Stasi Child by David Young Page A

out.
    ‘Well, we discovered the vehicle in the cemetery was on Gislaved tyres through the imprints in the snow,’ Schmidt replied.
    Müller stared up at the pictures of the tyre prints, pinned to the noticeboard in the Marx-Engels-Platz office, thinking hard.
    ‘The trouble now,’ said Tilsner, ‘is that a lot of the snow’s melted. Certainly the roads are all clear in the Hauptstadt. So that’s not going to be much good.’
    Müller continued to fix her gaze on the tyre pattern photos, an idea forming in the back of her mind. Then she turned.
    ‘We don’t need snow,’ she said. ‘What we need is sand.’

    Once Müller had outlined her idea, Schmidt and Tilsner had worked to set it up. Schmidt quickly established a fortuitous connection. Although the limousines were stored in a compound near the Stasi HQ at Normannenstrasse, they were serviced and cleaned in an industrial zone just off Siegfriedstrasse – still in Lichtenberg, but further east, and outside the Stasi-controlled zone. On the same business estate, there was a depot of the VEB Autobahnkombinat – the state-controlled motorway construction company – currently involved in building an autobahn from the Hauptstadt to Rostock, on the Ostsee coast. Trucks loaded with building materials regularly moved between the depot and construction site. And the freshly serviced and washed limousines for state officials also regularly travelled between the depot and the Normannenstrasse compound. Usually in the evening, or at night, to avoid the traffic and prying eyes.

    The next piece of the plan was implemented in a phone call received at Marx-Engels-Platz by Elke, the student detective.
    Enthusiasm bursting through every pore, she rushed through to Müller’s side office to tell her the news.
    ‘Comrade Oberleutnant ,’ the girl gushed. ‘I’ve just received an anonymous tip-off you may need to know about.’
    Müller pretended to finish working on some documents on her desk, then looked up at the trainee, trying to appear bored and disinterested.
    ‘What about, Elke?’
    The girl brandished a piece of paper full of notes towards Müller. ‘It’s an allegation that some members of the VEB Autobahnkombinat are involved in a black market operation. Smuggling western contraband hidden in their construction trucks, under loads of sand or gravel, to villages and towns north of the Hauptstadt – along the route of the planned autobahn to Rostock.’
    ‘Was the caller a man or a woman?’ asked Müller, trying not to break into a smile as she examined Elke’s handwritten account. She knew full well who the caller was. ‘Did he or she have any sort of accent, anything which might help identification?’
    ‘Well, it was a man. He had a very rough, muffled voice. But quite a strong accent. Low German. Northern.’
    Müller pictured Tilsner putting on his best regional accent, speaking with his hand over his mouth or through a handkerchief to disguise his usual tones. He’d insisted Elke wouldn’t recognise him. He was right.
    ‘Thank you, Elke. This would normally be a matter for the uniform division, but it sounds interesting. If you’re not doing anything else, why don’t you contact the operator and see if you can trace where the call was made from?’
    ‘I’ve already done that, Oberleutnant ,’ said Elke, the pride clear in her voice. ‘I thought it would be from somewhere up north. But it wasn’t. It was from a call box here in the Hauptstadt. In Mitte. Near Alexanderplatz.’
    Probably from outside one of Tilsner’s favourite bars, thought Müller. But Elke didn’t appear to suspect anything.
    ‘That’s good work, Elke.’ Müller picked up the girl’s handwritten notes and put them in her pocket. ‘I’ll pass these onto the uniform division. I think we’re a little too busy with the murder investigation to look into it ourselves. But well done.’

    The only remaining thing to do was to use the anonymous call, and Elke’s account of