Henry began to hold his head and rub his temples, screwing up his face in discomfort. He felt the beginnings of a bad headache.
“What about you, Henry? Do you feel that people stained by this legacy deserve to die, in some way or another?”
“How did I come to be in England?” Henry asked, ignoring the question.
Gustav rubbed the cramping thigh muscles around his arthritic hip.
“Across the occupied countries of the Third Reich, as it was in 1945, there were Lebensborn homes in Germany, Austria, Poland, Norway and France. Networks were established and sympathisers continued to co-ordinate activities through Bauer at KWI and my parents at Gmünden. Children were shipped off through these networks when they were old enough to go to school.”
“France, England, America?” Henry asked, thinking of the known victims to date.
“Yes, all of these, and many more countries, too. I am constantly being contacted by Lebensborn children who live all over the world when they hear about Lebensspuren. Some of them bear the tattooed legacy of one of the most sinister and secretive Nazi projects, ever… run by my very own parents…” Gustav pressed a clenched fist against his lips.
Henry studied the wrinkled lines on Gustav’s face, a window on to the deep anguish and torment that he harboured within his soul. He tried to recall the faces of those ‘sympathisers’ whom he vaguely remembered from his early schooldays: the beatings, the indoctrination, the expectation; the men who took his ice cream off him on Brighton Pier.
Henry shut his eyes tightly and uttered a slight gasping sound.
“What is the matter?” Gustav asked, studying Henry with a look of curious bemusement, as one might have stared at society’s unfortunates in a Victorian freak show.
“I have a terrible headache. I’m afraid we must go.”
Henry felt the crushing pain blinding him and tightened the muscles in his arms and abdomen to deflect the intense discomfort.
“It looks like an ice-pick headache,” Gustav observed, standing up slowly and supporting his weight on the walking stick.
“I don’t know what that is, but I need to get to a pharmacy for some tablets,” Henry replied.
They exited as speedily as was possible, Gustav crippled by his age and arthritis, Henry struggling with incapacitating pain that inflicted some loss of clear vision, like a severe migraine. Outside the Roman Baths they paused, looking left and right.
“Which way?” Gustav asked.
Henry smelled the aroma of the chestnuts, straightened like someone invigorated by an inhaled panacea, opened his eyes as if for the first time and walked over to the vendor’s wagon. Gustav watched him with concern, frowning.
“I thought you said you never eat with your fingers, Henry?” Gustav said as Henry turned around.
“I am hungry. Can I have an ice cream?”
Gustav frowned. Henry’s voice was different, that of a younger man, no, a boy, with a slight German accent.
“You like ice cream?” Gustav asked.
“Oh yes. Can I?”
Gustav nodded and they walked on to an ice cream van a few yards further along.
“What kind do you want, Henry?”
“My name is Heinrich, not Henry,” Henry said in a juvenile voice, picking his nose absently.
Gustav shrank back, as if he had just witnessed the birth of something unspeakable. His eyes narrowed as he studied Henry’s changed behaviour.
“How old are you, Heinrich?”
“I am eleven. Can I have a Choc 99, with a double flake, please?”
Seventy-Five
The police car sped along the M4 past Swindon, lights flashing as the driver tried to maintain a constant eighty-five miles per hour. The two constables in front were visibly enjoying the thrill of the chase. Natasha’s phone rang. It was Bruce.
“Where are you now, Sergeant?”
“We’re approaching Chipping Sodbury where we’ll exit the M4 and head straight to Bath,” Natasha said, peering out of the window to orientate herself.
“Have you had further contact with Henry?”
“No, sir.”
“Gustav Huber is not known to the German Police or Interpol by that or his birth name of Nauhaus. It appears he has never travelled outside of Germany until now. He only applied for a passport two months ago,” Bruce said.
The words fell on Natasha like razor-sharp icicles, biting, chilling. If Gustav Huber had never been to England before, how could he have killed Jeremy Haysbrook, David Barnabus, Luc Bezier or Vera Schmidt?
“Are you sure, sir?” she said, not wanting to accept Bruce’s revelation.
“Yes, they’ve checked.”
Natasha bit a chipped fingernail.
“Phone Henry and see where he is. I’m going to have his mobile phone signal located by triangulation and I’m getting in a helicopter in fifteen minutes to meet you,” Bruce said.
“Yes, sir, thank you, sir.” Natasha was relieved. Better Bruce than Warburton, or anyone else who did not understand.
“I will have to contact the Bath and North-East Somerset Constabulary, Natasha, but I will ask them to hold off until you and I have made contact with Henry.”
“I understand, sir.” Natasha’s gaze fell upon her lap and she thought about the call she had just made.
“Natasha?” Bruce said warmly.
“Yes, sir?”
“Proceed with great caution. I’m not sure what is going on there.”
Natasha understood. She did not know what to think either. Her mind raced as she relived the awkward conversation she had had earlier with George. Fighting off tears, she knew what she had to do. She had to face up to what was staring her in the face. She tried Henry one last time. No answer. Why on earth would he not answer his phone?
“We’re approaching the A46 exit now, Sergeant,” the driver announced, his eyes flicking up in the rear view mirror. “Ten to fifteen minutes away, I reckon.”
Natasha felt panic rising in her chest, felt her throat tighten, restricting breathing. She tried to swallow the nausea but her mouth was too dry. She knew she had to call again, she had to call immediately. It was a bad connection: distant and indistinct.
“George?”
“You again? What do you want, Natasha?” George said in a voice edged with enmity.
“I told you Henry may be in danger. But… the situation is far worse than I initially imagined.”
In the background she could hear shouting and the sounds of police sirens from Cairo’s troubled streets.
“Fortunately you’re there to rescue the day, again.”
“Listen, George, you are speaking to me as a police officer now, Detective Sergeant Keeler, and this is crucial. We have very little time. Think carefully before you answer. The next person who calls you could be Superintendent Bruce.”
“What do you want to know?” George said after a brief pause.
Natasha pulled out a pad and pencil which she balanced awkwardly in her lap.
“When exactly were you in Grasmere with Henry?”
“What?”
“I don’t have time to explain now, George. Time is critical.”
Natasha scribbled as George spoke.
“Did Henry ever go off on his own for any period of time?”
The pencil slid off her lap into the foot well and she had to bend over to retrieve it.
“Now I want you to think about France last summer. When exactly were you in the Dordogne and again, did he ever leave you for any length of time?”
Natasha felt chills run down her neck and spine as she recorded George’s matter-of-fact responses. She could feel her bladder begin to drag, her every basic bodily function threatening mutiny in the face of an overwhelming emotional onslaught.
“You said that you have noticed odd episodes of strange behaviour like eating with his fingers sometimes, or disappearing without recalling where he had been?”
“Yes, more recently I have. Thinking back, certain odditi
es have been there for a while, but I paid little attention to them. Now that you mention it, though…” George said, her voice suddenly animated with concern. “What is going on?”
Natasha studied the pad, analysing the dates, computing the possibilities in her mind, facing the dreadful inevitability of the truth.
“I don’t know, George. Something unimaginable, I fear.”
Seventy-Six
Henry and Gustav walked past Bath Abbey towards Palace Gardens. Henry licked and savoured his ice cream, oblivious to the world around him.
“Where are your parents?” Gustav asked, wincing from the discomfort of walking further than his arthritis would normally permit.
“I don’t have parents. I am in boarding school,” Henry replied in a voice tinged with German enunciation.
They crossed the vast intersection at Orange Grove, heading towards the River Avon.
“Who looks after you when you are not at school?”
Henry shrugged, distracted by his ice cream.
“Some people.”
“Are they good to you?”
“They are strict.”
“Do they beat you?”
A pause.
“Only when I am bad.”
The two men descended the grand stone steps into Palace Gardens and headed for a bench in front of the iron railing beside the river. Gustav had come across this condition before in his work with Lebensborn project victims, and he had read about it.
“When does Henry come back?” Gustav asked, as they sat side by side, looking across the gentle waters of the Avon towards the rugby club.
“I don’t know any Henry, sir.”
Gustav rested his walking stick against the bench beside him and sighed deeply, stretching his stiff leg.
“You know, Heinrich, you do have parents. It’s just that you may not know who they are.”
Henry had reached the cone of his ice cream and looked up at Gustav expectantly, licking his creamy lips hungrily.
“It is complicated to explain, but I may well be your grandfather, or even your father. All those of us with… tattoos… are related, in some way or another, to each other.”
“What tattoos?” Henry asked, as he nibbled tentatively at the cone.
Gustav turned his head and tried to part the fine grey hair on the back of his head for Henry to see. Henry nodded indifferently.
“Do I have one, too?” Henry asked, feeling the back of his head.
“You did, but I think it has been removed,” Gustav said.
Henry bit into the cone.
“I don’t remember that.”
*
Natasha crossed Orange Grove cautiously, followed closely by the two PCs. She held her phone to one ear, speaking to Bruce.
“You say he’s in Palace Gardens, sir?”
“Yes. Stay back, Natasha, don’t let him see you. We’re nearly there,” Bruce said.
Natasha reached the balustrade at the top of the cascade of stone steps leading into the gardens below. About fifty yards away, seated at the water’s edge on a bench beneath a melancholy willow tree, she could make out the heads and shoulders of two men.
“I see two men on a bench in the gardens, sir. I think one is Henry. He’s… er… holding and eating… an ice cream.”
“Ice cream?” Bruce said. “Do you recognize the other man?”
“No, sir, but I can’t see his face clearly. He’s balding, wearing glasses… er… grey hair.”
“What are they doing?”
“Just talking, it seems. It looks very peaceful and non-threatening. Should I approach?”
“No! Under no circumstances. Just wait. The local armed response unit is on its way and so am I. We should arrive together. Keep your distance. Just don’t let them out of your sight.”
Natasha waited as ordered, standing back from the balustrade and ensuring that the two, somewhat conspicuous, uniformed PCs were out of view. Pedestrians began to stare and congregate. Some who wished to enter the gardens had to be deterred.
“Sorry, gardens are closed for now,” one of the PCs said with his arms outstretched like wings.
Natasha stared at Henry eating his ice cream, licking his fingers. That simply was not like him. She could feel her heart beating in her throat, sensing that she was on the very edge of her comfort zone, being pushed beyond her experience and capabilities. The man at the centre of all this was someone she cared for deeply, though, and she was unable to separate those emotions from her objective confusion. What was Henry doing?
*
“If you are my dad, can I leave the boarding school and come and live with you then?” Henry asked, finishing the last of his ice cream.
Gustav scratched his chin.
“That sounds nice, doesn’t it?” Gustav smiled and paused, looking across the water. “But I don’t know if the people who look after you would like that.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“My name is Gustav Huber.”
Henry frowned and sat on his hands, shuffling his buttocks backwards on the bench.
“Why is your name not the same as mine, if you are my father?”
“What is your name?”
“Heinrich Weber.”
Henry looked into Gustav’s face, searching, like a devoted puppy.
“It’s complicated, I’m afraid, Heinrich,” Gustav said slowly, feeling guilty, knowing that he could not give this troubled boy, no, this troubled personality, what he so desperately needed.
*
Natasha’s phone rang again. It was Bruce.
“Natasha! Are they still there?” Bruce sounded anxious, his voice tight and strained.
“Yes, sir. How far are you?”
“I’m in a local police car en route from the hospital helipad. Natasha?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Is there anyone else around?”
“We’re keeping the public out, discreetly.”
“Good. This is important. I’ve had an urgent phone call from Munich Police.”
“They’ve found Gustav Huber?”
“No. The body they discovered at 17 Wollingerstrasse is not Dieter Schröder.”
The words seemed to echo in Natasha’s ears.
“What!” Natasha froze, chills running down her spine.
“It’s not Schröder’s body,” Bruce repeated, slowly.
“Well, who is it?”
“They don’t know yet, but that doesn’t matter. Schröder boarded a Lufthansa flight in Munich two days ago, heading for London.”
Natasha covered her mouth, her face a deathly pale colour.
“Oh, my God. He’s coming for them.”
“How does he know where to find them?” Bruce said.
“Henry called Schröder to tell him that Gustav Huber would be speaking at this Lebensspuren meeting,” Natasha said, recalling her earlier conversation with Henry. She realised that he had unwittingly invited the killer into their midst.
“Is that not Schröder sitting beside Henry?” Bruce asked.
Natasha glanced back at the bench down in the park.
“No, sir. I’ve never seen that person before. It may be Gustav Huber.”
“Keep your eyes open, Sergeant, but don’t make a move. We’ll be there any minute now,” Bruce said.
*
A large man, square-shouldered, slightly overweight and wearing a long beige coat, walked along the riverside pathway and stopped beside the bench. Gustav looked up at him.
“Inspector,” Schröder said in greeting to Henry, who simply blinked back at the man with a frown on his face.
“Are you Gustav Nauhaus?” Schröder said, fixing his gaze upon Gustav’s face.
Gustav hesitated, looking up at the man.
“Yes, who are you?”
“Come with me, please.”
Schröder glanced up at the entrance steps to the gardens but did not see Natasha.
“I beg your pardon?” Gustav said.
“Come
! I have to talk to you.”
“Look, the Inspector is not well. I can’t just leave him.”
Schröder glanced from Gustav to the perplexed face of Henry, still bearing the remnants of ice cream and flaked chocolate around a silly grin on his mouth. Schröder frowned. He could see that Henry was not the same man he had received in his house in Steinhöring.
“Ja, well this is what happens when you meddle with nature, isn’t it?” Schröder said harshly.
“I’m sorry,” Gustav said. “You are German?”
Schröder forced an insincere smile.
“Ja, Ich bin ein Deutscher, Sie sind ein Deutscher und sogar der Inspecktor ist ein Deutscher,” Schröder said, pointing in turn, first at himself, then Gustav and finally Henry. “We all come from the same factory, don’t we, Gustav, run by your… evil parents. A nice, cosy family.”
Gustav’s face paled as he realised Schröder’s link and possible motive.
“I disowned my parents many years ago.”
“How convenient,” Schröder said icily.
“What do you want?”
“Come with me!” Schröder repeated, pulling a seven-inch serrated stainless steel blade from his coat pocket.
Gustav’s eyes widened and he glanced anxiously across at Henry, who was still sitting on his hands, absently swinging his legs.
*
The glint of the metal in the sun caught Natasha’s attention. She glanced down in time to see three men begin walking along the riverside pathway in the direction of the eighteenth century Pulteney Bridge, Britain’s Ponte Vecchio.
The man walking at the rear was holding a knife. Oh God! It was Schröder.
“Shit!”
She looked around, panicking: where the hell was Bruce and the armed response? What should she do? Suddenly, four police cars rounded the corner and drew up haphazardly, doors flying open. Bruce’s imposing frame extracted itself from the passenger seat of the Volvo.
“Schröder’s here, sir, he’s taken them both. He has a knife!” Natasha blurted out, breathlessly.
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