by David Young
The surroundings were deathly quiet. Usually, Müller thought, there ought at least to be some traffic on the nearby road between Binz and Sassnitz – it was only a hundred metres or so to their left. But apart from the occasional roar and clatter of an army personnel carrier, the road was empty and impassable. The drifts alongside had occasional humps which Müller could only imagine concealed abandoned cars. There was a rail line too – she could see the signals, poking from the snow like trees whose branches had been stripped, their white painted uprights near invisible, the red of the painted metal signal flags on top making them stand out.
They set off again, willing themselves to ski those last few metres.
‘Must have been just about here,’ said Tilsner.
Müller swivelled her head around, first pushing the sides of her hood behind her ears. Immediately, she could feel the sting of the snow-laden wind lashing her skin.
To one side, almost buried by snow, she could see some red-and-white striped police tape flapping in the wind. Tilsner followed her eyeline and had seen it too.
‘I don’t think that’s really doing its job in sealing off the area properly!’ he shouted.
Müller surveyed the snow-covered ground. ‘It’s probably not needed. There are no footprints. No one’s ventured here recently. And I don’t blame them.’ Over to the left, she spotted a low single-storey building. It looked as though it might be a house – although it could equally well be some sort of store associated with Prora. She knew Hitler’s half-finished holiday complex – which housed both the Jugendwerkhof at one end and the People’s Army barracks at the other – couldn’t be far away. She shivered – multiple layers of clothing, gloves, thick socks and ski boots failing to keep out the cold. But she also breathed in deeply. The bitterly cold air, mixed with the faint redolence of pine from the prevailing trees, had her thinking of her childhood home.
The snow.
The low forested mountains of Thuringia.
And the fairy-tale-like bed and breakfast house where she’d always felt like an outsider. Not unlike the building in front of them. She’d discovered three years earlier that those feelings of not belonging weren’t in her imagination. She’d been adopted – and perhaps her adoptive mother Rosamund had never been able to love her as unconditionally as her own naturally conceived children: Müller’s adoptive sister, Sara, and brother, Roland.
*
Tilsner rapped on the door. There was no sign of life inside the house – if it was indeed a house – so Müller was surprised when the door was opened a crack. Half of an elderly woman’s face appeared.
‘Aha! You’ve finally arrived. I’ve been waiting for you. I’m half-starved!’ the woman shouted out round the door frame, almost as though she herself was deaf, and unable to modulate her voice.
Tilsner raised his voice to match the level of hers. ‘We’re not your personal food delivery service, I can assure you, citizen.’ He brandished his Vopo ID. ‘Police. Open up. We need to ask you some questions.’
‘All right,’ the woman grumbled, opening the door fully. ‘You can come in if you insist. Make sure you clean the snow off your shoes first. I don’t want to have to clear up after you.’
*
Inside the house felt no warmer to Müller than outside. She started to take her anorak top off, then thought better of it. She wasn’t sure the old crone was going to be much help anyway. There was no point freezing to death while asking her their questions.
‘Haven’t you got a fire burning, Frau . . . ?’
‘Winter.’
‘It certainly is,’ responded Tilsner. ‘That’s why you need a fire.’
‘No, my surname’s Winter. What they say about the Volkspolizei is clearly true.’
Müller thought briefly about admonishing the woman for her rudeness, but Tilsner seemed to laugh it off.
‘It is true, yes, Frau Winter. We’re all as thick as two short planks.’ Then the laughter in his voice died. ‘But don’t get clever with me. It might be cold in your house, and you may be too tight to light a fire, but I can assure you if I arrest you and take you to the remand centre at Bergen it will be far, far colder. So I suggest you forget your jokes about the police and answer our questions. All of them.’
The woman sat down heavily into the only chair in what seemed to pass as a living room, pulled a rug over herself, and adopted an even sourer expression. ‘If it’s about that woman found dead out there, I’ve already told the local police all I know.’
‘What makes you think we’re not local?’ asked Tilsner.
‘Your accents, love. Berlin, I should think. Am I right?’
Müller nodded.
‘I’m sure you have your fires blazing away there, don’t you? Central heating in every room too, probably. All the best stuff is reserved for Berlin. We’re just an afterthought.’
There was nowhere else for Müller and Tilsner to sit. It appeared that Frau Winter was determined to be less than co-operative, and her house stank. A mixture of damp and something sweeter. Müller mentally recoiled as she suddenly recognised the smell – cat urine. The room was cold, too. The woman was either too mean or too poor to light a fire. Müller was keen to get the questioning over and move on to the next house.
‘So, Frau Winter,’ she said, ‘you know the woman’s body was discovered within a few metres of your house. Did you see anything suspicious in the days beforehand? Did you see the deceased before her death?’
The woman glowered at Müller, and for a moment the detective thought her question would remain unanswered.
‘Come on!’ shouted Tilsner, banging his fist down on a side table, rattling its sad collection of old ornaments, and sending up a cloud of dust. ‘We haven’t got all day.’
‘I don’t recall seeing her alive. Mind you, you haven’t shown me a photograph of what she looks like. But there was something odd, yes.’
‘What?’ prompted Müller.
‘Some soldiers with a sled.’
It wasn’t that unusual in these conditions. She knew the army had been helping to deliver supplies – mostly by personnel carrier, but presumably someone had to distribute the food and fuel to other smaller, locations. Perhaps they used sleds – she’d seen some when they arrived on the helicopter at the barracks. They certainly couldn’t use cars.
‘And why do you think that might be connected with the woman’s death?’ asked Müller.
The woman frowned, then wiped her wispy white hair away from her leathery forehead. ‘Well, I don’t know that it was. You’re just asking me if I could remember anything unusual.’
‘Why was it unusual?’ asked Tilsner. ‘Everyone knows the army has been helping to deliver food supplies.’
Frau Winter shot him a withering look. ‘I’m getting to it. Give me a chance. The reason I noticed them was I’d been waiting for an emergency delivery of food myself. I still am. I saw them through the net curtains, so I went round to unlock the door. As you saw earlier, the lock’s a bit stiff. It took me a while to open it.’ She paused and coughed to clear her throat. It turned into a hacking fit, until she seemed to be struggling for breath. Müller suddenly felt sorry for her, and leant over to try to pat her on the back – but Frau Winter shrank away.
‘You really should light a fire, Frau Winter,’ she said. ‘You don’t sound very well.’
The woman composed herself. ‘I’ll be all right. But I can’t light a fire – I’ve run out of coal and wood, as well as food.’
‘You were saying about the soldiers,’ Tilsner reminded her.
‘Yes. I was waiting for them to knock on the door, but they didn’t. So I poked my head outside. That was when the worst of the snow was coming down. Visibility was very low, and I had to fight to stay on my feet because of the wind.’
‘Could you still see them?’ asked Müller.
‘Just about, although they were skiing or sledding away from me, back towards Prora. I called after them thinking they’d missed my d
elivery by mistake.’
‘Did they stop?’
The woman responded to Müller’s question with a headshake. ‘Either they couldn’t hear me, or they didn’t want to hear me.’
Tilsner sighed. ‘Thank you, Frau Winter. But you said this was in some way unusual. In what way was it unusual?’
‘Well, I can’t be certain. As I say, visibility was bad. But I was really angry they hadn’t delivered me anything – as they disappeared from view I was concentrating on the contents of the sled.’
‘And?’ prompted Müller.
‘That’s it. There didn’t seem to be any contents any more. Just an empty tarpaulin.’
Tilsner scratched his chin. ‘But when you’d first seen them through the window, when you rushed to unlock your door thinking they were here to bring you food, or fuel, or both – at that point there was something on the sled?’
The woman drew in a long breath which rattled in her rheumy throat. ‘Hmm. I’m fairly sure there was. Otherwise why would I have assumed they were bringing emergency supplies? They were very near where the woman’s body was found later – under that drift. And yes . . . yes, I’m sure there was something under the tarpaulin.’
‘You’re sure?’ checked Müller. ‘You’re certain?’
‘Well . . . I think so.’ She waved her spectacles in the air. ‘My eyes aren’t that good, and as I say, visibility was awful.’
‘And you say they were going back to Prora?’ continued Müller. ‘Does that mean you saw them arrive from that direction too?’
‘Ah, no.’ The woman shook her head sadly. ‘I just assumed with them being army that that was where they were from.’
‘How do you know they were soldiers?’ Müller was losing patience. If the woman had seen what she claimed, it might be significant. But as a witness, the detective had little faith in her.
‘Well, I think so. They were wearing winter army suits like you two.’
Tilsner rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, but we’re not soldiers, are we, Frau Winter? We’re police.’
The woman shrugged. ‘If you say so. Anyway, that’s the only thing I saw that might be of any use. And as you are from the authorities, could you please make sure I’m not forgotten when they make the next delivery?’
With a small, exasperated shake of her head, Müller indicated to Tilsner it was time to go. She felt some pity for the woman. Remembering she had a packet of chocolate balls in her pocket – stored because she was worried they might get snowed in somewhere and need energy – Müller pulled it out and offered it to the woman.
Her face turned into a grimace. ‘Oh no, I can’t stand milk chocolate, dear. I only like the dark stuff.’
*
Outside, they skied to the fluttering police tape again.
‘Do you think she was telling the truth?’ asked Tilsner, his breath condensing in front of his face.
Müller shrugged. ‘I’m sure she wasn’t deliberately lying. She might have seen something. It could even have been Richter’s body on the sled and they could have been the killers. Equally, it could have been soldiers with an empty sled. She might have assumed there was something on there to start with because that’s what she wanted to think, hoping they were bringing her food.’
‘What next?’
Putting her ski gloves back on, Müller pushed herself off with one ski and began to skate past Tilsner. ‘There must be some other houses or flats nearby. We need to find more reliable witnesses.’ She slid to a stop. ‘And maybe we need a rethink. Perhaps we’re going about this the wrong way.’
*
After another fifty metres or so, another house emerged from the mist and light snowfall. This was a two-storey, red brick affair. At first, Müller thought it might be some sort of railway building. But as they drew closer, from the woodshed and garage it became clear someone lived there.
They skied to the front gate and then stepped out of their bindings and propped their skis against the white picket fence that surrounded the property.
‘This looks a bit more promising,’ said Tilsner. ‘Someone who knows how to look after their property. Perhaps they might have their wits about them, unlike grumpy guts Frau Winter.’
Müller didn’t bother to reply, and strode up the freshly cleared path and knocked on the front door.
The man who opened the door listened to what Müller had to say about the woman’s body, and her request to ask him a few questions, but he didn’t move aside.
‘I don’t think I can help you,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry?’ replied Müller. She wasn’t used to people refusing to co-operate with the police.
‘I’m not being unhelpful. It’s just that I haven’t seen anything, and in any case, like you I work for the authorities. They should have let you know.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Tilsner, the menace in his voice undisguised.
‘The People’s Police – or indeed the Ministry for State Security – should have let you know that I live here with my family and that we shouldn’t be disturbed.’
‘Why the hell shouldn’t we disturb you?’ said Tilsner. ‘If you like I can break your door down.’
‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ said the man, reaching into his jacket pocket. He produced an ID and thrust it at Müller.
Even before she’d read his name, she knew he was right. They wouldn’t get anywhere here. The emblem on the identity card showed her all she needed to know. An arm holding up a rifle, with a bayonet on its end and the East German flag fluttering from it.
She read his name and rank. Hauptmann Gerd Steiger of the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, based in Bergen auf Rügen.
A Stasi captain.
‘I understand Oberst Jäger has arrived from Berlin to take charge of this case. If you want to interview me, you’ll have to get his permission first. I’m on a day off and I’m rather busy. If you don’t mind . . . ’ Steiger started to shut the door in their faces. Müller was tempted to stick her foot in the frame, but thought better of it and turned on her heels.
*
At the hotel, Tilsner insisted he wanted a coffee to warm his insides before they decided what to do next. He lowered his voice. ‘Maybe we should get in touch with Jäger. I don’t want Stasi upstarts like that Steiger bloke telling us what we can and cannot do.’
Müller shrugged. Coffee seemed like an excellent idea. Contacting Jäger? She wasn’t so sure.
After a quick trip to her room to fix her make-up, she met Tilsner in the restaurant a few minutes later – in the same semi-private booth they’d eaten in the previous evening.
As well as the coffees, Tilsner had ordered shots of schnapps. He offered Müller hers. She shook her head, so Tilsner proceeded to down both in one gulp then smacked his lips. ‘See,’ he said. ‘I didn’t bang my glass down on the table.’
Müller knew what he was referring to, but didn’t appreciate his feeble attempt at a joke. Banging your schnapps glass down after emptying the contents down one’s throat was supposed to be the fascist way of drinking it. She’d decided – reluctantly – to forget his wartime indiscretions for the moment. Perhaps Reiniger was right after all. He’d been a teenage boy – he couldn’t be held responsible. But she didn’t want reminding of it.
‘What do you suggest next, boss?’
‘We don’t seem to have any witnesses, unless we count Frau Winter. And with the weather, to be honest I don’t think we will make progress in that direction. We need to concentrate on Richter. Did she have any enemies?’
Tilsner snorted. ‘Having met the revolting woman, I can assure you she’ll have had more enemies than we’ve had hot coffees. For a start, anyone who attended that Jugendwerkhof. But I don’t think that’ll be the end of the list.’
‘I still think that’s our best way of making progress.’
‘But as soon as we start asking questions like that, doesn’t it become obvious we don’t believe her death was an acciden
t? What about asking that girl you saved from the reform school?’
‘Irma Behrendt?’ The return to Rügen had in itself been an uncomfortable reminder to Müller of the graveyard girl case from four years earlier. She and Irma had at one stage been incarcerated together by the Jugendwerkhof’s former director, Franz Neumann, after she and Tilsner had tracked him to his lair on the foothills of the Brocken mountain. Neumann was an abuser who Müller had her own private reasons to hate. So she felt some sort of misplaced loyalty towards Irma, who would now be a young woman. Müller also knew the girl had been a favourite of her ex-husband Gottfried, during his ill-fated stint teaching at the reform school.
Tilsner nodded.
‘Why should she know anything?’
‘She may not. But you pretty much saved her life, didn’t you? Or at least she thinks so. In fact, I probably had more to do with it.’
‘By radioing for Jäger’s help?’
Tilsner shot her a sarcastic grin.
‘OK, I suppose it’s not a bad idea. She may have friends who stayed on at the reform school after she left. Although I have to tell you, Jäger intimated that he’d managed to turn her.’
‘To work for his lot?’
‘That’s the impression I got. Part of the deal to allow her to stay with her grandmother rather being sent back to Jugendwerkhof Prora Ost.’
Tilsner rubbed his hands together. ‘Well then, that’s to our advantage. If she’s working for them, she’s used to reporting on people. Perhaps even following them. She may have her ears to the ground.’
‘But she lives in Sellin. I presume Richter lived in the Jugendwerkhof itself. They’re kilometres away from each other.’
‘It’s an island. There’s not many places to go. You’d be surprised how many people know each other, how many marriages are intermingled, that sort of thing. And she must have roots somewhere else, before she came to work at the reform school. I’ll get on to the People’s Police here and ask them.’
‘Remember, she hasn’t been identified yet,’ said Müller.
‘They must have reported her missing from the reform school by now, surely?’