Stasi Wolf

by David Young

  ‘You say on the surface. Does that mean you suspect some other cause of death?’ asked Müller.

  ‘It depends, really. I won’t know for sure until I’ve actually cut the body up, and while I was happy for you to be here for the initial examination, I’m not going to allow you to stay for that.’

  ‘So what do you expect to find when you do cut the body open?’ asked Vogel.

  Ebersbach shrugged. ‘Expect?’ He exhaled dramatically. ‘It’s not really a question of expectation, Comrade. We deal in facts. Cause and effect.’ He paused for a moment, glaring at Vogel, as though he was an imbecile. Then his face softened. ‘Sorry, I sometimes get a little too literal. However, if the cause of death was indeed violent, then what you might find – in an infant of this age – are skull fractures, retinal bleeding. Perhaps damage to the liver if we’re talking about blows to the body too. Maybe even spinal cord injuries if there was shaking.’

  ‘OK,’ said Müller. ‘But what makes you have doubts?’

  ‘Well, it’s the strange bruising to the boy’s lips. See here.’ Ebersbach ushered the two detectives close again, cradled Karsten’s lifeless head with one arm, and then traced over his lips with the index finger of his other hand, pointing out the bruises. ‘It almost looks like someone who’s been kissed too fiercely.’

  ‘Kissed?’ asked Müller in alarm and horror, hoping her stomach wasn’t about to regurgitate her breakfast. ‘You mean something sexual?’

  ‘Oh no, no. That’s not what I meant at all. Goodness, you Berlin detectives must come across some revolting cases . . .’

  ‘So what do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, look at the bruising to the ribcage, where the broken rib is. There are two very defined bruises, almost as though they could have been caused by the tips of someone’s fingers.’ Ebersbach held the index and middle fingers of his right hand slightly apart, in an inverted ‘V’ shape, so that the ends of the two digits almost exactly covered the two bruises.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Vogel said.

  Müller, too, shook her head. ‘No. Neither do I, Doctor.’

  ‘Well, I could be mistaken. And as I say, I will need to dissect the body, open the cranium, do all the horrible dirty work which for some reason I trained for all those years ago. But if my suspicions are correct, whoever inflicted these bruises may not have been trying to end this poor child’s life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked an increasingly frustrated Müller.

  ‘That shape I made with my hands there is the classic position for pushing on an infant’s ribs when . . .’ Ebersbach paused, as though he couldn’t really believe his conclusion himself.

  ‘When what?’ prompted Müller.

  ‘When you’re trying to perform resuscitation. If I’m right, whoever did this wasn’t trying to kill this boy. They were trying to save him.’

  12

  Müller sent Vogel off to interview witnesses at the hospital’s paediatric wing without talking in detail about the implications of the suspicions raised by Doctor Ebersbach in the mortuary room – housed in the same building’s basement. Both detectives knew that without the murder investigation aspect of the case, their team was likely to be scaled back. Yet Maddelena was still missing. Müller didn’t want any reduction in the number of police officers looking for her and her abductor. Time was paramount. The trail was almost certainly already going cold.

  Her next task was one she wasn’t really looking forward to: interviewing the twins’ parents. She knew they had to treat them as possible suspects. But they were also recently bereaved, and would be frantic and desperate about their still-missing daughter. It would be a fine line to tread. Müller knew that she should have done this sooner, perhaps on the first day. Her personal sympathy for them and their loss had distracted her from doing her job. It was a mistake, and she hoped it didn’t come back to haunt her.

  The sharp smell of disinfectant made her feel nauseous as she entered the lobby of the Salzmanns’ apartment building: it was a reminder of the similar aroma in the autopsy room, although here it barely covered the stench of urine. Having a lift – as Müller already knew – was something of a luxury in Ha-Neu. The ‘Y’ blocks, with their towering fourteen storeys, easily met the threshold. But clearly those on the upper floors – children, or perhaps the elderly, those who’d had one too many Dunkel beers – couldn’t always wait to get to the toilet.

  She held her breath for as long as possible as the elevator took her smoothly up to the tenth floor, then walked along the corridor and rang the bell to flat 1024. Karsten and Maddelena’s father answered, the tragedy written on his face. Müller showed her Kripo ID, and Herr Salzmann ushered her in without saying anything. They both knew what the visit was about.

  He guided her to the apartment’s tiny kitchen, which Müller knew would be virtually identical to those of the other thirty thousand or so in Ha-Neu. It had all the latest gadgets. A fridge with freezer compartment, electric coffee machine, toast maker. And two high chairs, bought no doubt at great expense – perhaps with loans from Herr Salzmann’s comrades at the chemical factory. Everything was in its rightful place. Yet two things were missing. One living, Müller hoped, but one very much dead.

  ‘My wife’s taken a pill. She’s having a lie-down in the bedroom. Do you want me to get her? I’m not sure what state she’ll be in.’ As he talked, Reinhard Salzmann juggled a jar of powdered milk between his leathery hands in a frenzied but random fashion. He noticed Müller watching, suddenly realised what he was doing, and shakily placed the jar on the table. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘My nerves are shot. Did you want me to fetch my wife?’

  ‘We can leave her a while longer, Comrade Salzmann. I will need to talk to both of you, but why don’t we go through into the lounge, and I can interview you first?’

  ‘Can I get you something to drink? A coffee, perhaps? I was just about to make one.’ There was a pleading note to his voice, thought Müller. It was as though he needed to be doing something with his hands to take his mind off the horror of what had happened – the trauma that had devastated his family. Müller nodded, and pulled back one of the kitchen chairs to sit down. Salzmann was tanned, with wavy mid-length hair and bushy sideburns worn fashionably long so that they extended beneath his cheeks. He was older than Müller had expected – perhaps late-thirties? Couples in the Republic normally started families at a much younger age. As he spooned out coffee and measured the water, Müller noticed his hands were still shaking. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he said, with his back to her, almost as though he didn’t want to meet her eyes. ‘I’m bad enough, but Klara is a complete wreck. She had yearned for children. We’d been trying for so long. We’d married young, made an early mistake, if you understand my meaning, before we were ready to have kids. When we made that decision, little did we know the heartache to follow. Miscarriage after miscarriage. We thought our chance had gone, that we’d thrown it away thanks to our earlier decision.’

  ‘An abortion?’ asked Müller.

  He gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘And then – after all that time – she became pregnant. Not just that, it was twins. It was like a miracle.’ Reinhard Salzmann said all this without turning, almost as though he was addressing the coffee machine as he waited for it to percolate. Then he did turn, and held Müller’s gaze. ‘You are going to be able to find her, aren’t you? Klara will never be able to get over the loss of Karsten, but if Maddelena . . .’

  Müller was torn. She didn’t want to make false promises. The lack of clues to Maddelena’s whereabouts, the lack of a trail to her abductor. She took a deep breath. ‘You can be sure we will do everything in our power to find her. I will personally make sure of that.’

  Salzmann poured the coffee into two mugs, and handed one to Müller. ‘Sugar?’ he asked, as an afterthought. She shook her head.

  They made their way into the neat apartment’s lounge and sat down at the dining table. The furniture was similar to that in
almost every other new apartment in Ha-Neu, every other new apartment in the Republic. Beige floral wallpaper, sofas and armchairs covered in ribbed forest-green fabric, a television – even a telephone. The latter was unusual. Müller, as a People’s Police detective, had always had a phone. For ordinary workers like the Salzmanns, they were harder to come by.

  ‘We’ve only had it the last few days.’ Reinhard Salzmann had seen her inspecting it. ‘To keep in touch about the investigation. We’re very grateful. The trouble is we’re always waiting for it to ring. And it doesn’t.’

  She nodded, and continued to take in the surroundings. Her eyes settled on the mantelpiece, and the saddest sight of all. A split photograph of Reinhard on the left, leaning over one twin’s hospital cot and smiling back at the camera, with Klara in an identical pose with the other premature twin on the right. The feeding tubes and apparatus surrounding their tiny bodies reminded Müller of Tilsner, back in his hospital bed in the Hauptstadt. ‘Maddelena’s on the right – with Klara. That’s me . . . with . . .’ Reinhard Salzmann couldn’t complete the sentence, his words choking in his throat. Instead he just looked up at Müller, his eyes awash with tears. Müller reached out and rested her hand on his muscular forearm, then squeezed, to try to give the man some comfort. If the tears, the grief, were genuine – as Müller felt they were – then it was hard to imagine him being a suspect. If it was an act, it was a very convincing one.

  Müller reached down to her briefcase and pulled out her notebook and pen. ‘I’m going to have to go over everything again with you, Citizen Salzmann. I know that will be painful.’ She gave his arm another gentle squeeze. ‘But it could be just one small detail that you’ve forgotten, or that we’ve missed, which will help us find Maddelena. So it will be upsetting for you, but try to remember everything. It’s the best hope we have.’

  *

  Müller questioned the man for about twenty minutes, going exhaustively over every detail the police already knew. The Salzmanns’ alibi for when the babies disappeared, their meal with friends; their last visit to the hospital; which nursing staff were normally on duty when they visited; who else from the family had been to see the twins; whether the family was aware of anyone who had a grudge against them who might want to do them harm. Müller made a careful note of all the man’s answers and would get the typists in the incident room to prepare a formal statement for him to sign. But she was aware he hadn’t really told her anything she didn’t already know.

  She was just about to draw the interview to a conclusion and ask Herr Salzmann to rouse his wife when the woman appeared, standing wraith-like in the living room doorway, hair tangled and unwashed, dressing gown carelessly wrapped so too much of her bony body was on show. A face so pale she almost looked like she had a terminal illness. Perhaps, thought Müller, in losing both the twins she’d fought so hard for years to give birth to, the hand she’d been dealt was worse even than that.

  ‘This lady’s a police detective, Liebling.’ He turned to Müller. ‘Sorry, comrade, I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Oberleutnant Müller, Frau Salzmann. Do you feel well enough to answer some questions?’

  The woman didn’t answer for a moment, and merely stared – trance-like – at Müller.

  ‘Klara,’ said her husband. ‘Do you feel well enough to answer the detective’s questions?’

  Klara Salzmann finally gave a slow nod, and then traipsed towards them to the dining table, dragging each of her slippers behind the other along the floor. She slumped down into the chair opposite Müller and held her head in her hands, her fingers covering her eyes, hiding herself from the horrific reality.

  *

  Müller asked much the same questions she had of Klara Salzmann’s husband, going over the facts that the police already knew, checking for any anomalies in his wife’s account. Klara Salzmann replied in a dull, tranquillised monotone.

  Only when Müller mentioned the advertising flyers did her face get more animated. She went off to hunt in the kitchen and came back brandishing one of the promotional pieces of paper.

  ‘Is this what you mean? The Kaufhalle has been handing out hundreds of them, and encouraging staff to give them out too. I was given one when I popped in to buy some food – they didn’t want me to miss out even though I was on maternity leave. I’m not completely sure why. Half of this stuff is never available anyway, and when it is, the staff themselves buy it first. And prices are controlled, of course. It’s more that they are sought-after goods: meats and sausages that we don’t always have.’

  ‘So you’re saying these leaflets would be widely available across Ha-Neu?’

  The woman nodded.

  Her husband leant forward, with his arms resting on the melamine table, his face scrunched into a frown. ‘What’s the relevance of the advertising flyer? How does that help us find Maddelena, or Karsten’s killer?’

  ‘Killer?’ asked Müller. ‘What makes you think Karsten was murdered?’ As Müller uttered the M-word, Klara Salzmann took a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘It’s what we heard,’ said Reinhard Salzmann, sullenly. ‘People talk, you know. Wasn’t the autopsy this morning? Surely you know the cause of death by now?’

  Müller was reluctant to tell the parents more than they needed to know. ‘We can’t give details of our lines of inquiry. I’m sorry. Not even to you, the parents.’

  ‘Does that mean we’re suspects ourselves?’ the husband asked. It was met with another gasp by his wife.

  ‘I cannot imagine either of you being involved. The trauma for you both must be terrible.’ Müller was aware she hadn’t given him a direct answer. She wasn’t going to.

  ‘So what exactly are your lines of inquiry?’ asked Reinhard Salzmann. The tone of his voice had changed – now it was almost menacing. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much going on at all. Why aren’t there police everywhere, knocking on every apartment door? Why aren’t there hundreds of officers combing every nook and cranny searching for our baby girl and the killer of our baby boy? There should be posters in every shop window, you should be going round with loudspeakers appealing for information. The newspapers should be full of it. Yet they’re not. Why?’ During his rant, Herr Salzmann had grabbed both of Müller’s forearms, squeezing them ever tighter. Suddenly realising what he’d done, he released them. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You know the answers to your own questions, Citizen Salzmann. The Ministry for State Security have talked to you about it. But I assure you we are doing everything we can.’

  Reinhard Salzmann stared at her for a few moments, then lowered his eyes, defeated.

  13

  When Müller returned to the incident room she was surprised to see the whole team gathered there – including Vogel and Schmidt. The typists, drivers and dog handlers too. Janowitz was at the end of the room. She recognised him from the back of his head as he stared through the window at something in the street below. There was another officer she didn’t know, speaking to the room, talking about targets – for clearing up burglaries, thefts from cars, vandalism. None of it relevant to the current investigation. She squeezed in next to Vogel.

  He cupped his hand to her ear. ‘I made an excuse for you. Didn’t you know about it?’ Müller frowned, then looked across the room towards Eschler. He raised his brows in amusement, triggering her memory. Scheisse. It was the monthly Party meeting. Eschler had mentioned it the previous evening, at their get-together in the Grüne Tanne. With the autopsy, and interviewing the Salzmanns, she’d completely forgotten. It wasn’t like this in Berlin, or at least it hadn’t been for her and Tilsner at Marx-Engels-Platz. More often than not, they’d have their ‘Party meeting’ in the nearest bar and then fill in the necessary forms for Reiniger. Tilsner had put himself forward as the local rep and didn’t take his duties entirely seriously.

  That clearly couldn’t be said of the police Party representative here in Halle-Neustadt. The middle-aged man, in a wide-collared beige shirt, had moved on to disc
ussing the month’s main stories from Neues Deutschland and how they were relevant to police work. He came to the end of a sentence which Müller had paid little attention to, and then turned towards her.

  ‘Ah, Comrade Müller. Unterleutnant Vogel explained why you might be late, that you needed to interview the parents of the Salzmann twins. A vital task, I agree. Perhaps you could let us know how the investigation is going, and in particular how you’re making sure the Socialist Unity Party’s vision is being incorporated into your work.’

  Müller looked across at Eschler again, but rather than rushing to intervene and rescue her, he allowed a small smile to play across his face – out of the eyeline of Janowitz and the Party official.

  ‘Well, as you know, Comrade . . .’

  ‘Wiedemann. Leutnant Dietmar Wiedemann. I work in the records department. Making sure all the paperwork is filled in and filed properly. I’m sure we’ll come across each other during the investigation. If there are any previous cases you need information about, I’m your man. I’m also, for my sins, the local Party representative. Sorry, you were saying?’

  ‘Yes, Comrade Wiedemann. Well, this morning, Unterleutnant Vogel and myself attended the autopsy in the mortuary in the basement of the hospital. Unfortunately, we don’t yet have a definitive cause of death.’

  ‘But the boy was murdered, surely?’ asked Wiedemann.

  Müller fixed him with a stare. ‘As I said, we don’t have a definitive cause of death. Until we do, I wouldn’t really like to speculate. What we do know, of course, is that Maddelena is still missing. With a baby of that age, we have to fear for her safety, irrespective of whether anyone actually means her any harm. In Maddelena’s case, as you know she was born prematurely. There was a reason she was in hospital receiving care. It must be heartbreaking for the parents.’