Stasi Winter

by David Young

  ‘That’s right. One of them said, “That Markus guy seems to know what we got up to in Sellin.”’

  ‘Sellin?’ hissed Müller.

  ‘Yes. And it sounded like something pretty fucking serious.’

  ‘Can’t we lean on Markus? I thought we’d taken him in for questioning to get him out of the way?’

  ‘Not we exactly. The People’s Police in Bergen. Do you want me to get over there now? The thing is, the conclusion of their rather heated argument was: “It’ll have to happen tonight.” So they’re up to something all right, and have already been up to something else in Sellin.’

  ‘OK, that does it,’ said Müller. ‘I’ll get on to the People’s Police in Bergen, and get them to put pressure on Markus, if indeed he does know anything. I’ll also get them to arrange transport for you and Jonas, and for myself. I’ll ring you back in a few moments to let you know when they think they’ll be arriving.’

  ‘Why? Where are we off to?’

  ‘To Sellin. To try to find out what those three were up to. If I have to force it out of Irma Behrendt, I will, don’t worry. Also, I’ve discovered Richter had a secret hideaway on the island.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where do you think? Sellin, of course, and only a few hundred metres from Irma Behrendt’s grandmother’s campsite.’

  *

  The ploughs had worked their magic on the roads and limited amounts of non-military traffic were starting to move around the island again. Müller was unsurprised when an unmarked police Wartburg arrived to pick her up outside the Jugendwerkhof. At the wheel, the local murder squad captain, Günther Hummel. She could see Tilsner and Schmidt in the back.

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to share everything with Hummel at this stage, but if she wanted the co-operation of the People’s Police, rather than having to rely on Jäger and his cronies, she would have to give him some bits of information.

  ‘We’ve found another address for the victim. A house she apparently owns in Sellin.’

  Hummel creased his face in confusion. ‘Sellin? But we were told she lived in at the Jugendwerkhof. We don’t have any record of her owning or renting property in Sellin.’

  ‘Well, apparently she did. But she didn’t like it widely advertised, only a select few know.’

  ‘Do you want uniform backup?’

  ‘Not at this stage, Günther, thank you all the same. Let’s do things with as little fuss as possible.’

  *

  They drove in silence the few kilometres to Sellin – although it took twice as long as normal because of the snow- and ice-covered roads. It was so cold that the salt and grit didn’t seem to be making much impression.

  ‘It seems to handle well in the snow,’ said Müller, to lighten the atmosphere. ‘You can’t be used to conditions like this?’

  ‘No, that’s true. This is the worst I’ve known it since I was at school, years ago. Sixty-three, I think it was.’

  ‘That’s correct, Comrade Hauptmann,’ interrupted Schmidt from the back seat. He seemed in a remarkably good mood considering his son was currently being held for questioning. ‘The winter of 1962 to 1963 was indeed the worst in recent memory – well, since the forties, at least. But I don’t think they had such a big downfall of snow in such a short space of time. It was colder though, and for a longer period.’

  ‘Colder than this? I can’t remember it being that bad,’ said Tilsner. ‘And you should see it at Sassnitz. It’s not just the harbour that’s completely frozen – it’s the Ostsee too. As far as the eye can see.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Müller, ‘I don’t care which was worse. This is bad enough. I was simply complimenting Hauptmann Hummel on his driving.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ laughed Hummel as he slowed and pulled over to let a military vehicle pass. ‘The depot had a few spare sets of winter tyres – I managed to bag one of them. I spent this morning fitting them. Bloody freezing it was too.’ He flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I’m not sure these will ever recover properly – I think I’ve got frostbite.’

  ‘I doubt it, Comrade Hauptmann,’ said Schmidt. ‘If you had, they’d have turned black or fallen off by now.’

  *

  Schettler had described to Müller where Richter’s house was situated, so they found it with ease. The description of a summer cottage was something of an understatement, however. This was a grand, white painted lodge – with its verandas and balconies in the traditional Baltic Bäderarchitektur style enjoying sumptuous views over Sellin’s wooden pier and the Ostsee itself beyond. Schettler’s estimation that something like this in the West would be worth a small fortune was not far off the mark.

  Tilsner approached the glazed front door with gloved fist poised, as though he was ready to do a bit of breaking and entering.

  ‘You might as well check if it’s open first, Werner,’ cautioned Müller.

  As he pushed at the door, she saw she’d been right. It swung open a few centimetres, then seemed to get stuck. Tilsner forced it further. ‘Scheisse!’ he cried. ‘There’s half a snowdrift in here already. It’s probably been open to the elements since it happened.’

  Müller cursed silently to herself. If the door had been open, foxes, stray dogs and other animals could have got inside, destroying or at least contaminating any forensic evidence Schmidt might be able to isolate.

  She approached the front door. Tilsner had already gone a few metres inside, and seemed to have stopped. ‘What a fucking mess. We’d better suit up, boss. Jonas is going to have a field day in here.’

  *

  Once Hummel had provided them with protective suits, overshoes and gloves from a sealed bag in the boot of the Wartburg, the four of them entered and set to work.

  Müller’s eyes were drawn to what had presumably caused Tilsner to shout out. One of the front curtains was missing, and from the mangled rail and debris of broken plastic curtain hooks, it looked like someone had wrenched it off.

  ‘Jonas,’ she called out. ‘Could an animal have done that?’

  Schmidt snorted. ‘A bear perhaps. And I don’t think they have bears on Rügen, at least not nowadays. Otherwise, no. That’s the work of a human hand or hands, I’d lay money on it.’

  ‘Everyone. Have a look around. Let’s see if we can find this missing curtain anywhere.’ Müller had a horrible feeling she knew where it had gone. Frau Winter might have thought that sled had a tarpaulin that at one time had covered up emergency supplies of food. But the old woman had admitted her eyes weren’t too good these days. Müller’s suspicion was it had been no tarpaulin, and it hadn’t been covering sacks of potatoes or boxes of bread. For her money, it was Frau Richter’s own curtain that she’d been wrapped up in, and it had been her own body underneath.

  ‘Boss, come here quickly!’ Tilsner’s shout came from further in the house, up the stairs.

  She found him standing in the woman’s bedroom, or what appeared to be her bedroom, complete with unmade, soiled bed sheets.

  ‘What have you found?’

  Tilsner was pointing to the bottom sheet of the bed. ‘Just there – that hair. I thought Richter was described in the autopsy report as dark-haired?’

  ‘Dyed black hair.’ Müller looked more closely at the area where Tilsner was pointing.

  ‘Well, that’s not a black hair, dyed or otherwise. It’s also not from someone’s head, it’s a—’

  ‘OK, Werner. You don’t need to spell it out. I can see for myself.’ She picked up the coarse curly hair, and held it up to the light. Was it Irma’s? If so, why had she been in Richter’s bed? ‘We need to get Jonas to bag it up and examine it properly. But, yes. It’s from a redhead. Any others?’

  Tilsner pointed towards the rumpled pillows.

  Müller moved up the bed. From the pillow, she picked up two longer strands of head hair, again holding them up and letting the light shine through.

  They were both a gingery red colour. As clear as night is day.

&n
bsp; ‘Jonas!’ Müller shouted. After a few seconds, Schmidt ran into the room, panting. Müller had a horrible thought. They’d found the evidence too easily. It smacked of other cases she and Tilsner had been involved in – other cases in which the hand of Jäger and the Stasi seemed to have played all too big a role. Something made her look at each corner of the ceiling, at the lightbulb. Were they being watched?

  ‘What is it?’ frowned Tilsner.

  She shook her head. ‘Probably nothing. Jonas, I want you to bag these hairs up. These ones I found on the pillow are from the head of a redhead. Werner has found a similar coloured one from another part of the body – probably the same body – and almost certainly not Frau Richter’s.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Schmidt. ‘I remember the autopsy report. Her head hair was described as dyed black, but her pubic hair – I assume that’s what you mean, Comrade Major – that was described as natural black, with flecks of grey. Though, and I don’t know if this is relevant, there was only very short stubble there. So, I doubt we’ll find any of her pubic hair at all, except on her razor.’

  ‘Can you bag these up and look for any that match – or indeed don’t match? In the bathroom, kitchen, lounge. Check the bath, sink, taps and door handles for fingerprints too.’

  Müller returned to her earlier musings. The hairs had been too obvious, hadn’t they? And what Jäger had said about Irma working for his ministry also had her thinking. Had she annoyed them in some way? Had she failed to supply the reports she’d promised in her role of unofficial informer? And was the Stasi now paying her back, with Müller and her team as their stooges? She wouldn’t put it past Jäger. She wouldn’t put anything past Jäger. She was surprised he hadn’t turned up at the scene. This was normally the time he put in an appearance.

  With Schmidt and Tilsner hunting for more hairs, or anything else they could find, she asked the forensic scientist another question.

  ‘Did you keep the samples you took during the graveyard girl investigation four years ago, Jonas?’

  ‘Of course, Comrade Major. I never destroy anything. It’s all in filing cabinets back at Keibelstraße.’

  ‘And would that have included samples of Irma Behrendt’s hair?’

  Tilsner looked at her askance. ‘Aren’t we jumping to conclusions? It’s too much of a coincidence, surely?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. We already know she hated Richter. We know her boyfriend was involved in something in Sellin. Something highly dodgy. What if they plotted it together, with the help of his mates, and then Irma and Dieter celebrated by romping on Richter’s bed?’

  ‘Hah!’ laughed her deputy. ‘You must have your TV tuned to the West. You’ve been watching too many American police dramas.’

  Müller found herself reddening. The accusation was a little too near the truth. ‘Anyway, Jonas, would we have samples of her hair?’

  ‘We did. I got some when we took a sample of the wool her grandmother used to knit that jumper. There was a hairbrush in her bedroom at the campsite. But they’ll be on file—’

  ‘Why do you need the bloody file from Keibelstraße?’ asked Tilsner. ‘The campsite’s up that path. Let’s go there and get another sample now.’

  *

  Müller and Tilsner left Hummel and Schmidt at Richter’s house, while they exited and got out of the protective suits and into their winter gear.

  As soon as they were out on the street, Tilsner began to talk.

  ‘OK, let’s assume your theory for a moment is correct.’

  ‘It’s not really a theory. I was thinking aloud. Those hairs seemed too easy to find – as though it might have been staged. As though someone might have wanted to put Irma in the frame for Richter’s murder. And we know who that someone might be, or at least which organisation.’

  ‘OK. I agree. It could be one of Jäger’s games. But I got the impression he was as in the dark as we are about the culprit or culprits. That’s what he claimed anyway.’

  They’d left the dimly lit main street behind and were walking rapidly along the coastal path. In a few days, life had begun to get back to normal. Emergency generators had been brought online to provide some electricity, and footpaths that had been impassable were now well-trodden.

  ‘But what about the conversation I overheard earlier at Sellin lighthouse?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, let’s say they did do it. Or maybe Irma did it, and Dieter helped her cover it up. Then the others found out about it, including Markus. They wouldn’t hang about, would they?’

  ‘What do you mean, they wouldn’t hang about?’

  ‘I was out there today. On that harbour wall. That’s where I heard all this. But I looked around. Ice and more ice – as far as the eye could see. Thick fucking stuff. Not just in the harbour. The sea itself. It’s like an extension of the land. I don’t know how far it goes, but . . . ’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘As you know, geography’s not my strong point.’ Müller remembered him mixing up the two Frankfurts, although she’d thought at the time it was a joke. Perhaps it hadn’t been. ‘But even I know it’s not far across that sea to Sweden, or indeed Denmark. People have been known to try it in boats. You don’t hear about it in Neues Deutschland of course, but then there’s not much in that rag except Party propaganda.’

  They were nearly at the campsite now. Müller wished her deputy wouldn’t so freely dispense his anti-Republic wisdom, at least not in public. He was sounding like a would-be Republikfluchtling.

  ‘They’re up to something tonight. At the lighthouse. I heard them discussing it. Perhaps they’re just rolling cigarette papers and whacky baccy again, but after we’ve been here I think we ought to nab Hummel’s Wartburg and drive out there. We can always ask Drescher to send out a patrol car to pick up Jonas and Hummel. There may already be one out in Sellin.’

  ‘OK,’ agreed Müller, as they rounded the corner into the campsite entrance. Already she could feel the snow had got inside her boots – they were squelching as she walked. At least they hadn’t frozen yet, but Müller suspected that would only be a matter of time.

  *

  Tilsner rapped on the front door. They saw a light turn on in the hall, and the sound of slow footsteps.

  ‘Just a moment!’ a woman’s voice shouted.

  They heard the lock turn, then Frau Baumgartner peered out, without taking off the safety catch. She saw Müller, and opened the door wide.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, frowning.

  ‘Hello, Frau Baumgartner. It’s nothing to worry about,’ said Müller, stamping her boots on the mat. ‘Is Irma in?’

  The woman ushered them in, then closed the door behind them to keep out the cold.

  ‘She’s not, I’m afraid. There’s nothing wrong, is there?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing at all,’ smiled Müller. The lie came easily. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  ‘She said she was going out with her new boyfriend. They’ve not been able to see as much of each other these past few days.’ Müller wasn’t as certain about Irma’s grandmother’s assertion, but she let it pass. ‘But the buses have started running again now, well, a few of them anyway. She’s gone out to see him. She went a couple of hours ago.’

  Tilsner arched a knowing eyebrow at Müller. She ignored him.

  ‘Would it be OK to take a quick look in her room, Frau Baumgartner? It’s nothing to worry about.’ Müller could tell from the old woman’s sour expression that she didn’t believe her.

  The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t really have a choice, do I?’ She held Müller’s gaze. ‘I thought you said you were her friend.’

  Tilsner slapped his hand against the wall. ‘Just show us to her room.’

  *

  The two detectives found what they were looking for – a hairbrush with strands of Irma’s telltale ginger locks. Putting her gloves back on, Müller took the brush and sealed it in a plastic evidence bag. She knew it would have the girl’s fingerprints too – agai
n circumventing the need to get them from Keibelstraße.

  ‘Anything else worth taking?’ asked Müller. She could see Tilsner rifling through the drawers of Irma’s desk.

  He shrugged and pulled out a flower-patterned exercise book. He flicked through it, then proffered it to Müller. ‘Looks like her diary. Might as well bag it in case it’s of any use.’

  Müller turned, and saw Frau Baumgartner standing, sentry-like, in Irma’s bedroom doorway. ‘Isn’t that a bit personal?’ the woman said in an accusatory tone.

  ‘I can assure you, Frau Baumgartner, all we’re trying to do is to make sure Irma is safe – as long as she hasn’t broken any laws.’

  ‘And if she has?’ shouted the woman, as Tilsner shoved her out of the way and the two detectives half-ran downstairs.

  ‘If she has,’ Tilsner yelled over his shoulder, ‘then that’s her own lookout!’

  They opened the front door, then slammed it shut behind them, hard enough to make the old building shake. A huge slab of snow dislodged from the roof and narrowly missed them as it crashed to the ground, covering them in a cloud of ice particles.

  Müller wiped the snow off her face and rushed to catch up with her deputy.

  24

  Sellin, Rügen, East Germany

  28 December 1978

  I feel sick to my core about what’s happened. Richter can tell I’ve got my wits about me again – she’s seen the murderous look in my eyes.

  As she unties me, I can see she’s wary in case I lash out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I thought it was what you wanted.’

  I give her such a look of disdain that I can see her wither in front of my eyes. She drops her gaze. Not to look at me. The old pervert has sated her lust. But to look at the floor – in shame at what she’s become. What I know. What I can use against her.

  ‘I’ll get your clothes and boots. They should be dry by now – I’ve had them over the hot water tank.’

  I pull the duvet around myself to hide my nakedness. She will never look at me again. The smell of woman assaults my nostrils. I almost gag. Did I encourage her advances? No. But still the shame pulses through me. It’s almost as though I’m frozen to the spot – that I’ve been reduced to the function of a machine, and what’s more – thanks to her – a machine that no longer works properly. How could she have done this? How could Dieter have left me alone with her? I thought it was what you wanted. Does she really believe that? She’s violated me, and I will get my revenge. She’s ruined me too, I’ve no doubt. I’ll never want to have sex again – not with Dieter, Laurenz, not anyone. And never, ever with another woman.