by Tim Ellis
‘Are you saying he lied about being . . .’
‘I’m just telling you how it was. So, I did some research on that concentration camp – Wansleben am See – and guess what I discovered?’
‘Go on.’
‘Every inmate was killed.’
‘Maybe he survived.’
‘No one survived.’
‘Which means what?’
‘He was a German.’
‘You mean a German inmate?’
‘A German guard – one of the Waffen-SS.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘There were thousands of them that evaded capture and disappeared, you know.’
‘So, you think he had the tattoo put on his arm as a disguise?’
‘There were a lot of SS who stole the identities of their victims in an attempt to escape justice. One way you can tell, of course, is to see if he had a blood group tattoo on the underside of his left arm near the armpit. After the war, the tattoo was regarded as perfect evidence of being part of the SS.’
Frank Bernado was dead. Had he been cremated? Or was he lying in a coffin somewhere? He pulled out his phone and rang Frank Bernado’s ex-wife – Nicola Brennan.
‘Excuse me,’ he said to Astrid and Arthur.
‘Hello.’
‘Miss Brennan, it’s DI Quigg.’
‘You’ve got more news for me?’
‘No, not yet. I just wanted to ask you something.’
‘What?’
‘Was Frank buried or cremated?’
‘Buried.’
‘Where?’
‘The Jewish Cemetery in St Giles, Cripplegate.’
‘As his only living relative, can I have your permission to exhume him?’
‘Why?’
‘I’d rather not say at the moment. I’ll tell you everything afterwards.’
‘I suppose I have no choice. Yes, I give you my permission.’
‘Thank you.’
He phoned Perkins.
‘Hi, Sir.’
‘I want you to exhume Frank Bernado. He’s in the Jewish Cemetery in St Giles, Cripplegate.’
‘And then what?’
‘Take a look under his left arm up near the armpit to see if there’s a blood group tattoo, or evidence of one having been removed.’
‘Ah, you think Catherine Bernado’s father was an SS guard?’
‘Can you do that?’
‘The Chief has given his authorization . . . ?’
‘Just do it, Perkins. As usual, I take full responsibility for any expenditure. And I don’t need to tell you that I want it . . .’
‘. . . Yesterday?’
‘Sooner if you can tear yourself away from the post mortem of that alien you’re hiding in your laboratory.’
‘Talking of aliens . . .’
‘Goodbye, Perkins.’
He put his phone away. ‘Thanks for your help, Arthur. We might be in luck – Frank was buried.’
‘You’ll let me know, will you?’
‘I’ll let Astrid know, and she’ll let you know.’
‘That’ll be great.’
Outside he said, ‘And thanks for your help, Astrid.’
‘You’ll call me?’
‘Do you want me to call you?’
‘Only if you want to call me.’
‘I’ll call you.’
***
They drove out of Halle in two hired Mercedes. It took them thirty-five minutes to reach Wansleben am See passing a monument dedicated by the Russians to the “Victims of Fascism”. After a further seven minutes they arrived at the remnants of the concentration camp. It was a bleak landscape. The lake had been pumped dry in the nineteenth century, and there wasn’t much evidence of anything having been here because ivy and weeds covered everything.
There were another four cars parked up, and fifteen men and women – Mossad agents – carrying Uzi machine guns hung on canvas straps around their necks, acted as a guard of honour.
‘Are you expecting visitors?’ Kline said to Emilia.
‘You don’t think the Einsatzgruppen have given up, do you?’
‘No, but I was hoping.’
‘They will be here, but this time we are ready for them.’
Emilia spoke to one of the others in Hebrew and then said to her, ‘They have found the entrance. We will be lowered down by a rope. Are you ready?’
‘You’re not going, are you?’
‘It will be my last assignment. I have not spent years of my life searching for this treasure only to let someone else find it.’
Someone passed Emilia a head lamp and a Uzi. She put the lamp on her head and hung the machine gun strap around her neck.
The man passed her a head lamp.
‘Where’s my Uzi?’ she challenged him.
‘They will not give you one,’ Emilia answered.
She said to the man handing out the guns, ‘Give me one, or I’ll take yours.’
He looked at Emilia, who shrugged.
The man passed her an Uzi.
‘They think you are a crazy bitch.’
‘I am.’
‘You remind me of me when I was a partisan.’
‘Yeah well. I just hope those fucking SS bastards come now that I’ve got a gun.’
They were lowered in rope chairs side-by-side through a hole in the ground. There used to be a pulley system, but it had long since rusted and collapsed into the hole.
‘I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but how are we going to get out of the mines?’
‘They will pull us out.’
‘How many have you left at the top?’
‘Four.’
‘Are you sure that’s going to be enough if the Einsatzgruppen arrive?’
‘It will be enough.’
‘I hope so, because I’d hate to be stuck down here with nobody to pull us out except the people who want to kill us.’
They were lowered approximately thirty feet before they felt the ground beneath their feet.
There were eight people already in the mine. As they moved about, lights bounced all around the roof and walls.
‘It’s white,’ Kline said, wriggling out of the chair and switching on her own head lamp.
‘It is salt,’ Emilia said.
‘Yeah, I’m just surprised it’s white.’
‘Salt is white.’
‘Should we stop there?’
Emilia smiled in reply.
More people followed them down, and they set off along the main tunnel.
‘Do they know where they’re going?’ Kline asked.
‘I made a phone call from Heathrow. They arrived here a couple of hours after my call. Since then, they have been searching for the secret tunnel, and they think they have found it.’ She knelt down and began drawing in the dirt. ‘This is what we believe. The two mines were next to each other, but at least a hundred feet apart. A tunnel was created joining the two mines together, and along the length of the tunnel caverns were hacked out where the looted treasures were deposited. As the Russian army approached, the SS sealed the tunnel at both ends so that it was indistinguishable from the surrounding rock and escaped to the British and American zones – they knew very well what the Russians would do to them.’
‘And it’s been here all this time?’
‘Yes. Only a very few people who were still alive knew of its existence.’
‘Why didn’t they come and get it?’
‘I do not know, but now their successors want it, and we know that they will not stop until they succeed or die.’
‘Well, they’re going to die then.’
It wasn’t long before they came to a pile of rubble and the beginning of an opening hacked out of the rock.
Emilia nodded at a man with a pickaxe.
He aimed it at the wall.
Two others joined him.
Soon, a small hole appeared.
Emilia smiled. ‘Yes, we have found the secret tunnel at last.’ She paced about while the
men created an opening large enough to walk through. ‘I can hardly contain myself.’
Eventually, the tunnel was big enough.
Two of the agents led the way, but as they crossed the threshold into the tunnel, a withering stream of gunfire met them and they both crumpled to the ground.
‘The fucking Einsatzgruppen have got here before us,’ Kline said, releasing the safety catch and returning fire.
‘Of course,’ Emilia said. ‘They have come through the other mine entrance.’
Another two agents entered the tunnel, but were quickly gunned down.
Emilia shouted for the others to stay where they were and return fire from the safety of this side of the tunnel.
‘A Mexican stand-off,’ Kline said.
Yacob came up to them. ‘It is no good. We cannot go into the tunnel.’
‘But neither can they,’ Emilia said.
‘They arrived before us, and have already begun moving some of the treasures out of the caverns.’
‘We cannot allow it.’
Kline cleared her throat. ‘Why not send your people back up to the surface, across to the other mine entrance and attack them from the rear.’
‘Yes,’ Emilia agreed. ‘It is the only way. Hurry, Yacob.’
‘I’ll come . . .’ Kline started to say.
Yacob shook his head. ‘No. You must stay here to protect Emilia.’
‘Oh, I’m some fucking use after all then?’
He ignored her, but began shouting at the other Mossad agents to drop their spare magazines for Kline and Emilia to use and to follow him back down the tunnel.
Then, it was just Emilia and Kline firing their weapons into the darkness of the secret tunnel.
‘Short bursts,’ Emilia said. ‘Otherwise we will run out of ammunition. It does not take a genius to work out that thirty-two rounds in a magazine at five rounds a second are not going to last very long.’
‘You know,’ Kline said in-between bursts. ‘If they’ve taken the men who were going to pull us out of here with them, and everyone gets killed . . .’
‘You do not have to finish, Emilia said. ‘Let us hope everyone does not get killed.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
She couldn’t remember ever having been to Paddington Station before. It was like a massive warehouse with a frosted glass roof where people were stuffed into trains like sardines.
She’d left Duffy having her head examined by Quigg’s trick-cyclist friend – Ingrid Solberg. And she guessed that if he wasn’t screwing her yet, he soon would be.
At the top of the underground escalator she aimed herself at the ticket barrier and walked through into the main overground station. It didn’t take her long to spot the clock – it was the size of a small planet.
It didn’t take her long to spot Morticia either.
Quigg was in serious trouble.
In fact, so was she.
Morticia was one hot chick. She was exactly what she’d said she was on the phone: “A big-titted blonde”
She was a bit older than Lucy had imagined – maybe twenty-eight or nine, but hot – hot as chilli peppers.
It wasn’t quite ten o’clock yet, so she leaned against the window of Burger King and watched Morticia wait. She wore threadbare jeans, a black top that strained at what was underneath, a small oval cut-out hinted at cleavage and her natural blonde hair hung straight down to her nipples.
Lucy could imagine her face between those breasts, imagine Morticia sweating and panting beneath and above her. Quigg was threaded in there somewhere, but it wasn’t about Quigg, it was about her and Morticia.
‘Hey!’ she said.
‘Lucy?’
‘The one and only. And you must be Morticia.’
‘The one and only.’
They laughed together easily.
‘You want to grab a coffee?’ Lucy asked.
‘Sure.’
They found a cafe and ordered coffee. Morticia had scrambled egg on toast as well.
‘So, what’s the problem?’ Morticia asked.
Lucy told her everything that had happened.
‘You killed a guy?’
‘Before he killed me. It was self-defence. We live in a dangerous world.’
‘You certainly do.’
‘Yeah. Let me tell you about Quigg.’ She didn’t usually spill her guts on the first date, but Morticia was a good listener.
‘Holy cow! He sounds awesome.’
‘Yeah, he is.’ A wave of jealousy crashed into her, and took her breath away. Where the fuck did that come from? Jealous! To be jealous you had to first be . . . fucking hell! No, that couldn’t be right. Quigg was a nice enough guy – sometimes. Maybe a bit dithery for her liking, but love him? No, the only person she loved was Lucy Neilson, and that was an end to it. ‘Are you ready?’
Morticia pulled a face. ‘Are we in a rush all of a sudden?’
‘Sorry. I was miles away then.’
‘Miles away where?’
‘A dark place where I promised myself I’d never go again.’
‘Baggage?’
‘You could say that.’
‘I just did.’
‘Ready?’
‘Let’s go and fix your system then.’
When she found out she wasn’t pregnant with Quigg’s baby she was disappointed. She hadn’t acknowledged or recognised that revelation at the time, but now it stunned her. What the fuck was going on? Maybe it was time to leave. She’d been at Quigg’s house far too long, she’d become part of the fucking furniture, she’d become attached – not just to Quigg, but to Ruth, Duffy and those noisy fucking rugrats. Christ! They’d become her family. Yeah – she had to leave, and she had to leave soon.
***
Anton Brodin had Irwin Slaughter sitting beside him. Slaughter was one of the top solicitors in London, and Quigg had danced the tango with him in this very same interview room before.
Brodin and Slaughter were both bald, wore pin-striped suits and red ties, and were slightly overweight. In fact, Quigg thought that they could have passed for twins.
‘Do I know you?’ Slaughter asked him as he pulled a chair out on the opposite side of the table to sit down.
‘Detective Inspector . . .’
‘. . . Quick?’
‘Quigg.’
‘That’s the one. Well Quigg, I hope you’ve got a good reason for bringing my client in here.’
He ignored Slaughter.
The recording equipment was already running.
‘Mr Brodin, in the early hours of Monday morning an event occurred in Bleeding Heart Yard in Holborn. A horribly butchered woman was left . . .’
Slaughter leaned forward, jutted his chin out and glared at Quigg. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that my client had anything . . .’
He turned to the solicitor. ‘Mr Slaughter, if I’m not mistaken, you’re familiar with your responsibilities during a police interview?’
‘Yes, I am and . . .’
‘Well, I’d be grateful if you could refrain from interrupting me while I’m questioning your client. Your powers are limited to advising him, not me.’
‘I’ve advised my client to say nothing.’
‘That doesn’t mean that you can speak instead of him. Do we understand each other?’
Slaughter leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms.
‘Good. Now, Mr Brodin, do you know anything about the murdered woman?’
‘Only what I’ve read in the newspapers and seen on the television.’
‘What happened to, “No comment”, Anton?’ Slaughter asked Brodin.
‘These are straightforward questions. Don’t worry, Irwin, I know what I’m doing.’
Quigg pulled Catherine Bernado’s photograph from the file and placed it in front of Brodin. ‘You’re aware that the murdered woman has now been identified as Catherine Bernado?’
‘Yes, I recall hearing her name on the car radio.’
‘Had you ever heard of
Catherine Bernado before then?’
‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘You know she was a freelance journalist?’
‘I had heard, but I’m sure I’ve never read anything she’s written.’
‘And you have no knowledge of her murder?’
‘Certainly not.’
He pretended to get up, but then sat back down again. ‘Oh, one last question before you go . . .’ He withdrew the six photographs that Mickey Stein had left for him this morning, and placed them one at a time in front of Brodin. ‘Is that you with Catherine Bernado in your flat at Tavistock Square?’
The blood drained from his face. ‘No comment.’
Quigg’s lip curled up. ‘It’s too late for “No comment” now, Mr Brodin.’ He glanced at Irwin Slaughter. ‘I’m going to suspend the interview and step outside for five minutes while you advise your client accordingly, Mr Slaughter. You should also know that those photographs have given me the key to your client’s life. If there is anything he wants to get off his chest, I advise him to do it now instead of waiting until I find out.’
He stepped out of the interview room.
Constable Fernandez stopped the DVD recording and made notes in the interview room book.
‘I’ll be back in ten.’
Fernandez nodded.
His eyelids were like anvils. He walked along the corridor to the external door, opened it and squinted as the sun caressed his face.
Things were going according to plan. Was Brodin involved in Catherine’s murder? Or was he simply having an affair with the wrong person? He hadn’t actually instructed Perkins to start rummaging around in the man’s life yet, but he would if Brodin didn’t tell him everything. Whether he was involved or not, his life was ruined – Mickey Stein would see to that.
‘DI Quigg?’ a female said.
He had to shield his eyes to see the person. ‘Yes.’
‘DI Erica Holm from Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve heard good things about you.’
‘Likewise, I’m sure. I think you know Rodney Crankshank?’
‘Hello, Rodney.’
‘Hello, Mr Quigg.’
‘Well, what trouble has Rodney got himself into, Erica?’