by Ally Rose
‘I will. Oh, one more thing. Lotte, your private papers, diaries, photos, have they been kept somewhere?’
Lotte nodded. ‘Julia emptied my rented flat several years ago.’
‘I’ve kept them in my cellar but there are only a few boxes,’ Julia said.
‘Did you have any photos of the staff or the kids at Torgau?’ Hanne asked.
‘I think so. Why?’ Lotte asked.
‘May I have a look through them?’
Lotte thought she could read Hanne’s mind. ‘Oh, you’ll be looking for an orphaned boy with blond hair and blue eyes? There were plenty like that at Torgau but he’s an adult now and he might have a family, and his hair might not be blond any more – but his eyes will still be blue.’
Hanne smiled and gave a false compliment. ‘You have a detective’s mind.’
Lotte nodded. ‘Yes, you can look through my old papers and things. Julia, I’m getting tired now, take me back to my room. Frau Drais, I’d like you to keep me updated with the case.’
‘Of course. Julia, a police officer will come and collect Lotte’s boxes.’
Julia nodded and wheeled her sister away. Hanne looked at the empty cups on the table. A thought crossed her mind. She didn’t have Kruger’s official permission but nevertheless she wrapped the cup Lotte had been drinking from in tissues and placed it carefully in her bag. If Lotte’s fingerprints and DNA were found in Horst’s motor home it would prove that she knew the Musketeers after Torgau’s closure.
Chapter Thirty-two: The Motor Home
KRUGER CAME INTO HANNE’S office and slammed a newspaper on her desk.
‘Our case is on page 19 but look what’s made the front cover!’
Hanne read the headline news:
‘The film Downfall, about Hitler’s last days in his Berlin bunker, has been nominated for best foreign film at the Hollywood Oscars later this month.’
Kruger was livid. ‘So much for the important things in life! It’ll be this Oskar’s downfall if I don’t catch the Muggelsee killer!’
‘And that’s an Oskar performance,’ Hanne quipped.
Kruger managed a rare smile. ‘Very droll, Hanne,’ he said.
Hanne flicked over the pages and found photos of Horst, Gunther and Harald. ‘Funny, I can’t relate to these photos after seeing them in their cars at Muggelsee,’ she said.
‘I know what you mean. The images of death stay more powerfully in our vision. Hopefully printing these old photos will jog a memory or two,’ Kruger replied.
‘I went through Lotte Holler’s private papers last night,’ Hanne began. ‘She didn’t have any incriminating numbers in a diary, just a few family photos, letters and some unpaid bills.’
‘Lotte won’t need to worry about unpaid bills in her new home in Wannsee,’ Kruger said.
Hanne nodded. ‘Severance pay for her coma years.’
Kruger nodded. ‘That’s one way of looking at it, Drais.’
‘Oskar, do you know what really gets to me? Everyone knew abuse went on at Torgau but did nothing about it.’ Hanne sounded bitter. ‘Lotte has denied all knowledge of any abuse that went on there. Unfortunately, we’ve no proof to nail Lotte, only the fact that Marine Boy hated her as much as the other Torgau wardens and wanted her dead.’
Kruger was a father and sympathised to some degree. ‘You know, back when I was working on breaking the paedophile ring, not one Torgau victim in court who gave evidence about the male wardens said anything about abuse from female wardens.’
‘Did you ask any of the abused victims if they knew Lotte Holler at Torgau?’ said Hanne.
‘No. Lotte wasn’t on the list that helped break the Torgau ring. Nobody knew she was even connected to that appalling place! She was only ever thought of and known as the Lady of the Lake.’
‘With respect, it doesn’t mean she’s innocent.’
‘Listen Hanne, I can see your sympathies are with Marine Boy but we can’t let bias affect our decisions in a police investigation.’
‘I know and I have sympathy for Lotte as a victim but as a parent but I can’t help feeling Marine Boy was a victim too.’
‘Well, until Lotte’s well enough no one will accuse her of anything. She’s owed that much because she was a victim of a terrible crime,’ Kruger stated. ‘You want justice for Marine Boy but what about justice for Lotte? When we catch Marine Boy he’ll get sentenced for his crimes and we’ll take into consideration what he went through at Torgau. That’d be fair but we can’t, as law enforcing officers, excuse murder, not even for those who’ve been abused. Hanne, I promise we’ll find out about Lotte’s role at Torgau but give it time.’
On the journey out of Berlin, Glockner and Kruger bantered away about politics whilst Hanne remained quiet in the back, lost in her thoughts. The German Chancellor, Gerhard Schroeder, was on the verge of stepping down or being usurped within his own party and an election announcement was imminent.
‘There’ll be an election soon, a new Chancellor and coalition party,’ said Glockner.
‘Who’ll be Chancellor then?’ Kruger asked.
‘There’s females rising in the ranks. I reckon a woman is due to take control,’ Glockner stated.
Kruger laughed. ‘Not in my lifetime!’
‘Fifty euros says I’m right.’
‘Easy money. You’re on. Do you hear that Drais? Glockner reckons we’ll have the first female Chancellor. What do you say?’
‘Our country needs a Hausfrau in charge!’ Hanne remarked, trying not to smile.
Kruger grimaced. ‘Speak for yourself, Hanne.’
Hanne returned to her thoughts. She liked getting out of Berlin although she didn’t take Audrey to the countryside now as often as she’d like. When Audrey was little, Hanne and Claudia would go on cycling trips to the vast areas of countryside and lakes surrounding Berlin, with Audrey secure in a harnessed basket at the front of the bike. She sighed inwardly and told herself not to get melancholy or stuck in thoughts about the past. Audrey was older and they still did mother and daughter outings together but in the natural evolving state of any parent and child, they now led more independent lives. Claudia was long gone and Hanne had a new girlfriend, Brigitte. They’d been dating for six weeks and were getting on nicely, so things were looking up.
Passing Schonefeld Airport on the motorway they turned off onto quieter rural roads, meandering through winding lanes of open countryside and alleys of trees towards the small town of Zossen. Hanne, sitting quietly happy in the back, enjoyed the view.
Detlef Biegel, an active and friendly 70-year-old, met the police and forensic team at a modern timber yard where business had ceased for the duration of the police visit. He was eager to help. ‘In the winter of 1992, after three months of watching the post piling up and waiting for Horst to return to the flat in Leipzig where there was rent owing, my brother and I packed up his things, put them in the motor home and brought it here, to my brother’s field at the back of the timber yard,’ he told the police.
‘We’ll need fingerprints from you and your brother today,’ Kruger told him.
Detlef looked worried. ‘You want our fingerprints? I’d better fetch Ulrich.’
Glockner put his hand on Detlef’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, it’s standard business. You and your brother have been inside the motor home so both your prints need to be ruled out.’
‘Yes, I understand. Well, we just let the moss grow over it and after a while it was a blot on the landscape but we didn’t dare get rid of it in case Horst came back.’
Hanne was intrigued by the old man’s choice of words. ‘You didn’t dare?’
Detlef shook his head. ‘Herr Gwisdek was quite a tricky character. He didn’t mix with the neighbours. He was a loner, not polite but not particularly friendly either.’
‘Did you ever see any of his friends or family?’ Glockner asked.
‘Not really. Horst never spoke about a family or even what he did for a job, and I didn’t ask. He paid the rent,
so I couldn’t complain. Nobody messed with him because he was a tough, ex-army type.’
Kruger’s ears pricked up. ‘Ex-army? How’d you know that?’
‘When Ulrich and I packed all his things, we found a photograph of Horst in a Russian Army uniform,’ Detlef told them.
‘Could be fancy dress costume,’ Kruger surmised. ‘Time we saw this motor home.’
Horst Gwisdek’s motor caravan was in a field behind the timber yard, obscured by trees and partly covered in moss. Inside it was cold and damp. Rutger set up a forensic tent outside and the area was cordoned off. Everyone who entered the motor home wore protective latex gloves and plastic overshoes.
Hanne looked through a few discoloured white envelopes, pulling out old photos, mostly in colour but some in black and white. There was a photo of Horst as a younger man in the distinctive uniform of the Russian Army with red lapels and epaulettes emblazoned with the hammer and the sickle, and other army photos where Horst was dressed in desert combat gear.
Hanne turned over a photo: the words ‘Afghanistan 1982’ were written on the back.
‘Stefan, take a look at this. Horst served in Afghanistan.’
Glockner looked at the photo. ‘No one wins over there except the Afghans.’
‘What nickname will you and Kruger have for this?’
‘I dunno, Drais, but I’m sure we’ll come up with something.’
Finding a photo of a large group of men and women in a cobbled courtyard, Hanne looked closely, hoping to recognise someone in the myriad of faces. On the back of the photo was written ‘Dresden 1988’.
‘This has to be Torgau,’ she said.
‘So, after his Army days it’s looking likely that Horst went to work at Torgau as a warden and the dates would fit. But what did he do after the Wall came down?’ she mused. ‘Let’s hope these files will give us some answers.’
There were several files in boxes including old records of Horst’s rental contract for the Biegel’s flat in Leipzig, Horst’s car and motor home insurances, his landline and mobile phone bills alongside utility bills like electric and gas, old receipts for food and petrol and invoices to and from various places of work.
Stefan read an invoice. ‘Bingo! Horst was a self-employed security guard.’
‘Great!’ Hanne exclaimed.
‘Let’s see what else we can find.’
‘Stefan, I’ve had an idea,’ Hanne said and left in a hurry.
Biegel had provided the police and forensic teams with sustenance from the small kitchen in the timber yard. Copious amounts of hot, freshly brewed coffee were available plus sandwiches and pastries and most important of all, a warm room to sit in.
‘This looks nice, thank you. Detlef, can I ask you a question?’
Biegel nodded. ‘I don’t know if I can help, but go on, young lady, ask away.’
‘Horst was a self-employed security guard,’ Hanne told him.
‘I always thought he was self-employed but I never knew exactly what Horst did.’
‘Well, we’ve got some of his old invoices and I imagine he sorted his taxes out himself because there’s no sign of an accountant,’ Hanne began. ‘So let’s assume Horst was working up and until the time of his disappearance and was invoiced for a job at his last place of work.’
Detlef had a bright spark in his eyes. ‘You mean, did Horst receive any letters or invoices after his disappearance?’
Hanne smiled. ‘Exactly!’
‘Let me see. If I remember correctly, I put the last few months of his post in a manila envelope and dated it, ‘Autumn ‘92’.’
Hanne could have kissed Biegel. ‘Thank you. I’ll be back for coffee and cake.’
In the motor home, Hanne found the manila envelope. Inside, were details of Horst’s last places of work. Two invoices and cheques were sent to him in the autumn of 1992, one from the organisers of the Berlin Marathon dated September 1992. The other was from Motzen Mayor golf club for his services at their tournament, dated October 1992.
‘These two sporting events never had to pay him,’ Glockner said. ‘Horst never cashed their cheques. His death saved them more than 300 deutschmarks each.’
‘That was a good day’s pay in 1992. We’ll inquire about these cheques to both the Berlin Marathon organisers and the Motzen golf club. I wonder what’s happened to Horst’s bank account?’ Hanne asked.
Glockner pulled out a piece of paper from a file. ‘It’s with Deutsche Post and here are his account details. I’ll contact the bank.’
Hanne was curious. ‘If it’s a hibernating account, I wonder who gets the money?’
‘Not Lotte Holler, that’s for sure. She’ll be rich enough,’ Glockner said.
Kruger came inside the motor home.
‘Good timing,’ Hanne told Kruger. ‘We’ve found something useful.’
‘Take a look at this,’ Glockner said, handing Kruger the letter from the manila envelope.
Kruger read the letter and asked. ‘How many fucking security people do you need at the Berlin Marathon?’
‘Quite a few. You don’t think they’ll remember Gwisdek?’ Stefan asked.
Kruger shook his head. ‘But there’s less staff at a golf tournament. Where’s this Motzen Mayor Golf club?’
‘Not far from here. Don’t think we’ll have time to check it out today, though,’ Glockner said.
Kruger, Glockner and Hanne took a break in the warmth of the staff room at the timber yard just as Detlef’s brother Ulrich arrived, bringing with him a local and distinguished guest: the Mayor of Zossen, Bernd Felker.
Bernd didn’t want to make a fuss, he just wanted to know what was going on in his jurisdiction. Zossen was his home and whether the news was good or bad, he liked to be informed. He knew the Biegel brothers and many of the townsfolk by name and when Ulrich bumped into him in town and told him what was going on at the timber yard, Bernd immediately dropped all of his plans and followed the old man back.
Detlef greeted the Mayor and his look-alike brother Ulrich, who was in fact five years younger, shaking hands warmly with both men. Bernd perused the room and instinctively noticed Kruger’s air of authority with his colleagues, which told him that this man was in charge of proceedings.
‘May I introduce the Burgermeister of Zossen?’ Detlef said to the police team.
‘Hi, I’m Bernd,’ he said, informally.
Kruger shook the Mayor’s hand. ‘CDI Oskar Kruger, and these are my colleagues, Stefan Glockner and Hanne Drais. News travels fast in these parts.’
‘You could say that. May I?’ Bernd asked, gesturing to join them at the table.
‘Of course, sit yourself down.’
Bernd shook hands with Stefan and Hanne.
‘Bernd, help yourself to a cake. What can I get you to drink?’ Detlef asked.
‘No cake, Detlef, just a cup of tea, thanks,’ Bernd said and turning to the police team he told them, ‘My wife worries about my expanding waistline and coffee consumption.’
‘So does mine, but she’s not here,’ Kruger said, laughing and taking a second pastry. ‘How can we help you, Herr Burgermeister?’
‘Please, call me Bernd. Well, if anyone in town starts asking questions and wants to turn up here out of curiosity, can you advise me what I should say?’
Kruger thought Bernd was experienced at diplomacy and lowered his gruff exterior for the friendly Mayor. ‘Firstly, the motor home is not to be tampered with and other than that, I’m sure you’ll know what to say to the townsfolk. It’d be good if you’d accompany me to the police station in town and help me liaise with them once we’ve finished here.’
‘No problem, be glad to help,’ Bernd replied.
‘Let me fill you in on some details. You’ve heard about the three bodies pulled out of Muggelsee last month?’
‘Yes, I hear it’s the talk of the town over there,’ Bernd informed them, thinking of Dr Jens.
‘Well, the motor home belongs to one of the deceased men, Horst Gwisdek. H
ave you heard of him?’ Kruger asked.
Bernd shook his head. ‘Is he… was he from around these parts?’
‘From Leipzig. He went missing back in 1992.’
Detlef brought Bernd a cup of tea. ‘Horst was one of my old tenants.’
‘Thanks, Detlef. Don’t forget to tell Ute, I haven’t cheated with the cakes,’ Bernd said with a grin.
‘We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us,’ Detlef told them and left the room with Ulrich.
‘Where were we?’ Kruger asked.
Glockner reminded him. ‘1992, Leipzig and Gwisdek.’
‘Oh, yes, Horst Gwisdek. The motor home belonged to him and we’re hoping anything we find inside amongst his personal possessions will help us track his killer.’
‘I see. Well, I don’t suppose it’s easy to find killers, let alone killers from 1992, but I wish you luck with your investigation,’ Bernd said, enthusiastically. ‘I have to tell you Chief Inspector, the excitement of your presence here in Zossen has spread all over town.’
Kruger seemed unperturbed. ‘Can’t be helped.’
‘It’s like a traffic accident,’ Hanne added. ‘All the passing cars want to slow down to take a look.’
‘Lots of folk like a bit of blood and gore,’ Glockner stated.
‘Speak for yourself, Glockner,’ said Hanne.
Bernd could see the police team enjoyed their own brand of humour. ‘You said there were three men pulled from Muggelsee. Are they connected to each other?’
‘Yes,’ Kruger said, lighting a cigar.
Bernd didn’t probe. He took Kruger’s tacit response as ‘Don’t ask’ and took a swig of his tea, gulping it down in one go, thinking he should leave. ‘Well, here’s my card. If there’s anything I can help you with or you need, just get in touch with me,’ he told them.
Kruger liked the Mayor’s diplomacy. ‘Don’t go just yet. I’ll finish my coffee and we’ll go to the police station in Zossen, if that doesn’t interfere with your plans for the day?’
‘Not at all,’ Bernd said, thinking his round of golf with Klaus could wait. Police work was much more important than keeping up his golf handicap. Bernd liked to feel his work was worthwhile, serving the community of Zossen. He preferred presiding over meetings with the town council to discuss environmental and fiscal developments rather than being simply a figurehead, holding banquets and opening fetes. Ute enjoyed this more than him, accompanying him and playing the perfect host as the wife of the Mayor. Today was real work, helping the police with a murder investigation.