A Darker State

by David Young

  Müller smiled. ‘That’s sounds very appealing. Is there anything on?’

  ‘You probably get annoyed by TV crime shows, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t mind. Polizeiruf 110’s actually quite realistic.’

  ‘Ah. I was going to suggest being really naughty. Tatort is on at eight o’clock . . . on Das Erste.’

  Müller gave a mock look of alarm. ‘Helga! You’ll have me arrested.’ When she was with Gottfried she used to try to dissuade him from watching West German broadcasts. These days she was more relaxed.

  ‘Sorry, I’m a bit of fan. We could keep the volume down though. Go on. You need a break – something to relax you.’

  ‘I’m not sure a crime drama is going to do that. But OK . . . only because you’re bribing me with the Sekt. I’d better not have too much though.’

  *

  Müller found herself relaxing into the programme – and the wine – despite having to get up a couple of times from the sofa to quieten the twins and rock them back to sleep.

  She’d just started her second glass when the show was suddenly interrupted by a news flash graphic, and a voiceover from the continuity announcer saying they were crossing to the newsroom for an important announcement. Müller and Helga looked at each other quizzically. This was unusual, even for western TV.

  A male newscaster came on. It was the one Jäger always reminded her of. Why had he been wheeled in on a Sunday evening? He was one of West German TV’s most familiar faces – normally seen on weekdays only.

  He was reading from a script, a bit like they still did on the Republic’s TV news. For the West, the news was slicker and more rehearsed, with the presenter’s words delivered straight to camera as they read from a teleprompter.

  ‘The bomb exploded as members of the federal cabinet were leaving a special emergency meeting at the new Federal Chancellery in Bonn.’

  The first moving pictures from the scene were then floated over the announcement, showing a still-smouldering, blackened car. After her meetings with Metzger, Müller watched with more interest than she might otherwise have done, seeing if she could spot him. She also knew that West Germany had held elections just weeks earlier – Chancellor Schmidt successfully fighting off the challenge of Helmut Kohl, clinging to power thanks to a coalition. She didn’t even know if Metzger, as a junior minister, would actually be at a cabinet meeting – presumably it would just be Schmidt and the more senior ministers.

  ‘. . . the meeting had been called by the chancellor to discuss the current steel crisis. The drop in the worldwide price of steel has led to fears of significant job losses in the Ruhr industrial area . . .’

  The newscaster droned on, although the mention of the steel industry kept Müller’s attention.

  ‘. . . measures to support the steel industry and to maintain price levels, including a review of current contracts with the DDR . . .’

  Now Müller really pricked up her ears. It was the first she’d heard of this. Was this what was behind Markus’s liaisons with Metzger – and his attempts to get information on behalf of the Stasi?

  The newsreader’s smooth delivery suddenly became hesitant. A hand appeared on screen, passing another script to him. Viewers presumably weren’t supposed to see that.

  ‘. . . and we’re just getting this update from the German Press Agency in Bonn. Early indications are that there is one fatality as a result of the explosion. It’s thought this is the driver of the car you’re seeing now, a Mercedes-Benz saloon . . .’

  The same newsreel of the burned-out vehicle was repeating in a long loop, as the newsreader spoke over it.

  The moving images suddenly faded to a still portrait image of a man in spectacles.

  Müller dropped her wine glass in shock. It shattered on the wooden floor.

  ‘What is it, Karin? Are you all right?’ asked Helga.

  ‘. . . it’s thought the vehicle belonged to Georg Metzger, a junior minister at the Ministry for Economic Cooperation. He was at the meeting to advise the federal government on the feasibility of breaking its contracts to import steel from the Eisenhüttenstadt plant in the DDR at prices fixed in . . .’

  ‘Oh my God!’ cried Müller. ‘It’s him!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘. . . unconfirmed reports suggest Herr Metzger was using his own transport to get to and from the meeting, and that he was the only occupant of the vehicle. His family – a wife and two young children – have been informed. The German Press Agency is reporting no group has so far claimed responsibility; however the Federal Border Guard say they are treating it as a terrorist act.’

  The still of Metzger faded back to the presenter talking to camera.

  ‘We’ll bring you more on that story in our main news bulletin at ten o’clock. Meanwhile back to the latest episode of Tatort.’

  Müller felt her throat constrict.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ said Helga.

  ‘I knew him. I met him just a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh God! How awful.’

  Müller started to get up from the chair. ‘Sorry, Helga, I need to make a few phone calls, and to be honest I don’t much feel like watching the—’

  A sudden repeated ringing of the doorbell interrupted her mid-sentence.

  Then a hammering on the door.

  Helga frowned anxiously as Müller went to answer.

  She hadn’t even managed to get as far as the door when it exploded inwards, the frame surround breaking, sending splinters and plaster flying.

  Müller was instantly surrounded by leather-jacketed heavies.

  ‘Leave her alone!’ screamed Helga.

  The noise woke the twins, and their cries now added to the confusion and cacophony as one of the men began to speak.

  ‘Comrade Major Karin Müller, you’re under arrest.’

  ‘No!’ she cried, trying to wrench herself free. ‘You can’t—’

  One of the men clasped his gloved hand over her mouth. Helga tried to grab her granddaughter but she was shoved back. She lost her footing and fell to the floor.

  ‘Don’t try to interfere, old woman.’

  Another man thrust his ID in front of Müller’s face as her hands were wrenched up behind her back and the cuffs put on. She didn’t need to see it to know what it said. Ministry for State Security. The Stasi.

  35

  Müller wondered if this was what it had been like for Gottfried. Had his arrest been so brutal? At least – in meeting with the dissident groups – he had done something to warrant it. But she – she hadn’t stepped out of line at all. She possessed all the necessary authorisations from Reiniger. She’d only been seeking the truth about the case she was involved in. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she was getting too near the truth.

  As they waited for the lift, Müller felt ashamed, guilty – although she had done nothing. One of her neighbours opened their front door, but then closed it again immediately.

  Parked up outside the block’s lobby, on one of the quarter circles of the roundabout that made up Strausberger Platz, Müller saw yet another Barkas van – in addition to the camper that had made regular visits here since she’d moved her family into the new apartment. The new vehicle was almost identical to the ‘bread’ van parked for so long outside her old Schönhauser Allee flat. Despite her desperate situation, she laughed out loud when she saw it had the name of a fishmonger’s on the side. Couldn’t they be more original than disguising their prison vehicles as food delivery vans? The response from the agents holding her arms was to tighten their grip and shove her roughly through the van door.

  She thought again of Gottfried. Her first reaction to him in Hohenschönhausen had been to view him as a slightly pathetic, broken figure. Now, as she was forced into the tiny, cell-like space, only just about big enough for her crouching body, she understood why he had appeared so.

  Her sense of outrage and bewilderment was matched by a feeling of nausea from th
e lingering smell of urine and faeces.

  Then the van started up. She tried to work out from the turns, the acceleration and deceleration, where they were going. There were only narrow shafts of light in the makeshift cell, and she couldn’t see out to check the route; instead she tried to make a mental map in her head.

  But after what must have been something like thirty minutes of twists and turns, and being rocked and banged from side to side, she was forced to give up. She desperately tried to think why. Why were they doing this to her? Was it her secret meetings with Metzger? That was nothing illegal . . . But now he was dead, blown to smithereens by a car bomb. That didn’t make sense. Was it the fact that she’d stood up to Jäger, challenged him? She couldn’t believe he would be that vindictive. Was it because of her meeting that had been scheduled for the next day with the endocrinologist at Charité? A meeting that the Stasi had now ensured would not take place. That made more sense: perhaps some branch of the Stasi – with the involvement of Baum and Diederich – was worried she was getting near to the truth and was determined to stop her.

  The disorientating stopping, starting and driving in circles had finally ended. The prison van interior was now completely dark – even the weak shafts of light from passing street lamps had stopped appearing. Müller could tell, as she tried and failed to stretch her limbs in the confined, stinking space, that they were now heading in a straight line, at speed. It must be a motorway – but she had no idea which one, or in which direction they were travelling.

  Or the intended final destination.

  She found herself fighting back tears. What she did know was that it was far from the Hauptstadt, far from her home and the twins. They’d been stolen from her at birth – for however brief a time – and now she’d been stolen from them. Would she ever see Jannika, Johannes or Helga ever again? Poor Helga. Pushed to the floor in the mayhem at the apartment. She hoped her grandmother wasn’t seriously hurt – and if she was, what had happened to the twins? They would be all alone until Emil returned.

  Emil. A horrible thought was forming at the back of her confused mind. She’d always had a nagging suspicion about the coincidence of him ending up in Halle-Neustadt during her previous case, of the ease with which they seemed to get together. And then – just before her life gets turned upside down by the Stasi – he hurriedly leaves the flat. For a meeting at the hospital on a Sunday evening?

  Müller tried to swallow. Her throat was dry from the wine. She needed water. But the thought of it started another panic. Because she also felt a mounting need to go to the toilet – and she knew that if this journey carried on much longer she would suffer the humiliation of wetting herself in her mobile prison cell. From the smell of the fetid air around her, it seemed many other prisoners had suffered the same way.

  36

  Earlier that day

  Pankow

  When Müller told Tilsner she was going down to Senftenberg to interview grumpy old Fenstermacher, he was slightly put out that he was going to have to tail Winkler on his own, and that – according to Müller – Reiniger had confirmed that, at this stage, he wasn’t prepared to authorise the younger Winkler being taken in for questioning. Something about not embarrassing the father. Tilsner didn’t care about that. He knew the father, had history with him – but he couldn’t reveal that to Müller.

  The uniforms had failed to produce any information of value when they’d been detailed to watch the son, so with no progress, Reiniger had scaled things back. It was left to Tilsner alone.

  He waited in a café with a clear view of the Winkler house, pretending to read a newspaper, his bike helmet on the seat next to him and a steaming cup of coffee just placed in front of him by the waitress. It was one thing haring around on motorbikes in September. Now, three months later, with sleet driving down outside, he wasn’t looking forward to it at all.

  He warmed his hands on the coffee mug and breathed in the bittersweet aroma, feeling it wake up his taste buds. Then, just as he touched the edge of the pottery mug to his lips, before he’d taken his first sip, he saw the Winkler youth come out of the house.

  Scheisse! Tilsner slammed down the mug, grabbed his helmet and raced outside to his bike – ignoring the shouts of the waitress complaining that he hadn’t paid. She was a pretty thing, so it was a shame, but it would give him a good excuse to visit again to settle his debt.

  He quickly fired up the bike, carefully watching which direction Winkler was heading in. Normally, all the youths gathered outside Winkler’s house before setting off on their Sunday convoy. This solo venture had taken him by surprise. Where was he off to on his own? Maybe the weather had put paid to their usual jaunt to the club.

  Before Tilsner had released the throttle, Winkler had disappeared round the next corner. Tilsner could feel that the machine he was on was even more powerful than the previous one, but he didn’t want to test its full acceleration on such a slippery surface. He just hoped to God that young Winkler wasn’t more reckless. Not because he cared about the youth’s fate. He seemed a duplicitous little rat, and coming to an end squashed on a road, or with his body wrapped round a lamppost, might be no bad thing. Tilsner simply didn’t want to lose him round the next bend.

  The bike gripped the road well enough as the detective cornered. Straightening it, he risked taking one hand off the bars to wipe his visor and saw Winkler still just about in sight. Then the youth turned towards Mitte. Tilsner opened up the machine as much as he dared. If a car pulled out now he’d probably end up squashed like a fly on its front grille. But he got a clear run, and when he took the same right turn as the youth, he could still see him up ahead. Really, to do this properly, you needed two tails on separate bikes – one taking over from the other at intervals so the target didn’t wise up.

  He dropped into the slipstream of a Trabant. This way he was hidden from Winkler but could still see him through the Trabi’s rear and front windscreens. He just hoped the guy driving the car didn’t suddenly brake.

  They were on Schönhauser Allee approaching the lights by Dimitroffstrasse U-bahn. If Winkler was heading to Frankfurt or Hütte, his favourite haunts, then Tilsner would have expected him to turn left, following Dimitroffstrasse itself, as it skirted Prenzlauer Berg and Friedrichshain. But he was in the lane to go straight on. The Trabi was doing the same, so Tilsner still had cover.

  He used the pause at the lights to wipe the visor again. Sauwetter! And on a Sunday too, when he should be home with Koletta and the kids. The leathers, gloves and helmet were keeping off the worst of it, but he could feel the cold wetness of the sleet getting in at his neck and starting to slither down his back.

  The Trabi suddenly started slowing down and signalling left. Tilsner could either stay hidden behind it and hope to catch up in a moment, or risk pulling out and showing himself to Winkler. He looked in his wing mirrors. The mixture of wet ice and rain had formed a smeary layer – he could see nothing in them, and therefore it must be the same for Winkler ahead. Tilsner kicked down a couple of gears, then swung out and accelerated, slowing again once he was two hundred metres or so behind the youth. Tilsner could barely make out the TV tower in the middle distance through the low cloud, sleet and gloom. Then Winkler suddenly dived off to the right, down Saarbrückerstrasse.

  Had he been spotted? Was Winkler trying to throw him off?

  Tilsner kicked down, opened the throttle again, then took the same corner as fast as he dared, narrowly missing a car coming in the opposite direction. He felt the tyres start to slip under him, but he managed to straighten as they found their grip again. Winkler was still there, up ahead.

  Tilsner knew the youth’s bike wasn’t anywhere near powerful enough to outrun his own. But unless he kept close, Winkler could still give him the slip if he wanted. If he spotted him. Tilsner just had to try to make sure he didn’t, hoping the awful weather would help.

  They were now passing the entrance to Volkspark Friedrichshain, and when Winkler chose to take the south-e
asterly route by the park – along Friedenstrasse – Tilsner started to relax a little. He had a fair idea where he was heading now. And when the youth turned left at Karl-Marx-Allee and carried straight on past the Kosmos cinema and the Frankfurter Tor, the detective was even more certain.

  *

  The weather had eased by the time they approached Frankfurt, which meant Tilsner had to stay further back to avoid being spotted, particularly at the turning to Eisenhüttenstadt – if Winkler was indeed heading where the detective thought. But in easing off, Tilsner had allowed a truck to get in front of him. At first he didn’t want to risk overtaking, but after a few seconds, realised he had to. He kicked down and pulled out. But although the sleet had dropped, the road was still soaked. Tilsner found himself driving blind – straight through a cloud of spray – praying no one was coming the opposite way. When he finally emerged and wiped the visor with the back of one hand, he saw the road ahead was straight – and empty.

  No sign of Winkler.

  Tilsner knew there was one last chance, one hope, that this wasn’t a wasted journey.

  In a few hundred metres, as he passed the entrance to the club, Tilsner made sure he kept watch on the car park from behind the visor – without turning his head to make it obvious. Thankfully, he saw Winkler, with his distinctive thunder flash striped helmet, getting off his machine.

  Tilsner kept going until he was out of sight, then pulled over to the verge and put the bike on its side rest. He pulled off his helmet, shaking his soaking back – then wished he hadn’t.

  The truck he’d just overtaken roared by, sending a huge plume of water from a muddy puddle straight into the detective’s face. He shook his head like a drenched dog and made a punching motion at the back of the truck as it disappeared towards Hütte.

  *

  Tilsner found their usual hiding place, the old shed with a broken window whose door had either rotted or been kicked in years before. He had a clear view of the club. Winkler, he assumed, must have already gone inside. There was no sign of him, but his bike was still parked up where Tilsner had seen him get off moments earlier. There were no other vehicles in the car park, save for one battered Trabant. And no music booming through the low building’s walls. Whatever was going on inside, it didn’t look like it was the normal weekly club meet. Tilsner settled down for what he expected to be a long wait – hoping that when Winkler came out, he might actually see something that would make the long, uncomfortable ride worthwhile.