by David Young
He looks me straight in the eyes, as though he can tell I’m lying. I suppose a lot of prostitutes – because that’s what I am now, a common prostitute – choose to lie.
‘I was wondering if you might know my boyfriend,’ he asks. ‘He’s from Hütte.’
Hütte? Where the hell’s that? Panic rises in my throat again, I don’t know if he can sense it. It’s clearly somewhere I ought to know if I really did live in Frankfurt an der Oder. Then the penny drops. Hütte. The middle part of the name Eisenhüttenstadt. It must be a nickname. I hope he takes my blank look for me searching my brain to see if I remember his boyfriend. I don’t of course, because I’ve never been to this Hütte in my life, and don’t even really know where it is – though my guess that it’s near Frankfurt seems to have been a lucky one.
‘What’s his name?’
‘Dominik. Dominik Nadel.’
I shake my head slowly, and frown. ‘Sorry. No.’ I wonder if this Dominik has been stupid enough to give his real name, as the Stasi wanted me to. They claimed it would mean I’d be less likely to get caught out by forgetting my own fake name. I’d stood my ground and insisted I wanted to operate under an alias.
He looks even sadder now. Maybe I should have kept on lying, said I do know this boy. Spun it out. Arranged another meeting where hopefully we wouldn’t just be talking.
He gets up, paces again. ‘Look, I’m sorry. Maybe this was a mistake.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to just sit with you?’
‘You just seem very young. Perhaps too young.’
‘I’m eighteen,’ I say. ‘It’s legal here, in the East.’
‘Well, look. Let’s leave it for tonight. I think it’s just me. I’m just in one of those moods. It’s been a tiring day. Perhaps if you’re in the bar tomorrow?’
I try to smile my most winning smile. ‘Of course. And you’ve already paid. Tomorrow’s for free. Though it might be nice if we did more than talk.’
‘No. I’m not promising anything. I’ll pay – whether it’s to talk again, or what, I don’t know. Let’s just see what happens.’
I realise I actually want to see him again. I want him to want me. Even though I’ve fulfilled my deal with the Stasi, even though I could stop now, I don’t want to.
26
The next month (October 1976)
Wilhelm-Pieck-Stadt Guben, Bezirk Cottbus
Müller’s plans to try to focus the investigation, to try to stop simply reacting to events and take control, were ruined with the news that came early the next day.
Another body had been found – near Guben. Wilhelm-Pieck-Stadt Guben. Müller tried – mentally at least – to give the town its official name.
But, as she knew only too well, sometimes in a homicide case it took a development like another murder to provide that missing piece of the jigsaw puzzle. To provide the breakthrough. The trouble was, this time she – and particularly her forensic officer Jonas Schmidt – had a personal involvement in the case. She hoped and prayed the body wasn’t that of Markus, his son. That would be too much to bear. So far there had been no news on the victim’s identity, other than that it was a young male.
They had to get down to Guben fast.
*
Schmidt had insisted on coming with them, despite his and Müller’s fears. They all went in the Lada, Tilsner driving like a madman. Overtaking on blind corners, the blue light flashing. They wanted to make sure they got there before Diederich and Baum. Strictly speaking, of course, this was another administrative region – Cottbus, rather than Frankfurt. It shouldn’t really concern the Frankfurt regional Stasi . . . but Müller had no doubt it would.
*
Schwarz had beaten them to it, to the banks of the Neisse, a couple of kilometres or so north of Guben. The body had been washed onto a mud bank on the western side of the river, the Republic’s side – the opposite bank to Poland. As a matter of courtesy, Polish officers had also been invited to attend – Müller spotted their distinctive blue-grey uniforms as they waited at the bankside. Schwarz was already wading around in gumboots.
‘Careful where you put your feet,’ he said. ‘It’s easy enough to sink in right up to your middle. There should be some local uniform back in a few minutes. I sent them off to get duckboards.’
‘What’s it look like?’ asked Müller. They couldn’t see because a small tent had already been erected over the body to protect it from the elements. It was starting to rain. Schwarz must have seen the forecast and acted quickly.
‘On the face of it, same sort of thing as Senftenberg. Naked. Restraint marks around the wrists again. Although maybe they weighed the body down in a different way, because I can’t see any marks from ropes wrapped round it, or anything like that. That said, a lot of the corpse is covered in mud, so I can’t really tell. And I didn’t want to try washing it till the pathologist gets here. But, given the similarities, I took the precaution of calling in Fenstermacher. The local bloke’s a bit put out. Is that OK?’
Müller smiled and nodded. It was more than OK. It was exactly what she’d been planning to do if the Kripo Hauptmann hadn’t pre-empted her. ‘When are you expecting her?’
‘She’ll be here in about thirty minutes. And by then we’ll have a proper-size tent up – uniform are bringing one with the duckboards.’ He gestured towards the small camping flysheet which was the only thing currently protecting the dead youth from the downpour. ‘That’s just an emergency one I keep in the back of the car.’
Müller saw Tilsner rolling up his trousers. ‘Your shoes will get ruined, Werner. Why not wait?’
He jerked his head towards Schmidt who’d been hanging back from the scene. Müller could tell he was trembling. She moved towards him, put up her umbrella to shelter them both, and pulled him into a hug.
‘Is he OK?’ asked Schwarz.
‘His lad’s missing and might be caught up in all this. Can you see the face without disturbing the body?’
‘It’s partly turned to the side. You can see some of it. Do you want to take a look?’
Tilsner nodded.
Schwarz started to take off his gumboots. ‘I’m not sure what size you are, but you’re welcome to try these. I wouldn’t go in that mud without protection. It’s badly polluted.’
Taking the local officer up on his offer, Tilsner took his shoes off and pulled the boots on, hopping from one foot to the other to try to keep his feet clean and dry, as Schwarz did the same in reverse with his own shoes.
As Tilsner lifted the flap to the makeshift tent, Müller held her breath. She could feel Schmidt, too, tense up in her arms. She squeezed him, swaddled him with her body, like you would with a child.
They were both hoping desperately for the same outcome.
They waited.
Time seemed to drag. Müller could see, though the gap in the tent, Tilsner peering at the body from various angles. Crouching down, examining.
Then he came out.
Schmidt was trembling.
Tilsner shook his head. Not a sad, slow shake. But a vigorous one. Then he was shouting.
‘It’s OK, Jonas. It’s not him. I can’t see all the face, but it’s definitely not your son.’
Schmidt seemed to slump against Müller. She struggled to hold his not insignificant weight.
She could hear him sobbing, the tension easing from his body.
‘It’s OK, Jonas, it’s OK,’ she soothed.
He gave a heavy sigh. ‘It’s not, though, is it, Comrade Major? Hanne and I might have been lucky this time. But some poor mother and father, somewhere, have lost a son. And we still haven’t found Markus.’
*
Schwarz’s estimated time for Fenstermacher’s arrival proved reasonably accurate, and within half an hour she was bustling around in a huge hooded rain cape. The larger tent and duckboards were now in position and they were all able to gather round the body as Fenstermacher examined it with her gloved hands.
She looked up briefly
as one of the Polish officers entered. ‘Goodness. There are even more of you this time. You must have been breeding like rabbits.’
‘He’s one of our Polish comrades,’ explained Schwarz. ‘In case the body’s theirs, not ours. But there seemed to me to be some similarities to the one at Senftenberg. What do you think?’
‘Some similarities. Some differences,’ she replied gruffly. ‘Same story everywhere, really. No dead body is ever exactly the same. That’s why the job is such riotous fun. Although why you pulled me off my patch to come here, I’m not very sure. What did Dr Neudorf say about it? He won’t be too happy. This is his manor. I’m trespassing. So if I get into trouble, it’s you I’ll be blaming, Helmut.’
‘I’m sure you won’t get into trouble, Gudrun.’
She continued her examination, without sharing any conclusions with the others – if indeed she’d reached any as yet.
‘I wouldn’t be too sure, Helmut. There’s so many of you here, I bet some of you are Stasi, aren’t you?’
Müller was about to say that, no, the Stasi hadn’t arrived yet, when the flap of the tent opened and – as if on cue – Diederich walked in. He smiled warmly at Müller, as though the fact that her team had ignored the Stasi’s orders to stay away from the case was of little consequence.
‘Well, you could hear a pin drop in here now,’ continued Fenstermacher. ‘I wonder why?’
Müller could see Tilsner and Schwarz smirking at each other.
Fenstermacher sighed. ‘Can I move him slightly? Have you got all the photos you need?’
Schwarz nodded. ‘Go ahead. We got them before you came.’
‘Right then, heave-ho.’ Müller could see the strain on the pathologist’s face as she lifted the dead youth on one side, just as she had with Dominik Nadel. There was a sucking sound as the torso was freed from the mud bank. Immediately, Müller could see a difference when his left shoulder blade was exposed, once the pathologist had wiped away the mud: there was no tattoo.
The pathologist let the body drop again into its muddy resting place. ‘It’s a bit like a newspaper spot-the-difference competition, really, isn’t it?’
‘What can you tell us so far?’ asked Müller, given no one else had posed the question everyone wanted an answer to.
‘All right. Similarities. Dead, obviously. Naked, obviously. A late teenage or early twenty-something person – and a male, obviously.’ She batted away his floppy penis to emphasise her point. ‘The similarities continue with these.’ Fenstermacher lifted one wrist, then the other. They were partially covered in mud, but as Schwarz had said earlier, the marks were still clear. The youth had, in some way, been restrained. ‘And then there’s this.’ She lifted the body again slightly, to show off the upper left arm, which she’d cleaned slightly. ‘Injection marks. So, yes, there are plenty of similarities, and I can see why you brought me all the way from Hoyerswerda.
‘However, there are also important differences. I can’t see any evidence of anything being tied to the body – other than the wrists, of course, which we’ve already mentioned. But there are more fundamental differences, which may or may not help you with your inquiries. Ask me how long the body’s been in the water.’
Tilsner took up the challenge. He seemed to enjoy Fenstermacher’s wordplay. Müller would rather she just got to the point. ‘How long has the body been in the water?’ he asked, theatrically.
‘I’d say just a few hours. Certainly less than a day.’ There were looks of surprise all round, including from Müller. Diederich, she noticed, seemed to be maintaining a poker face. ‘Ask me how I know that?’
Tilsner again batted it back. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because there is no degradation of the body. Bit of wrinkling of skin, yes, but nothing more than you’d get after a long bath. And he hasn’t yet been attacked by fish or other animals. And that usually happens very quickly. So, let’s say less than a day to be on the safe side, at this stage. I suggest we do the autopsy quickly; here in Guben there should be the necessary facilities, unless Dr Neudorf starts getting territorial. Or am I supposed to say Wilhelm-Pieck-Stadt Guben these days? Anyway, you’re doing very well, captain, with your questions. I’m impressed. Presumably I don’t have to tell you the next question to ask.’
Tilsner play-acted, as though taking a long time to think. ‘Umm, how about . . . what was the cause of death?’
‘At last. Bravo! Well, if the police do finally realise that they’re ridiculously overstaffed, and you’re out of work, I might be able to find a bright lad like you a place working for me. Exactly. What was the cause of death? You’ll remember that with our lake boy, it was asphyxiation, although a particularly nasty variant. There are early signs of asphyxiation here too. I think he was probably on the cusp of drowning.
‘But no. What finished this one . . .’ – Fenstermacher made a dramatic swipe across the dead youth’s chest, cleaning it of what Müller thought was just mud, but now in the smears left behind, she could see was mud mixed with blood – ‘was this.’
The entry wound was now obvious.
They didn’t need Fenstermacher’s final words, but she said them anyway.
‘He was shot.’
27
Wilhelm-Pieck-Stadt Guben, Bezirk Cottbus
Müller was keen to gather all the police officers together for a debrief as soon as possible. Schwarz offered to use his Bezirk Cottbus connections to secure a room at the Wilhelm-Pieck-Stadt Guben People’s Police office, to avoid everyone having to go back to Frankfurt or Eisenhüttenstadt.
But as they were gathering to leave in their cars, Diederich approached Müller.
‘I’m surprised to see you in these parts still, Karin.’
Müller studied his face. His expression was deadpan. ‘We’re not investigating Nadel’s death any more – unless it overlaps with our current investigation.’
‘Which is?’
‘I’m sure you’re fully aware, Comrade Hauptmann.’ She wasn’t going to play the first-names game with him. He and Baum had revealed their true colours.
‘Well, yes, I’d heard it was about a missing youth. Markus . . .?’
The vagueness appeared faked to Müller. ‘Schmidt. The son of the forensic scientist attached to the Serious Crimes Department. He has links to that “club” near Frankfurt, as did Nadel. And this death –’ Müller gestured over her shoulder to the tent, where a couple of uniforms had stayed on guard until the body could be removed to the mortuary – ‘in turn appears to have similarities to Nadel’s death. You heard what the pathologist said. So it’s perfectly reasonable for us to be involved in the investigation. I might ask why you’re here. I thought you worked for the regional MfS in Frankfurt, not Cottbus.’
Diederich smiled, looking unconcerned. ‘We, too, have a strong interest. If this death is indeed similar to Nadel’s, then there may be another link to our drugs gangs. And clearly, if the victim was indeed shot—’
‘I don’t think there’s much doubt about that, is there? You saw the entry wound yourself.’ As Müller spoke, she saw Fenstermacher climbing into her car at the roadside. Ideally, she wanted the woman to join them for the debrief, and needed to catch her before she drove off. Diederich was blocking her path. ‘Look, I’m in a hurry. Shall we just agree to disagree and accept we’ll both have teams working on this – and try not to get in each other’s way?’
‘Suit yourself, Karin. I shall be referring this upwards – I doubt those above me will agree to that.’
Müller – who was already walking at a rapid pace towards Fenstermacher – turned back to the Stasi captain and shot him a withering look. ‘I’ve already referred this upwards. I have the full backing of a colonel at Keibelstrasse.’
Diederich gave another thin smile. ‘Let’s see about that,’ he said. ‘In my experience, the Ministry for State Security usually gets its way . . . in the end.’
*
Müller was fortunate enough to catch up with
the pathologist before she’d driven off. She seemed to be scrawling some notes on a dog-eared pad – probably her initial findings from the first view of the body. At first she looked doubtful about Müller’s suggestion that she join them at Guben police station to discuss the case, but then demurred.
‘I suppose if we’re going to hold the autopsy here, I might as well hang around these parts. So, why not? Shall I follow you all?’
‘Well, if you don’t mind giving me a lift, I could ask you a few more questions as we drive along.’
Fenstermacher glanced down at Müller’s shoes, eyeing them with distaste. ‘That’s fine, but if you could wipe those first, please, I’d be grateful. I like to look after this little beauty.’ She caressed the steering wheel of the car as she said this, and Müller – while wiping the mud off her shoes on the grass verge – examined the vehicle more closely. She wasn’t a car expert like Tilsner or Schmidt. But she knew this was an early, old-fashioned Wartburg – from the fifties or early sixties, before the more modern-looking, boxy ones commonly used by the police were introduced. It was in a rather fetching peppermint green, and it looked like the pathologist had kept it in near-perfect condition.
Müller signalled to Tilsner and Schmidt – who’d been waiting for her in the Lada – that she was getting a lift. Once she felt her shoes were clean enough, she moved round to the passenger side and climbed in. The inside of the car had a reassuring smell – a combination of old leather, petrol, and a tweedy middle-aged female.
‘It’s rather unusual this,’ said Fenstermacher. ‘My coming to one of your meetings. Why did you ask me along?’ Fenstermacher checked her rear-view mirror, then signalled to pull out and follow Tilsner, the indicator giving a reassuring tick like an old mantelpiece clock.
‘Well, it seems to me that what you can find out from the body at the autopsy, and what you’ve found so far, could help us to narrow this search down – significantly,’ said Müller.
Fenstermacher nodded, but continued studying the road ahead.
‘If the body had only been in the water a short time, then presumably it entered the water somewhere near here,’ said Müller. ‘Let’s look at some of the local maps with the Guben police and see if we can pinpoint anything. If there is a link between Nadel and this latest youth’s body, and they were both being restrained, were they being held somewhere around here? And if they were, are there others – and are they in danger?’ In particular, Markus Schmidt. Markus, the nervous, awkward son of my forensic scientist.
