Schreiber's Secret

by Roger Radford

  “I’ll be all right, mon,” the man called out in thick West Indian brogue. “I just got to compose meself.”

  Looked as white as a sheet, thought Webb, and then quickly turned his ensuing chuckle into a smile of reassurance. “Take as long as you like. We’re arranging for you to get the day off.”

  The policeman knew the foreman would have a whole day of exhaustive questioning to go through. It was odds-on the man was an innocent party, but nothing would be left to chance. Not on this one. Not with the Super breathing down his neck, the Commissioner breathing down the Super’s neck and the politicians huffing and puffing down everyone’s neck. He had premonitions of a disaster if no arrest was quickly forthcoming.

  “Hi, Bob. What’s up?”

  Webb’s gangling six-foot-two frame started at the voice by his side. It belonged to a young man with whom Webb had many shared interests besides police work, such as football, tennis and more than the occasional round of golf. Although Mark Edwards was six years his junior, Webb could still match him at most sports.

  “What took you so long?” the policeman smiled. “The body’s already cold.”

  The mere mention of the word made Edwards shiver. The body was not all that was cold that morning. His side of the bed would soon be stone cold. Criminal, he thought, absolutely criminal. He was having a hard time keeping his bearings. He’d certainly never felt this way about anyone before. Danielle Green was simply mind-blowing.

  “Are you with us?”

  “It’s okay, Bob, I’m still half asleep.”

  “She must be some lady.” Webb winked knowingly.

  “Is that an educated guess or do you have inside information?”

  “Nothing. Nothing, Mark, mate, it’s just that that girl journalist you introduced me to last week was an absolute knockout.”

  “Talking about bodies, Bob,” said Edwards, “what gives on this one?”

  “Cabbie murdered. A molto bad one. Before you ask, I can’t let you or your photographer near the scene. Forensic already have their dabs on it. He can take a shot of the cab and I can let him shoot these.”

  Edwards examined the police photographer’s preliminary Polaroids. “Jesus Christ!” he whistled.

  “No, he was crucified,” said Webb humourlessly.

  Edwards looked again at the pictures. The first one showed clearly a swastika carved into the victim’s forehead, the others the points of entry and exit of a bullet.

  Webb pointed a finger. “Shot through the nape of the neck first and then the killer left his calling card. This was an execution, mate, pure and simple.”

  “I don’t think we can use these, Bob, they’re too horrific. We’ll shoot ’em to keep ’em on file, but I know the editor’ll have his reservations. The Jewish community is going to be up in arms and the Standard is very pro-Jewish and very pro-Israel. Is this the work of fascists or Arabs? Any clues?”

  “Nothing much to go on at the moment,” Webb lied. As much as he cherished their friendship, there were some things a policeman had to keep secret. Information was a two-edged sword and there were always some clues which it would be injudicious to reveal. Timing was everything in a murder inquiry. “We’ll check out the Claybury nuthouse first, but somehow I don’t think we’ll find an inmate missing. Local nutters tend to belong to the dirty raincoat brigade.”

  Edwards watched in fascination as the forensic boys milled around the black cab. The body of the cabbie was slumped over the steering wheel. He was thankful he could not make out the man’s altered features. The Polaroids were horrific enough.

  “Okay, Bob, shoot. What’s known?”

  Webb yawned and stretched his large frame. The breath exuded from his generous mouth in a fine mist. Reflectively, he ran his thumb and forefinger along a pencil-thin moustache, slowly bringing them together at the foot of his lantern jaw. “Hyams. Joseph Stanley Hyams. Aged fifty. Married to Rebecca. Two sons, twenty-three and twenty-one. All living in Beatyville Gardens. Typical middleclass Jewish family, if you ask me. Hope she’s not the hysterical type. A couple of my boys are with her now.”

  “Do you think a passenger did it?”

  “More than likely. The meter had forty-five pounds on the clock. At first glance it looks like a Heathrow job. The cost per distance is about right. Funny, though ...”

  “What?”

  “The killer was obviously a pretty cool customer. He switched the motor off but didn’t try to destroy the evidence on the meter. Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to yield much. We’ll go through the flight lists, but I think we’ll probably be wasting our time.”

  “What about known fascists?”

  “The usual suspects will be questioned. Special Branch have a list of known activists in this area. The Yard’s method index may help, although I doubt whether there’s any previous form on this particular modus operandi.”

  “You sound pretty depressed, Bob.”

  “I’ve got bad vibes on this one, Mark.” Webb stared straight ahead. “It’s got all the hallmarks of the beginnings of a serial killing. Nobody bothers to carve a swastika on someone’s forehead unless he’s leaving some kind of message.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t tell you just yet,” said Webb, regretting his observation. “But I promise you you’ll be the first to know if we come up with anything.”

  “Don’t bugger me about, Bob,” said Edwards, sensing his friend was being a little too circumspect.

  “Look, mate,” the policeman rejoined tetchily, “don’t press me too far. You know all the big nobs will be breathing down my neck on this one. It’s got political overtones.”

  Edwards realized he might indeed be pushing too hard. He respected Webb’s abilities as a copper and he knew the man was going to be under intense pressure to come up with something. The middle echelon in the police pecking order was always the hardest pressed. Those at the bottom of the heap had the least responsibility and those at the top could dump their frustration on the likes of Webb.

  “Okay, Bob,” said Edwards, changing the subject, “let’s talk about the murder weapon.”

  “Dunno yet. Forensic says the wound is typical of close quarters with a silencer. But as to the make of weapon, we’ll have to wait for the lab report on the bullet we found.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Lodged in the dashboard.”

  “What was used to carve the swastika?”

  “A knife, probably. We’ve only just started combing the area.”

  Edwards closed his notebook. “Bob, can I interview the guy who found him, and then I’ll be off?”

  “Sure,” said Webb. “He’s the station foreman. Sitting over there by the wall. He’s pretty shook up. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see you a bit later. There’ll probably be a news conference, right?”

  “Probably,” Webb grimaced. “But I think we’ll hold you lot off until tomorrow.”

  “Unless you have a little exclusive something just for little old me, eh?”

  “Go on, bugger off. I’ll see you later, no doubt. I’ll get you on your mobile if anything comes up.”

  Webb watched the reporter approach the West Indian. Edwards was a good journalist, a man who could be relied on to write the facts without too much embellishment. But he himself was a good policeman. And good policemen had to play some of their cards close to their chests. He withdrew the note from his breast pocket and re-read its contents. “All in good time,” he muttered. “All in good time.”

  Mark Edwards, having filed his story on the hoof, knew he was in for a long and exhausting day. Nick Logan, his news editor, was a demanding tyrant. The man had decided to dispatch a relief reporter to the scene, while Edwards was to interview the widow and get hold of some family photos. It was always the shittiest part of being a crime reporter. He had to be pretty thick skinned to do the job anyway, but bereaved relatives always got to him.

  Driving back to his flat to wa
sh and shave, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d be a fish out of water with the Hyams family. People always responded better to their own. He thought of Danielle. He’d ask her to accompany him. She wasn’t due in her office until lunchtime, anyway.

  Edwards parked his car in the lay-by outside Redbridge Court. Although traffic was light, some commuters were already making their way towards Redbridge station nearby to begin their regular boring journeys to the City. But at least they were alive. Not like poor old Joe Hyams.

  He took the lift to the third floor and let himself in quietly. The flat was silent, save for the familiar hum of the refrigerator. Permeating the apartment was her favourite perfume, a strong yet delicate reminder of the carnal pleasures of the previous night. For one moment he felt like telling Nick Logan where to stick his orders. Professionalism, however, restored itself quickly. Edwards entered his bedroom. He could feel his desire welling up once again as he gazed at her form. Sitting gently on the bed, he stared at her bare white shoulders. Her gold Star of David had somehow worked its way around to the back of the chain. He fingered it delicately and then returned it to its rightful place just at the top of her cleavage. Danielle moaned as she attempted to pull the blankets higher.

  “Dani,” he whispered. “Dani, please wake up.”

  She sighed and lingered a few more seconds before turning slowly towards him. “Mark, is that you? What time is it?”

  “It’s seven-thirty, darling. I wish I could get back into bed with you, but I need your help.”

  “What’s happened?” she asked, propping herself on her right elbow, the sheet and blankets slipping below the line of her ample breasts.

  Edwards ran his fingers through his hair. He sighed, not really knowing where to begin. The news he had to impart was horrible enough. The fact that the victim was one of her own people meant he had to be especially sensitive.

  He breathed deeply before saying simply, “The murder.”

  “Yes?” she asked with obvious concern.

  Edwards related the gruesome details, being careful not to over-dramatize.

  “What was his name?” she asked. She’d left the question to last, fearing that perhaps he had been an acquaintance of her father’s.

  “Joe Hyams.”

  “Oh no,” she gasped. The emerald eyes opened wide in surprise, closing only when the emptiness reached the pit of her stomach.

  “Do you know him?” Edwards’ voice carried genuine concern.

  She pulled the sheet up and bit hard on the edge. “He’s my uncle. My mother’s brother.”

  Edwards leaned over and began caressing her hair. “I’m so sorry, Dani. It’s just unbelievable.” He wiped away her tears with his forefinger.

  “Uncle Joe was always a loser,” she sighed. “He’s what we call a nebach, always complaining about how life was treating him. But he was a lovable nebach. Auntie Becky’ll be devastated.”

  Edwards felt he was intruding on her personal grief, yet he knew Nick Logan was unlikely to take him off the job.

  “Dani,” he said with trepidation, “I don’t know how to say this, but I’ve been told by my office to get some pictures and interview the bereaved wife.”

  If Danielle Green was upset, she did not show it. She leaned over to her side of the bed and withdrew a tissue from a pink box on top of the bedside cabinet. Blowing her nose forcefully, she muttered, “I can supply you with the photographs. We’ll pop into my parents’ home on the way. My mum probably doesn’t know yet. It’s not the best circumstances for you to meet them in, but that’s all I can do for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Edwards simply.

  As Danielle left the bed to wash and dress, it was not her uncle and his family who were uppermost in her mind. Another man, in a way a distant relative, dominated her thoughts. What would Henry Sonntag make of this incredible horror?

  CHAPTER 4

  House of Commons, London

  “Mr Speaker,” intoned the Right Honourable Member for Ilford North, “I’m sure the House would like to register its shock and disgust at the appalling nature of the murder which has taken place in my constituency and to voice its condolences to the victim’s family.”

  “Hear, hear,” bayed members on both sides.

  “I’m sure my Right Honourable colleague the Home Secretary can assure the House that the police are doing all within their power to bring the perpetrator to justice speedily.”

  The home secretary rose slowly. Removing his gold-rimmed spectacles, he cleared his throat before replying. He knew the Opposition was waiting to pounce on the question of law and order. “I can assure the House”, he stated, “that the police will leave no stone unturned. This is ...”

  “Shame, shame,” cried a group of Opposition backbenchers. “The government’s record on law and order is shameful. Shameful.”

  “Order, order,” cried the Speaker.

  “This is a crime”, the home secretary continued, “the specific nature of which recalls the worst barbarism of the Nazis. As I said, the police will leave no stone unturned.”

  This was the cue for the portly shadow home secretary to jump to his feet. In booming Yorkshire brogue he launched his attack. “I’m sure that my Right Honourable friend the Home Secretary is aware that this crime is the latest in an ever growing catalogue of racist attacks which are shocking the people of Great Britain. The Asian community has been hardest hit until now. However, as he rightly says, the nature of the crime in the early hours of this morning defies belief. The racist and criminal elements in our society are having a field day.”

  “Hear, hear,” bellowed the Opposition. The back-benches were afire with indignation.

  “Order, order,” cried the Speaker. “Order, order.”

  Twelve miles to the east of Parliament, another man was burning with indignation. “Bring him in,” barked Detective Inspector Robert Webb with undisguised contempt. “Sit him in that chair.”

  “Fuckin’ leave off, will yer. I ain’t done nuffin.”

  The detective glared at the man before him. Colin Smith was the dregs of the earth. Obese, obnoxious, his body covered with tattoos ranging from the slightly amusing to the outright racist. Swastikas and other symbols of hate abounded within the undulating folds of blubber. “You’re scum, Smith.”

  “I ain’t done nuffin, I tell yer,” Smith pleaded in an accent that was pure Canning Town.

  “Where were you in the early hours of this morning, scum?”

  “’Ere, don’t call me that. I’ve got my rights.”

  Webb’s steel-grey eyes narrowed. “The only rights you will ever be entitled to, Smith, are the last ones. Now annoy me too much and you’ll be begging me to call in a priest.”

  “What’s all this about, guv?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “No, honest.”

  Webb moved behind the thirty-year-old fascist and stooped to whisper menacingly in his ear, “You couldn’t be honest if your life depended on it, Smith.”

  “Look, I tell yer I don’t know what yer talkin’ abou’.”

  The detective circled the fat man. “I’m talking about the brutal murder of a Jewish taxi driver. Where were you in the early hours of this morning?”

  “In bed wi’ me wife.”

  “Fuck me how anybody could sleep with you, Smith.”

  “Now there’s no need to get personal, guv. I tell yer I don’t know nuffin about this taxi driver.”

  Webb looked squarely into the fat man’s baby-blue eyes. The picture of innocence before him was a leading heavy for the ultra-right-wing British National Party. He was also a part-time thug for Combat 18, a virulent fascist group that had close ties with German neo Nazis, and had been responsible for attacks on Asians and Jews.

  “Convince me, Smith,” the detective snarled, switching on the tape recorder. “Convince me.”

  Mark Edwards sat at his desk on the third floor of Northcliffe House and stared blankly at the VDU screen. The previous day
had proved cathartic. Not so much because of the actual murder, but because of the hysterical wailings of Becky Hyams. He was used to English stoicism, the sort of reserve that could sometimes mask feelings just as strong as those of Mrs Hyams but would not impinge on the neutral observer’s emotions. Safe. Clean.

  Becky Hyams, however, made sure the whole world knew about her tragedy. Danielle had tried to calm the woman, but emotions ran so strongly that soon all the family were wailing. Dani had explained to him that under Jewish law the body had to be buried as soon as possible and that seven days of mourning, a shiva, would follow. She had described this period as vital in the family’s attempts to come to terms with bereavement.

  Edwards had found Dani’s parents courteous and polite. Given the circumstances, they had not asked him too many questions, although he had detected one or two knowing glances directed his way. If they were concerned that their favourite daughter was dating a goy, they did not show it. He smiled to himself at the thought of being Dani’s “goy boy”.

  “Penny for your thoughts, old chap.”

  The West Country drawl and the intrusive odour of an early morning dram told him the speaker was Jim Pottage. Gentleman Jim, the police’s favourite reporter, was a man who could hold his drink with the best of them, from the Commissioner down to the bobby on the beat.

  “Good morning, Jim lad,” said Edwards. “Starting a bit early today, aren’t we?” The comment was entirely without rancour, for Edwards respected Jim Pottage both as a man and as a damned good crime reporter.

  “Abso-bloody-lutely, old bean,” replied Pottage jovially, fingering the spotted bowtie that was his trademark. Navy blue spots on crimson this time, matching his pickle-nose. Side-whiskers, a ruddy complexion and the obligatory beer gut completed a character straight out of Dickens.

  Edwards turned to face his colleague. Gentleman Jim was an apt name for him. The older man had had every right to give him a rough time. Going on fifty and with a reputation as a hard drinker, Pottage had been passed over for chief crime reporter at least three times in the last decade. Nine months ago it had been his turn to upstage the old man. But if Pottage felt any bitterness, he never showed it.