Schreiber's Secret (17 page)

“I promise, Mr Edwards. Once I know he cannot reach me, I will cooperate fully.”

Clic
k
.

Edwards replaced the receiver slowly.

“Was that the invisible man?” asked Pottage, already knowing the answer.

“Yes, Jim,” said Edwards, rubbing his eyes hard with his palms. “I don’t know what to do about him.”

“There’s only one thing you can do, my boy. You’ve got to tell Webb.”

“I know. But I don’t want to lose him. If the police cock everything
up ...”

The phone rang again.

“Bloody hell,” cursed Edwards, “I don’t believe this.”

“What did you expect,” said Pottage, picking up the phone and handing it to the younger man, “anonymity?”

Edwards smiled. He could always count on the old man to bring a little perspective to things. “Hello, Edwards ...”

“Hello, Mark,
it’s Dieter. Congratulations on the article.”

“Thanks, Dieter. Most of it was thanks to you.”

“I’m glad I could be of help, old man. Tell me, though, do you know who this man the police have arrested is?”

“Got no idea, Dieter. They’re being a bit cagey. But I think we’ll have a result by tomorrow morning.”

“I’m intrigued, Mark, although it would be too far-fetched to believe it was this Schreiber fellow.”

“I tend to agree with you, although there’s one thing I can tell you for definite.”

“What’s that?” Müller asked eagerly.

“It’s not our anonymous caller.”

“How do you know?”

“He just rang me. I’d hardly think he’d be allowed to do so whilst in police custody.”

Müller laughed. “Maybe they allowed him one phone call and he chose you instead of his lawyer.”

“Dieter, I thought you Germans didn’t have a sense of humour.”

“True, we don’t laugh at ourselves much. But we sure as hell laugh at others.”

Edwards’ loud guffaw had Pottage off his seat. “Who is this guy, some kind of comedian?” the West Countryman asked.

Edwards placed his hand over the mouthpiece. “He’s that German professor chappie I told you about,” he whispered, then, removing his hand, “Hello, Dieter ... listen, the caller said he wanted to see a photo of the man the police are going to charge and only then would he reveal himself.”

“What are you going to do, Mark?”

“I don’t know yet. Look, Dieter, I’ll be in touch. Once the charge is formalized, I won’t be able to write anything appertaining to the trial. But this whole affair is bugging me. I think we should get together again. I’ll buzz you once things become more clear, okay?”

“Gut, mein Freund.
Ich muss weg. Auf Wiedersehen.”

Edwards had barely replaced the receiver before the telephone rang again.

“I don’t believe it,” he groaned.

It was Bob Webb, and the man was angry.

“Edwards, you bugger!” the policeman bellowed. “You’re gonna get your arse down here to the incident room at Barkingside nick right now. A squad car’ll be with you in five minutes.”

“Look, Bob,
I ...”

“Just meet my man at the information desk in the lobby, okay?”

“Okay, Bob, I’ll do all I can to help,” the reporter said meekly.

“You’d better,” said Webb fiercely, and terminated the call.

Jim Pottage gave his colleague a knowing wink. “Aar, I told you he’d be livid.”

Edwards tried ringing Danielle’s extension but it was engaged. He knew there was no time to speak face to face. “Look, Jim,” he said, scribbling a note, “this is Danielle’s extension number. Give her a call. Tell her everything and tell her where I’ve gone. Tell her I’ll be round at her place later this evening. Tell her I’m sorry and I’ll explain everything then.”

“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 fucking 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 fucking 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 fucked you about and now you’re fucking 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 judic
e
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 full 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.”