and her husband . . . well you probably know all about him anyway. But she’ll be in, there’s that at least. She never goes out these days.’
‘And what about Silke, the daughter?’
‘Well they’ve reported her missing, haven’t they? Look, posters everywhere.’ The woman gestured with her eyes to the wall of the lobby, and Müller saw the exact same photo from the file, this time as the centrepiece of a missing person’s poster, offering a 1,000-mark reward. ‘They’re making out she’s been abducted or something, but it’s obvious where she’s gone.’
‘Where?’ asked Tilsner.
‘Where do they all go? To the West, of course. Watch all their western TV programmes and get silly ideas. She was always a bad one.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Müller.
The woman leant down to pick up her shopping bags. ‘I’ll tell you on the way up,’ she said. ‘Can your young man give me a hand with these? There’s no point him pressing those buttons, because the lift doesn’t work either.’
The three of them laboriously climbed the four floors, with Tilsner taking both her shopping bags. On the way, in between regular stops to get her breath back, Frau Keppler extolled her theory that Silke Eisenberg had been mixing with the wrong sorts. Having sex with boys. Then men. And then with money changing hands. Frau Keppler’s view was that she’d simply crossed the Wall to earn more money in the West’s lucrative red-light districts. She divulged the information in an ever-quieter voice. By the time they were at the fourth level she was virtually whispering into Müller’s ear, between regular rasping intakes of air.
‘You do realise what you’re alleging, Citizen Keppler? Republikflucht is a very serious crime,’ said Müller, matching the elderly woman’s whisper. ‘ Republikflucht and alleged prostitution.’
The woman gestured with her eyes to the door to apartment 412. ‘You’ll see, dear,’ she whispered. Tilsner handed her the shopping bags. ‘Thank you, young man,’ she said, this time at full volume.
As Frau Keppler retreated down the corridor towards her own flat, humming a tune as she went, Müller rang the Eisenbergs’ bell.
The door opened a few centimetres, and half of a woman’s face appeared, bisected by a security chain which prevented the door opening fully. ‘Who is it?’
Müller held up her Kripo ID. ‘ Kriminalpolizei . We’re here about Silke.’
The woman made no initial move to undo the chain or open the door further. ‘What about Silke? She’s not here.’
Müller sighed. ‘We know that, Citizen Eisenberg, but we may have some information about her. Could you let us in, please? This is a criminal investigation.’
Now it was the woman’s turn to sigh. A strange reaction, thought Müller, unless what the old woman had alleged was true. The chain jangled as Frau Eisenberg freed it, and Müller and Tilsner stepped into the brightly painted hallway of the flat. The woman looked out of place amongst its neatness. Mousy hair, unwashed greasy housecoat and, more importantly, a look in her eyes that didn’t suggest she was expecting to receive some bad news about her daughter.
Müller held out her hand. ‘ Oberleutnant Müller, Kriminalpolizei Mitte. And this is Unterleutnant Tilsner.’
The woman wiped her hand on the back of her housecoat, before accepting Müller’s handshake. ‘Marietta Eisenberg. I’m Silke’s mother.’
‘And where’s her dad?’ asked Tilsner.
The woman snorted. ‘You should know more about that than me.’
‘What do you mean, Frau Eisenberg?’ asked Müller.
‘I mean I don’t know where he is. He was arrested three months ago, just before Silke went missing, but I don’t know where he’s been taken. You lot won’t tell me anything.’
Müller looked quizzically at Tilsner. He shrugged. ‘We don’t know anything about that, Citizen Eisenberg,’ she said. ‘And if he’d been arrested by the Volkspolizei we would
‘And what about Silke, the daughter?’
‘Well they’ve reported her missing, haven’t they? Look, posters everywhere.’ The woman gestured with her eyes to the wall of the lobby, and Müller saw the exact same photo from the file, this time as the centrepiece of a missing person’s poster, offering a 1,000-mark reward. ‘They’re making out she’s been abducted or something, but it’s obvious where she’s gone.’
‘Where?’ asked Tilsner.
‘Where do they all go? To the West, of course. Watch all their western TV programmes and get silly ideas. She was always a bad one.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Müller.
The woman leant down to pick up her shopping bags. ‘I’ll tell you on the way up,’ she said. ‘Can your young man give me a hand with these? There’s no point him pressing those buttons, because the lift doesn’t work either.’
The three of them laboriously climbed the four floors, with Tilsner taking both her shopping bags. On the way, in between regular stops to get her breath back, Frau Keppler extolled her theory that Silke Eisenberg had been mixing with the wrong sorts. Having sex with boys. Then men. And then with money changing hands. Frau Keppler’s view was that she’d simply crossed the Wall to earn more money in the West’s lucrative red-light districts. She divulged the information in an ever-quieter voice. By the time they were at the fourth level she was virtually whispering into Müller’s ear, between regular rasping intakes of air.
‘You do realise what you’re alleging, Citizen Keppler? Republikflucht is a very serious crime,’ said Müller, matching the elderly woman’s whisper. ‘ Republikflucht and alleged prostitution.’
The woman gestured with her eyes to the door to apartment 412. ‘You’ll see, dear,’ she whispered. Tilsner handed her the shopping bags. ‘Thank you, young man,’ she said, this time at full volume.
As Frau Keppler retreated down the corridor towards her own flat, humming a tune as she went, Müller rang the Eisenbergs’ bell.
The door opened a few centimetres, and half of a woman’s face appeared, bisected by a security chain which prevented the door opening fully. ‘Who is it?’
Müller held up her Kripo ID. ‘ Kriminalpolizei . We’re here about Silke.’
The woman made no initial move to undo the chain or open the door further. ‘What about Silke? She’s not here.’
Müller sighed. ‘We know that, Citizen Eisenberg, but we may have some information about her. Could you let us in, please? This is a criminal investigation.’
Now it was the woman’s turn to sigh. A strange reaction, thought Müller, unless what the old woman had alleged was true. The chain jangled as Frau Eisenberg freed it, and Müller and Tilsner stepped into the brightly painted hallway of the flat. The woman looked out of place amongst its neatness. Mousy hair, unwashed greasy housecoat and, more importantly, a look in her eyes that didn’t suggest she was expecting to receive some bad news about her daughter.
Müller held out her hand. ‘ Oberleutnant Müller, Kriminalpolizei Mitte. And this is Unterleutnant Tilsner.’
The woman wiped her hand on the back of her housecoat, before accepting Müller’s handshake. ‘Marietta Eisenberg. I’m Silke’s mother.’
‘And where’s her dad?’ asked Tilsner.
The woman snorted. ‘You should know more about that than me.’
‘What do you mean, Frau Eisenberg?’ asked Müller.
‘I mean I don’t know where he is. He was arrested three months ago, just before Silke went missing, but I don’t know where he’s been taken. You lot won’t tell me anything.’
Müller looked quizzically at Tilsner. He shrugged. ‘We don’t know anything about that, Citizen Eisenberg,’ she said. ‘And if he’d been arrested by the Volkspolizei we would
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