by David Young
Müller felt her heart pound. Of course I would give it another try. She leant towards him, pulled his face towards hers, and kissed him full on the lips. She saw the barman smirking at them. She didn’t care.
*
Müller was perfectly content in her near ignorance of football. But she was aware that Tilsner’s team – Dynamo Berlin – was the subject of allegations that its patron, Stasi head Erick Mielke, had intervened to try to weaken its main rival – Dresden. Supposedly, he’d forced the transfer of Dresden players to the Berlin side.
For her meeting with Florian Voigt, the young full back who played with Dominik Nadel on Eisenhüttenstadt’s youth team, and who was now starring in Dynamo Berlin’s attempt to finally beat Dresden to the title, she knew she’d be forced to travel out to Hohenschönhausen again, the scene of Gottfried’s incarceration in the Stasi jail. Thankfully, Dynamo’s home stadium, at the Sportforum Berlin, wasn’t actually within the closed Stasi area, otherwise she doubted she’d have got permission to interview Voigt.
But she had. And she hoped this might finally give her and Tilsner their breakthrough.
*
What immediately struck her about Voigt was that he was small. Small and wiry, with wiry hair to match. Diminutive was probably the way the sports reporters would describe him. He was also – Müller quickly realised – extremely nervous. Perhaps it was just his age. He did look like a teenager. But he must be used to playing in front of big crowds every week. Surely that would make him immune to nerves?
Unless he had something to hide.
And she was sure someone involved with the former youth team at BSG Stahl did have something to hide.
Voigt refused her offer of a seat in the changing room she’d been assigned to talk to him in. Instead, he suggested going for a stroll around the perimeter of the pitch.
‘I won’t feel as nervous there,’ he explained.
*
Once they were out on the pitch he immediately apologised.
‘Sorry. I hope you didn’t think I was being uncooperative in there. It’s just . . . well, there is more privacy here. In an open space. If you know what I mean.’
‘You mean someone could have been listening to our conversation in there?’
The youth stopped in his tracks and looked her straight in the eyes. ‘You do know who in effect runs this team, don’t you?’
Müller nodded.
‘Well, that answers your question, then. One more thing, if you want me to talk, this has to be off the record.’
Müller frowned. ‘Off the record? I’m a police officer, Florian. Not a journalist. I don’t do off the record.’
‘Well, those are my conditions.’
This time it was Müller’s turn to stop in her tracks. ‘Look, I don’t know what American detective shows you’ve been watching on western TV. But that’s not the way we do things in the Republic.’ She watched his mouth turn down. ‘However . . .’ She held her hands up. ‘I can’t easily take notes as we’re walking along. And I don’t have a tape recorder with me, not that I’m going to let you frisk me to check.’ She smiled at him. ‘That’s about as off the record as it’s going to get.’
‘OK. But what I’m about to tell you can’t be made public. And can’t be used against me.’
Müller frowned. ‘Not being made public? Fine, I give you my word. As for using it against you, as long as you haven’t committed a crime, then you have nothing to fear on that score. Have you committed a crime?’
The young footballer didn’t answer for a few seconds, and instead resumed his walk around the perimeter of the ground, beckoning Müller to follow. At one end of the pitch, one of the team’s goalkeepers was throwing himself from side to side as a coach fired in ball after ball towards the goal. But they were both out of earshot, and no one else was within sight. Nevertheless, Voigt gave a furtive glance around every corner of the ground before he started speaking again.
‘Do you know Dominik was homosexual?’
‘Yes,’ nodded Müller.
The young footballer raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah. Then there might not be much I can tell you that you don’t already know.’
‘Is that why he was ostracised from BSG?’
Voigt shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no. As far as I know, no one there knew. It’s not something you advertise at a football club, believe me.’
‘So how did you know?’ asked Müller.
Again, Voigt checked there was no one in earshot or in sight before answering. ‘How do you think I knew?’
Realisation suddenly dawned for Müller.
‘Exactly. That’s why I didn’t want to talk to you in the changing room.’
‘So you were lovers?’
‘No, no. Don’t be daft. Dominik could get anyone he wanted. He wouldn’t be interested in someone like me. He was a pretty boy, and he preferred pretty boys.’
‘So how did you find out?’
They’d reached the end of the ground where the goalkeeper was saving shots. Voigt lowered his voice further when he answered, to ensure neither the keeper nor his coach could hear.
‘You know Dom was a keen motorcyclist?’
Müller nodded.
‘Well, let’s just say the group he was involved with wasn’t just about motorbikes. It was bikes . . . and a bit of fun too. Man-to-man fun. If you understand what I mean.’
‘How do you know that?’
Voigt sighed. ‘OK, well this is another tricky bit. An off-the-record bit.’ He paused, waiting for some sort of sign from Müller.
She gave a long sigh. ‘OK, OK. Off the record.’
‘Well, when I said I hadn’t committed a crime, that wasn’t entirely true.’
‘Careful, Florian,’ warned Müller. ‘I made it quite clear our agreement only holds if there is no crime involved.’
‘It’s only a little crime.’
‘What?’
‘Smoking dope. Pot.’
‘OK.’
‘OK, what?’
‘OK, I’m not interested in low-level dope smoking. That’s not to say some of my other colleagues wouldn’t be. Just make sure we don’t find you with any. Now, how does this relate to Dominik Nadel? And does it have any relevance to his murder?’
The young footballer stopped in his tracks and turned to the detective. ‘Murder? Oh my God! I’d heard he was missing, but that’s awful. I’m so sorry. I liked Dom. I had a lot of time for him.’
Müller breathed in slowly. They’d almost completed a full lap of the pitch by now, but she got the feeling Voigt still hadn’t got round to the key thing he wanted to tell her.
‘So come on, then, Florian. I’ve said it’s off the record. Where does this all fit in?’
‘Their bike group met at a club on the outskirts of Frankfurt.’
Müller was of course well aware of this already. But she wanted to keep Voigt talking to see if he had any new information to reveal. ‘And why were you there?’
‘I think I’ve made that clear, haven’t I? But I wasn’t part of the motorbike gang. I just saw them there. And saw Dominik there.’
‘Do you know the motorbike group’s name?’
The footballer shook his head. ‘No. But I can tell you the names of some of the members . . . as long as you keep my name out of it, and as long as you forget what I told you about the dope. And I can tell you the address of the club. They’re there virtually every Sunday afternoon.’
13
Six months earlier
Pankow, East Berlin
It’s late by the time we get back to Pankow and my family apartment. My head is still buzzing from the dope. And that kiss. It hurts me, though, that Jan seemed stand-offish the rest of the time at the club. Flirting with some of the others. I realise that’s not what I want. I want him for myself.
My mood lifts on the journey back though. I was worried he might choose someone else to ride pillion. After all, not everyone there had a bike. Some were like me a
nd had just hitched along for the ride. I hold him tightly all the way back, though I notice this time his hand isn’t over mine.
When we get back to mine, I get off the bike. It looks like he’s about to drive straight off, but instead he gets off too, kicks the side stand on, and then takes his helmet off.
‘Are you coming in?’ I ask, slightly alarmed. I don’t think my parents will appreciate it.
‘No, don’t worry, little Markus.’ He moves over towards me, gently undoes the helmet chin clasp, and lifts the protective headgear away. ‘We were quite naughty today, weren’t we?’
I nod, wary of his playful tone. Wary, too, that he’s standing so close to me outside our apartment block. Someone might see.
‘Do you enjoy being naughty, little Markus?’ He grabs me round my lower back and pulls me towards him, our groins crushing together again. Just like at the club. And then he’s leaning in for a kiss. But at the last moment, he lets me go and laughs.
‘You thought I was going to kiss you, didn’t you? I was just checking your breath to make sure you don’t still smell of dope.’ He thrusts something into my hand and then curls my fingers round it. I look down. It’s a packet of mints.
‘Put some in your pretty little mouth now, Markus. Before your policeman daddy finds out what you’ve been up to.’ As he says this, he looks up pointedly at the windows of our flat. To my horror I see the curtain has, until that instant, been held open, and someone has just let it fall back into place.
Someone who’s been watching us.
Jan knows too.
‘I hope they enjoyed the show,’ he laughs.
*
I use my key to let myself in, hoping against hope that I was imagining the curtain moving. As I get into the hall I see my father there waiting, glowering at me through his thick-glassed spectacles – the ones that match mine.
‘Get . . . in . . . there . . . now.’ He whispers the words as he points to my bedroom, enunciating each one with menace. I go into my room. He follows, and slams the door behind us.
‘I saw that,’ he says, in the same vicious voice.
‘What do you mean?’ I’ve got to try to brazen it out, to convince him he was mistaken.
‘Kissing . . . that other . . .’ He can’t bring himself to say it.
‘I don’t know what you think you saw. But you’re mistaken, Father. Jan was simply taking off my helmet.’
I see the look of doubt enter his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, all isn’t lost yet.
‘I don’t want you to see him again.’
‘What?! He’s my friend. We’ve done nothing wrong. You’re putting two and two together and making five.’
My father holds his hand up, palm outwards. ‘No more, Markus. No son of mine is going to turn out like that. I forbid you to see him. That’s an end to it. I mean it.’ His voice quivers with rage. I’ve never seen him like this before. I can feel the tears welling in my eyes.
After standing there a moment, looking at me like I’m a piece of dog shit, he turns on his heels and exits, slamming the door behind him.
I flop down on the bed face first. I bury my head in the pillow. I don’t want to fall out with my father. But I won’t bend to his wishes. I will see Jan again if I want to . . . and I know I want to.
I move the pillow round so that it’s under me, lengthways. And then I pretend it’s Jan, that he’s comforting me, and press myself into it.
14
Six months later (September 1976)
Strausberger Platz, East Berlin
Emil was back in her bed. Müller had hugged him to her on the sofa, but had no need to try to excite him. He seemed to be on fire. As soon as they were in the bedroom, alone at last, he tore at her clothes, literally ripping her underwear off. She was already aroused, but the sound of the material tearing – the expensive, western material, the last pair she’d secreted away from her and Tilsner’s trip over the Wall some eighteen months earlier – well, that made her even more ready.
Suddenly the doorbell began to ring. Urgently, one press after another. Emil – lost in the moment – seemed to want to ignore it. Müller knew she couldn’t. She wriggled out of his grip, got up and put on her dressing gown.
Helga was already up, answering the entryphone.
She passed the handset to Müller.
Müller cupped her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Sorry, Helga,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll deal with it. You go back to sleep.’
‘I couldn’t sleep anyway,’ her grandmother said, trudging back to her bedroom. There was an accusatory tone to her voice.
Müller turned her attention back to the entryphone.
‘Comrade Major! Is that you?’ The voice sounded familiar, but with her mind elsewhere she couldn’t immediately place it.
‘Who is this, please?’
‘Comrade Major! Thank God. It’s Jonas. Kriminaltechniker Jonas Schmidt. You’ve got to help me. Please.’
‘Calm down, Jonas. What’s so urgent at this time of night?’ She glanced down at her watch. It was already the morning – nearly 1 a.m.
‘It’s Markus, my son. He’s disappeared.’
*
Schmidt – even in the half-light of the street lamps – looked a complete mess. His shirt half-unbuttoned, his hair greasy and uncombed, and a wild look in his eyes behind the thick spectacles.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ he sobbed. ‘I just don’t know what to do.’
Müller placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘Are you all right to drive?’
‘Yes, I think so. I drove here. Why? Where are we going?’
‘Let’s go back to your apartment. Get all the facts straight, and then proceed in a logical way.’
‘But he’s not there. I know he’s not there.’
‘I know, Jonas. But Markus isn’t a young child. He’s nearly a man. He’s eighteen, isn’t he?’
Schmidt nodded, his head slumping forwards.
‘Well, then. In my experience with boys of that age, they haven’t really gone missing at all. They’ll just be staying at a friend’s . . . or a girlfriend’s.’
Schmidt shook his head violently. ‘No, no. You don’t understand. You see, we had an argument. A really bad argument. He said he never wanted to see me again.’
Müller placed both her hands on Schmidt’s shoulders.
‘A lot of things said in the heat of the moment are forgotten about the next day. Let’s get over to your place, talk to your wife, and go through all of Markus’s movements. I’m sure we’ll be able to work out where he is, and then you two can make it up.’
*
‘So when was the last time you saw him?’
Müller had insisted that Schmidt and his wife sit down in the kitchen while she made them both a coffee. The forensic officer was clearly at the end of his tether, and in that state the information he provided was likely to be less than helpful.
‘Two days ago.’
‘Two days?’
Schmidt nodded. ‘That’s why I had to come back from Eisenhüttenstadt. We’d had another row.’
‘Another?’
‘It all started last year when we were involved in the missing baby case in Halle-Neustadt. That’s why I was quite glad the team was slimmed down at one point and I was allowed to return to Berlin.’
Frau Schmidt, her nightgown pulled tightly up to her chin, nodded in assent. ‘He was getting bullied and teased at school. He would regularly come home with his glasses broken after some fight or other.’
‘Are you sure it was bullying, and that he wasn’t the one starting the fights?’
Schmidt shook his head. ‘Markus isn’t the sort to start a fight, I can assure you, Comrade Major.’
‘OK, so he was getting bullied, but that was several months ago,’ said Müller. ‘Did something change, or did it just get worse?’
‘Well,’ Frau Schmidt answered, ‘at first I was pleased. He found this new friend who he used to hang around with at
weekends. He suddenly seemed happier, more alive.’
‘But that didn’t continue?’ prompted Müller.
‘Jonas, do you want to explain?’ There was a hard edge to the woman’s voice, as though she blamed her husband for something.
Jonas Schmidt pressed his hands against his face then lowered them slowly. This was clearly painful for him. ‘Markus and I have always been close,’ he sighed. ‘I’d hoped he might follow me into a scientific career with the police.’
‘You put too much pressure on him at school,’ said his wife.
‘Maybe,’ shrugged Schmidt. ‘If so, I’m sorry. I only wanted what’s best for him. I’d do anything for him – you know that, Hanne.’
Hanne Schmidt just sat there glowering at her husband.
‘So you had an argument about his school results?’ asked Müller.
‘No . . . well, yes, but that’s not what this is all about. That was before. I’d come to accept it all – all the school stuff. I don’t think he doesn’t try. He’s intelligent, I know that, just not academic, if you know what I mean?’ There was a pleading look in Schmidt’s eyes. His wife nudged the cup of coffee Müller had made in front of him, and encouraged him to drink it.
‘I understand,’ said Müller. ‘But this latest argument, these latest arguments weren’t about that?’
‘No . . . it was . . . it was something more personal.’
Müller sighed. ‘Jonas, I will do what I can to help to find your son, although in my experience with teenage boys they tend to turn up eventually anyway. But I can only do that if you’re fully open with me, if you tell me everything. Do you understand?’
Schmidt took a long gulp of coffee. ‘This friendship he developed with the boy who protected him from the bullying. Jan. Jan Winkler. I wasn’t happy about it.’
‘Why?’ Müller asked. She was starting to get slightly nervous about what Schmidt was about to tell her.
‘I felt it was unhealthy. Two boys like that.’ Schmidt looked at her. His expression full of meaning. He wasn’t prepared to say the word, he wasn’t prepared to label his son as one of them, but Müller knew full well what he was talking about. It was Dominik Nadel all over again.
