Stasi Child by David Young Page A

after the pathologist had done his best to repair her injuries; the result didn’t look particularly human. She moved it – left to right – along the table, pausing above the details of each girl and comparing photographs. None looked like even a distant match. She did the same with the photograph taken at the scene. That was more difficult because of the obvious facial injuries. Again nothing.
    She sighed and turned to look at Tilsner. Her deputy was staring trance-like at the photos.
    ‘What is it?’ she asked.
    He took the original photo from Müller, the one from the cemetery, and held it – almost reverentially. ‘It’s this picture. It just makes me so sad. It’s how I felt at the cemetery as well. You know –’
    ‘What?’
    ‘That she could be Steffi, my daughter, in a few years’ time.’
    Müller nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She’d felt the exact same thing at the cemetery and in the autopsy room.
    ‘Steffi’s six now. A little curly-haired fireball. Full of energy. I can do no wrong in her eyes. But in less than ten years, well . . . she could end up like this.’ Müller could see his eyes moistening, his hand shaking slightly. It wasn’t the Tilsner she thought she knew. His devil-may-care mask had slipped, if only for an instant.
    ‘You were telling me the other night that family life doesn’t agree with you.’ She laughed, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Or was that just your usual chat-up line?’
    Tilsner snorted, and tossed the hair back from his forehead. ‘No. It wasn’t. It’s true. I got married too young, didn’t I? When Koletta fell pregnant. We’d both just turned twenty. That’s no age at all. And then Marius came along straightaway; it just felt we didn’t have the time to live our lives. He’s the same age as this girl. But it’s always the girls, isn’t? Always the girls who end up like this.’
    He continued to finger and stare at the photograph. Then his face creased into a frown as he picked up the autopsy photo.
    ‘Hang on,’ he said, his voice suddenly animated.
    ‘What is it?’
    Tilsner put the photo back on the table above girl number six. Then he got some scissors and started cutting round the face of the girl from the autopsy, and then did the same for the report for missing girl number six.
    ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, destroying evidence like that,’ said Müller.
    ‘They’re only copies. But look!’
    He pointed excitedly at the two photos, placing them side by side, having cut the hair from the picture of each photograph.
    ‘Don’t you see? It looks like the same girl. Only the hair is different.’ He placed the cut-out faces back in the surrounding frame of hair, making the photos complete again. In the missing report, the girl had a large mass of blonde hair. In the autopsy photo, the hair was dark, short and straight. Müller examined the photos closely. Tilsner was right, up to a point. There was a resemblance, although – given the injuries – she wasn’t as sure that it was the same girl.
    ‘East or West?’ she asked.
    Tilsner picked up the piece of paper and read the address. ‘East,’ he said. ‘Friedrichshain.’ He read the report on the girl. ‘Silke Eisenberg. Suspected of wall jumping – but, as usual, it was the other way, escaping to the West.’
    ‘Perhaps she could have gone there, but then attempted to return?’ suggested Müller.
    ‘Well, anything’s possible – if pigs had wings,’ replied Tilsner in a deadpan voice.
    Müller sat down on a chair next to the table, exhausted, even though it was still early in the day. Checking out this girl’s home address was all they had to go on. It wasn’t much, but at least it was a start.

7
    Day Five.
    Friedrichshain, East Berlin.
    As Müller and Tilsner arrived at the Eisenberg family’s apartment block in Friedrichshain, Müller found herself wanting to shield her ears from the furious clanging and crashing of building noise. The dust and