Reparation

by Gaby Koppel

  “She said – the presenter – there has been two calls. Who has called?” asks Mrs Friedmann, clasping her sister’s hand.

  “You mean the round-up of calls at the end of the show? To be honest, I couldn’t really hear much from where I was sitting. The calls are put through randomly, so I didn’t take them myself.”

  “Can we find out?”

  “Yeah sure. What did you think of it though? Did it come over as you wanted?”

  Yes, was very well done. Very – what was your word? – moving,” says Leah.

  I’ve offered to send the sisters home in a cab straight after the programme, but they won’t hear of it. They want to hang on to find out if there are any other calls. I follow a trolley of coffees and biscuits which is being pushed into the studio. The working lights are on now, casting a flat, uniform blanket of yellow over everything. Phones are flashing red here and there, and there’s a low buzz of male voices.

  One producer is still patrolling up and down the desks, collecting the sheets filled in for each call, while another sorts them out.

  “Hi Julia. How many calls about Stamford Hill?” I ask. “Item eight.”

  “Er, we’ve had a few.” She riffles through the paperwork, and hands me a pile. “Don’t take that anywhere, we need it for the update at eleven-ten.” I’ve got seven sheets in my hand. I browse through them.

  “Hi, Sarah?” Julia buzzes up to the gallery on talkback. “Yup, yup. Ten so far on the armed robbery. Thirteen on the newsagents’ job.” I move away, as she chunters through a list of the calls. DI Jenkins is standing at the edge of the set with some of the other police officers. I show him the sheets. He raises an eyebrow as he reads them.

  “Well,” I tell the two women back in the green room, “There have been seven calls in total, so far.” Two pinched, anxious faces look up at me. “Don’t be worried, that’s quite good. Remember the phones are still on. And at midnight they are switched over to an answering machine in our office, so if someone wants to contact us later we won’t lose their call.” They nod.

  “And?” says Mrs Friedmann. I look back down at the sheets.

  “Four of them describe a man walking down St Kilda’s road with a girl who looked like Bruchi. Vague descriptions – jeans, casual clothes.” I flick through the sheets, comparing the notes. “These accounts are all a bit different, but seem to overlap. One of the callers even seemed convinced the man was Polish. Not sure why.” More nodding. “One of them was certain he was a builder. Another said she thought he lived in a particular road in Tottenham. To be honest, it’s all stuff they could have got from the newspapers.”

  “Why you say that?” asks Mrs Friedmann.

  “The others are a bit of a mixed bag. One person thinks they can ID the particular white van. Reckons they can place it parked near a certain address. Might be interesting.”

  “The Polish. Why they ever let him go? It’s him. It’s him. I know it,” says Mrs Friedmann, wiping a tear from her eye.” Her sister puts an arm around her. “We always knew. They should arrest him now.”

  “But I’m afraid the four people who called to give information, or describing him refused to give their names.” There’s one thing I haven’t told them. In the “any other observations” column, two of the officers have written, “Caller has unusual accent,” and “Difficult to identify accent –not English, not foreign.” I know that accent.

  I’ve also deliberately skirted round the nature of the other calls. Because one of them has suggested we look close to home. “Caller believes he has evidence that the person responsible belongs to the Hasidic community, and may be a member of the victim’s family. Refused to give name and hung up.”

  On the way home, I notice I’ve got a text from Dave. “We need to talk.” Yes, we do need to talk, about lots of things. But there’s no time to call him now, I’m exhausted. I get back to my place in the early hours to find another long, rambling message from Mutti. She goes on and on as though she thinks the machine is her new best friend. Hoping she hasn’t downed another bottle of tablets, I wipe the tape and resolve to call her tomorrow.

  Chapter 22

  There’s only one thing on my mind when I wake up. I want to be fit and full of energy to face my first full day as a proper film director without any other distractions. So I hit the gym early in the morning. I set the treadmill for ten minutes, and push the “plus” button at thirty second intervals until I’m storming it, at eleven Ks on a five per cent gradient. I hang in there for two whole minutes, watching the second counter tick over, as the pain slides up my thighs and tightens its grip. I push the air out of my lungs and suck in deeply. My mind goes into neutral, and images from last night’s show wash in. I wonder if – the time display ticking the seconds off one by one towards my target – I wonder if – is it possible? Images of Stamford Hill run through my mind, both the real thing and Dave’s vivid portraits. They swirl together as I push my legs to keep up the pace. Is it possible that the murder was committed by someone within the Hasidic community?

  I can’t breathe any more, my lungs are pulling at a void. I grasp the handrail with my left and reduce the speed. With so little spare oxygen I can’t think. And I need to think. I’m down to 6km now which should be a comfortable jog, but I’m panting. I guess it’s possible that the killer came from within the community, then pointing the finger at Pavel Wiśniewski would amount to little more than a diversionary tactic. But how do I even begin to unpick this one?

  The office is almost empty when I get there just after ten. Most of the others are still recovering from a late night entertaining our “colleagues” in Her Majesty’s constabularies. I slip off my coat and switch on the computer. But one person has got there before me.

  “So, late night then? says Andrew, far louder than necessary. “Finally succumbed to the attractions of the dashing young detective inspector at Stoke Newington nick?” It’s easier to ignore the provocation now that I know Sarah’s backing me, but I need to justify her faith in me by getting to grips with the story.

  By the time I go for coffee, I’ve covered four pages of my notebook. Outside Starbucks there’s a spare table. I sit there, feeling the morning sun glowing hot on my forehead as I sip my coffee. The dazzling light has fractured my vision, making my squiggles dance around the page with blotches of red and blue. My mind drifts back to last night. Who were those callers? Someone who’s got it in for Pavel Wiśniewski, that’s for sure. Or is he just a scapegoat? My phone rings. It’s Dave.

  “Hi, did you get my text?”

  “What? Oh yes, something important but good. What’s that all about?”

  “I’ve worked out (BLEEP) what to (BLEEP) and it’s…”

  “Hold on a sec, darling, I’ve got another call coming in.” I put him on hold and switch to the incoming call.

  “Hello?”

  “Is that Miss Mueller? From the TV?

  “Morrie?”

  “I wanted to congratulate you on last night’s programme. Very well done.”

  “Thanks, but call me Elizabeth, please.” As I’m saying it, a thought comes to me. “Hey Morrie, is there any chance you could meet me for a chat?”

  An hour later, I’m upping my caffeine intake yet again, stirring the cocoa powder into the foam on top of a cappuccino. We’re on the terrace of what was a grand house, overlooking its former estate. What should be a great view is obscured by a six foot wire mesh fence designed to keep wildlife in or vandals out. Either way, it’s a scruffy, or if you like well-used, municipal park café, over-supplied with screaming toddlers.

  “I’m torn, Morrie,” I say. “Of course I don’t want to point the finger of blame at the Hasidic community. But if they know who murdered Bruchi Friedmann…”

  “I’m not entirely sure how I can help.”

  “You can. Tell me about the community. Do you think there’s any chance they’d go as far as protecting someone? If they had suspicions?” He purses his lips, putting his head to one side as if t
hinking about it.

  “Well, there have been cases. Not murder, of course. But I think there was something about child abuse. Alleged child abuse, I should say. It was a few years ago. Now what was it? A young man was accused of something. Perhaps there was babysitting involved.” He sips his tea. “My memory’s not what it was.”

  “Think hard. Can you remember how was the whole thing resolved?” The moustache twitches, as he bites his upper lip.

  “I wouldn’t want to be seen as criticising the Hasidim. The community has its own way of doing things.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I believe there was pressure brought to bear on the family.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “It was suggested that they shouldn’t have said anything. They’d committed the sin of loshen hara – the evil tongue. ”

  “So, how exactly was it suggested that they shouldn’t have said anything?” He sighs, looks around us, as though he thinks someone might eavesdrop on us. “How, Morrie?”

  “There was an incident. Outside their house.”

  “An incident. You mean some kind of demo? The family did what? Made an allegation, and there was a demo in front of their house?” He nods. “To shut them up?” He nods. “And the young man?”

  “A quick flight to Israel. Or maybe New York.”

  “Why those two places?”

  “Big Jewish communities. Easy to lose someone.”

  Instead of going straight back to the office, I drive up towards Manor House tube station. Just past the traffic lights on Lordship Road, there’s a white minibus. It’s parked next to the curb. As I slow down to pass it, the driver opens his door and gets out without warning. A frummer with floppy earlocks. What is it with these guys? I jerk to a halt and stamp on the brakes as the manspins round looking startled and terrified. And then I see who it is. Nachmann Cohen, Bruchi’s odd uncle.

  Why would anybody give him a job as a minibus driver? In charge of kids? He’s not even on this planet. I’m parking the car at the tube station and thinking does the link between Nachmann and the white minibus add up to evidence? Circumstantial at best, but then so was the evidence against Pavel Wiśniewski from what I can tell.

  I get out of the tube at Holborn, heading for the offices of the Jewish Times. The lovely old glass doors of a graceful building have become the latest victim of security policy. They’ve been replaced by wood reinforced with metal strips, and an electronic buzzer system.

  “It’s me, Betty,” I say into the microphone, grimacing up at the video camera. She buzzes me in and waves me through. The papers are stored on old-style microfiches. Each one has to be loaded onto the reader. I have to scroll through them one by one, going back through the years. It takes me the best part of an hour to get through 1997, and gives me a crick in the neck. I manage 1996 in half that, and decide to jump 1995 and 1994, and spin through 1993 as fast as I can. Nothing so far, and it’s mid-afternoon. Shit. I should be seen in the office. I’m just about to ditch the microfiches, when I find it.

  Family of alleged abuse victim driven from home by mob

  A family from Stamford Hill, North London, whose son made claims of sexual abuse against a teacher, are now at a secret address after their home was besieged by a mob. The mother of the boy said her community knew she was telling the truth, but would never admit it. She claimed she had been offered hundreds of thousands of pounds to withdraw the allegations.

  I scan down the page. What happened to the boy’s attacker? I run down the whole column. There it is. Right at the end.

  No charges have been brought. The alleged attacker, Nathan Ginsberg, is said to be living in the Crown Heights area of New York, home to the world’s largest Orthodox community.

  I scroll through another few weeks as fast as I can, and find a couple more items about the same story. After that, the trail goes cold. I pack everything away order my printouts, and grab them before getting the Central Line to west London. I’ll have to pick up the car later.

  I’m sweating in the rumbling carriage, and thinking, so they might protect their own when it comes to child abuse – but not murder, surely? Reb Stern seemed keen to point out that his community was made up of law-abiding citizens with a deep respect for justice. But what kind of justice? Ours or theirs?

  I dive into the office. Thank God my computer is still on, papers and rollerball pens scattered around my desk. If anyone comes looking for me, it looks as though I’ve sloped off for a coffee break. The redundant latte I picked up at Holborn has now gone cold, but I put the cup on my desk anyway. It’ll add to the general impression I’ve been sitting here hard at work the entire day.

  Anyway, it’s time to forget about Stamford Hill. That’s the past. I’ve got to concentrate on my film. “My film,” I say to myself over and over again. “My film.” It should be my only focus, everything else is irrelevant. I must be mad, dashing out of the office on a wild goose chase. Pavel Wiśniewski’s innocence is not my problem. I’ve done my bit. Time to move on.

  But of course there’s the little matter of the yellow sticky on my desk saying call DI Jenkins, so I do that. It’s a kind of courtesy thing more than anything. I need to keep up the relationship. I should thank him anyway, and well before now. Just the one call, I say to myself, and after that I will be focusing solely on the new film.

  “Thought you might like to know,” he says, “we’ve taken another three calls since last night.”

  “And?”

  “Two of them described someone rather like Wiśniewski again. One did give a new name and address, so we’ll be following that up.”

  “The third?”

  “Slightly odd. A woman talking rather cryptically along the lines of ‘Look in the back garden. There are weeds in the flower bed. Not all grow straight and true.’ All very poetic.”

  “What do you think?” He pauses. I wonder whether he’s playing some kind of warped game of double bluff with me. With the whole bloody programme. After all, it’s usually the dad or the step-dad who is the prime suspect when kids are murdered, but that possibility has never even been mentioned by Jenkins. That’s suspicious in itself. Maybe the film was just a massive smokescreen while they picked apart what was happening inside the family. That’s why he’s so interested in cryptic phone calls about weeds in the flower bed.

  “It’s definitely worth taking another look inside the community,” says Jenkins.

  “There’s that rather odd brother-in-law of Mrs Friedmann’s…” I hesitate.

  “Yes.”

  “So you know about him?”

  “I can’t say…”

  “You do know that he drives one of those crazy, rust-bucket school minibuses. A white one?” A red light is blinking on my phone.

  “Can we speak later? I’ve got another call coming in. Catch up tomorrow?” I switch lines before I hear his reply.

  “Hello, I’m calling from the British Embassy in Budapest.”

  “Yes?”

  “Am I speaking to Elizabeth Mueller?”

  “Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?” My brain must be quite slow to catch up because even as I’m saying this I’m wondering what kind of crime the British embassy might want to discuss with me. What a coincidence, I’m thinking, it’s —

  “I’m calling because a Mrs Aranca Mueller has been detained by airport police at Ferihegy International Airport.”

  “Oh Christ. Sorry. What on earth is she doing there?” But of course I know. I know exactly.

  “Mrs Mueller was detained on the flight from London.”

  “I hardly dare to ask you what for.” A strained cough.

  “I gather Mrs Mueller was reluctant to go along with the No Smoking policy.” Why am I not surprised?

  “Sounds, er, consistent. And how do I bail her? Do they take credit cards over the phone?”

  “I’m afraid not. The airport police seem to be saying that Mrs Mueller will only be released into the custody of a responsible adult.”

 
; “She’s not a baby.” There’s a curt silence on the line.

  “I think – there’s a suggestion that Mrs Mueller may have been – I think you probably—”

  “Are you trying to say she was drunk?”

  “That does seem to be a possibility, yes, and possibly the Hungarian police will have sought to confirm that with a blood test.”

  I’m already beginning to weigh up my options. How do I get Mutti home? The guy on the other end of the line has got there before me. “The police seem to feel that there is a safety issue with either releasing her in Budapest or sending her home unaccompanied.” Of course she was pissed, I don’t know why they are even bothering with the test, it must be pretty obvious. In fact, she’s probably been on a month long bender. How could I be stupid enough to miss that? The slurring phone calls at odd hours, the wild plans – what an idiot I am to miss all the signs of Mutti going off the rails.

  “So they want someone to come over to get her?”

  “A responsible person is what’s required.”

  “That would be me, then.” That’s great. Absolutely brilliant.

  I slam the phone down and as I put my hands up to my face, catching the gleam in Andrew’s eye as I do so. I have to get out of the office. The walls are looming in on me. The suspended ceiling tiles are pressing down on my head, the air is as thick as engine oil. It’s choking me. I grab my jacket and bag. The carpeted floor is sticky on the soles of my shoes, as though it’s trying to slow me down. Hurtling towards the door, I can feel dozens of pair of eyes following me. Smirking. It’s only when I tumble out of the lift in the basement car park that I remember I parked at Manor House station, on the other side of London.