smell of new cement and render made her want to cover her mouth and nose, reminding her of her childhood and the post-war rebuilding of destroyed homes. They picked their way to the block mentioned in the missing persons’ file, careful to stay on the wooden duckboard – the only way of safely negotiating the mess of mud and melted snow between the two buildings.
Opposite the Eisenbergs’ block, another concrete high-rise was emerging from the ground, seemingly expanding upwards metre by metre as Müller watched. It reminded her of her nephew’s Pebe toy set: the gift she’d given him at the family Christmas at her mother’s guesthouse in Thuringia the year before last. He’d constructed a modernist high-rise from the interlocking plastic bricks in just a few hours, while the adults digested their festive lunch. Now here, grown-up workers from the workers’ and peasants’ state were building the socialist dream in its full-scale form. But while that filled Müller with hope for her country’s future, the memory of the Christmas gift was a source of guilt. This year, she hadn’t been back to the family home in Oberhof – the Republic’s answer to St Moritz – and she knew her mother, sister and brother would feel she’d let them down. Müller had claimed she was too busy with work, but –
She stopped the thought, and hung back as Tilsner rang the entryphone buzzer. He jabbed on the button repeatedly, shouting into the mouthpiece to no avail.
He turned towards Müller and shrugged in exasperation, then tried pulling on the locked front door.
‘A few months old but knackered already.’
Just then, above the construction din from the opposite block, Müller simultaneously heard and felt footsteps on the wooden duckboard behind her. An elderly lady approached – weighed down by shopping bags – the timber slats wobbling under her shoes. The woman pushed away wisps of pure white hair from her lined and leathered forehead, tucking them under the red-and-white polka-dot scarf that was wrapped tightly round her head.
‘Are you from the neighbourhood committee?’ she asked Müller. ‘This is what I was talking about.’ The woman gestured at the muddy mess underfoot. ‘It’s no good building us new apartments but not sorting out the roads and footpaths. If I fell off, I’d probably drown in that mud. Still, at least you’re here now.’
Müller withdrew her Kripo identification and showed it to the woman. ‘ Oberleutnant Müller. Kriminalpolizei Mitte. We need to get into this apartment block. Do you live here? The entry system doesn’t seem to be working.’ Müller pointed to where Tilsner was still pulling at the door and jabbing buttons at random.
‘Nothing works properly here,’ said the woman. ‘That’s what I said in my written complaint. I can let you in, but will you try to make sure they do something about it in return?’
‘It’s not the job of the criminal police to respond to petitions, I’m afraid, Citizen –’
‘Keppler. The name’s Keppler.’ She shuffled towards the door with her bags, placed them down on the muddied wooden boards and then fumbled in her pocket for the door key. ‘Who is it you’re looking for anyway, dear?’
‘The Eisenberg family. Flat 412.’
‘Ah yes. Same floor as me.’
‘You know them, then?’ asked Müller.
‘I do. And I could give you some interesting information.’
Müller eyeballed the woman with what she hoped was her best stern expression. ‘Then you should. Withholding information from the People’s Police –’
‘. . . is a very serious matter. I know that, officer. I hope, in return, you might mention the terrible state of the footpaths.’ She waited for some response from Müller, but the detective continued to fix her with a glare. Eventually the woman continued without any assurance in return. ‘Something fishy is going on there if you ask me. She’s kept herself very private since her daughter disappeared,
Opposite the Eisenbergs’ block, another concrete high-rise was emerging from the ground, seemingly expanding upwards metre by metre as Müller watched. It reminded her of her nephew’s Pebe toy set: the gift she’d given him at the family Christmas at her mother’s guesthouse in Thuringia the year before last. He’d constructed a modernist high-rise from the interlocking plastic bricks in just a few hours, while the adults digested their festive lunch. Now here, grown-up workers from the workers’ and peasants’ state were building the socialist dream in its full-scale form. But while that filled Müller with hope for her country’s future, the memory of the Christmas gift was a source of guilt. This year, she hadn’t been back to the family home in Oberhof – the Republic’s answer to St Moritz – and she knew her mother, sister and brother would feel she’d let them down. Müller had claimed she was too busy with work, but –
She stopped the thought, and hung back as Tilsner rang the entryphone buzzer. He jabbed on the button repeatedly, shouting into the mouthpiece to no avail.
He turned towards Müller and shrugged in exasperation, then tried pulling on the locked front door.
‘A few months old but knackered already.’
Just then, above the construction din from the opposite block, Müller simultaneously heard and felt footsteps on the wooden duckboard behind her. An elderly lady approached – weighed down by shopping bags – the timber slats wobbling under her shoes. The woman pushed away wisps of pure white hair from her lined and leathered forehead, tucking them under the red-and-white polka-dot scarf that was wrapped tightly round her head.
‘Are you from the neighbourhood committee?’ she asked Müller. ‘This is what I was talking about.’ The woman gestured at the muddy mess underfoot. ‘It’s no good building us new apartments but not sorting out the roads and footpaths. If I fell off, I’d probably drown in that mud. Still, at least you’re here now.’
Müller withdrew her Kripo identification and showed it to the woman. ‘ Oberleutnant Müller. Kriminalpolizei Mitte. We need to get into this apartment block. Do you live here? The entry system doesn’t seem to be working.’ Müller pointed to where Tilsner was still pulling at the door and jabbing buttons at random.
‘Nothing works properly here,’ said the woman. ‘That’s what I said in my written complaint. I can let you in, but will you try to make sure they do something about it in return?’
‘It’s not the job of the criminal police to respond to petitions, I’m afraid, Citizen –’
‘Keppler. The name’s Keppler.’ She shuffled towards the door with her bags, placed them down on the muddied wooden boards and then fumbled in her pocket for the door key. ‘Who is it you’re looking for anyway, dear?’
‘The Eisenberg family. Flat 412.’
‘Ah yes. Same floor as me.’
‘You know them, then?’ asked Müller.
‘I do. And I could give you some interesting information.’
Müller eyeballed the woman with what she hoped was her best stern expression. ‘Then you should. Withholding information from the People’s Police –’
‘. . . is a very serious matter. I know that, officer. I hope, in return, you might mention the terrible state of the footpaths.’ She waited for some response from Müller, but the detective continued to fix her with a glare. Eventually the woman continued without any assurance in return. ‘Something fishy is going on there if you ask me. She’s kept herself very private since her daughter disappeared,
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