by David Young
‘I’m not really an expert in mechanics; I was just curious, to be honest. If it really was an accident, there must have been a catastrophic failure of the platform. Given he was already dead, it must have all been staged. So any failure of the platform was deliberate.’
‘You still haven’t said how you came to the conclusion that the death occurred before the crushing.’
Eckstein came out from under the platform, shaking his head. ‘Very strange. I can’t see anything obviously wrong with it.’
Müller raised her eyebrows, and repeated the question. ‘Why are you so convinced that this man was already dead before his body was crushed beneath the car?’
The pathologist looked to his left and right, then up into the ceiling void. Then he frowned.
‘I don’t want to talk too much about it here. Why don’t you take me back to my car at the parking space and we can discuss it there.’
*
When they were back at the parking space, Eckstein turned to her.
‘My view is that the crush injuries he received were caused post-mortem, rather than ante-mortem, and indeed several hours after his actual death. Possibly as many as twelve hours. I couldn’t understand initially why the time of death I estimated didn’t tally with when the body was found, and when the accident is alleged to have occurred.
‘There were a number of signs. The abrasions from the crushing were yellowish in colour with defined borders. If those injuries had been sustained ante-mortem they would have been reddish brown in colour, with undefined edges. This is due to the inflammatory reactions which would have occurred. The edges of the injuries should have been gaping and swollen. In fact, they were either closed or curled inwards. There was no loss of elasticity of the tissue, which there should have been if the injuries had been ante-mortem.’
‘All right, so he didn’t die as a result of being crushed by the car at the factory. What did he die from?’
‘Well, I dissected the lungs and found carbon particles in the terminal bronchioles, and cyanides were present in the blood.’
‘Cyanide? So he was poisoned?’
‘No, no. Decomposition of a body can produce cyanide naturally. However, the type of cyanides, carbon particles and the soot I found at the back of the pharynx—’
‘Mean that he died of smoke inhalation.’
Eckstein furrowed his white brows. ‘Yes.’
‘And was there any sign of isolated burn marks on his wrists?’
Eckstein shook his head of white hair. ‘That’s a very strange question. And how did you know about the smoke inhalation?’
Müller didn’t answer. So it was the same method of death – yet disguised by someone, or some organisation. She could imagine who. Meanwhile, she frantically leafed through Eckstein’s documents from the post-mortem. ‘Is his address anywhere here? Was he married?’
The pathologist nodded, and picked up the sheaf of papers, riffled through them, and found a sheet with Unterbrink’s address. He handed it to Müller. A block in Eisenach-Nord. Müller had seen the road signs on her way from Leinefelde – a satellite town of concrete slab apartment blocks, presumably specially built for the workers at the car factory.
She restarted the Lada’s engine, and reached over Eckstein to flick the passenger door open. The man looked a little put out that their discussion was at an end.
‘You’ve been very helpful, Dr Eckstein, and I want to ring you or meet again to go over all this in detail. But I need to interview his widow as soon as possible. I’m going straight there.’
30
Müller considered attaching the magnetic blue emergency light to the Lada’s roof to cut through Eisenach’s traffic more quickly. But she didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention. The Stasi had tried to thwart her so far. Was it too much of a stretch to think they could have been behind the faking of the cause of death of Herr Unterbrink?
Instead, she drove quickly but carefully, obeying the rules of the road and all traffic signals, until she drew up outside the modern block that – according to Eckstein’s documents – housed the apartment where the Unterbrinks lived, or at least where Frau Unterbrink now lived.
All the time, Müller was trying to work out what was going on. Had Reiniger known what Eckstein had revealed to her – that this was another ‘fire’ death, where a common denominator was the inhalation of smoke, rather than death through burning? Was it Reiniger’s way of once more circumventing the Stasi’s insistence that they should take control of the case? And what did the lack of wrist burns mean? Perhaps – if Unterbrink’s hands had been lashed together – he had somehow managed to free himself another way before being overcome by smoke.
She also had no idea where the fire that killed Unterbrink had been set – or where his body had originally been found, before the cause of death had been faked at the car factory. There were so many loose ends. And – in effect – she was having to work on her own. To draw in Tilsner would risk him telling the Stasi she was back investigating the cases. Common sense dictated they must be linked: Ronnebach, Höfler and Unterbrink all being despatched by the same method. Then Lothar Schneider apparently being ambushed, his throat cut. Müller assumed that was because he was about to blow the case wide open by telling her some vital information about the killings.
She looked up at the block. Apartment 210 – presumably the second floor. Would Frau Unterbrink know what connected these four dead men? More importantly, would she be prepared to tell Müller, without first alerting the Stasi?
*
The woman who opened the door to the apartment was considerably younger than Müller had been expecting. Pretty, too, with an almost elfin face, framed by straight black hair cut in a fringe, with bangs each side.
‘I’m Major Karin Müller of the People’s Police.’ Again Müller deliberately chose not to mention the Kripo, and she showed a standard Vopo ID. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you but I wanted to talk to Frau Unterbrink. Is that you?’
‘No. It’s my mother you want. Is it about my father’s accident?’
Müller nodded.
‘You’d better come in.’ Then the woman lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘As you can imagine, she’s not taken it too well. So please treat her gently. I’ve been staying with her since it happened. She’s sitting through here in the lounge. Can I get you a coffee or anything?’
‘Please. A little milk, but no sugar.’
Frau Unterbrink’s daughter showed her through. The mother was sitting, staring into space, nursing a hot drink in her hands.
‘Mutti. This is Major Müller from the People’s Police. She wants to ask you a few questions about the accident.’
The woman looked confused. ‘Why? The police seem to know more than we do anyway. They should be down at the factory asking them questions.’ She sniffed, and Müller detected redness around her eyes as though she’d recently been crying. ‘How could something like that happen in this day and age? That’s what they should be asking.’
‘I’m sorry, Frau Unterbrink. I’m sure my colleagues will be doing just that. We’re taking it very seriously. May I sit down?’
The woman shrugged. Müller took it as a ‘yes’, sat at the dining table, and got out her notebook and pen.
The daughter smiled at her. ‘I’ll just go and sort out your coffee.’
‘Use the Kaffee Mix, Sabine. We’ve not got much left of the other. And I’m sure as a member of the authorities, the lady policewoman would like to help the State by using the type of coffee the high-ups want us to use.’
‘I’d be very grateful for whatever you can give me, Frau Unterbrink.’ Müller picked up her pen and clicked it into the writing position. ‘As part of our investigations into the accident, I want to get a sense of your husband’s life. Would it be all right to ask a few questions about that?’
‘His death tells you all you need to know. The factory was up against ridiculous targets – they seemed to grow each year. Heinz felt under pressure to do mo
re and more. He wasn’t happy in his work any more. It’s obvious they must have been taking short cuts. Why else would an inspection ramp fail?’
Müller felt slightly guilty that she was unable to reveal the truth to the widow. But Unterbrink was dead. There was nothing she could do to turn back time. Her duty was to try to find out why, and to catch the killer before he could strike again. ‘I’m sure that’s something my colleagues will look into.’ The lies were coming too easily. ‘So your husband was under pressure at work. Was he under any other pressure at all? Had anything from his—’
She was interrupted by Sabine Unterbrink returning with her coffee. The younger woman placed it in front of Müller, and the detective breathed in the rich aroma. It certainly smelt like the real thing. She took a sip, expecting to be disappointed by the weak ersatz taste. Instead, her taste buds revelled in the crisp sharpness, the acidity, the chocolatey aftertaste. It was the real thing. Out of her mother’s eyeline, the daughter gave Müller a little conspiratorial smile.
‘Sorry, Frau Unterbrink. I was just asking whether anything from your husband’s past life had recently raised its head. Anything that might have disturbed him, affected his concentration?’
The mother’s face took on a severe frown. ‘What a strange question! What on earth has that got to do with my husband’s accident?’
Müller tried another tack. ‘Have you and your husband always lived here?’
‘These flats were only built a few years ago, so obviously not.’
Müller tried to ignore the open hostility the woman was showing. ‘And had he always worked in the car industry?’ she continued.
Frau Unterbrink gave a long sigh, as though the question almost wasn’t worth answering. ‘He’d always been interested in mechanics, but in the early days only as an amateur. He used to be in the fire service.’
‘The fire service?’ How odd. Someone involved in fighting fires caught up in a murder investigation where fire and smoke had been used as a means of murder. Was that just coincidence, or something more?
‘That’s what I said, didn’t I? He changed career, but he’d always been technical – there would have been transferrable skills.’
‘Why did he change career?’
The woman snorted. ‘Why would I know that? And if I did, why would I tell you?’
Sabine, alongside her mother, rolled her eyes. ‘Mutti, this policewoman’s only trying to help. You know that you haven’t always lived in—’
‘Be quiet, Sabine. I will answer the questions as I see fit, but only,’ she turned to Müller and fixed her with an angry glare, ‘if they are directly about the accident. Otherwise you can get out of my apartment, now.’
Müller frowned herself now. ‘Frau Unterbrink, I am trying to help. I simply need to fill in a few details about your husband’s past. I’m particularly interested to know if you or he ever lived in Gardel—’
‘No!’ shouted the woman. ‘Get out of my home. I said I would only answer questions about the actual accident. Get out, now.’
‘Frau Unterbrink, obstructing a police—’
The woman picked up a glass ashtray, and made as if to throw it at Müller. ‘I won’t tell you again. I won’t be responsible for my actions unless you leave now. Do the Ministry of State Security know you are here?’ Something in Müller’s face must have betrayed her subterfuge. ‘No, I thought not. They told me not to answer any questions, not from the police or anyone. I wasn’t very happy about that; I thought they were just trying to cover up what happened. But I can see that perhaps they were right after all. Sabine, see this lady out, please.’
Müller gathered up her pen and notebook, and replaced them in her bag. It had been another less than satisfactory attempt to interview a victim’s widow. In fact, this had been the least productive so far, just when Müller had glimpsed a possible breakthrough.
She didn’t bother to say goodbye to the woman, even though, perhaps her erratic, angry, behaviour was understandable, as a recently bereaved woman.
Sabine gave Müller a small smile as she was seeing Müller out of the door, and beckoned her closer. As the woman prepared to speak into her ear, Müller could smell her perfume. The floral-citrus tones seemed to set her even more on edge, bouncing on her toes, hoping this was the moment.
‘You were asking if anything from my father’s past life had raised its head?’
‘Yes,’ whispered Müller, matching the still-lowered tones of Sabine.
‘I might be able to give you some further help on that,’ said Sabine. ‘But it would be better if we didn’t talk here.’ Müller felt a sense of mounting excitement. She didn’t know if she could trust Frau Unterbrink’s daughter not to tell her mother if they did have another meeting, and she thought it was highly likely the mother would be alerting the Stasi in any case. But what did she have to lose? ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to say anything,’ continued Sabine. ‘If you want to know more, let’s meet tonight. Eight p.m. in the Schlossbar, in the centre of town.’
31
12 April 1945
Gardelegen, Nazi Germany
How many times can you stare death in the face before it comes to claim you?
We’re marching down the road, with some of us – including Marcellin – barely able to shuffle. I still try to help him, but my strength is failing too.
At the last moment, a car arrived up the track from Estedt to the woods, and the clearing where we had dug our own graves. It was hard to understand what was going on, other than that a messenger had arrived with some sort of change of plan, which was handed to the German paratroopers. We had been spared, at least for the time being. The see-saw between life and death was too much for one Russian. He fainted on the spot. His reward: a bullet in the back of the head.
We have been ordered to march from Estedt to Gardelegen, where apparently we must assemble in the cavalry school compound. There – we are told – there will be shelter and food. None of the German troops escort us, but we seem to have lost our will to rebel or think for ourselves, numbed by hunger, thirst, and dashed hopes of being saved by the advancing Americans. A Czech prisoner urges us to go in the other direction, to try to meet up with the Allied forces. But most of us just want to stop walking. If the underground rocket factory was Hell, then what is this march? Perhaps it is a march to our deaths.
We trudge on for what seems like hours towards the town. We try to find food in barns, in fields, but armed villagers chase us off.
At one farm, a woman comes out and tries to offer us some raw potatoes. It would be something to fill the emptiness in our stomachs, to dull the pain. She’s chased off by an armed youth with a Nazi armband.
When we enter the town limits, I notice Marcellin and I are lagging behind again.
‘You go on, Philippe. Please, I beg you. I am finished. I just want to lie down and die. Or be shot. I don’t care.’
As if someone’s heard his words, a shot does ring out, then a few pitiful screams from behind us, then silence. We look round. We hadn’t been the last of our column. Some twenty metres behind us, the prisoner who had been limping at the end has been downed by a bullet. His arm gropes towards us in his death throes. Marcellin makes a move to limp back towards him. I grab my brother.
‘No. There is nothing we can do. We need to catch up. We need to save ourselves. We are sitting ducks in these uniforms.’
Suddenly, every townsperson, many of them armed, seems to be our enemy. Soldiers with guns are haring round on motorcycles, like cowboys from the Wild West that we saw in those American films just before the war started, and in the early days before the Germans came.
We reach the town centre. It’s a pretty town in the middle, despite the evidence of war. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine myself in a market town in France. At least these German pigs will have been driven out of my homeland by now. If the Allies are just a few kilometres away from here, that must be the case. My country must be free – I just hope that Marcell
in and I will get the chance to see it again, to breathe in the salt air from the sea wall path between La Couarde and Loix. To smell my home.
Grégoire will never do that again.
*
We are excited now. There is a rumour Gardelegen has been declared a hospital town. We’re going to be handed over to the Allies. I feel a sudden rush of joy through my whole weakened body. I start to tremble from the inside and have to fight back tears. Marcellin’s face, though, is greyer than ever. He is barely clinging on.
When we reach the cavalry school, we see most of the horses being led out. Presumably the Germans want to keep them out of Allied hands if they can. We are ushered into the stables the horses have vacated.
Being treated like animals – worse than animals – seems appropriate, somehow. Now we are living where the animals lived. But I’m not complaining. There is straw to lie on, and the smell of food being prepared.
Out in the cavalry ring, we line up to receive our meagre rations. A loaf of bread each, and a bowl of thin soup. It’s nothing more than flavoured water, with a few bits of old potato in the bottom.
But it’s the first meal for days. The first liquid we’ve drunk other than stagnant water from ditches and pools by the roadside.
Once we’ve eaten and we are back in the stables, lying down uncaring about the stink of horse shit, I start to feel sleepy. I try to keep myself awake to watch over Marcellin. I worry that when he sleeps he may not wake up. But finally, I drift off into the land of dreams. I am full of hope now, that we are going to be saved.
32
August 1977
Eisenach, East Germany
Müller arrived fifteen minutes early to the bar to meet Sabine. She’d already rung Helga to talk to the twins, to say that she loved them, and to ask them to be good for Oma. Not that they were old enough to really understand her entreaties. But she at least got some kissing noises in return and shouts of ‘Mutti, Mutti’ down the phone line. Being good for Oma wasn’t strictly accurate anyway. Helga was really their Tick-Tock Oma – their great-grandmother – but neither Helga nor Müller wanted to complicate the toddlers’ lives with that distinction at this stage.