Stasi Wolf

by David Young

  Glancing across now as they entered the outskirts of Halle city itself, Müller watched Schmidt take his nearest hand from the Wartburg’s steering wheel and wipe his brow, something he’d done repeatedly on the two-hour journey from the Hauptstadt. The underarm of his white shirt was stained with sweat, with unsightly tidemark rings at the stain’s outer edges. She wondered if Schmidt ever felt the same sense of disconnection from his own family. But although they were friends and work colleagues, she didn’t – as his superior in rank – feel it was an appropriate topic of conversation. It would simply undermine her. In any case, Schmidt for the moment seemed more concerned about the summer heat.

  ‘Even with the window open, being cooped up in this tin box isn’t pleasant,’ he said. ‘I’ll be glad when we get there.’

  Müller gave a half-smile in agreement, turned her thoughts away from her family, and remembered the luxury Mercedes she and Tilsner had travelled in through the border crossing point to West Berlin just a few months earlier. It had been winter then, but she wondered if it was equipped with the latest climate control systems she’d seen previewed on Western motoring programmes. Programmes she’d watched with Gottfried. Programmes that, as an officer of the People’s Police, she shouldn’t have been watching. Well, Gottfried was in his beloved West now, so he could try out those luxury vehicles first-hand, if he could afford them on his teacher’s salary. If anyone other than rich businessmen could afford them, thought Müller. Here it was a Trabi, a Wartburg if you were lucky, a Czechoslovak Skoda or Soviet Lada if you were really lucky – and then only after a wait of several years. None, as far as she knew, had air conditioning. Certainly none she’d ever driven or been driven in.

  They were nearing the centre of Halle now. It seemed an unremarkable city to Müller, though she knew it had history: the composer, Handel, had been born here. Now it was more known for the chemical industry that helped to power the Republic’s economy. A pollution haze hanging over the southern skyline above Schmidt’s shoulder was testament to that – and an acrid, sharp smell that assaulted the back of her throat like a series of needle stabs.

  ‘There it is,’ said Schmidt, pointing straight ahead through the windscreen.

  Müller’s head turned to follow the direction of the corpulent forensic officer’s finger. She raised her hand, almost in salute, shielding her eyes from the low, late evening sun and the pink corona surrounding it. They were driving along a raised dual carriageway – a road that seemed to float in the air. Giant, modernistic street lamps as high as blocks of flats were already casting an orange glow through the dusk over the road. And beyond, over the river Saale, block after block of brand new high-rises. The socialist city of the future. Its right-angled shapes, silhouetted in the rosy hue of dusk, like something from a science fiction film. Another world, in outer space.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Müller. ‘Have you been here before?’

  Schmidt shook his head. ‘No, but I’ve relatives in Dresden. Hoyerswerda’s near there. Another new town. This looks very similar. The flats in the new towns are very popular. You get a private bathroom, a private toilet. They even put some Western apartments to shame.’

  Schmidt braked sharply to avoid colliding with a truck ahead of them, throwing Müller forward so that she had to brace herself against the dashboard. At the same time, the street map Schmidt had been balancing on his lap to navigate with, fell to the floor.

  ‘Shall I pick it up and map-read?’ she asked.

  ‘There’s not much point, Comrade Oberleutnant. I think I’ve got my bearings now.’

  ‘I could at least look out for the relevant street name signs?’ suggested Müller.

  ‘You’d have a hard job. The road we’re on is the Magistrale.’ Müller could see they were descending now from the elevated section over the Saale river, or rather, rivers, as there seemed to be more than one waterway, but the dual carriageway continued into the distance, flanked by slab apartment blocks – Plattenbauten – on each side. ‘And this is really the only street you need to remember.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Müller.

  ‘Because none of the others have names, Oberleutnant. None of the others have names.’

  *

  By the time they’d got to the temporary murder squad office – above the fire station – none of the local police were there. Müller’s brow knitted in frustration. The baby girl was still missing. Shouldn’t some of them be putting in a night shift? And shouldn’t the local uniform captain be waiting to give her a proper briefing? If this was the way things were currently being run, then Müller would be having stern words. But at least the reception was manned by a young woman, and an envelope with their accommodation keys and directions had been left for them.

  The apartment assigned to Müller and Schmidt was in Wohnkomplex VI, on the far western fringe of the new town – divided, Schmidt explained, into eight housing complexes, each made up of several numbered apartment blocks. This was how people found their way round. By memorising ‘codes’, several digits long, that corresponded to an estate, block and apartment number. But Schmidt wasn’t slow in pointing out the illogical nature of the system. As they approached their residential area – designated Complex 6 in Latin numerals – they realised each apartment block – at least those which had their numbers displayed – was in the nine hundreds. The block they were looking for had the number 953.

  As Schmidt drove round the nameless road that fringed the Wohnkomplex, Müller counted off the numbers, determined not to let this new town and its twilight of nameless streets and near-identical homes defeat her. The apartment blocks here formed a continuous, unbroken curve, one merging into the next. They appeared to be the few in the city not to follow a rigid straight line. The wall of concrete was broken only by occasional openings for pedestrian walkways: forbidding areas of blackness in the fast-fading sunlight.

  ‘I can’t see 953 anywhere,’ complained Schmidt.

  Neither could Müller. What she did see, parked at the side of the road, was a red Lada saloon. Something about it seemed odd. The driver was just sitting there, as though he was watching something, or waiting for someone. As they passed, he turned his head and looked straight into her eyes. His flashed in the fading sun just for an instant, and Müller found herself shivering slightly. Perhaps it was just all the perspiration evaporating, making her body colder. But she felt she’d just been appraised – the same way a fox might stare down a human if suddenly, unexpectedly, it’s caught out in the open.

  ‘What do you want to do? Shall we stop and ask someone?’

  Müller scanned left and right. The street was deserted. Then she remembered the Lada driver. She turned her head, expecting to see the car in the distance, still parked by the roadside. But it wasn’t. The driver had started the car – and now appeared to be following them. If that was the case, and it wasn’t just coincidence, she had a good idea who the driver might work for.

  4

  The next day

  The temporary murder squad office above the fire station was a hive of activity by the time the two Berlin officers arrived the next morning, soon after eight o’clock. The local People’s Police might not believe in late-night working but they were now under way early enough. The core of the murder squad was being formed by officers from outside the local community: Müller and Schmidt from the Hauptstadt, and another Unterleutnant to replace Tilsner as her deputy. Müller didn’t as yet know the identity of the missing officer, or indeed his or her gender. But the local uniform team would be staying on to assist.

  Müller’s initial impression was that the local Vopo team also seemed reluctant to relinquish – or even share – control of the case. Various officers were heads down in assorted piles of papers and photographs, and didn’t acknowledge Müller’s arrival. She knew she would have to assert her authority, take charge, otherwise the policemen here would try to take advantage of her. They wouldn’t like a woman being the boss, but that decision had been taken at a higher lev
el. They would just have to live with it.

  She banged her briefcase down on the main table and cleared her throat. ‘Hauptmann Eschler? Could I have a private word, please?’ This was the Vopo captain that Reiniger had said would brief her. She recognised him from the four gold diamonds on each of his silvered epaulettes, and smiled at him.

  Without smiling in return, Eschler rose and walked to where Müller was standing by the window, overlooking the town’s main street. His eyes had a furtive look, and his facial features were a little sharp, almost mean-looking. But perhaps she was being unkind.

  ‘What can I do for you, Comrade Oberleutnant?’ asked Eschler. Müller could tell from each of his syllables what an effort it was for him to kowtow to her, given that in rank he was nominally her superior. But here, Kripo trumped Vopo, and Eschler knew it.

  ‘I need a full briefing about the case, please. I have the barest of details, but I need to know what stage the investigation is at, where you’re currently concentrating your efforts, and as much about the family involved as possible.’

  Eschler gave a little nod. ‘Of course. We’ve freed up a small office for you, Comrade Oberleutnant.’ Perhaps Müller was imagining it, but Eschler seemed to emphasise the word ‘small’, as though wanting to put her in her place. ‘I’ll show you through,’ he continued, ‘and I’ll bring the files.’

  *

  Small was certainly an apt description for her workplace. Once she and Eschler were both inside, it already felt full. There was a desk with a chair behind it in front of the window. On top of the desk, a telephone and typewriter. To one side of the room, a bare wooden stool. It reminded Müller of the interrogation room at Hohenschönhausen in Berlin where she’d had that emotional encounter with Gottfried – the last time they’d seen each other. Müller opted to take the chair – if it was her office, she would decide where to sit. She gestured for Eschler to draw up the stool and sit opposite her.

  Eschler placed the files gently on the desk. ‘So, Comrade Oberleutnant. What would you like to know?’

  Müller leant her forearms on the desk and steepled her fingers together. ‘Everything, Comrade Hauptmann. From the beginning.’

  *

  The People’s Police captain began to summarise the investigation as Müller sat, arms folded across her beige blouse, prompting him to continue with nods of her head.

  The dead baby – Karsten Salzmann – was a male, aged just four weeks. He and his twin sister, Maddelena, had been born prematurely in Halle-Neustadt’s main hospital, where because of their sickly condition they’d remained in intensive care until about a week ago, when they’d been moved into a general paediatric ward.

  ‘Their parents were regular visitors,’ said Eschler. ‘The mother, Klara Salzmann, stayed long hours with the twins, although parents are not permitted to sleep in the hospital overnight. However, just one day after coming out of intensive care, both babies were reported missing.’

  Müller frowned. ‘They were actually taken from the hospital?’

  Eschler nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. It doesn’t reflect very well on the health service, does it? Even though they were snatched overnight, when there were fewer nurses or doctors on duty. We’ve questioned them all. No one saw anything untoward – they just claim they don’t have enough staff to be on constant watch over every patient, twenty-four hours a day. Someone probably just watched the nurses’ movements and waited for an opportune moment to strike. As you can imagine, it’s all rather sensitive.’

  Sensitive? That didn’t begin to describe such an appalling breach of security.

  ‘Go on,’ prompted Müller.

  ‘Well, the mother was distraught, as you can imagine, and had to be placed under sedation. And because of the . . . sensitive . . . nature of the incident, the Ministry of State Security swung quickly into action, and both parents and all the staff were warned not to talk about the case.’

  ‘So the MfS were involved right from the outset?’ asked Müller.

  ‘Not only involved,’ said Eschler, frowning. ‘The Stasi were basically running the investigation from the word go.’

  Müller tried hard not to let her facial expression show her disquiet at this news. She hadn’t met Eschler’s full team of uniform officers yet, and she didn’t know which of them would be Stasi IMs – unofficial informers. It was certain someone would be. Perhaps even Eschler himself.

  ‘So at what point did the local Kriminalpolizei take over?’ asked Müller.

  ‘They didn’t. I was just about to get to that.’

  ‘Apologies, Comrade Hauptmann. Please continue.’

  Eschler gave a half-smile. ‘My team – the uniform division in Halle-Neustadt – became involved when Karsten’s body was found.’ Eschler reached into one of the folders, pulled out two enlarged photographs, and handed them to Müller.

  Müller began to examine the uppermost image. It was unremarkable. A battered red suitcase by the side of a railway line, the leather – or more probably faux leather – grazed and torn, either from old age or some kind of impact, or a combination of both.

  ‘That was what his body was found in,’ explained Eschler. ‘It was discovered by a railway worker three days ago near Angersdorf, at the side of the S-bahn line leading to and from the chemical works at Leuna and Buna, near Merseburg. Fortunately the worker didn’t see fit to open it, and simply alerted us, the People’s Police. Probably too worried about his own job. And the first of my officers on the scene, feeling the weight and inhaling the odours of rotting flesh, alerted me. So we have concrete evidence to work with. Perhaps even some fingerprints. But the key photograph is the next one.’ Eschler gently took hold of both photos, and Müller eased her grip as he moved the upper one aside.

  If the first photograph – at least on the surface – looked relatively innocent, the same could not be said for the second. Müller jerked her head back. The image was shocking, even to her – a seasoned murder detective.

  The suitcase, as opened at the local police headquarters.

  With the body of a baby inside.

  The eyes were closed, and the facial expression was almost peaceful. But the ugly purple and red bruises on the baby boy’s face told a different story. A young life extinguished, squashed in a case, and dumped from a train. Müller had to breathe deeply for a moment and compose herself.

  ‘Do we know the cause of death?’ she asked, finally.

  Eschler stretched his arms out and shrugged his shoulders. ‘The full official autopsy’s not until tomorrow. You’ll be able to attend in person. But from his initial look at the body, the pathologist came to the fairly obvious conclusion that the boy was battered to death, as you can see from those horrible bruises. In other words, he was murdered.’

  ‘But you were saying the Kripo in Halle have been kept out of the investigation. That seems odd, doesn’t it?’

  Eschler shrugged again. ‘It was at the request of the Ministry for State Security. That’s why you were brought in, Comrade Oberleutnant. The Stasi wanted the murder squad to be made up of detectives from outside the immediate area. As I understand it, it’s part of their attempts to put a lid on any possible panic, before it starts.’

  Müller sighed. She wasn’t sure it made much sense. She, Schmidt, and the third still-to-be-identified officer were all going to have to contend with building up their local knowledge, working in unfamiliar territory, alongside potentially hostile local officers who wouldn’t be impressed that they’d been sidelined by colleagues from the Hauptstadt, and that their own detectives were being kept at arm’s length. ‘Yet your team is staying on the inquiry, Comrade Eschler. Didn’t you ask yourself why?’

  If Eschler understood the insinuation behind Müller’s words, he was seemingly unmoved. ‘Sometimes, Comrade Müller, it’s not the wisest thing to question orders.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Müller. ‘But it must be encouraging for your team that the Stasi obviously trust you.’ Müller didn’t need to add that there was
only one logical reason for the Ministry having such trust in Eschler’s men. They must have someone on the inside. The only question is: who?

  Müller pushed the photographs to one side.

  ‘What about the Salzmanns themselves?’ she asked. ‘What do we know about them? Presumably we have to consider them as suspects, too?’

  Eschler nodded. ‘Yes, until and unless we know differently. But we’ve been going fairly gently with them, for understandable reasons. To be honest, we were going to leave any tougher questioning to you, the Kripo team.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Müller. ‘We’ll be doing that, of course. But come on – tell me what you know about them.’

  ‘They seem model citizens,’ said Eschler. ‘They were one of the first to be assigned an apartment in Halle-Neustadt, just under eight years ago. Their apartment is virtually directly opposite us.’ Eschler flicked his eyes towards the window behind Müller. She turned in her seat to look. ‘It’s that high-rise – known as an Ypsilon Hochhaus because its three wings form a Y-section when viewed from the air. Anyway, they’re both Party members. Reinhard Salzmann, the father, is a fork-lift truck driver at the chemical factory, where many of Halle-Neustadt’s residents work. The mother, Klara, was still on maternity leave when all this happened – she works at the main Kaufhalle, here in the centre.’