The sudden death of the jovial West Countryman had been the only blot on a period in which the mutual regard the two journalists had for one another had deepened and matured. Sleeping together had been superseded by living together. The experiment was clearly working, although neither of them had broached the question of marriage.
“That’s it, then,” beamed Edwards, slamming down the phone in his lounge. “It’s springtime in Prague ...”
“And springtime in the Holy Land,” Danielle called from the kitchen.
“It’s going to be a hectic couple of weeks,” he said, joining her.
“I know Prague’s a beautiful city and all that, Mark, but I’m glad we’ll be spending most of the time in Israel. I’m glad we’ll be there for Holocaust Memorial Day. Then we can let our hair down a few days later during the Independence Day celebrations.”
“Sounds great to me,” he enthused, coming up behind her. Placing his arms around her midriff, he nestled his face into the pit between her neck and shoulder. “There’s just one snag.”
“What’s that?”
“What happens if we get a trial date for then?”
Danielle stopped chopping the salad and turned towards him. “That’s the only thing that will put a spanner in the works.” Her eyes then narrowed in determination. “Otherwise, neither my editor nor your bloody news editor is going to upset our plans. Not even if they get on bended knee.”
“That’ll be the day,” he laughed, “Nick Logan pleading with me. Do me a favour.”
“Mark,” she laughed. “I do believe you’re picking up Jewish expressions.”
“Not surprising, is it, my little girl. My medeleh.
“It’s pronounced maideleh.”
“Well, you don’t expect me to learn Yiddish overnight,” he said with mock hurt.
“What do you mean, overnight?” she retorted, pecking him on the tip of his nose. “We’ve been going together long enough.”
“It’s funny you should say that, but ...” At that moment the mobile phone rang. “There you go,” he said. “Talk of the devil. That’s bound to be Logan.”
He retrieved the mobile from the dining-room table. “No, Nick, I’m not available tonight, I ...”
“Hello,” came an unfamiliar voice, “who is that? I want to speak to Mark Edwards, please.”
“Edwards speaking.”
“Mr Edwards, good evening. You don’t know me. My name is Sam Cohen. I’m the chairman of Ilford Synagogue. I must see you urgently.”
“Look, I ...”
“It’s about Henry Sonntag, Mr Edwards.”
“What about him?”
“I believe he’s innocent.”
“Well, you must be the only person who does, Mr Cohen.”
“Please, Mr Edwards. I know you are very closely connected with this case. I would like to meet you. You know Luigi’s Restaurant?”
“In Beehive Lane?”
“Yes, opposite the synagogue. Can you meet me there in an hour?”
“This is all a bit rushed, isn’t it, Mr Cohen?”
“Please, Mr Edwards. Money is no object.”
“All right, in an hour.” The reporter switched off his mobile, asking himself what money had to do with it.
“What was all that about?” Danielle called out.
“Forget about making supper,” he said. “I’m inviting you to Luigi’s. Some guy wants to meet me there to discuss Henry Sonntag. He believes the man’s innocent and said something about money being no object. I don’t know what he meant, but I don’t want to be compromised in any way. Put your glad rags on.” This time the BT phone rang.
“Oh, no. Here we go again. The bane of my life ... Hello, Edwards.”
“Hi, Mark. It’s Bob.”
“Okay, mate, no need to gloat. My putting’ll be much better next time.”
“Will you forget about golf for just one minute? I’ve got a bit of news for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Apparently the War Crimes Unit have come up with another witness. Some Polish priest claims he was tortured by Schreiber. The Crown Prosecution Service has been informed.”
“Thanks, Bob. Any word on when the case might be?”
“Not yet, mate. But the way things are going I shouldn’t be surprised if it’ll be soon.”
“As long as it doesn’t start between the last week in April and the first week in May.”
“Why’s that?”
“The good lady and myself are taking off on a long overdue holiday.”
“A pre-honeymoon honeymoon, eh?”
“From your mouth to God’s ears. See you, mate.”
Edwards gazed at the dead phone in his hand. Dammit, he really did want to marry the girl. He had almost chosen the wrong time to propose a few moments earlier. Timing. It was all down to timing.
“Webb, I presume,” Danielle smiled.
“Right.”
“Well, what has he got to say for himself?”
“Oh, apparently the prosecution have got another witness. A Polish priest who remembers Schreiber from the war.”
“The more the merrier.” She now wanted, perhaps needed, the full weight of the law to be brought to bear on Henry Sonntag.
Thus it was with a degree of cynicism that the two journalists entered Luigi’s, a three-minute drive from the flat. It was midweek and relatively early. There was only one customer: a squat, balding man in his early fifties.
“Ah, Mr Edwards,” the man said, rising. “I recognize you from your photograph. Here, I have one of your by-lined stories.” Cohen produced a yellowing copy of the edition that had carried the story of Plant’s murder. He held out his hand, at the same time casting a quizzical look in the direction of Danielle.
“May I introduce you to my colleague, Danielle Green,” said Edwards, shaking the man’s outstretched hand. “We’ve been working on this story together.”
“Please, be my guests, sit down,” Cohen gestured. “I must say, young lady, your face looks extremely familiar. Haven’t I seen you in shul?”
“Only on Rosh Hashanah. I’m Stanley Green’s daughter.”
“Ah, Stanley,” enthused the older man. “Know him well.”
“You will know then that his brother-in-law was Joe Hyams.”
“Of course, of course. On your mother’s side. I’m very sorry, Miss Green. It’s been a terrible business. The whole community is still in shock.”
“Can I help you, Signor Cohen,” the waiter asked.
“Please, order what you like, you two. I can recommend the lasagne.”
“We’ve just eaten, thanks, Mr Cohen,” Edwards lied, “but a lager will do nicely, thanks.”
“Diet Coke,” said Danielle, glancing up at the waiter.
“I’ll have another Pernod, please, Silvio,” said Cohen.
“Prego,” said the waiter, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. These were recessionary times.
After the waiter had sidled away, Edwards turned to his host. “How can I help you, Mr Cohen?”
“Call me Sam. Everyone does.”
“What’s your interest in Henry Sonntag, Sam?”
“Look, first of all he was a member of our congregation. Okay, he didn’t attend services that often. But when he did, Mark – may I call you Mark? – when he did, it was like royalty arriving.” Cohen could see his two guests were puzzled. “You see, the majority of our members are cab drivers and minor businessmen. But we do have a few who struck oil and moved out to Chigwell. They still retain an affection for our shul. We’re orthodox, you know, not reform. Anyway, these few prime movers, or gunser machers, as we call them, had a lot to be thankful to Henry Sonntag for. He made them even richer.”
“I take it you’re one of the machers,” Danielle interrupted baldly.
“Quite so,” said Cohen, unruffled. “I don’t like the term myself, but I suppose if I am one, I ought to admit to it.” He shrugged his shoulders again in a gesture of resignation.
Edwards was warming to his host. The man had none of the pretensions of new money. “I think I can guess what you’re trying to say, Sam. With Sonntag out of the way, some people are not going to coin it like they used to.”
Cohen cleared his throat nervously. “Look, all that’s true, Mark. But my friends and I also happen to believe that Henry Sonntag’s innocent.”
“If you’ll pardon the expression, Sam,” said Edwards, “I think you’re pissing in the wind.”
“I know,” Cohen sighed. “But somehow or other my friends and I wanted to make an effort. If we could prove Henry wasn’t this Schreiber monster, then the case against him might collapse.”
“The case against him is still pretty conclusive, though, even if he isn’t Schreiber,” said Edwards.
“Look, firstly, Jews don’t kill other Jews. And even if one did, would he do it in this manner? It just doesn’t make sense. Anybody in their right mind would smell a rat. No, it all rests on whether Henry is really Schreiber.”
“I still don’t understand how Mark can help you,” said Danielle, aware that Cohen was repeating the sentiments she had expressed months ago.
“Okay, I’ll come to the point. Frankly, we’ve been stitched up. As soon as Henry was arrested, we contacted a private investigator. He came recommended, but all the bastard has succeeded in doing is ripping us off. It’s cost us thousands and he hasn’t come up with anything worthwhile. Frankly, I think he made up all the rubbish he’s been feeding us.”
“Like what?” asked Edwards.
“Like Hans Schreiber died on the Russian Front in 1944.”
“Well?” asked Danielle.
“Well, it’s one thing saying something like that and another proving it. We need proof. Anyway, this investigator chap said he had found a man who could provide the evidence, but that the man wanted ten thousand dollars. Like schmucks, we paid up.”
“Where’s the investigator now?” asked Danielle.
“In hell, I hope. He’s disappeared. I tried ringing his office, but they said he’d moved and hadn’t left a forwarding address.”
“That’s unfortunate, Sam,” said Edwards, “but where do I come in?”
“You’re chief crime reporter on the Standard. If you don’t know a reliable private investigator, then who does?”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit late for that?” asked Danielle. “The trial may start very soon.”
“Look, I said money was no object, and I meant it. Only we’ve got to have someone reliable.” Cohen looked beseechingly at Edwards.
The reporter tinkered with his beer glass for a few seconds. “Sam,” he said, “I think you’ll be wasting your money, but I do know a good man. You need someone who speaks German fluently. I do, but I’m not a private eye. Let me speak to this guy. He may be willing to take the case on. Give me your phone number and I’ll contact you within the next few days.”
“Thanks, Mark. I really appreciate it. Now let me order some food. Even if you’ve already eaten, you can still find some room for a little pasta, no?” He turned to Danielle. “Don’t tell the shul elders,” he winked. “They’d kill me if they knew I was eating treyfe.”
“Your secret is safe with me, Sam,” she smiled. “But if you’re going to be a naughty boy and eat non-kosher, you shouldn’t do it on the doorstep of your synagogue.”
“Are you kidding?” beamed Cohen. “And miss out on the best lasagne in town?”
A week elapsed before Mark Edwards managed to make contact with Bill Brown. The private eye had been involved in infidelity surveillance, the least favourite of his occupational pursuits.
“It beats me why the buggers bother, Mark,” said the detective, welcoming the reporter to his office off the Strand. “I mean, they usually end up paying me a lot of money to confirm what they already know. There’s no stigma attached to divorce nowadays. Anyway, enough of my problems. How can I help you, old buddy?”
Edwards smiled. Brown was a character, a gumshoe from the old school. Creeping towards his fifties, he was about the best private eye around. His work was thorough and methodical, an attribute no doubt passed on by his late father, an ex-German prisoner of war named Ludwig Braun, a Dornier navigator whose plane had been shot down during a night raid on London. After the war, Braun had decided to stay in England after meeting and marrying a local girl. He had anglicized the spelling of his name to Brown shortly before his eldest son William was born in 1947. Brown Senior had insisted on speaking mainly German to his three children. He even taught them to read and write fluently. He had forecast the Wirtschaftswunder and that new business opportunities would open up for anybody who was bilingual. Ludwig had been more than a little disappointed when Bill had joined the local constabulary in their home town of Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk. He had progressed to detective and fifteen years ago had branched out on his own. “At least I’m in business for myself,” he had told his father. Ludwig had died in 1991 still unable to fathom a son who dealt in other people’s dirty washing and had never married to provide him with grandchildren.
“Bill,” the reporter began, “you must have heard about the Henry Sonntag case.”
“Sure. Guilty as hell, so my sources tell me.”
“Maybe. But there’s a guy with a lot of money who wants you to prove that this Sonntag fellow is not the Nazi war criminal Hans Schreiber.”
Brown laughed. “I usually get paid to prove the opposite.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I can’t go into detail, but, as you know, there are still a few suspected war criminals at large in the UK. I’ve been employed to keep a watching brief on some of them.”
“Who by?”
“Mark, you should know better than that.”
“Sorry, mate. But on this one you’ll have the guy’s full permission to keep me completely informed on every development. I’m going to write a book on this whole affair once it’s finally over. His name’s Sam Cohen and here’s his phone number.”
“You know what this means, don’t you?” said Brown, rising and pouring out two cupfuls of cold liquid from a bottled water dispenser. “It means I’ll have to leave everything else and travel to Germany. I’m talking big bucks here.”
“As I said, Bill, money’s no object to this guy.”
“Excellent!” Brown rubbed his hands. “I fancy a trip back to the Heimat.”
“Come on, you’re as British as they come.”
“Yeah, but I still have an affection for my old man’s birthplace. It’s a little village about fifty miles south of Berlin. Nice place. I’ll try and visit it again while I’m there. Especially as it’s an all-expenses-paid trip.” Edwards smiled. He could not help thinking how much Brown reminded him of good old Jim Pottage. They both had country accents, although the investigator’s East Anglian twang was less pronounced. The man before him was also much slimmer, younger and more fit than Pottage had been. However, both men had a predilection for bowties.
“Look, Bill, my girlfriend and I are going on holiday next week. Here, I’ve written down the dates. If anything interesting happens before then, keep me informed. You’ve got my address and my phone numbers.”
“What if something crops up while you’re away?”
“Just post the info to my home. Danielle and I don’t want to be disturbed. We really need this break.”
“Hmm, Danielle ...” Brown beamed. “What’s she like?”
“You lay off her, you old dog. You confirmed bachelors are all the same.”
“Ah well,” the detective sighed, “I suppose I’ll have to settle for the professional fräuleins while I’m away. All the fun and none of the responsibility.”
“If you can tear yourself away from them for a while, where do you think you’ll start?”
“Berlin Documentation Centre, I suppose. That’s where they keep all the SS records.”
“Oh, there’s just one other thing,” said the reporter. “There’s a good friend of mine, a guy named Diete
r Müller. He’s genned up on this business even more than me. He’s a professor over here researching a thesis on the Holocaust. Here’s his number. Auf ihn ist Verlass.”
“Totally?”
“Yes, you can rely on Müller totally.”
Münster, January 1940
“Send in the next one, please, Nurse.”
Dr Wolfgang Schreiber admired the hourglass figure of his assistant as she left the room to collect the next raw recruit for induction into the SS. The woman was nothing if not efficient. Prussian to the core.
The good doctor had achieved the dubious distinction of being the man responsible for making sure that only the finest specimens of young German manhood joined Adolf Hitler’s élite. Other doctors had regarded this task as mundane and boring, having very little to do with medicine and much to do with paperwork. But at forty-one years of age, the position represented to Dr Wolfgang Schreiber the pinnacle of his achievement.
Indeed, that he was induction medical officer at the SS base in Westphalia’s historic capital was by no means fortuitous. The good doctor had inveigled his way into the job, thankful that the competition was weak and disorganised. All things considered, his need had been greater than theirs. And now the physician was about to reach the climax of his ambition. The file in front of him bore a familiar name. Even the nurse had commented that the new recruit was his namesake. Schreiber was a common name in Bavaria, though less so in North Rhein-Westphalia. However, unknown to his nurse, and anyone else for that matter, this recruit was far closer to Wolfgang Schreiber than a mere namesake. This recruit was his son.
Hans Schreiber entered the room shivering, naked apart from a pair of black silky shorts.
Despite the cold, he stood smartly to attention. They had rehearsed the scene over and over.
“Name?” barked Schreiber Senior.
“Schreiber, Hans, Herr Doktor.”
The physician ticked the appropriate box. “Age?”
“Eighteen, Herr Doktor.”
They then went through the ritual of ascertaining date of birth, address, occupation, medical history and other salient facts which were already on the sheet in front of the doctor but needed to be tallied with the response of each recruit.
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