“Sorry?”
“Lovers’ tiff, remember?”
“Abso-bloody-lutely, old boy.”
Within the hour, Mark Edwards was seated in the waiting room of the newly built police station at Barkingside. A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind as he prepared to face the ire of his friend. Who was the man the police were about to charge? Who was the anonymous caller? Would there be any connection with this man Schreiber? It seemed preposterous that an old Nazi would come out of the woodwork and start bumping off Jews as he had done in the old days. These things just did not happen.
“Please come with me, Mr Edwards.” The order, emanating sweetly from the mouth of an attractive woman police constable, stirred the reporter from his musings. He thought she must be new because he could not recall seeing her there before. He followed her down a long corridor into a small side room, the sort used to interrogate prisoners. He felt almost overpowered by the smell of fresh paint and the heady aromatics of virgin furniture.
“Please wait here,” said the crisp white shirt and stiff navy skirt. “Detective Inspector Webb will be with you shortly.”
Oh, thought Edwards, not “Bob”, not even “DI Webb”. It was all getting too formal for the reporter’s liking, and he was beginning to feel more like a prisoner than a witness. He half sat on the new table and folded his arms. It was a full five minutes before his golf buddy entered the room.
Bob Webb’s steely grey eyes bore into the reporter. “You’d better sit down, Mr Edwards,” he ordered in a low growl. The policeman scratched his thin moustache, an act that the reporter recognized as a prelude to an angry outburst.
Edwards sank into the chair to his left and faced the slowly narrowing eyes of a man about to lose his temper. Webb’s features began to contort into the sort of grimace normally reserved for a sliced tee-shot.
“You bugger, Edwards,” the policeman seethed. “What the fuck do you think you’ve been playing at?”
“I ...”
“You’ve been playing silly buggers on the most important bloody case I’m ever likely to handle. I mean, even the Prime Minister’s got involved in this one. The Queen’s probably having kittens. I mean, her mob are all Germans, aren’t they? And you, the fledgling press baron, decide to withhold a vital piece of evidence.”
“But I ...”
“Let me finish, Mr Sleuth-Hound,” Webb said menacingly. “What’s more, you publish the story before consulting the man who’s given you more leads than hot dinners. I’ve given you more exclusives than other reporters get fillers. Now what’s it all about?” Having vented his spleen, the detective leant back in his chair and folded his arms.
Edwards’ raised eyebrows sought permission to speak. He swallowed a lungful of paint fumes before launching into what he knew was a pretty lame explanation. “Look, Bob,” he cajoled, “I didn’t know whether or not this caller was just an old hoaxer. You know, he still might be.”
“Hoaxer or not, my boy, we’ve had some murders on my patch. Or hadn’t you noticed? My God, one of them’s your girlfriend’s uncle. I need every bit of information I can get, so let me decide whether it’s important or not.”
“But you’ve got your man, haven’t you?”
“Maybe,” said Webb cagily. “He might have been your anonymous caller.”
“But he’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the guy rang me again today. You’d hardly allow your man to do that, would you?”
Webb stroked his moustache thoughtfully. “I want him, Mark. He could be a vital witness for us.”
“When are you going to release your man’s name?”
“Oh,” said Webb, looking at his watch, “the Yard’ll issue a statement in the near future.”
“So you can tell me who it is now. It’s not going to make much difference, is it?”
“Eager beaver, aren’t you, mate. First of all, I want you to promise me you’ll cooperate.”
Edwards smiled. “I promised my man I wouldn’t betray him to you lot.”
“Bullshit,” said Webb, shaking his head slowly.
“Yeah, I know,” sighed Edwards, running his fingers through his hair. “What do you want me to do?”
“Is he planning to contact you again?”
“Yeah, I told him to ring me at my office at around five tomorrow afternoon. He wanted me to confirm whether your prisoner is this Schreiber character. He still sounds pretty scared.”
“Can you stall him long enough for us to trace the call?”
“How long does that take?”
“New technology’s enabled us to cut it from four minutes to just over a minute.”
“Phew,” said Edwards, impressed, “that shouldn’t be too much trouble, then.”
“As long as you don’t blow it, mate.”
“What do you mean?”
“You mustn’t give him any idea you’re stalling for time, or that you’ve spoken to us.”
“Come on, give me some credit, Bob,” said Edwards. Then it suddenly hit him. “Wait a minute. If you’re so interested in my caller, then there must be something in this Schreiber thing.” The reporter cocked his head to one side. “Give.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Webb replied with a broad grin. “This is a real beauty, though.”
“Look, Bob,” said Edwards animatedly, “I know I buggered you about and now you’re buggering me about, but if it’s going to be announced soon then what’s the big deal?”
“Just wanted to make you sweat a bit. Anyway, it’ll only be announced when I give the go-ahead. And I don’t really want to do that until I’ve at least made an attempt to wrap up the invisible man. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re getting so excited. Once we arrest and charge someone, it’s sub judice for all you lot.”
“I’ll cooperate, okay!”
“Good.” The policeman beamed. “Now you know how I felt when I read your story.” He carried on, without hesitation, “You know, after what we found in this guy’s home, it’s an open and shut case.” He paused to savour his friend’s perplexity.
“Look, stop talking in riddles, Bob, and get to the point.”
“Okay, okay. Easy.” Webb gestured with open palms. “The fact is our man was Plant’s financial adviser and was visiting the poofter on a business matter. The other poof, the manservant, overheard them arguing over money before he scarpered off for some dangerous liaison at his local. Plant’s guest even threatened to kill him. Lo and behold, when we get round to the guest’s home, it’s a real classic. He’s singing in the shower, and on his bed is an open suitcase with your usual holiday gear and, wait for it ... a first class ticket to Rio. Boom-boom!”
“No shit,” whistled Edwards. He could just imagine Webb’s glee on finding the incriminating evidence. Then it struck him that he still did not know the killer’s name. “Haven’t you forgotten something, Bob?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. There’s more.”
“No, I mean, what’s the guy’s name?”
“Oh, he’s another big-time moneybags. Henry Sonntag.”
Edwards stared at Webb as if the detective had lost his marbles. Dumbstruck, all he could envisage was Danielle’s disbelieving face.
“What’s the big surprise?” asked Webb. “Do you know this guy?”
“But he’s a Jew,” said Edwards, breathing deeply. “He couldn’t have done those things.”
“Sure, he protests his innocence. But I don’t think he’s a Jew, my friend. I think he’s a fucking Nazi pretending to be a Jew. After what we found in his home there can be no doubt. Sonntag is your man Schreiber. One and the same.”
“What do you mean?” Edwards asked incredulously.
“I mean these,” said Webb, withdrawing five large black and white photographs from the desk drawer.
“It looks like some kind of museum,” said Edwards, his brain almost refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing.
“Too true, mate. That bastard had a whole room fu
ll of SS memorabilia. Guns, uniforms, the lot. Photos of Theresienstadt were hanging on the walls and he had his own personal library of books on the SS and the Holocaust.”
“It’s unbelievable,” Edwards muttered.
“And we even found one of these,” said Webb, withdrawing a sixth photograph. Edwards stared at the close-up shot of the SS dagger.
“We found one in his home,” Webb continued excitedly. “It was exactly the same service dagger as found near Plant’s body. Now you know why we need to interview your anonymous caller. You know, it’s strange ...”
“Yes?”
“We searched all over but couldn’t find any personal photos. You’d think the guy would have had an album or something.”
“What did Sonntag himself have to say about all this?”
“He refused to say anything much other than declare his innocence. He just sat there and looked at us with contempt. He said that whatever he might say we were going to charge him anyway and so it was best to get it over and done with. We’re going to let him sweat a little more before we charge him. I want you to help me get this caller bod. It’ll round things off nicely for the Crown Prosecution Service. One thing’s for sure. Sonntag can afford to have the best defence money can buy. His personal friend is no less a personage than Sir John Scrivener, QC.”
Edwards whistled, conjuring up a vision of one of Britain’s foremost Queen’s Counsels. “I’ve seen him in action a few times. He defended Tibbs, the alleged Warwickshire serial killer, didn’t he?”
“Alleged is right, my friend. Got the bastard off.”
“But, if I remember right, there was a shadow of a doubt, Bob.”
“Doubt, my arse. Tibbs was as guilty as hell. Did a Hannibal Lecter and pissed off abroad. He’s probably knocked off more than a few natives by now. Only difference between him and Lecter is that he didn’t eat ’em.”
“What about the Hyams murder?” asked Edwards, aware that this was of paramount interest to Danielle. “Are you going to charge Sonntag with that?”
“We don’t really need to, mate. It was in the early hours of the morning. Although Sonntag has no alibi apart from being tucked up in bed, we don’t have any witnesses. But the modus operandi was the same as the Plant murder and that should be enough for the Crown Prosecution Service to get him on both counts.”
“You have no doubts as to Sonntag’s guilt, Bob?”
The steel shavings that were Webb’s eyes narrowed to slits as he spoke through gritted teeth. “No doubts at all, mate. Open and shut. Open and shut.”
CHAPTER 8
Edwards drew up behind Danielle’s red Vauxhall outside her Docklands flat. It was already eight o’clock on a dark and wet night, and he had just spent an exhaustive two-hour session with Webb going over old ground and being briefed on how to help trap the caller. He had decided not to ring her from the cop-shop. They both needed to talk face to face. So much had happened that he was at a loss as to how to begin. He took a deep breath and pressed the buzzer, his stomach tightening with apprehension.
“Hello,” came the familiar voice through the intercom.
“Hello, Dani. It’s me.”
There was a short pause before the door lock clicked open, as if she were weighing up the pros and cons of granting him entrance. By the time he reached her front door it was ajar. He did not know why he knocked. Considering they were lovers it seemed faintly ridiculous.
“Come in, Mark,” came a voice that was on the warmer side of formal.
She was seated on the red leather settee, wearing black slacks and a pink roll-neck sweater. Her satin hair was still dank from showering. Somehow it made her look even more stunning. Prolonged abstinence prompted an urge in him to sweep her into his arms, but her half-smile signalled caution rather than invitation.
Edwards sank into the armchair opposite. “I’m sorry for what I said on the phone. It was a stupid thing to say.”
Danielle gave a cursory nod. Her emerald eyes seemed to bore through him, destroying his concentration. He had rehearsed over and over what he must divulge and yet his mind was now confused.
“I, er ...” He scratched his head and took a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.”
Danielle, sensing the tension in his voice, frowned slightly. “I’m listening,” she said simply.
Edwards took another deep breath. “The man the police have arrested is going to be charged with the murder of Howard Plant very soon. They say it’s an open and shut case. They say he probably killed your uncle as well, but the evidence around the second murder makes it cast iron that he killed Plant.”
Danielle wiped away a water droplet that had trickled from her hair into her right eye. “Who is he?” she enquired quietly.
“I don’t know how to say this, Dani,” he said, scratching his head defensively once again. “I, er ...”
“Who is he, Mark?” Danielle asked again, her voice now laced with apprehension.
Edwards pursed his lips. “It’s unbelievable,” he shrugged, “but I’m afraid it’s Henry Sonntag.”
For a few moments Danielle stared at him in silence, her brow furrowed.
Then, quietly, she said, “I can’t believe it.”
“I couldn’t either. I told Webb that Jews didn’t do this type of thing.”
“What kind of things do Jews do?” she enquired with wide eyes, her composure regained.
Edwards could sense that she was on the defensive. He also knew that the only fact at her disposal was bald: Henry Sonntag had been charged with the murder of Howard Plant. He pushed to the back of his mind the caller’s words about Jews being forced to kill fellow Jews. The time was inappropriate, and maybe the man was lying anyway. “What they don’t do is murder anyone, let alone one of their own,” he said, fingering the cleft in his chin nervously.
“Precisely. And that is why Henry Sonntag is innocent.”
Edwards sighed deeply. He hated to disavow her, to irritate the hypersensitivity that seemed to be part and parcel of the Jewish character whenever it felt threatened by outsiders. He knew he was still an outsider and that therefore it was incumbent upon him to choose his words carefully. She had already told him that Jewish jokes could only be told by Jews; that however innocently a gentile told one, he stood the risk of being regarded as anti-Semitic. She had said that thousands of years of persecution had given her people a thin skin; that it was words, rather than knives, which hurt them most.
“Dani,” he said quietly, “there is something I have to tell you. Something that because of the law of sub judice will now only come out in the trial.” The reporter swallowed hard before relating to her all that Webb had told him. Danielle Green did not bat an eyelid as her lover described the deeds of a man who was beyond evil. A man who inhabited the nether world of the damned. A man who at such an advanced age still enjoyed bloodlust. She listened carefully to each and every word, weighing up the incredible implications of a story that defied belief. And this was precisely the conclusion to which she came.
“I still don’t believe it,” she said flatly.
“But, Dani,” he said incredulously, “Webb’s as straight as a die. He’d never concoct evidence.”
“I’m not calling Webb a liar, Mark. What I’m saying is that Henry Sonntag is a Jew. Therefore, per se, Henry Sonntag cannot be a Nazi. He cannot be Schreiber. And if he is not Schreiber, then he did not kill Howard Plant, or my uncle for that matter. Are they going to charge him with that, too?”
“Probably.”
“Henry Sonntag is innocent.”
“But how can you be so sure?” stammered Edwards, scratching his temple. The evidence in the Plant murder was so incriminating that her obduracy puzzled him.
“Wait here a moment,” she said, rising and making towards the dining table. On it was a black leather briefcase. She opened it and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Read this. It’s my article which will now probably never see the light of day.”
Edwards took the pap
ers from her outstretched hand. He spent the next ten minutes in rapt silence. The article was beautifully written and told an enthralling story. “It’s an amazing tale,” he said at last. “But maybe that’s all it is. He could be making it all up, you know.”
Danielle frowned, although deep down she knew he had every right to play the devil’s advocate. “Remember I once told you that only a Jew could truly recognize another Jew?”
“Yes.”
“Remember I told you about that Israeli friend of mine who said he could stroll down Oxford Street and identify Israeli tourists just by their gait?”
“Yes, but ...”
“That is why I know Henry Sonntag is innocent. He’s a Jew, Mark. Jews are sharp in business. They can conspire and intrigue with the best of them. But Jews are not murderers.”
“But what about all that Nazi stuff found in his home?”
“You know, I once wrote a feature about a survivor of the Holocaust. Bernstein was his name. His whole raison d’être was collecting memorabilia of his persecutors. He even slept with a bottle of Zyklon B in his bed.”
“He was mad.”
“Possibly. But he wasn’t a killer.”
Edwards was mesmerized by the defiance in her eyes and the beauty spot that bobbed as her lips pursed and pouted. God, he was crazy about her.
“Dani,” he said, running his fingers nervously through his thick, wavy hair, “you know I don’t really understand about these things. Webb believes Sonntag is pretending to be a Jew. Maybe these traits can be learned. Can one learn to be a Jew?”
Danielle hesitated. He had expressed his love for her and she, too, felt a yearning to reciprocate, to lose herself in these new emotions. He had been so gentle, leading her tenderly through the maze of sexual awareness until both had felt the time was right to consummate their relationship. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him. But there were some truths that had to be told.
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