Schreiber's Secret (10 page)

“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
nebac
h
, always complaining about how life was treating him. But he was a lovabl
e
nebac
h
. 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,” be
llowed 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 werewailing. 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
shiv
a
, 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
go
y
, 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.

“What’s up, Jim? Anything from the Yard?”

“Chasing blue-bloody-bottles, old man. They haven’t a clue on this taxi driver murder and the Chief Rabbi’s giving them hell. They’re sure it’s the work of a fascist and not an Arab, but the world’s more full of fascists than it is of Arabs. Like looking for a needle in a hay-bloody-stack.”

“What do they call that, Jim?”

“What?”

“The way you speak.”

“Oh, you mean bloody this and bloody that. It’s a figure of speech, a tmesis – you try saying that when you’re pissed, my boy – a separation of the parts of a word by the insertion of another word.” Pottage laughed. “Bloody seems to fit every bloody time. Like I’m the Cinder-bloody-rella of this organization.”

“Come on, Jim, you get all the fun and none of the responsibility.”

“True, dear boy, true.”

“Logan’s breathing down my neck for a new angle,” said Edwards, rubbing his square jaw roughly in thought.

“Leave him to me, Mark. If I breathe on him, he’ll be in a stupor for a week.”

“No, seriously, Jim. Have you got any ideas?”

“Aar, I think the police be holding something back,” said the older man, slowly taking his seat at the screen opposite.

“Funny. I’ve got the same feeling. Bob Webb intimated something at the scene. Damned if I can guess what, though.”

The conversation was suddenly interrupted by the telephone on Pottage’s desk. Picking up the receiver, he greeted the caller and then quickly placed his hand over the mouthpiece. Mouthing the words “talk of the devil”, he handed the phone to Edwards.

“Hello, Edwards here. Oh, hi, Bob, what’s news?”

“When’s your next edition due out?” the policeman asked, his voice scratchy with urgency.

Edwards glanced at his watch. “About an hour.”

“Good,” said Webb. “Listen, we found a note by the body.”

“Jesus, Bob, how long have you been holding out on this one?”

“Don’t blame me. It was a board decision.”

“Well?” asked Edwards eagerly. He could already see Pottage champing at the bit.

“‘Just for you – HS’. That is, there’s a dash between ‘you’ and the initials. We don’t know what they stand for. It’s typewritten and we’re checking out the make.”

“What do you think it means, Bob?” Edwards asked, scribbling the contents of the note on a piece of paper. He could smell the presence of Pottage behind him.

“Look, I can’t talk for long, Mark. We think that whoever did this thing may be HS, although why he should leave his initials, I don’t know. It may be a decoy. The Hyams
family don’t know any HS. We’ll be putting out an official statement soon.”

“Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it. By the way, any news on the weapons used in the murder?”

“Oh, yeah, forgot all about it,” came the sheepish reply. “Point thirty-eight Smith and Wesson with a silencer. We haven’t found the gun or the knife. Looks like he took them with him.”

“Thanks, Bob. Keep in touch.”

Edwards leaned over to replace the receiver and then swivelled to face Pottage.

“So Logan’ll get his new angle,” smiled the older man. “A note on the body, I presume. Just love those notes. Adds so much spice.”

“Right, Jim, but it doesn’t really amount to a lot, does it?”  Pottage leaned over to look once more at the note on the desk. “Hmm. The way it’s written you would have to believe that HS is taking the mickey out of his victim. On the other hand ...”

“Yes?”

“Well, it could be the other way round. That is, the killer’s leaving a message for someone with the initials HS.”

Edwards stared once more at the words. Pottage was right. It was ambiguous. Still, he had his new lead, however skimpy. With
all the furore going on, it would probably be worthwhile bringing forward the second edition. Another Edwards exclusive. He looked up at Pottage. “Try to get me some more quotes from the Hyams family about this, will you, Jim, and anybody else you think would have an interesting comment. Also, go and let Logan know what’s happened.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” said the corpulent Pottage, wheeling away. There was nothing he enjoyed better than a juicy murder mystery.