Several months into his captivity, it was so cold that the Russians forced Johann and his contingent of the Germans to build barrack shelters from the frozen dead bodies of other prisoners, solid as rocks with no fear of ever thawing.
Johann’s main fear was falling ill. There was within the group a doctor, but he was ill-equipped to administer much medical help as the only supplies were for the guards and camp Commandant alone. Under Stalin’s regime to be a Commandant of the POW camp was no honour. Only the cruelest and debased men were chosen. Better to have them in Siberia than near civilisation. Commandant Chukorov was built like a hungry bear. Facial hair masked scars from the fierce life he had lead in Moscow. His eyes were persistently blood shot from the copious bottles of vodka piled high outside his quarters. Johann had kept to himself his command of the Russian language for fear of being used by one side and hated by the other. Better to blend in and keep out of harm’s way, if he was to survive.
Chapter 34
London
Jonny sat back in his office after wandering around London in and out of coffee shops dazed by what had happen to Solomon Isaacs.
Jonny knew now that he was the only one who could provide the ending to Solomon Isaacs’ life story. And maybe discover those “loose ends”.
He had deliberately made himself scarce after the shooting. He needed time to think. He knew that in the normal situation the Jewish faith teaches that traditionally, burial takes place as soon as possible, within 24 hours. This is not always possible and, given the fact that many modern Jewish families are spread out around the country, it usually becomes necessary to wait a day or two until all of the mourners can arrive. Jewish funerals cannot take place on Shabbath or on most Jewish holidays. He knew that Solomon was essentially, a loner, especially after being in Belmarsh Prison, so that it would be unlikely that the delay would be anything other than Police and Coroner procedures.
To Jonny, Solomon’s story now had become even bigger. Over the next two days, newspapers had been covered with ideas as to motive and opportunity. They had little to go on. Jonny read every word written but could find nothing of substance.
Jonny Wightman made his way into Southwark Coroners Court on the mild April sunny day.
In the crowded courtroom, the first witness was the police officer who attended the scene. He described the deceased as lying outside the lift door in the hotel’s foyer with a serious chest injury and produced a single shell case in a tagged plastic evidence bag. He told the court he expected that the second shell case had been retrieved before the perpetrator vanished through the chaos and into the street. A local doctor staying to the hotel had already pronounced Solomon Isaacs dead and laid a blanket over the body. Several witnesses, including Jonny Wightman, were then called to described what they thought had happened and finally the autopsy report by Doctor Grimond confirming two bullets entering the chest, one penetrating the heart, the other the right lung, had caused Dr. Isaac’s death. He stated that death would have been instantaneous. A jury of five men and five women returned a verdict of murder.
‘What’d you know, you’re not telling here, Jonny.’
‘David, how nice to see you again. How’s life at the Standard?’
‘Same old stuff. Boss said I had to come to see this one. Been several shootings this year already. Silly sod thought there may be a connection. I’m wasting my time here. The shooter’s gun wasn’t the same as the others. Modus operandi, you know, same gun makes them important in their world.’
‘See you around, Jonny.’
Back in his office, Jonny fingered the spent cartridge case turning it round in his fingers. According to the pathologist’s report it was a bullet fired from a Walther P38. Jonny began his research hoping it may take him somewhere. Accepted by the German military in late 1939, Walther began mass production at their plant in Zella-Mehlis mid-1940, using military production identification code ‘480’. After a few thousand pistols, the production codes were changed from numbers to letters and Walther was given the ‘ac’ code.
It would be impossible, thought Jonny, even as a very long shot, but if he could have the hammer indentation on the cartridge in his pocket matched with the Walther then he’d have Solomon’s killer. Even better if he could somehow get hold of the bullet in police custody, but that was going to be impossible. There were thousands of P38s taken as souvenirs after the war and many kept by Wehrmacht soldiers and those escaping Germany in the immediate aftermath of its defeat. He knew somewhere in Solomon’s past he’d find the answer. He returned to the page about the P38. Nothing would point to the killer, but Jonny wanted every detail. Maybe something would find a place.
From an engineering perspective the P38 was a semi-automatic pistol design that introduced technical features that are found in other semi-automatic pistols like the Beretta 92 and its M9 sub-variant adopted by the United States military.
The murderer must have known a lot about the gun to use it so efficiently. Jonny read on. You could chamber a round, use the safety-decocking lever to safely lower the hammer without firing the round, and carry the weapon loaded. This lever can stay down keeping the weapon safely ‘ready’ with a double-action trigger pull for the first shot. The firing mechanism extracts and ejects the first spent round, cocks the hammer, and chambers a fresh round for single-action operation with each. The killer must have known that an old P38 was dependable, most likely untraceable and was meant to be very significant as the weapon of death in Solomon Isaac’s case.
‘Here we are again,’ thought Jonny, ‘back in the 1940s. At least that’s what the gun suggested.’
Chapter 35
London
The Coroner released Solomon’s body for burial. Jonny was going to be an interested bystander hidden from view, camera at the ready, no doubt with several policemen scouring the mourner’s faces for clues. He visited the Edgwarebury Jewish Cemetery in the London Borough of Barnet, the day before Solomon’s ashes were to be interred. He walked around amongst the tombstones, occasionally stopping to read a life now forgotten. Over in the far corner near the outer perimeter, he noticed two workmen digging unmarked patch of ground.
‘Warm day,’ he commented.
‘Aye, always a rush these jobs. The dead can’t wait here.’
‘Do I know the person for this plot?’ asked Jonny.
The taller man took a piece of paper from is pocket. He read ‘Some gezzer named ‘Solomon Isaacs’.’
Jonny bade them ‘fairwell’ and searched around for a well secluded vantage point. Just to his right was a rank of five storey Georgian houses, one of which had scaffolding clinging to the front and several men working. Jonny walked over the road.
‘This the new flat conversion, I’ve been told about?’
‘Only one round here, mate. Must be the one.’
Jonny smiled at the man.
‘Look, I’m in a hurry today. Any chance I could look at the first-floor balcony flat tomorrow?’
‘Why not, you won’t be the first.’
‘Ok see you at 11ish’
As usual, Jonny did his homework. He didn’t know much about Jewish custom and tradition, but he was about to find out. Jonny was certain that Solomon’s funeral would be graveside only, not as in other cases where they would start at the synagogue and then progess to the cemetery.
As to who would be present, Jonny couldn’t wait to see. Could Solomon’s murderer be one of the ‘officially’ designated as mourners: parent, child, spouse, or sibling, but that didn’t prevent other from being graveside. Who would be amongst the Nihum Avelim (comforting mourners)? Jonny asked himself. Who would place the earth over the coffin? That would be interesting, thought Jonny. He recalled that Jewish tradition teaches that one of the most important mitzvot (commandment) that can be performed is helping loved ones find their final resting place. This is both a symbolic and actual act. Their presence at a funeral would be a powerful act of service and love, ‘or something else more sinister’,
added Jonny. He’d told Rufus and those from Grange House to present his apologies, but he’d be there in spirit.
Perched high in the Georgian building, taking photographs of the internal layout and view from the balcony, Jonny didn’t recognise any of those clustered around Solomon Isaac’s graveside. His powerful camera clicked away. He moved from room to room to change the angle. Fortunately, it was a cloudless sky and the sun didn’t cast too many shadows. He watched the simple bio-degradable casket being lowered into the ground. The simple polished wood with glued corners, no nails whatsoever, slowly, inevitably, disappearing into the darkness. It wouldn’t be long for Solomon Isaac’s body to filter through the rotting coffin giving the earth its nutrients in a natural fashion.
As the gathered few made their way from the cemetery, Jonny noticed others, not directly at the graveside, slowly drift into the surrounding streets. His camera clicked away, catching their furtive glances. One, he thought he recognized, from somewhere but where?
Chapter 36
London
Solomon Isaac’s had given Jonny his whole story. It wasn’t meant to end with him being gunned down in a London hotel. Within all those pages he’d learned about what Solomon did and what he’d achieved but he never expected to have to find out who killed him and why.
Jonny sat back in his study at home. He had installed a large white lecture board on one wall. At the top was a photograph of Solomon staring at him. Beside the main photograph were others that Solomon had included in the manuscript.
‘Come on, Solomon, speak to me,’ said Jonny out loud as he fingered the other photographs in his right hand.
He took a black pen and scribbled a list of important names from the ‘Stealing the Staircase’ manuscript down the right-hand side that he knew had entered and passed through Solomon’s life, however briefly. He put them in the best chronological order that he could, putting dates from first to last mention.
He went over to his copier and placed each of the other photographs on the platen and enlarged each. He then pinned each one against the name on the right had side. Several names had no matching photographs. He then printed out all the worthwhile photographs taken at the funeral. On his desk he tried to match them with the ones that Solomon and given him. It was an impossible task.
Tomorrow he’d ask, Rod Taskny, to photo-enhance each and then add life’s natural aging process to each of those photos of Solomon’s by the appropriate time span. He looked at the dates on the board and noted the approximate age they would be now.
As his head whirred, Jonny fell in and out a sleep. Tired and unrested, at 5 am he could not stay in bed any longer. He showered, dressed and cantered down the stairs into the street, holding his portfolio bag of photographs above his head to avoid colliding into some of the other early risers as he crashed through the front door and onto the street. As fortune would have it, the first taxi he hailed stopped and he got in.
There was no-one at ‘Photo Blending Tech Limited’ when Jonny arrived. He knew Rod was usually early but checking his watch realised that he’d have to treat himself to breakfast first. Sitting alone at 6.00 am in the morning in a London café is a little depressing, thought Jonny. Still the double expresso with two white sugars was doing the trick, particularly when sitting beside it was a cinnamon and current bagel piping hot and melting the two servings of butter.
When Jonny saw Rod, he vainly banged on the window to no avail but followed him as he tapped in the lock code and opened the door.
‘Mr Wightman, my dear fellow. You’re keen, Jonny. Must be important.’
‘Thought I’d catch you first thing,’ he said as he hauled the portfolio case onto the empty desk and laid out the photographs.
‘I need some enhancement first, then I need you to age the faces.’
Rod examined them carefully.
‘Actually, Jonny, you caught us at a great time.’
‘Really, I always thought you said to me and I quote ‘the timings not good, Jonny’, he laughed.
‘Well, this time it is, here let me show you why.’
Rod walked over to his computer and turned on the screen. A few second later a green page appeared and in the centre were the words ‘Synthetic Face Ageing’ staring at him.
‘It’s the latest technology in age progressions. We been playing around with it over the last few weeks and it works. Look.’ Rod produced the picture a teenage girl.
‘This was taken over thirty years ago and this one is what the computer produced thirty years later. Now look at this one.’
There in front of Jonny were two almost identical pictures of the teenager thirty years later, an original of now and the enhanced one.
‘That’s unbelievable.’
‘Yes, it a pretty powerful piece of kit. It is the hand that guides the computer programme that counts. We must be able to produce corrections or alterations with flawless detail in order to create an accurate age progression picture. The most accurate renditions use the anatomical knowledge of child growth development; and some medical knowledge of what to expect due to diseases, alcohol and drug abuse, or other serious illnesses. I know that will be impossible in most of your cases, but it does need a great deal of background lifestyle, likely socio-economic details etcetera to get that close. We knew a lot about that teenage girl.’
‘You want me to research each of the backgrounds of those in these early pictures?’
‘As best you can. It really will help to get an accurate age enhancement. Sorry, Jonny but over to you. What I will do in the meantime is get some clarity into these early photos before we attempt to use them. See you in a few days, eh?’
‘I’ll send you an email, all the background information I can on each person.’
As soon as Jonny got home, he rang his senior researcher, Rachel.
‘Sorry, Rachel, been tied down on another matter. Will be out for a while. In the meantime, I need you to get as much information on the people in the photographs I’m sending round by courier as you can. I’ve named each one, but I need to know, lifestyle, schooling, routines, fitness, friends, the lot. As usual it’s urgent.’
‘What are you up to. Trying to find a murderer, Jonny Wightman?’ Rachel always used his full name when she knew there was something important being researched by her boss. She’d worked with him for years and understood at this stage not to ask too much, but she knew what he was doing.
A week later, Jonny knocked on Rod Taskny’s door at Photo Blending Tech Limited.
‘Here’s the background info you wanted on each of the old photos. Best we can do, Rod.’
‘Thanks, Jonny. Anders here is the guy we use on this bit of kit. Anders used to be part of the old artists system.’
‘Which is the best, Anders?’ asked Jonny.
‘Personally, Mr Wightman, as an artist I could produce an image for the public to view and compare with a person already seen. It leaves a bit to the imagination to record and retain a similarity. But, a computerized image, based upon a photograph and limited by the software used to create it, is viewed as an exact image, leaving no room for the mind to readjust that retained image. In other words, the age progression made by an artist allows the viewer to imagine who it could be, while a computer-generated age progression image leaves little room for those similarities which may evoke recognition in someone's mind.’
‘Yea, I see that, but you didn’t answer my question.’
‘Well, with this new software, I can do both. It asks a lot of questions as Rod had said, hence this bundle you’ve just given me about each person. You will be amazed with the results, said Anders holding up the package.
‘I’ll leave it to you and look forward to being amazed.’
Back in his study at home, Jonny tried to add significance to each name, but he couldn’t be certain he was being objective enough. Solomon had tried to be objective, but sometimes Jonny had his doubts. After all, it was Solomon’s story and some things may not manifestly what they seem t
o be. He’d learned that from the many stories he’d covered over the years. Grey is a very difficult colour to be precise about. How good was Solomon with the colour grey?
Chapter 37
Munich Germany
Jonny remembered that part of the manuscript about Solomon’s wife, Nadine, and her escape from Russia with Captain Johann Bron. They had both assumed that he’d died in the battlefields of western Russia in 1942 and so had Jonny. Could he still be alive somehow?
No stone unturned, Jonny started to do his research. He’d used his contacts in the police force to trace the old man to Munich. Would this trip help him? He hoped it would.
Jonny took the morning Lufthansa flight to Munich and landed at noon. He walked through airport control and bought tickets for the S-Bahn at Munich Airport Centre. Much more convenient than taking a taxi and suffering the inevitable traffic delays as the trains ran all day every ten minutes. Forty minutes later he arrived at the Hauptbahnhof. Rachel had booked him into the Hilton Centre located above the Rosenheimer Platz S-Bahn line from the airport. Jonny didn’t leave the station but took the elevator directly from the station into the hotel. As usual the front desk staff were friendly and helpful. Jonny had been here before on an abortive first effort to locate Johann Bron, but now he had an address of a care home some hour’s drive outside the city.
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