by David Young
‘That’s true,’ admitted Jäger. ‘But look at the signature.’ Müller saw it had been signed by Erich Mielke, just as the authorisation had been at the autopsy. ‘It may prove useful to have this in certain circumstances, Oberleutnant Müller. It will also serve as a reminder . . . about the limits of your permitted inquiry.’
‘And those limits are?’
‘To concern yourselves with the missing person, the girl. Rather than the perpetrators. Though I dare say –’
‘What, Oberstleutnant?’ prompted Müller.
Again the Stasi lieutenant colonel paused, as though for effect. ‘I dare say that in searching for the girl, the evidence you uncover may be useful to me. Should we at any stage wish to challenge the official account.’ He turned and stared directly into her eyes. ‘But that will be for me – and me alone – to decide.’
Müller found herself shivering, as much from the implied threats as from the cold. Now she had become used to the rocking motion of the cabin, she risked a longer view of the Berlin skyline, stretching for kilometre after kilometre but dominated by the television tower in Alexanderplatz, looking from this distance a little like a hypodermic needle. The Fernsehturm: symbol of the Republic’s progress. Yes, it was a small country but it was focused on the future, making its mark, not inward-looking and money-obsessed, or reliant on manufacturing cuckoo clocks for tourists like some western states.
She turned back towards Jäger, who was still leafing through the autopsy report, and risked another question. ‘But presumably my team is at liberty to pursue any and every lead that might help us to identify the girl?’
Jäger slapped the autopsy report on his lap, and glowered at her.
‘I don’t want to have to repeat myself, Karin. There’s a good reason why I, as a senior officer in the Ministry for State Security, have been assigned this case.’
‘Can you tell me what that reason is?’
There was a flash of anger in his expression, which he quickly attempted to hide.
‘No. Not at present. It’s enough for you to know that it’s a sensitive inquiry, and for you and your team to respect the limits that I’ve outlined.’
Müller turned away again, and fixed her gaze on the dizzying vista of Berlin, far below. She swallowed.
‘Did you want to hear what Tilsner and I have discovered so far?’
Jäger raised his head, and then shrugged. ‘Is it the fact that the vehicle tracks in the graveyard were from Swedish tyres, or that her supposed footprints were so badly faked that whoever did it couldn’t tell his left from his right?’
Müller felt her face burn from a mixture of embarrassment and anger. Was he toying with them? ‘It appears that you’re already aware of all the discrepancies, Comrade Oberstleutnant. Are you sure you need the help of the People’s Police? Tilsner wants us to request to be taken off the case.’
The Stasi officer held his hands up. ‘Sorry. That was unfair of me. You are vital to this inquiry. I chose you personally. I need a competent Kriminalpolizei team to gather and record evidence, and do that independently of the Ministry for State Security. So please, do not think your efforts will be in vain.’
Müller snorted dismissively.
‘I can understand your reaction,’ said Jäger, closing the file. He returned it to the briefcase, and then stood and waved at Köhler to restart the motor for the downward journey. Müller tightened her grip on the bench again as the cabin pitched forwards. ‘But I’ll tell you something that I hope will make you want to continue to help me. Feuerstein says in his report that the girl was sexually active. But also that – from evidence of bruising around the genital and anal region – she had been raped and abused before she was strangled to death.’
Müller slowly exhaled. As Jäger paused, the memories flooded her brain. Memories from her time at the police university that she had tried again and again to forget.
Jäger suddenly reached out with his arm to touch her knee, sensing something was wrong. She felt herself curl away. ‘Are you alright, Comrade Müller? Your face is rather pale.’
‘Is it?’ she asked, aware of the slightly vacant note in her voice. ‘It’s probably just the motion of the Ferris wheel.’ She forced a laugh. ‘Perhaps I don’t have a head for heights after all.’ The small lie had been found out.
The cabin was almost back at ground level, and she could see Köhler’s silhouette in the control hut. Jäger cleared his throat. ‘There is one more thing I must tell you; just so you’re aware of the kind of person we’re dealing with. The nature of the bruises indicate that the final rape was committed at approximately the same time as the bullet wounds were faked in her back, and her face and mouth were mutilated.’
‘At the same time?’ asked Müller, incredulously.
Jäger slowly nodded. ‘Approximately. What is certain, says Professor Feuerstein, is that the last rape was committed post mortem.’
Müller closed her eyes and let her lungs fill slowly. Now she knew why she wouldn’t be supporting Tilsner’s attempts to get them moved off the case. Now she knew why she was prepared to search in every corner of the Republic to find the identity of the girl . . . and – despite Jäger’s warning – the identity of her killer.
10
Nine months earlier (May 1974).
Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost, Rügen, East Germany.
I wake with a start, banging my head against the roof, coughing and choking. My second nightmare in as many days fades, and I realise I’m still in the Jugendwerkhof, in the isolation cell nicknamed the bunker. My punishment just for trying to comfort my friend. I don’t regret it, don’t regret trying to speak up in front of Neumann and Richter, even though my arse still stings from where he beat me, the bastard.
The bunker is somewhere all of us usually try to avoid – one of their weapons for keeping us in line. No heating, so it’s bitterly cold. No light, so it’s in semi-darkness. And not enough space to stand. I’d been dreaming about Mutti, Oma and I having a lovely Grillfest on the beach in front of Oma’s little white campsite house. Then Mutti and Oma’s faces had transformed into the hated ones of Richter and Neumann. Now, straightaway, I realise that one thing from the dream is real: the smell of burning. Smoke is coming through the narrow slit – a lousy excuse for a window. I pull off my jumper, banging my wrist on the bunker’s roof in my haste, and stuff the woollen material into the gap in an attempt to keep out the fumes. I know what’s happened. There is a pile of kindling next to the cell. Some of the girls like to throw lit cigarette butts from the window onto the wood, saying they want to try to set fire to it and suffocate any occupant of the bunker. I’d always assumed it was just a joke. I’d never realised how terrifying it would be to be the girl trapped inside.
‘Help me! Please!’ I cry. My heart thumps in my chest. Despite the cold in the bunker, I feel sweat pooling under my armpits.
I am lucky, though. Someone does hear my cries. Footsteps. Running. Then a splash and hissing, as someone throws a bucket of water on top of the kindling before the fire can take hold.
‘Are you OK, Irma?’ says the voice, which I immediately recognise as a friendly one: Herr Müller, the maths teacher who arrived earlier this year from Berlin. ‘I’m sorry for that. It will be OK now. It’s out. And I’ll have words with Director Neumann and Frau Richter to ensure those responsible are disciplined.’
I stifle a snort.
‘You don’t believe me?’ he asks.
‘I believe you will say something, sir. But they won’t act on it. They’re probably pleased. It’s part of the punishment.’
‘That can’t be right, Irma. Anyway, what are you doing here?’
‘What is anyone doing here? In the eyes of the authorities we’ve all done something wrong.’
I see Herr Müller’s hand now, pushing my woollen jumper aside. He’s holding an apple. I grab it eagerly. ‘Thank you,’ I say, and almost feel like crying at his small gesture of kindness.
‘I meant why a
re you here?’ he asks again, lowering his voice in case others are eavesdropping. ‘In the bunker?’
‘I was caught in bed with Beate in the dorm. Every night she’s crying, but she won’t tell me what’s wrong. I was just comforting her.’
‘I understand,’ he says. ‘You’re all here together, but it can still be lonely. And now you’re in the bunker, are you alright? It seems a terribly cruel punishment for something so trivial.’
I hold the apple in my right hand, and then rub my wrist with my left where it banged against the bunker roof. ‘It’s OK,’ I lie.
‘It’s not OK, Irma,’ he says, whispering now through the window slit. ‘Children shouldn’t be locked up like this.’
I realise what he’s saying is dangerous for him. If it is a trap, what worse trouble could I get in? Where is worse than the bunker at Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost? ‘If you think it’s so wrong, why are you working here?’ I ask him.
‘You think I have a choice?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t suppose you do. I don’t think anyone truly wants to work here.’
‘Maybe Richter.’ He laughs softly. ‘But no, I certainly do not want to work here, but they have difficulty attracting staff . . . I was accused of not giving sufficient weight to political teaching at my school in Berlin. And, as my wife is a leading detective in the Kriminalpolizei, the authorities weren’t too impressed. So they sent me here. Temporarily, so they say, as long as I keep my nose clean.’
‘You shouldn’t be whispering to bad girls in the bunker then.’
‘No, probably not.’ A pause. ‘It would be nice to leave though, wouldn’t it?’
Is he trying to trap me again? ‘Leave? Leave Prora Ost?’
‘Not just that,’ he says, his voice still lower so I have to strain to hear.
This is dangerous talk. I know better than to respond. Maybe Neumann and Richter are outside too, listening to my every answer, and maybe Müller is on a fishing expedition. Fishing for would-be Republikflüchtlinge.
‘You know where the furniture from the workshop goes?’ he asks.
‘No. We’re never told. I just assumed it was for government bigwigs. Something like that.’
‘It’s not. It goes to a new shipping terminus they’ve built at Sassnitz.’
Most of the girls wouldn’t even know where Sassnitz was. But I do. I’m from Rügen, born right here on the island. Sassnitz is a pretty little town, with a lovely fishing harbour. I remember going on boat trips from there as a child. With Mutti. With Oma.
‘And do you know where it goes after Sassnitz?’ he whispers. Now I’m sure he’s trying to trap me. To get me to say something to incriminate myself. And I thought he was one of the few decent teachers. He ignores my silence and continues his whispering. ‘It goes to –’
He stops abruptly, mid-sentence. I hear two sets of footsteps. His, moving away from the bunker, and another person’s, moving towards his. Then I give an involuntary shiver as I hear Director Neumann’s voice.
‘Comrade Müller. What are you doing here?’
‘I was just taking a short smoking break, Herr Director.’
‘Smoking? I didn’t think you smoked.’
‘I’ve just taken it up. Stupid habit, really.’
I hear him cough, as though to reinforce his lie. Then I hear Neumann sniffing. ‘What’s that burning smell?’
‘It was my cigarette butt,’ Herr Müller replies. ‘I accidentally threw it on the kindling pile here – nearly started a fire. But it’s out now.’
‘Yes, well, we don’t want any fires, do we? Please keep far away from this area in future. We have had occasions where teachers here have started talking – or even worse, passing food – to children in the bunker. I wouldn’t follow their example if I were you. That is, if you ever want to get back to your regular job in Berlin.’
‘No, Herr Director. Thank you for the advice.’
I hear them both walking away, and curse Neumann’s interruption. What had Herr Müller been about to tell me? Where did the furniture packs from the workshop go? It was almost as though he was deliberately planting something in my head. I try to shake the thought away, and concentrate on counting off the remaining hours in the bunker. I wipe the apple on the sleeve of my top and bite into it, savouring the explosion of juice.
11
February 1975. Day Six.
Mitte, East Berlin.
Müller ran her hand repeatedly through her blonde hair. She was waiting for Oberst Reiniger in her office, having only just got back from the Kulturpark Ferris wheel. Tilsner sat by her side, twirling a pack of Juwel cigarettes and occasionally tapping it on her desk.
‘So what did Jäger say?’ he asked.
‘I’ll fill you in fully later. But basically he wants us – no, he’s instructing us – to treat the case simply as a missing person’s inquiry. He has no interest in us actually finding the killer – or killers.’
‘I doubt very much that it’s disinterest,’ said Tilsner, pulling one of the cigarettes out, then placing it in his mouth without lighting up. ‘Just as we’ve got someone sitting on us, telling us what to do, it’s probably just the same for him.’ His words came out half-slurred, almost like a ventriloquist’s, speaking as he was with his lips clasped round the filter. She studied him for a moment. He seemed nonchalantly confident about the ways of the Stasi.
‘So why are we meeting Reiniger?’ he continued.
Müller shrugged as she watched Tilsner strike a match, put it to the end of the cigarette and then take a long drag. She could not help but notice his abrupt change of topic – plainly he did not share her dismay. She waved the smoke away. Ever since she’d given up at police college, she hadn’t shared his tobacco habit – and hadn’t missed it. ‘I didn’t ask for the meeting, so I’ve no idea.’
Tilsner exhaled a perfect smoke ring, watched it rise slowly to the ceiling and the S-bahns overhead and then leant back on two legs of the chair. ‘Ah. Sorry. That might be my fault. I did get in touch with him this morning with my thoughts. Saying that perhaps he might like to consider taking us off the case. I thought that was what you wanted?’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘You should have cleared that with me first. Anyway, I’ve changed my mind.’
‘You’ve changed your mind? Why? I certainly haven’t. The whole case is a mess. The last straw for me was when I took Frau Eisenberg to the mortuary this morning and she confirmed what we already knew. That the murdered girl isn’t her daughter. We’ve got nothing to go on, and we’re getting nowhere. I want out.’
Müller sighed and shook her head. ‘It’s not your choice, Werner. And in any case, isn’t that what detective work is all about? Actually doing the legwork and finding the evidence, even if it’s not staring us in the face? What I’d like to know is who’s leaking information to Jäger? He seems to know all about the tyre tracks, and the fact they’re Swedish. And about the footprints almost certainly having been faked. Do you think it’s Schmidt?’
Tilsner shrugged, and tapped the ash from his cigarette into his now-empty coffee mug, the gesture revealing once more his expensive, western-style watch. ‘Who knows? It could be anyone. The Kripo is full of unofficial collaborators. My money’s on Elke; she makes a bloody awful cup of coffee, and it wouldn’t surprise me if she learnt that in Stasi school.’
Müller mouthed a silent ‘ha ha’ at her deputy’s feeble joke, and then stood to attention as Oberst Reiniger knocked on the glazed door and entered. Schmidt trailed behind him in his ubiquitous white laboratory coat, chewing the remains of one of his regular snacks. Reiniger ushered them to sit, though Müller noticed that Tilsner had barely made the effort to get up anyway.
Like Schmidt’s, the material of Reiniger’s uniform stretched and strained around his middle as he sat down and brushed imaginary fluff off each of the three gold stars on his silver epaulettes. As a colonel, he was nominally more senior to Jäger. But they all knew that Jäger – as a leading officer in th
e Stasi’s investigation branch, Department Eight – held the real power.
He linked his fingers across his straining midriff, and then rotated his thumbs around one another. ‘So, Karin . . . I think you need to fill me in on what we have so far. Unterleutnant Tilsner here is of the opinion that you don’t have enough leads, and that we should leave it in the hands of Oberstleutnant Jäger. Do you agree?’
Müller shook her head, then cleared her throat of Tilsner’s cigarette fumes. ‘I don’t think that’s a choice we have, Comrade Oberst. I admit we don’t have much to go on, but Kriminaltechniker Schmidt here has made some significant progress already.’
‘But are we any closer to identifying the girl?’ asked Reiniger.
‘No,’ interrupted Tilsner. ‘The woman I took to the mortuary –’
Reiniger sighed. ‘I was asking Oberleutnant Müller, not you.’ Müller glanced at Tilsner’s reddening face and had to stop herself from smiling.
‘So, Müller?’ asked Reiniger again.
‘No, but I gleaned some extra information this morning from the autopsy report.’ The fact that it had been handed to her by Jäger wasn’t anything the other three needed to know. ‘The girl was sexually active.’
Tilsner snorted. ‘Not that unusual for a teenage girl.’
‘Go on, Comrade Oberleutnant,’ prompted Reiniger.
‘Well, not only was she sexually active, but she’d been raped. And not only had she been raped, but she’d been raped post mortem.’
‘Scheisse!’ exclaimed Tilsner, stubbing his cigarette out angrily in the bottom of the coffee cup, almost as though he wanted to twist it into the face of the killer. It hissed in the dregs. Across the table, Müller saw Schmidt’s face grow suddenly pallid, much as it had that first evening in the cemetery.
‘After she’d been killed?’ asked Reiniger, as though in disbelief.
Müller nodded.
Tilsner leant his head on his hands, elbows resting on the desk. ‘So you’re saying we’re dealing with a necrophiliac?’
