead, his tongue is in my mouth and I don’t resist it. I don’t resist either as his hand drops down from my back, pulling my buttocks forward, pressing me into him.
9
Two months later (May 1976)
A forest in East Germany
‘It’s a motion sensor. As soon as anyone gets in the car, it triggers.’
The Stasi officer nodded, peering down at the device. ‘And how reliable is it?’
‘As long as it’s placed correctly, then virtually one hundred per cent reliable.’
‘Virtually?’ He looked sharply at the other man. He was a scientist. A disgraced scientist. Some sort of sexual impropriety. Doing this work was his ticket out of jail. The Stasi officer wasn’t sure exactly what, and furthermore didn’t care. All he needed was a compliant expert.
‘They use them all the time in Ireland. If the IRA use them, you can be sure they’re as reliable as you can get.’
‘Let’s see. It’s always safest to taste something before deciding to eat it.’
The man asked for help fixing the explosives to the underside of the vehicle. The officer declined. They couldn’t afford any of this to be traced back; he didn’t want to leave any forensic traces. There would be a record �
� on some card index, in some office somewhere. The Ministry liked its records. But no names of those involved would be mentioned.
The problem was finding something of a similar weight to the target. Something that moved in a similar way. The officer had had to call in some favours at the Tierpark. No one refused to offer the Ministry for State Security a favour, not if they knew what was good for them.
They’d trained the animal over a number of weeks. It wasn’t an unintelligent beast, but it was larger than many of its species. Hungrier. It soon learnt how to open the driver’s door of the Mercedes, much in the same way a human would. It learnt to put the ignition key in the slot the correct way, and to turn it to the start position. Unless it did exactly that, the animal didn’t get its reward of a piece of fruit. And as – during its training period – its usual meals had been restricted, that piece of fruit tasted particularly sweet and delicious.
From their hideout, deep in the trees, the two men watched through binoculars. The animal had been released from the back of a truck by another Ministry agent, who was under strict instructions to drive off immediately and not look back. He had no idea what the purpose of his task was.
At first, the beast didn’t seem to spot the car.
When it did, it sauntered over furtively, its head swivelling all the while, checking it had no rivals for the prize.
Knowing what it had to do, it approached the unlocked driver’s door.
The Stasi officer could feel the tension in the other man crouched by his side. If anything went wrong, he knew he would be locked back up in Hohenschönhausen. Perhaps, even worse, sent to Bautzen II.
They saw the sunlight hit the metal of the key as the animal lifted it and placed it in the ignition slot.
There were a couple of seconds when even the Stasi officer felt some of the tension. He knew the man next to him would be virtually unable to breathe.
And then the explosion came. The flash of light first, orange and white.
