Schreiber's Secret (19 page)

“Darling,” she said softly, “that is one of the most profound statements I have ever heard. I think you’re right. And, if you’ll pardon the pun, I think that’s a cross we have to bear.”

Edwards gazed at her hard and long, the desire in him welling up once more. He knew she was intellectually his superior and yet he felt able to discuss any matter with her on equal terms. Her manner had never been condescending.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me, then?” she said, her lips beginning to swell and glisten like red peppers. “I forgave you as soon as you walked through the door.”

He smiled and crossed the room to join her on the settee. Putting his arm around her, he nuzzled the nape of her neck, luxuriating in the dampness of her hair and the appley fragrance of aloe vera. “I love you, Danielle. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.”

“Ssh, my darling. Let’s take our time. Let’s grow into this thing. It’s new for me, too.”

Edwards turned her face towards him and kissed the swollen lips with a passion that almost frightened him. His lips lingered on hers before sliding to nestle in an area just below the chin line.

“Oh, darling,” she gasped. “I want you.”

Taking her hand, he began leading her towards the bedroom, his excitement heightened by the knowledge of what was to follow. A trail of discarded clothing pointed the way. Once on the bed, she wallowed in the affectionate kisses with which he covered her naked body. Then she took the initiative, teasing him a little before satisfying what she knew he was craving. “Oh, God,” he murmured as she slid down, “oh, God.”

Danielle gazed into her lover’s widening ice-blue eyes and delighted in his ecstasy. They did not share a common heritage and yet she felt she had known him all her life. She knew she would have to concede that she loved him too, and that she could envisage sharing the rest of her life with him. Totally oblivious to the passage of time, the lovers coupled and uncoupled in a frenzy of pleasure. The climax, when it finally arrived, was a paroxysm that was at once both satiating and debilitating.

Mark sighed deeply as he lay exhausted beside her. “Jesus,” he said, “I don’t think it can get any better.”

Danielle snuggled into his hairy chest for a few moments and then burst into a fit of giggling.

“Hey, what’s so funny?” he moaned quietly, his post-coital strength still on the wane.

“You know, I’m glad you’re circumcised, Mark,” she laughed. “I’ve never seen an uncircumcised man. Not in real life, anyway. I must say I worried about it a bit before I went to bed with you.”

“You have my parents to thank for that, my darling,” he said, gently stroking her hair. “They read somewhere that it was more hygienic, so I had it lopped off as a baby. Didn’t feel a thing ... Hey, I’ve just thought of something. I wonder whether Henry Sonntag is circumcised? If he is isn’t, then he sure as hell ain’t Jewish.”

Danielle remained silent. The question had never entered her mind because she was so convinced of the man’s innocence. If Henry Sonntag was indeed uncircumcised, then she knew she would be forced to rethink.

“Mark,” she said, “what will happen to Sonntag now?”

“Oh, he’ll go for committal proceedings at a magistrate’s court. There’s obviously a prima facie case to answer, so it’ll be referred to the Central Criminal Court, the Old Bailey.”

“How long before he comes to trial?”

“Could be anywhere from four to eight months, even longer.”

“You mean he could spend all that time in jail, even if he’s eventually declared innocent?”

“A
fraid so.”

“Mark.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Can you arrange something with Webb for me?”

“Like what?”

“I’d like to visit Henry Sonntag in jail. If he’ll agree to see me, that is.”

“You must be joking.”

“No, I’m serious,” she said, propping herself on one ivory arm. “I want to look into his eyes again. I want to know if he’s lied to me.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” He shrugged. “Webby wants me to trap this anonymous caller. If he identifies Sonntag as being Schreiber, then that’s another nail in your man’s coffin.”

“You’re my man, darling,” she said, stretching to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Don’t you ever forget it.
” She smiled demurely. “Now, does little Willy want to pay another visit.”

“Little Willy does,” he laughed, “but big Willy will.”

Straelen, North Rhein-Westphalia, 1931

The little boy sobbed bitterly in his nakedness. Why were they making fun of him so? Why were they so cruel to him? Why was he different from them? “Leave me alone,” he pleaded. “Please leave me alone.”

“Quick, you guys, come and look at the new boy’s willy,” cried fat Friedrich, the local bully. He was one year older than the others in the Grundschule, one year bigger. A year in which his mental development had allowed evil thoughts to puncture the innocence of early childhood. Simply put, fat Freddy was old enough to understand what he now enjoyed. Power.

“Please, please,” the little boy implored, clutching his vitals and shrinking back against the cool ceramic wall of the shower room. How he wished he were like fat Freddy. How he wished he could order the others to hurt fat Freddy.

He struggled vainly to stay against the wall, as if the impassive surface could protect him from his humiliation. The shouts of the boys echoed through the dank atmosphere as they dragged him into the centre of the room.

“Look,” giggled one of his tormentors, “he’s only got half a willy. The Berliner’s only got half a willy.”

“Half-willy Hans,” cried fat Freddy. “That’s what we’ll call him.”

The boys linked arms and began circling their prey. “Half-willy Hans, half-willy Hans,” they chanted in unison.

The new boy sank to his knees and covered his ears. “Leave me alone,” he sobbed ever more bitterly. Curling into a foetal position, he remained motionless until his persecutors grew tired of their sport. He did not leave the shower until after they had dressed and left the adjoining dressing room. Only then did he stir. Hans Schreiber dressed with the torpor of the weak and humiliated. He did not know why he was different from the other boys, only that they had an extra piece of skin on their willies. He so desperately wanted to be like them.

Thankful that games had been the last lesson of the day, the small boy ran through the sundrenched streets of the little town. Everything was so quiet compared to where they had moved from a few weeks earlier. No big buildings. No noisy automobiles. Only the lazy rustle of leaves gave him some succour as a light breeze relieved the heat of the afternoon.

Turning the corner, he saw his father hoeing the front garden. Sight of the familiar figure induced in him another burst of sobbing. He ran into his father’s arms.

“There, there, Hans,” soothed Dr Wolfgang Schreiber. “What’s the matter?”

“They made fun of my willy, Father,” he cried, the tears cascading down his pale cheeks.

Dr Wolfgang Schreiber stiffened, as if some unpleasant memory had had the audacity to spoil such a pleasant afternoon. He held the boy at arm’s length and looked squarely into the reddened eyes. “You must be strong, Hans. Never show them you are weak.”

“But why am I so different, Father?”

“You had an infection in your pee-pee, Hans. When you were a baby, it was necessary to remove what we call the foreskin.”

“Can I have it put back, Father?”

Wolfgang Schreiber smiled and patted the boy’s dank blond head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Hans.” The good doctor tried to subdue the wrenching in the pit of his stomach, for the boy’s humiliation was his own.

“Here,” he said, pulling a sprig of lavender from the large bush that dominated the front garden, “smell this. It’s wonderful. It will make you feel much better.”

Hans Schreiber clutched the sprig to his nose and breathed deeply. It had quite the most wonderful scent he had ever experienced.

CHAPTER 9

Detective Inspector Bob Webb looked impatiently at his watch. It was already almost half past five. He peered intently at the two telephones, praying, firstly, that the anonymous caller would ring and, secondly, that he would use British Telecom rather than Vodafone. He had a team set up at Vodafone to trace the call if the caller rang Edwards’ mobile, but the whole thing was a bit hit and miss. The reporter’s personal extension at th
e
Standar
d
was the best bet. He was willing to wager that the caller was somewhere in the Greater London area covered by the Metropolitan Police. He had put out an all-stations alert throughout the Met. Once BT had informed him of the source of the call he would flick through the almanac that gave him details of every station in the country. If the call came from outside London he’d have to rely on whatever nick was involved not to waste time questioning him needlessly.

“Penny for your thoughts, Bob.”

“My thoughts are, Mark, that if your guy doesn’t call again, I’m gonna wring your neck.”

Edwards laughed nervously and then glanced sheepishly at the two detectives who were sitting either side of the phones. One of them was twiddling a knob on a tape
deck which was connected to a receiver planted in the main body of the phone.

“Come on, you bastard,” said Webb. “I don’t want to be sitting here all night.”

“How long will you give it, Bob?”

“If he doesn’t ring your office number by six, me and you are getting married.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, dear friend, that I go where you go where your mobile goes. If he can’t raise you on BT, he’ll more than likely ring the mobile. The poor sods at Vodafone will have to be on standby for as long as I deem it necessary. But, old buddy, I want to be around you if and when this guy rings. Your place or mine?”

Before Edwards had time to reply, both men started as the reporter’s direct line burst into life. Edwards took a deep breath. He just hoped it wasn’t his mother. Webb signalled to his two cronies to switch on the tape. He then rose, swiftly for a big man, and seated himself at an adjacent desk. Upon it was the lone grey telephone which would ring as soon as BT had the necessary information.

“Hello, Edwards here.”

“Mr Edwards ...” Blue met steel-grey as the eyes of the reporter and the detective registered recognition. “... Mr Edwards, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here,” the reporter said slowly, although not slowly enough to raise doubts
in the caller’s mind.

“I have heard the radio and read your newspaper, Mr Edwards. Who is this Henry Sonntag? What does he look like?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

“Do you think you can get me a picture of this man?”

Edwards took the lead from Webb’s nod. “Yes ... I think I can get hold of a photograph of the accused man.”

“How? I thought you said there was a ban on publicity.”

“I’m sure I can arrange it.”

“With the police?” The caller’s voice was heavy with anxiety.

“Of course not,” Edwards improvised, suddenly remembering that Danielle had mentioned a photo call when she had done the interview with Sonntag. “One of my newspaper colleagues is sure to have a file photo. In fact, I recall one of them saying he had recently interviewed Sonntag.” He tried to stretch his answer for all it was worth. “It was very interesting, actually. He said that ...”

“Never mind, Mr Edwards. How long will it take to procure the photograph?”

“Er, not too long, actually. I’ll have to phone a few people.”

“As long as you do not go to the police, Mr Edwards. You promised me, remember?”

Edwards felt his face flush. Duplicity did not rest easy with him. “Of course, I ...” The reporter hesitated in response to the urgent ring of Webb’s telephone. The sound lasted only as long as a semiquaver as the policeman snatched it to his ear.

“Got it,” Webb whispered sharply, motioning to Edwards to keep dragging out the conversation. As luck would have it, he did not even have to consult the almanac. The caller was using a public phone box in Leyton, east London, and he knew the local nick’s number by heart. He also knew several senior officers there personally. Within seconds a car would be racing to the scene. One thing was sure: their prey was too old to run away.

“... I believe you said you would come forward if you identified this man as Schreiber,” Edwards continued. “Does that offer still hold?”

“Of course, of course. My word is my bond, Mr Edwards. I must be sure that th
e
mumse
r
is behind bars.”

“Sorry?”

“The bastard. Once I am sure he can no longer torture me, I shall be glad to testify. I told you this before.”

Edwards had to think on his feet, for Webb was signalling ever more frantically for him to prolong the conversation. “Tell me,” the reporter asked, “do you know of anyone else who might back up your testimony?”

“I have lived my life alone with my memories, Mr Edwards. I am not what you call a mixer. Schreiber made sure of that. I lost all my family in the Holocaust. There is no one. No one that I know personally. Maybe there are other survivors of the Small Fortress in other countries, but not here. Not that I know of.”

“I’m sorry about your
family ...” Edwards hesitated. It was so frustrating not being able to pin a label on the voice at the other end of the line. “I shall try to help you all I can,” he lied uneasily. “It would help, though, if you would tell me your name.”

“I cannot, Mr Edwards. Not yet. If I tell you my name and your prisoner is not the killer, then it will be a death sentence for me.”

“I give you my word that I will not publish anything.”

“I’m afraid I cannot take that chance. Not because of you, but because of what others might do.”

“It would be in contempt of court if we published anything. No newspaper would risk it. That is your guarantee.”

“No, Mr Edwards. I shall remain anonymous until I am sure that Schreiber is behind bars. I shall ring you at the same time tomorrow. If you have the photograph, I will tell you how to get it to me. Do you understand?”

“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 comply 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 th
e
Standar
d
. 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.