by David Young
‘And this led to the arguments?’
Schmidt rotated the cup of coffee in his hands, again and again. Müller inhaled the aroma, and wished she’d made a mug for herself too. ‘We had a big showdown. The first time was about six months ago. This Jan boy had just dropped him off outside. I thought I saw them kissing.’
Hanne Schmidt tutted. ‘How could you accuse him without being sure?’
Schmidt hung his head. ‘I just wanted to do my best for him. To protect him. That’s all. Anyway, he denied it all. Said the boy was just helping him with something, that’s why they were so close together. I thought it would blow over.’
‘Did you apologise?’ asked Müller.
‘What?’
‘Did you say sorry?’
‘No, as I said, I just thought it would blow over.’
His wife sighed again.
‘But it didn’t. The next day was the first time he ran away.’
Müller threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘Jonas! So he’s done it before. He’s come back before. Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? Why do you think this time is any different?’
Schmidt shook his head. ‘I just know. That’s all. Something’s happened. He’s never been away this long before. He’s in trouble. I know he is.’
‘That’s all very well, Jonas,’ said his wife. ‘But Comrade Oberleutnant Müller—’
‘Major,’ said Schmidt. ‘Comrade Müller here has been promoted now, I told you, Liebling.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry Com—’
‘It doesn’t matter, Frau Schmidt. Honestly. Karin is fine. Just call me Karin.’
‘What I was going to say to my husband, Karin, is that you need hard information. Facts to try to help to find Markus.’
Müller nodded.
‘I think you need to look at that club they used to go to.’
‘Hanne!’ warned Schmidt.
‘What? She needs to know. It’s the only way we’re going to find him. They used to go to this club on Sunday afternoons. I found a ticket in Markus’s pocket when I was cleaning his clothes one day. He clammed up when I tried to talk to him about it. And sometimes, when they came back, I could smell—’
‘Hanne, no! This is just tittle-tattle. I don’t want you mentioning—’
‘Marijuana,’ his wife said, with grim determination.
Schmidt sighed angrily.
‘I’m sure that’s what it was,’ Hanne continued.
‘And where exactly was this club?’ asked Müller. But in her mind she was already making the link – to Dominik Nadel. Her blood ran cold. It was a big leap, a huge coincidence, but she was sure – somehow – it was the same club.
‘In Frankfurt. Frankfurt Oder, of course.’
Müller tried to keep her expression neutral. Then she thought back to something Schmidt had said a little earlier. This Jan boy had just dropped him off outside. A car, Müller had assumed. Now she knew differently.
Once again, her next question was redundant. But she asked it to make sure. ‘And how did they get to and from Frankfurt O?’
‘Winkler had a motorbike. Probably acquired for him by his father,’ spat Schmidt. ‘Then Markus saved up and got one too. Although I don’t know how he did that with the amount of pocket money we gave him, or how he jumped the waiting list. Maybe Winkler could tell you. Although I’d tread carefully there.’
Müller furrowed her brow. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘His father. He’s a high-up,’ said Frau Schmidt, scarcely disguising her contempt.
‘A high-up where?’ asked Müller.
Schmidt took over from his wife. ‘We never got to the bottom of that. But either the government, or the Party, or . . .’
The forensic officer didn’t complete the sentence. He didn’t have to. Müller understood his meaning.
The government.
The Party.
Or the Stasi.
15
Sunday
Pankow, East Berlin
Müller was tempted simply to haul Winkler in for questioning, despite the Schmidts’ veiled warning. Not in relation to Markus Schmidt, whom she was still confident would turn up unharmed – but to find out if he really did have any connection to Dominik Nadel. That was, after all, her and Tilsner’s main inquiry. But perhaps a more subtle approach might get better results, and be less likely to prompt his influential father to interfere in the investigation. Meanwhile she convinced Jonas and his wife that their cause would be best served if they tried to get some sleep. Müller did the same, although she didn’t get back to Strausberger Platz till 3 a.m. after diverting to Keibelstrasse to put out an all-bulletins alert for Markus.
She tried to be as quiet as possible re-entering the apartment, hoping she wouldn’t disturb the twins, her grandmother, or Emil. But her partner emerged bleary-eyed from the bedroom.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.’
Emil raised a smile. ‘It’s fine, Liebling.’ He kissed her lightly on the lips, and Müller felt such a rush of emotion she had to fight back tears. He was a lovely man. He was the father of her wonderful children. And she wanted it to work. ‘Do you want me to make you a coffee or something?’
‘No, but that’s sweet of you. You go back to bed. I’ll be there in a moment.’
*
She’d thought Emil would be annoyed about the disruption to their first weekend together in the new flat. But he seemed genuinely delighted to be spending time with the twins and putting his own stamp on the apartment, moving stuff across gradually from his hospital flat.
They wouldn’t be spending Sunday together either, because she had a job to do that afternoon. And, to that end, she summoned Tilsner on the police radio and told him to put what he was doing in Eisenhüttenstadt on hold, and to return to the Hauptstadt immediately.
*
‘You look quite fetching in that.’ Müller was admiring Tilsner’s new uniform of black motorbike leathers, and a helmet not unlike the ones they’d both had to wear when visiting the blast furnace in Hütte.
‘Hmm. I hope the People’s Police have sorted the proper insurance for me. I’m happy enough riding a motorbike, but four wheels are always safer than two – and I don’t like the look of that weather.’
Dark clouds had gathered over the Hauptstadt. October was fast approaching, along with the changeable autumn weather it always brought, but despite the cloud cover, Müller knew that rain wasn’t forecast. Or, at worst, light rain or drizzle in scattered bursts. It wouldn’t be bad enough to prevent Jan Winkler and his friends from making their regular excursion to the eastern edge of the Republic.
Tilsner revved the machine, which responded with a throaty roar. Müller – using the privileges her new position brought – had managed to secure a powerful bike for him from the police pool. She’d insisted on an unmarked one, used for surveillance and tracking activities. Although it was unmarked, it still had a police radio hidden in the helmet. It was an MZ ETS Trophy Sport – its 250cc engine enough to take it up to a top speed of over 130 kilometres per hour – and in demand in the capitalist West as well as friendly socialist countries, helping to bring in much-needed hard currency for the Republic.
Tilsner saw her staring at the speedometer. ‘I know what you’re thinking. But I won’t be going that fast, I can assure you. From what Jonas says, all these teenagers have much less powerful machines – little more than mopeds or small scooters.’ He looked up at the sky once again, and then dropped his helmet visor. His next sentence came out muffled from behind the plastic screen, but she just about made out what he was saying. ‘As long as it doesn’t rain. If it does, you’ll probably be picking little pieces of me, and this,’ he slapped the fuel tank to emphasise the point, ‘off the surface of the road.’
*
They knew approximately the route the bikers, led by Winkler, planned to take. They weren’t expecting Markus Schmidt to be there – apparently he and Winkler had fallen out and he no longer joined the group on t
heir weekly jaunts, or at least that’s what his parents claimed.
Müller was surprised how smart Winkler’s home was. But given what the Schmidts had said about his father, perhaps not that surprised. An attractive detached house in a tree-lined road. Unusual in the more central parts of Berlin, where apartments – either historic ones like Müller’s old one in Schönhauser Allee, or the new Plattenbauten planned for suburbs like Marzahn – were the order of the day.
The teens on their motorbikes gathered and circled outside the Winkler home. They looked almost like the racehorses Gottfried had enjoyed watching on western TV, herded by the starter into an approximate straight line before the tape was raised. Here the starter was Winkler himself, and he was joining in the race.
Müller and Tilsner had discussed tactics. She would follow first in the Lada, to try to avoid any suspicion. Tilsner would in turn follow her, but once they hit traffic – as they knew they would – Tilsner would take up the chase. Although Voigt had given them the address of the club, Müller wanted to check whether other riders joined the convoy en route. Other riders who could lead them to Markus Schmidt and, more importantly, the killer of Dominik Nadel.
*
Müller soon found she was lagging behind. Although the Lada was faster than any of the bikes in the convoy, and could even give Tilsner’s supercharged machine a run for his money, it couldn’t weave through the traffic in the same way. Once she’d lost them, she decided she might as well take the motorway route to Frankfurt, rather than Fernverkehrsstrassen 1 and 5 – the main non-motorway roads. The motorway swung south of Frankfurt. It was further. But at the Lada’s maximum speed, she might still get there first. Going the other way, she would never catch up.
*
The old industrial building housing the club was in a run-down area just off Route 112 – the main road between Frankfurt and Eisenhüttenstadt – on the banks of the Oder–Spree canal, the waterway that linked the Oder river to Berlin.
Müller parked in the shadow of a building, where she had a clear view of the club entrance.
She’d clearly made up time with the motorway detour, as it was some ten minutes before Winkler and his gang arrived in a cacophony of tinny noise. Some of the bikers started circling the cinder yard, deliberately making their machines skid to a halt, a bit like speedway riders taking a corner.
Out of the corner of her eye, a few seconds after the convoy arrived, she saw Tilsner’s machine passing the entrance. He would double back and join her once they were all safely inside.
*
‘What are we actually hoping to achieve by this?’ he asked once he was with her in their lookout – a disused shed to the side of the complex, with a broken window, and piles of dirt and empty sacks over the floor. To Tilsner’s obvious distaste, Müller had partially concealed herself under some of the sacks, and was gesturing to her deputy to do the same.
‘What choice did we have?’
‘Plenty. I’d have taken this Winkler fellow in and given him a bit of a frightener. See if he’s prepared to cough.’
‘I don’t want to do that yet. I want to give him as much rope as he needs for as long as we can.’ Müller also wanted to fully clarify Winkler’s father’s position before she did anything to rile either him – or his son. If they gathered evidence of any wrongdoing on the part of the son first, it might put them in a stronger position. ‘Did you find out anything on the journey?’
‘Other than that riding more than a hundred kilometres on a motorbike is bloody uncomfortable? No.’ Tilsner shook his head. ‘Not a sausage. You?’
Müller sighed and shook her head. Perhaps her deputy was right. Perhaps this was a waste of time.
‘Maybe we should just raid the whole place?’ suggested Tilsner. ‘We know there’s drug taking going on.’
‘It’s only cannabis.’
‘It’s illegal though, isn’t it?’
Tilsner’s moaning that they were wasting their time was interrupted when Winkler and another youth came out of the club’s front door.
‘What are they up to?’ he whispered.
There seemed to be some sort of exchange between the two. Winkler gave the shorter teen something, and then in return received some sort of package, which he slipped into the pocket of his motorcycle jacket. The two then shook hands. The shorter teen, instead of going back into the club, got onto his bike, and roared off towards Frankfurt.
‘Do we follow?’ asked Tilsner.
‘We don’t know who he is or what he’s doing. It might just be another wild-goose chase. It’s Winkler I’m more interested in.’
Winkler had now gone over to a wall at the side of the building and removed what looked like a brick. Müller couldn’t see clearly enough. He either placed something in the wall, or took something from it. She wasn’t sure.
‘Scheisse, he’s doing a runner too,’ Tilsner hissed. ‘Look, he’s putting his helmet on. Shall I follow?’
Müller had wondered if they should get uniform or the local Kripo involved in their stake-out. She’d discounted it – this was just a fishing expedition, and she hadn’t wanted to waste more manpower. Now she had a choice. Let Tilsner chase Winkler alone, with all the dangers involved in that. She wasn’t sure if, once he caught up with him, he wouldn’t just beat the teen to a pulp to get information out of him. Or she went too. She also wanted to check what Winkler had been placing – or taking from – behind the brick. But that would have to wait.
‘OK, we’ll follow,’ she said.
‘There’s no point, Karin. You can’t keep pace in a car.’
‘I’m not going in the car. I’m coming on the back of the bike with you.’
*
If she’d thought for a moment longer she’d have realised it was an utterly stupid idea. Almost as bad as when she’d insisted they go it alone in the Harz in the graveyard girl case – nearly getting them both killed in the process. Tilsner had been seriously injured then. It was testament to his recovery that these days she didn’t think about that incident. In the missing baby case, his injuries had still troubled him. Now he seemed fully fit.
She hunched into his back, holding tightly just under his chest.
‘I bet you’re enjoying this,’ she shouted, hoping to be heard above the roar of the engine and the rush of air as they sped along behind Winkler. He’d turned left out of the club yard, which had surprised them, and seemed to be heading towards Hütte – or perhaps further south. As far as Senftenberg, perhaps? If there really was a connection there, and it wasn’t just a convenient dumping ground for Dominik Nadel’s body.
Tilsner had been concentrating on the road ahead and their quarry speeding along it, so it took a few seconds before he replied to her question. He had to turn his head to the side, and shouted towards her helmet – or rather his helmet. They only had the one, and he’d insisted she wear it.
‘I’d enjoy it a heck of a lot more if I were able to sit at the back. With my arms wrapped round your chest.’
She punched him in the back.
‘Oi! Watch it.’ The bike wobbled alarmingly, but Tilsner managed to get it back under control. Under her helmet, Müller felt her face burn. It had been a stupid thing to do.
Then Tilsner was trying to shout at her again, at the same time as jabbing his gloved finger towards the left-hand wing mirror. ‘Look. We’ve got company.’
Müller could see two motorbikes on their tail in the reflective glass. She turned her head to look over her shoulder for a better look. Both riders had black helmets and reflective visors. But it didn’t appear to be any of the teens from the club – even with her limited knowledge of motorbikes, Müller could tell these were much more powerful machines.
One of the bikes moved up alongside them, accelerating easily, confirming Müller’s estimate of its power. The rider started to gesture with his arm, indicating they should pull over. He accelerated further forward, and then the second rider was parallel with them, just a couple of metres behind h
is colleague.
Again, the same hand signals from the second rider.
Müller could see the bridge ahead, which took them over the canal. Tilsner had been forced towards the road edge, the wheels spraying road dust and dirt up into his face. Müller could see – and feel – him trying to shield his eyes with one hand, with no visor to protect them.
The bridge was fast approaching.
The road narrowed as it crossed. They were heading straight for the iron railings at its side.
She could feel Tilsner trying to force the machine back onto the road.
‘Hang on!’ he shouted.
It looked like he’d managed to force the MZ far enough over; they might just squeeze through the gap and over the bridge.
The rider alongside raised his right hand. Müller was convinced he was about to push her and Tilsner to their deaths. She braced herself, ready to jump clear.
Instead he just waved, adjusted his helmet and accelerated away.
Tilsner successfully rejoined the asphalt road a split second before they reached the bridge.
Once across, he slowed to a halt, and Müller felt her heart rate begin to return to normal once more.
‘What was all that about?’ she shouted to her deputy, as the motorbike’s engine idled beneath them.
Tilsner shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. And I’ve no idea who they were either.’
But Müller could make a very good guess who they might be.
16
Five months earlier (April 1976)
Outskirts of Frankfurt an der Oder
Something’s changed between Jan and me. He still lets me ride pillion to the club this week, but once we get inside he seems to be avoiding me. In fact, everyone seems to be avoiding me.
The new thing is pills. I don’t trust them. Jan says they make the world a faster place, a more exciting place. For me, fast isn’t good. I prefer the mellowness of dope, the giggliness, the fun. The fact you don’t have a hangover the next day. About the only friendly thing Jan did today, as we set off from Pankow, was thrust a handful of pills into my hand.
‘Take one now,’ he said. ‘They feel fantastic when you’re on the bike. The world just whizzes by. It feels like you’re starring in a feature film. And all the colours seem so bright. You should try it.’
