A Darker State

by David Young

  When Müller rose from the dining table for a third time, Helga got up instead and waved Müller to stay where she was.

  ‘You two enjoy your meal. I’ll go to them.’

  Müller and Emil resumed eating, but in silence, other than the sound of Emil chewing his food, something that had recently begun grating on Müller. She was still attracted to him – he was a handsome man, of that there was no doubt. But she was starting to discover things about him that almost annoyed her more than Gottfried at his most infuriating. And the rhythmic sound of his mastication was just one in a growing list. His attitude to her grandmother, and what he saw as her constant interfering, was another.

  He finally swallowed his mouthful.

  ‘Should we discuss things?’ ventured Müller.

  ‘Discuss what? You seem to have made your decisions, and here we are.’

  ‘I thought this was what you wanted, a bigger flat. You were always complaining the old one was too cramped. You always knew I was going to go back to work too. It’s just happened a little more suddenly than expected.’

  Emil pursed his lips, as though he was going to say more, but had then thought better of it.

  ‘I’m going to need your support, Emil,’ she pleaded. ‘This new job . . . I have to give it my full attention, at least to begin with. And it’s going to take me away from the Hauptstadt.’

  ‘Not overnight, I hope.’

  ‘No. Well . . . I hope not. But I’ve got to go and meet the rest of the team to follow up leads in Frankfurt and Eisenhüttenstadt this evening.’ Müller became aware she was twisting her hair around a finger, something she often did when she was anxious.

  ‘This evening? The first night in our new home? Well . . . your new home, as you like to point out.’

  Müller put down her knife and fork. First the twins. Now Emil. She clearly wasn’t going to get much more of her meal eaten.

  Emil lapsed into a morose silence, interrupted by the harsh ringing of the telephone. As Müller moved to pick up the receiver, she saw him look at the telephone with disdain.

  ‘Karin.’ It was Tilsner. ‘Have you got a moment?’

  Just then, Johannes started screaming again. She saw Emil putting his hands to his ears.

  ‘What is it, Werner?’

  Before Tilsner had the chance to reply, she noticed from the corner of her eye Emil rising from his seat and putting on his coat. ‘Hang on a second, Werner.’ She placed her hand over the mouthpiece.

  ‘Where are you going, Emil?’ she whispered urgently.

  ‘Back to the hospital. Someone covered for me this morning; in return I’ve got to do the late shift.’

  ‘Hang on, we were going to—’

  But he had gone, slamming the apartment door behind him. Müller took a couple of deep breaths to try to compose herself.

  ‘Sorry, Werner. A bit of trouble with one of the children again.’ A lie, but not far from the truth. These days she often felt Emil was acting like a spoilt child.

  6

  That evening

  Frankfurt an der Oder

  Another bar, another town in the Republic, this time at its easternmost limits. Across the river, linked to Frankfurt by a bridge, was Polish territory, and the town of Słubice.

  Schmidt and Tilsner were already sitting at a table. Müller spotted them, walked across and sat down, folding her red raincoat across the seat back behind her.

  ‘Did you settle in all right?’ asked Tilsner.

  ‘Yes and no,’ replied Müller. Tilsner raised his eyebrows, prompting her to elucidate, but she didn’t feel like it with Schmidt present. Instead, she shrugged. ‘It’s all fine,’ she lied. In fact, she’d rung Emil at the hospital after his display of petulance, hoping to get to the bottom of why he seemed so moody. But the phone conversation had quickly deteriorated into another row. The fallout had been that he wasn’t going to move in for the time being after all. Müller, Helga and the twins would be staying in the new Strausberger Platz apartment, Müller was adamant about that. But – for the moment at least – Emil was going to base himself in his own one-bed hospital apartment.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked, turning back to the case. ‘Any progress in identifying our lake boy?’

  ‘We think so, don’t we, Jonas?’

  Schmidt nodded. He still wasn’t saying very much, but did at least seem to be in a better mood tonight. ‘We think we’ve found your man, Comrade Major.’ Her new rank seemed to roll easily off her Kriminaltechniker’s tongue, even though to her it still sounded strange – as though he was addressing someone else entirely.

  ‘So have you tried to contact the parents yet?’

  ‘Not as yet, no,’ said Tilsner. ‘We only found the relevant missing persons file late in the day. But the age, physical appearance and Eisenhüttenstadt link all seem to fit – although there was no mention of the tattoo. The file seems to have been put to one side, almost as though they didn’t want us to find it. And there was a note attached to it, implying it was no longer a police matter.’

  ‘What? Referred to another ministry?’

  ‘Exactly. And I’m sure you can guess which one.’

  Müller nodded, then frowned. ‘But why?’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll find out in the fullness of time, if they want us to find out. Perhaps it’s to do with the illegal payments scandal I was talking to you about. And –’ Tilsner lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper – ‘don’t look now, and when you do, make sure it’s not obvious, but directly behind you is a guy who I’m sure followed us all the way from the People’s Police HQ, and still seems to be keeping his beady eyes on us. He’s certainly not here to drink, because he’s not touched a drop of his beer.’

  ‘What’s he look like?’

  ‘Blond hair, fresh-faced. Handsome square jaw like me.’ He rubbed his stubbled chin as Schmidt rolled his eyes. ‘A bit like your Emil, actually.’ Tilsner grinned. ‘Though I don’t think it is him. Unless you make a habit of fucking Stasi agents.’

  Müller shook her head, but decided against giving Tilsner a dressing down, even though she didn’t like him undermining her authority in front of Schmidt. In any case, there was no point. Tilsner would simply laugh it off. She’d have a good look at the man in question when she got up to go to the toilet.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Tilsner, ‘we’ve made you an appointment with the parents for tomorrow morning. As we thought, they live in Eisenhüttenstadt itself. The lad was an apprentice at the steelworks, so that’s another lead. Although almost everyone in the town works at the steelworks, or has something to do with it. It’s another new town – like Hoyerswerda and Ha-Neu, although here it’s iron and steel that keeps the city’s heart beating, not lignite or chemicals as with the other two. And we thought a woman’s touch would help in breaking the news to them, didn’t we, Jonas?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Comrade Ober— sorry, Comrade Major Müller will be more tactful than you would be, Comrade Unter— sorry, I’ll get the hang of this eventually, will be more tactful than yourself, Comrade Hauptmann.’

  ‘Hmph,’ snorted Tilsner. ‘Telling parents their child is dead is something I never want to excel at, Jonas, I can assure you.’

  Müller took the opportunity provided by her two colleagues’ verbal sparring to excuse herself and head to the toilets, making sure she took a good look at the alleged Stasi agent on the way. As she went past, she couldn’t help catching the man’s eye. A look passed between them and Müller found her heart rate quickening.

  *

  The next day the weather continued much in the same vein for Müller’s drive back towards the Polish border from Berlin. Windy but bright. She parked her new Lada next to Tilsner’s on Eisenhüttenstadt’s main street as they tried to get their bearings to find the Nadels’ apartment. Because the body they’d come to refer to as ‘lake boy’ now had a name. Eighteen-year-old Dominik Nadel.

  Despite its industrial heritage, and the smoke billowing from the
chimneys of the steelworks, the new town had a fresh, clean feel. At least at this time of year, the smogs that blighted the Hauptstadt and similarly Ha-Neu seemed to be absent. Perhaps that had something to do with the blustery September weather. The eye of everyone in the town was drawn to its industrial heart, however. The main street ran in a straight line right to the steel plant. It sat there, imperiously, on the horizon, reminding all the citizens why they were fortunate enough to have their own flat in the city. To work. To work for the Republic of Workers and Peasants.

  Tilsner smoothed out his street map on top of the Wartburg, while Schmidt helped to hold down the corners as they flapped in the breeze.

  ‘They live in Wohnkomplex I – so in the new town, but the oldest bit of the new town. Dates from the fifties, whereas these blocks round here –’ Tilsner waved his arm in a sweeping gesture – ‘these are much more recent. Look, they’re still building over there.’

  Müller could see the cranes moving, lifting into place the concrete slabs to make the walls of the newest blocks. The clatter and clangs of concrete and metal reverberated above the traffic noise.

  ‘Where they live used to be the original Stalinstadt,’ added Schmidt, pointing to the map. ‘The first of our new towns, reputed to be the best.’

  The construction of the original Stalinstadt sounded as though it was from the same era as her new home off Karl-Marx-Allee, thought Müller. And, like Karl-Marx-Allee, originally Stalin-Allee, it had been renamed once the moustachioed Comrade Stalin fell out of favour at the beginning of the sixties.

  ‘Well, if you two know where you’re going, lead the way and I’ll follow behind.’

  *

  Müller decided a delegation of all three of them visiting the parents might be too much. So once they were there, she sent Schmidt off to liaise with the local forensic science team at the town’s People’s Police office, to see if they’d uncovered anything that might be of use to the investigation.

  Outside the apartment entrance, Müller put on her red raincoat, ignoring Tilsner’s raised eyebrows. Wearing it helped steel her for the unpleasant task ahead.

  Whether Herr and Frau Nadel had any real idea of the information the police now possessed was hard to tell from their expressions. They seemed a timid couple, unwilling to make eye contact, both of them rubbing their hands together as they sat side by side on the apartment’s dark-brown corduroy sofa.

  ‘So, as you know, Herr and Frau Nadel, we’ve made this appointment because we’re a new team looking into the disappearance of your son.’ Müller was tempted to go straight in with the terrible news that Dominik had been found dead – murdered even – although she was going to spare them the details about a sock being stuffed down his throat. To come straight out with it was often the kindest way. But her aim was to find out information as much as to impart it. Sympathising with their loss would have to wait. If she told them immediately he was dead, they might clam up, or their grief might render the rest of the interview worthless. So, however heartless it might be, she was going to delay the news as long as possible.

  ‘What can you tell us about Dominik? Anything would be helpful. His interests, his friends – any enemies he has – what sort of a boy he is.’ Müller was careful to refer to their son in the present tense. ‘That kind of thing. Has he ever done anything like this before?’

  There was – initially – silence, as though both parents were too stunned to speak, or too weary from recounting the same story to a succession of police officers, of whom Müller and Tilsner were only the latest, and two who had yet to build up any sense of trust.

  Eventually, Frau Nadel began to speak in a soft voice while her husband sat, eyes still downcast, still wringing his hands. ‘He did go away for a while last year. But he said it was part of his apprenticeship.’

  ‘Apprenticeship?’ prodded Tilsner. He and Müller knew perfectly well where the boy was apprenticed, but the more they could get from the Nadels’ own mouths, the more useful it was likely to be. And the more likely the parents would be to tell them something they didn’t already know.

  ‘At the steelworks. He was doing well, apparently. At least, that’s what he told us.’

  ‘What about girlfriends?’ asked Müller. ‘Was he going out with anyone?’

  ‘He’s a bit young for that.’ The intervention came from Herr Nadel, and sounded defensive to Müller. Wrong too. Why was eighteen too young to be having a relationship? She saw Tilsner give her a look out of the corner of his eye. Evidently he thought the same.

  ‘What about interests, hobbies? There must have been something in his life apart from work,’ continued Müller.

  ‘His motorbike. He’s obsessed with that,’ said the mother.

  ‘Hmm. We should never have let him get one,’ added the father, attracting a glare from his wife. ‘There’s no need to look at me like that. I’m going to tell them what I think. We need to be honest to help them find him.’

  Müller ignored the pointed look Tilsner gave her. She wasn’t yet ready to tell them about the body washed up on the banks of an artificial lake, some hundred kilometres or so to the south.

  ‘When you say “obsessed”, what do you mean?’ probed Müller.

  ‘Well, he’s always toying with it. Taking it apart, putting it back together again, buying little bits to soup it up, that sort of thing. His hands were always filthy dirty . . .’ Frau Nadel started to laugh at the memory, then the laughter died in her mouth and transformed itself into a strangled sob as the horrific reality of the present reasserted itself. ‘Sorry, are. Are . . . always filthy.’ She brought one hand up to wipe her eye, as her husband clasped the other and squeezed it. ‘And then there were the club meetings.’

  ‘Club meetings?’ prompted Tilsner.

  ‘Well, I think it was a club. He never really talked about the details to us. But he stopped going to the Free German Youth meetings to go to this motorbike club thing.’

  ‘We tried to talk him out of it,’ added Herr Nadel. ‘Didn’t we, Liebling? But he’s always been a bit of a loner. Always wanted to do his own thing. He’s a good socialist though.’ His wife nodded at this.

  Such a good little socialist he stopped going to communist youth meetings, thought Müller.

  ‘So motorbikes were his only interest?’ asked Tilsner. Müller knew what he was thinking. If that was the case, why the Stahl Eisenhüttenstadt tattoo? ‘He wasn’t the sporty type, nothing like that?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Frau Nadel hesitated.

  ‘You might as well tell us everything, Frau Nadel,’ said Müller. ‘We need as much information as possible to help our inquiry.’ The exact nature of the investigation – the fact that it had transformed from one involving a missing person to one of murder, and a particularly brutal and sadistic murder at that – was still something Müller wasn’t prepared to divulge.

  Dominik’s mother sighed. ‘He used to be very into football. He wanted to become a professional. Until he got involved with the motorbikes. We were sad he gave it up.’

  ‘So he played for a team?’ asked Tilsner.

  Herr Nadel nodded. ‘The youth team of the local club, BSG Stahl.’

  ‘Stahl Eisenhüttenstadt?’ said Tilsner, feigning surprise. ‘They’re a good team, aren’t they? Used to be in the Oberliga.’

  ‘Used to be,’ confirmed Herr Nadel. Then seemed disinclined to say anything further.

  ‘So he just gave up a promising career in football to mess around on his motorbike at weekends?’ asked Müller. ‘That seems strange.’

  The Nadels both nodded in unison. ‘We tried to dissuade him,’ said the mother. ‘But he wouldn’t talk about it. Said he’d had it with football. I got the feeling he was being teased or bullied about something, but we never found out what.’

  ‘He used to be a big Stahl fan, as well as one of their youth players,’ said the father. ‘He even had a tattoo of the team’s emblem on his shoulder.’

  ‘Which shoulder?’ asked
Müller, even though she and Tilsner knew very well what the answer was.

  ‘His left,’ said the mother. ‘But he was so fed up with it, he was getting it removed. Stupid things, tattoos. I don’t know why anyone would want to defile their body in that way. We were really angry about it. But at least he tried to get it off.’

  ‘Tried?’ asked Tilsner.

  ‘It was such a big design, removing it was very painful. He managed to get about two-thirds of it off, and then I think the pain got too much for him and he stopped. Then it went septic, and the skin didn’t heal properly . . .’

  ‘It was a stupid thing to do,’ said the father, shaking his head. ‘But he’s our son. Wherever he is, whatever he’s been up to. We want him back.’

  Müller realised she couldn’t delay imparting the dreadful news any longer. She sighed heavily, and then inhaled just as deeply, to prepare herself for the moment.

  ‘Herr and Frau Nadel . . .’ Müller watched the faces of the two parents become quizzical, than fearful. ‘We had to ask you this series of questions to establish the facts, but I’m afraid what you’ve just said about Dominik’s tattoo has left no doubts.’

  ‘W-w-what d-d-do you mean?’ asked the mother, her voice querulous, as her husband moved his hand from hers to grip her in a hug.

  Try as she might, Müller found she couldn’t meet the woman’s gaze, or that of her husband. Instead, she spotted a piece of fluff on the linoleum floor and spoke to that. ‘We’ve found the body of a young male . . .’

  ‘Oh my God!’ shrieked the woman, burying her head in her husband’s chest.

  ‘. . . in Senftenberg, by the new lake there. We believe it’s Dominik. I’m truly sorry . . .’

  Out of the corner of her eye, Müller saw the husband’s face suddenly erupt in fury. ‘You knew all along, didn’t you?’ he shouted. ‘Why didn’t you just tell us, put us out of our misery?’

  Müller met the eyes of each parent in turn. ‘I am so sorry, but what you say about the partially removed tattoo leaves little doubt that this body is that of your son.’