Schreiber's Secret

by Roger Radford

  “Of course.”

  “I trust you, Mr Edwards.”

  The reporter felt the twinges of conscience knotting his stomach. There were no more words with which to satisfy Webb’s imploring eyes.

  “Hello ... hello. Mr Edwards. Are you there? Now I must cut short this conver ...”

  The caller’s voice stopped abruptly. Edwards heard a crashing sound, which he guessed was the telephone falling from the man’s grasp. Then came a hotchpotch of scratchy-thin voices.

  “No ... now come along quietly, please sir ... No, leave me alone. You are like the Gestapo. Why? Mr Edwards, why? ... We won’t harm you sir. Please do not put up an unnecessary struggle ...” Then came the sound of uncontrollable sobbing. It quickly grew less and less distinct.

  “Hello, hello,” shouted Edwards, feeling like the proverbial heel. “Don’t hurt him. Please don’t hurt him.”

  Silence. Then a gruff voice from the telephone box. “Hello, is Bob Webb there?”

  Edwards grimaced and handed over the receiver. “It’s for you. They’ve got him,” he said simply.

  “Hello, Webb here.”

  “Hello, Bob. It’s Jim Wetherall. We’ve got him ...”

  Both men could hear the bleeps.

  “Hang on. I’ll just put another ten pence in ... Listen, Bob, what do you want us to do with him?”

  “Right, Jim. Look, it’s a murder inquiry, so take him in on suspicion. I’m sure he didn’t do it, but I need to interview him to get his alibi. I’ll meet you at Leyton nick in about forty minutes.”

  Webb slammed the phone down with a grin as wide as the Thames. “Edwards, you bugger,” he beamed, “all is forgiven.”

  “What are you going to do with him?” the reporter asked in a voice that was as flat as his emotions.

  “I’m going to interview him, sonny boy. And then I’m going to take him on a little trip to the nick at St Ann’s Road, Tottenham, where he can be our star witness in a police lineup. They’ve got the best facilities in the capital.” Webb rubbed his hands gleefully. “I can’t wait, my little beauty.”

  “Bob ...”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to do me a favour.”

  “Depends what,” Webb said sharply.

  “I want to come with you to see the identity parade.”

  “Sure. I’m PC Plod and you’re my sidekick, Noddy.”

  “No, I mean it, Bob.”

  “You know, you crack me up. I think you’re the one who should be doing all the favours.”

  Edwards’ voice grew more desperate. “I’ve got to see it, Bob. Just this once.”

  Webb sighed. “Blimey, I’ll swing for you one day, you bugger.”

  “Thanks, mate. Er, there’s just one more thing.”

  “Now, don’t get too pushy.”

  “If he’ll agree, I want to speak to this guy privately.”

  “You can speak to him for as long as you like, mate – only after we’ve checked him out and got our statement. Okay?”

  Edwards nodded purposefully. He knew that whatever the man had to tell could not be published, yet he was fascinated nonetheless. The caller could well turn out to be the final nail in Henry Sonntag’s coffin.

  “Anyway,” Webb continued, “once we charge Sonntag, the whole thing’ll be out of my hands. The Crown Prosecution Service will take over.”

  “What about visiting Sonntag in prison?” asked Edwards, remembering Danielle’s request.

  “That’s up to the prison authorities, I should think. I can’t see there being much objection. The man himself may not want to see anyone except his lawyer. He doesn’t appear to have any family at all.”

  “Thanks, Bob,” said Edwards, shaking Webb’s hand warmly. “Let me know on my mobile when you’re ready to do the identity parade.”

  “Next round of golf on you, then, is it, mate?”

  “I invite you to get beaten yet again,” grinned the younger man.

  The twelve-mile journey from Kensington to Leyton gave Bob Webb time to reflect on what was rapidly developing into an extremely satisfying case. Kudos was the name of the game, and it was coming his way in buckets. Diluted, maybe, on its way down from the Home Secretary, but there would still be enough left to look good on his record.

  The detective already knew he had enough evidence on Sonntag to nail him regardless of any witness from the past. But it was nice, very nice, to have a killer damned by his previous actions. There was motive, murder and modus operandi. The motive, money, had triggered off a terrifying vengeance from a man who had for years successfully hidden his past. Call it a brainstorm, if you like. Who cared? Henry Sonntag was as guilty as hell, and that was precisely where he would rot.

  “Penny for ’em.” It was his driver.

  “I was just wondering why the bloody hell it’s taking you so long,” Webb huffed.

  “Don’t worry, sir. The nick’s just up ahead.”

  Webb could barely hide his eagerness as he hauled his huge frame out of the car and loped into the station.

  “I’m DI Webb from Barkingside,” he barked at the duty officer. “You’ve got a murder case witness here for me.”

  “Oh, yeah, that old foreign bloke.” The duty officer, ruddy-faced and pimply, looked at the last name on his custody record. “Resembled a frightened rabbit. I don’t think this is going to do you much good, sir.” The man swung the book around.

  Webb peered at the entry. It read simply, “A. N. OTHER”. “What the bugger’s going on?” he growled.

  “Wouldn’t give his name and didn’t have anything on him that would reveal his identity. A real strange one, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “First floor, sir. First room on the right. Jim Wetherall’s with him.”

  “Thanks.”

  Webb took giant strides up the stairs. The door to the room was ajar. An old man in a dirty brown raincoat was peering through a window at the darkened street below. A shock of white hair formed a semicircle around the back and sides of the old man’s otherwise bald pate. The detective pushed the door fully open and received an acknowledging nod from Wetherall, who was sitting by a table. The man in the raincoat was still unaware of Webb’s presence.

  “Hi, Bob,” said Wetherall, grinning with the confidence that went with a mission accomplished, “this is, er ...” His shrug spoke volumes. The old man turned slowly, grunting and groaning as if the effort were causing him considerable pain. He faced the detective with eyes that betrayed a man tortured beyond human comprehension.

  Webb’s lantern jaw dropped open. “Jesus H. Christ!” he gasped.

  Mark Edwards felt distinctly uneasy as he entered the police station in St Ann’s Road, Tottenham. Webb had telephoned him an hour earlier and the consternation in the policeman’s voice had been clear. The anonymous caller had agreed to cooperate only if the reporter were present at the identity parade.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Webb had said, “but despite you shopping him, he still wants you to be there. I didn’t tell him we were planning to have you present anyway.”

  But it was what Webb had said next that really baffled the reporter.

  “Mark, there’s something else, but I don’t want to say anything at this moment. I don’t want to prejudice your reaction in any way. I want you to describe to me your feelings after the lineup. I don’t want to believe that I’m the only bloke going mad around here. Get here as quickly as possible.”

  Edwards had spent the next few seconds staring at the mute handset, his jumbled mind trying vainly to figure out what the policeman had meant. He then rang Danielle and informed her of developments. Her voice had conveyed the sense of intrigue that now gripped them both. The reporter’s daydreaming ceased as soon as he caught sight of Webb in the corridor. Without further ado, the detective beckoned him into a side room. “Look,” said Webb, “before we start, I want to explain to you some of the procedure. The identity suite is in a new purpose-built centre attached to the nick. To co
mply with the law, you and I are not allowed to be present at the parade.”

  “But ...”

  “Don’t worry, Mark, we’ll be in the adjoining control room, which has a view of the whole shebang. The suspect will be amongst seven other men of similar age, build and standing in life. They have all been vetted by Sonntag and his solicitor.”

  “Does his solicitor get to see our friend?”

  “Yup. He’ll be standing next to an inspector in charge of the witness. The three of them will be together looking through the two-way mirror.”

  “When do I get to see my man?”

  “Straight afterwards. I told him I’d prove to him you were present.”

  “By the way, what were you nattering about on the phone?”

  “Patience, dear boy. Patience. No more questions for now. Let’s go.” The detective glanced at his watch. It was already seven-thirty.

  Shivering in the evening chill, Edwards followed Webb stride for stride out of the station. Turning sharply to the right, they came to the new chalet-type building at the rear. A balding middle aged policeman in a dark blue shirt met them in the lobby.

  “Hello, Paul,” said Webb to the duty inspector. “All ready, then? This is Mark Edwards of the Standard. Mark, this is Paul Brand. He’s in charge around here.”

  The reporter and the uniformed man shook hands.

  “This is highly irregular, you guys,” said Brand. “Just don’t make any sound when you’re in the control room. We banned arresting coppers from being present because some of them started whooping it up when their suspect was identified.”

  “Not very edifying, I’m sure,” smiled Webb. “I don’t go in for whooping much myself and neither does this young man here.”

  “Oh, good,” said Brand, his face rapidly turning the colour of cooked beetroot. “Now follow me.”

  The inspector led them through the front office and into the control room. The first thing that struck Edwards was how everything appeared so antiseptic. Looking through a large plate-glass window to his right, he perused the parade room. Although about thirty feet long, and bare, it had the look of a modern office about it. On the right was the mirrored surface of large plate-glass panels which stretched the whole length of the room. It was obvious that witnesses viewed the parade from behind it. The room itself was tastefully carpeted in grey, and the lighting, though bright, was filtered. In a row along the floor and in front of a bench were white discs with numbers one to twelve in ascending order, leading away from him.

  “Makes a change from the old days,” said Brand, as if reading the reporter’s thoughts. “Then it was a seedy old room and the witness had to come face to face with the suspect, even put his hand on the bloke’s shoulder.”

  “I can’t think of anything more intimidating for a witness,” observed Edwards.

  “Precisely,” said the inspector. “That’s why it’s not done that way anymore. This, my friend, is state of the art.”

  Edwards turned his attention to the television screens and electronic hardware directly in front of him. One screen focused on the parade area and another was split into various views, including one of the witness’s gallery.

  “When the lineup people come in you’ll notice their movements onscreen will be jerky,” the inspector explained. “This is because there are seven cameras operating at the same time. The camera in the witness area is black and white because the lighting has to be very subdued in there, otherwise the suspect in the line-up may see the witness through the two-way mirror. It doesn’t give a very good image, I’m afraid.”

  “Where is the witness?” asked Edwards with a hint of irritation. He wanted them to get on with it. “And did he give his name?”

  “One of my colleagues is waiting with him in the TV room adjoining the corridor behind the mirror. The witness will be required to give his name to the duty inspector for the official record of the ID parade. I haven’t even seen the witness yet. I’ve been more concerned with the suspect.”

  “How does the suspect seem to you?” asked Webb. “I haven’t seen him since they shipped him here.”

  “Calm,” said Brand. “Very calm.”

  “But then he’s a professional chameleon, isn’t he?” said Edwards.

  “Ahem.” Webb cleared his throat. “We’ll soon find out. Here they come.”

  The three onlookers in the control room turned their attention to the parade area. Eight men and an accompanying police officer filed into the room. They were all elderly and of similar stature. Each was smartly dressed in suit and tie.

  “We’ve got a lot of pensioners on our books,” explained Brand. “They get four quid and a cup of tea for standing in line for few minutes. Not a bad rate, really.”

  “Which one is Sonntag?” asked Edwards eagerly, suddenly remembering that he did not even know what the man looked like.

  “Number five,” said Webb. “Handsome bugger, isn’t he?”

  The reporter strained to get a clearer view of Sonntag. He found it more rewarding to peer at the colour screen in front of him. The man had a military bearing and was certainly more handsome than the others. Each of them had a full head of yellowy-white or white hair. Obviously this must have been a stipulation demanded by Sonntag’s solicitor. His aim, after all, was to make identification as hard as possible for the witness.

  The members of the parade were then requested to sit on the bench running the length of the rear wall and behind the allotted numbers placed at their feet. They were told by their escorting officer to sit with their heels together, hands on laps, and to stare directly at their reflections in the mirror. Edwards found the whole process fascinating.

  “Here comes the witness,” whispered Brand. “We must keep silent during the ID. You can only see him from here on the video screen.”

  Edwards’ heart pounded as the witness was ushered into the viewing area.

  The image, in black and white, was disappointing. It was difficult to make out the man’s features or his reactions.

  The three onlookers then heard the voice of the inspector who was accompanying the witness. He was standing by a lectern at the near end of the viewing corridor. Sonntag’s solicitor was also present, although out of view. The inspector’s address to the witness was formal and precise and could only be heard in the control room. “You have been asked here today to see if you can identify the person you saw in the Small Fortress of Theresienstadt transit camp during the winter of nineteen forty-two and forty-three. I am going to ask you in a moment to walk along the line at least twice, taking as much care and time as you wish. I want to make it clear to you that the person you saw may or may not be here. If you cannot make a positive identification you should say so. Please indicate the person by calling out his number. Do you understand?”

  The witness’s affirmation was muffled.

  “You may go ahead, sir.”

  The old man shuffled slowly along the line and then appeared to press himself against the glass. The tension in the control room was almost unbearable. Edwards stole a glance at Webb. He knew his friend was counting on a positive ID to help sew up his case. This was one hell of a moment.

  The witness continued staring ahead for what seemed an eternity. Then he croaked, “It is him. My God, it is really him. It is Hans Schreiber.”

  “What number are you referring to, sir?”

  “Number five,” came the faltering reply. “Number five is Hans Schreiber.”

  Webb gave a huge sigh of relief. “That’s it, my boy,” he hissed. “Open and shut.”

  “Please sign here,” came the officer’s voice from the viewing corridor.

  “Okay,” said Brand, “we’ll wait a bit. Bert will check with the suspect and his representative on whether they have any comment to make and then you can have both of your men back.”

  When Edwards and Webb finally left the control room, a grey-suited, weedy fellow carrying a briefcase scurried past.

  “That’s your suspect’s solici
tor,” grinned Brand. “Looks as though he’s seen a ghost.”

  Webb smiled. He knew why the man was ashen faced and his golfing companion was just about to find out.

  “And there’s your suspect.”

  Mark Edwards stared hard and fast at the man who now stood only five yards from him, handcuffed to a uniformed constable. Henry Sonntag was even more imposing in the flesh. No wonder Danielle had been taken with him. Edwards felt his skin creep as the small brown eyes returned his gaze impassively. A shiver passed down his spine. He was convinced now that they were the eyes of a mass murderer.

  “I’d like Mark here to meet the witness,” said Webb, ushering them away from the prisoner.

  “Sure,” said the uniformed man. “I’ll take you to the waiting room.”

  The reporter’s heart once again began to pound and he could feel his palms becoming clammy. As the door opened, Edwards almost took refuge behind the gangling frame of his friend.

  “This is your anonymous caller, Mark,” said Webb knowingly.

  For a moment there was utter silence, punctured only by a bubble of trapped air escaping to the surface of a bottled water fountain in the far corner of the room. “Good God,” muttered the reporter. “It’s unbelievable.”

  “Hello, Mr Edwards,” rasped the old man. “I recognize you from your photograph in the newspaper.”

  “I’m surprised,” said the reporter sheepishly. “It was a lousy picture.”

  Edwards took the old man’s outstretched hand tamely. Its skin had all the consistency of a ready-to-cook broiler.

  “Why do you blush, Mr Edwards? I forgive you. As soon as I saw that monster I was glad that things had turned out this way. Now that he is behind bars I can relax a little. God bless you, Mr Edwards.”

  The reporter stared at the man who, in a sense, he had betrayed. The beady brown eyes bore no hint of malice and yet conveyed a sense of deep hurt. The pallid face showed evidence of several scars. The nose was thin and straight. In fact, the whole was an amalgam of what he had variously imagined it to be during the period leading up to this moment. And yet, put a wig on this man and he could pass for Henry Sonntag.