know, I can assure you.’
‘It wasn’t the police who took him. It was the Stasi.’ Müller frowned. Perhaps they should have checked in with Jäger before coming here.
‘Well then, I’m sure they had good reason.’ It was a little cruel, but Marietta Eisenberg had rubbed her up the wrong way. ‘I’m sorry for what’s happened to your husband. But we’re here to talk about Silke – can we sit down?’
Silke’s mother ushered the two detectives into the lounge. Müller was impressed as she took in the decor. The woman’s daywear might have been dirty, but her apartment was spotless – and full of the latest gadgets. A telephone, television, expensive-looking parquet flooring and a tasteful range of fitted wood-veneer cupboards and bookshelves. It was how Müller imagined a flat in West Berlin might be furnished.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Frau Eisenberg. ‘How does a family whose husband has been arrested by the Stasi afford something like this?’
‘It is a lovely flat,’ said Müller, swallowing her curiosity, ‘but it’s no concern of mine. Shall we sit?’ She gestured to the beige corduroy sofa. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tilsner in the kitchen, riffling through cupboards and drawers.
Eisenberg kept darting glances towards Müller’s deputy. ‘Does he have authorisation for that? For going through my things?’ she asked.
‘Don’t worry about Unterleutnant Tilsner,’ said Müller. ‘The fact we’re from the Kripo is the only authorisation we need, Frau Eisenberg.’ Then Müller turned more conciliatory, and laid her hand on top of Eisenberg’s. ‘We simply need to find out as much as we can about Silke. You see, a girl has been found.’ Müller studied the woman’s face, watching for her reactions. There was apprehension, perhaps fear – but no real surprise.
‘Really?’
Müller nodded, but kept her hand clasped to Eisenberg’s. ‘But it may not be good news, I’m afraid.’ This was the bit Müller hated: telling a parent that the police believed their child was dead. ‘A girl’s body has been found.’
Eisenberg stared at her in apparent disbelief. At the same time, Müller was aware of Tilsner now having moved out of the kitchen and the lounge, and towards the bedrooms. She didn’t think Frau Eisenberg, in her distressed state, had noticed.
‘We’re not sure it’s Silke. For your sake, I hope it’s not. But we need you to look at a photograph to see if it is her. Can you do that for me?’
Marietta Eisenberg looked crushed. Her husband in some unknown Stasi jail. And now her daughter, having been missing for months, was possibly dead. ‘Where was the girl’s body discovered?’
‘In the Hauptstadt. In Mitte.’
‘The Hauptstadt?’ asked Eisenberg. ‘In the East?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But –’ The words died in Eisenberg’s mouth.
‘But what, Citizen Eisenberg? Is there something you want to tell me?’
‘N-n-no. I . . . I . . . it’s just –’
‘What?’
Frau Eisenberg held her head in her hands and stared at the floor. ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. ‘Nothing.’
Müller started to pull the photograph of the girl from her pocket, when she heard a shout from inside the flat.
‘Boss!’ screamed Tilsner. ‘Come here, now.’
Müller jumped up from the sofa and hurried in the direction of her deputy’s voice. It was obviously a girl’s bedroom. Pink everywhere. With posters of western rock groups and pop stars on the wall. Müller recognised Mick Jagger with his pouting lips, David Bowie with his orange hair. On another wall, Free German Youth and Pioneer certificates and posters, from earlier years when Silke’s aspirations had apparently followed the party diktats for model socialist children.
Tilsner was at the girl’s bed, the drawer of the bedside cabinet open. He held a letter in his hand. ‘The mother should have hidden this a bit better. Putting it in the girl’s own drawer probably
‘It wasn’t the police who took him. It was the Stasi.’ Müller frowned. Perhaps they should have checked in with Jäger before coming here.
‘Well then, I’m sure they had good reason.’ It was a little cruel, but Marietta Eisenberg had rubbed her up the wrong way. ‘I’m sorry for what’s happened to your husband. But we’re here to talk about Silke – can we sit down?’
Silke’s mother ushered the two detectives into the lounge. Müller was impressed as she took in the decor. The woman’s daywear might have been dirty, but her apartment was spotless – and full of the latest gadgets. A telephone, television, expensive-looking parquet flooring and a tasteful range of fitted wood-veneer cupboards and bookshelves. It was how Müller imagined a flat in West Berlin might be furnished.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said Frau Eisenberg. ‘How does a family whose husband has been arrested by the Stasi afford something like this?’
‘It is a lovely flat,’ said Müller, swallowing her curiosity, ‘but it’s no concern of mine. Shall we sit?’ She gestured to the beige corduroy sofa. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tilsner in the kitchen, riffling through cupboards and drawers.
Eisenberg kept darting glances towards Müller’s deputy. ‘Does he have authorisation for that? For going through my things?’ she asked.
‘Don’t worry about Unterleutnant Tilsner,’ said Müller. ‘The fact we’re from the Kripo is the only authorisation we need, Frau Eisenberg.’ Then Müller turned more conciliatory, and laid her hand on top of Eisenberg’s. ‘We simply need to find out as much as we can about Silke. You see, a girl has been found.’ Müller studied the woman’s face, watching for her reactions. There was apprehension, perhaps fear – but no real surprise.
‘Really?’
Müller nodded, but kept her hand clasped to Eisenberg’s. ‘But it may not be good news, I’m afraid.’ This was the bit Müller hated: telling a parent that the police believed their child was dead. ‘A girl’s body has been found.’
Eisenberg stared at her in apparent disbelief. At the same time, Müller was aware of Tilsner now having moved out of the kitchen and the lounge, and towards the bedrooms. She didn’t think Frau Eisenberg, in her distressed state, had noticed.
‘We’re not sure it’s Silke. For your sake, I hope it’s not. But we need you to look at a photograph to see if it is her. Can you do that for me?’
Marietta Eisenberg looked crushed. Her husband in some unknown Stasi jail. And now her daughter, having been missing for months, was possibly dead. ‘Where was the girl’s body discovered?’
‘In the Hauptstadt. In Mitte.’
‘The Hauptstadt?’ asked Eisenberg. ‘In the East?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘But –’ The words died in Eisenberg’s mouth.
‘But what, Citizen Eisenberg? Is there something you want to tell me?’
‘N-n-no. I . . . I . . . it’s just –’
‘What?’
Frau Eisenberg held her head in her hands and stared at the floor. ‘Nothing,’ she mumbled. ‘Nothing.’
Müller started to pull the photograph of the girl from her pocket, when she heard a shout from inside the flat.
‘Boss!’ screamed Tilsner. ‘Come here, now.’
Müller jumped up from the sofa and hurried in the direction of her deputy’s voice. It was obviously a girl’s bedroom. Pink everywhere. With posters of western rock groups and pop stars on the wall. Müller recognised Mick Jagger with his pouting lips, David Bowie with his orange hair. On another wall, Free German Youth and Pioneer certificates and posters, from earlier years when Silke’s aspirations had apparently followed the party diktats for model socialist children.
Tilsner was at the girl’s bed, the drawer of the bedside cabinet open. He held a letter in his hand. ‘The mother should have hidden this a bit better. Putting it in the girl’s own drawer probably
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