Schreiber's Secret (38 page)

“What shall I do after that?”

“Stay in court. Carry on as usual. I’m flying back right away, but I don’t think I’ll make it before the end of the session.”

“Please be careful, Mark.” Danielle could feel her heart pounding.

“Don’t worry. I love you.
Bye.”

Within ten minutes, Danielle Green was back in her seat in court, shuddering slightly at the thought that
the place next to her had once been occupied by Dieter Müller. She had given Bob Webb a description and he had assured her that he would put out an all-points and that the first port of call would be Müller’s home.

As Mr Justice Pilkington droned on, she noticed a number of uniformed police officers taking up positions at the rear of the court.

“And so, members of the jury,” the judge continued, “it is incumbent upon you ...”

Both Nigel Blomberg and Sir John Scrivener were doodling when it happened. Each had done his respective job to the best of his ability. Each was now awaiting the verdict with equanimity, for their emotions could hardly be compared with those of the main players. Both realized that some you won and some you lost; that that was the nature of the game.

Opposite the two Queen’s Counsels, Danielle Green and the court reporters tapped their pencils irritably. The judge’s summing up always took an age and most of it was a recounting of what had gone before. They just wanted the verdict.

The only person paying undivided attention to Mr Justice Pilkington’s summation was the lady on his right, the court stenographer. After all, it was her job not to miss a word.

Herschel Soferman was leaning on the protective bar in front of him in the first row of the gallery, trying to catch any hint that the judge was advising the jury to find Henry Sonntag guilty. He cocked his head, at the same time staring at his adversary who was sitting below, about thirty feet away. Soferman had just apologized to the brown-haired man sitting next to him for obscuring his view.

The defendant, as usual, was sitting erect in his chair and listening to the judge with stoical indifference.

Gallery attendant Fred Higgins, mindful of the hour, was preparing himself mentally to handle the rush for the exit once the judge had asked the jury to consider its verdict. He did not believe the twelve good folk would be out all that long.

Suddenly, the tall, brown-haired man next to Soferman was on his feet.

“ENOUGH!” he bellowed. “COWARDS! COWARDS!”

“Look out! He’s got a gun!” screamed a woman juror.

In that same instant, all Fred Higgins could think of was how stupid it was that the Old Bailey did not employ the same security methods at the public gallery entrance as it did at the main entrance. No tubes and no metal-detectors. A farce.

Before the good judge could call for order, or the worthy counsels crane their necks to see what was happening above and behind them, the brown-haired man had levelled his weapon at the man in the dock.

Henry Sonntag did not move. Maybe he did not have time to move, or maybe he just welcomed the end to his torment.

The first shot hit the defendant in the temple. The second pierced his right ventricle and exited his left. Henry Sonntag was dead before he reached the floor.

By now the screams of those in the gallery were hysterical, people clambering over each other in an effort to escape. All except the brown-haired man, Herschel Soferman and Fred Higgins.

Higgins, his military and police training now making him act instinctively, tried to forge his way through the mob to reach the gunman. Herschel Soferman, either through cowardice or trauma, had curled into a whimpering ball at the feet of the brown-haired man, who lowered the gun slowly to the old man’s head. He did not hesitate before blowing Herschel Soferman’s brains out.

“You bastard!” screamed Higgins as he lunged at the killer. “You can’t do that in my court.”

The attendant grappled with the man, who coolly thrust his knee into the ex-policeman’s groin. As Fred Higgins lay winded on the floor of his beloved gallery, his adversary raised the barrel of the pistol and placed it carefully into his own mouth. The force of the exploding bullet lifted him clear off his feet, over the protective barrier and down onto the floor below, narrowly missing the prostrate and trembling personages of the Queen’s Counsels and their assistants.

His bones broken by the impact, the attacker’s body lay askew. Some might even have imagined that the twisted figure resembled a swastika.

The smell of cordite hung in the air.

While others were simply sitting or lying around in shock, Danielle Green was making her way gingerly towards the attacker’s body. She forced herself to look at it. Despite the blood, brains and bone fragments, she recognized the shaven face below the dyed and matted hair, and the unseeing steel-blue eyes that stared up at her.

CHAPTER 18

The first senior police officer to arrive at the scene of the carnage was also the first to discover the two letters in Dieter Müller’s breast pocket, which explained his motives and the killings of Joe Hyams, Howard Plant and Bill Brown.

News about the finding of the letters was soon leaked. With the media clamouring for their contents to be made known, Scotland Yard decided to bow to the pressure the day after the unprecedented events at the Old Bailey. The ensuing press release made the front pages from Berlin to Buenos Aires, from Tel Aviv to Tokyo. Part of the release carried the verbatim contents of the letters. The first, written in German, was signed “Your mother, Gertrude”. The second, typewritten in English, was signed “Franz Dieter Müller”. It was dated the day of his death and, therefore, must have been written that fateful morning.

Dear Dieter

I do not know where to begin. It is so very hard for me to put into words the desperation that I have felt all these years. Now that I have only a very short time to live I feel that I cannot die without at least letting you know the reasons why I had you placed into care all those years ago. My only hope is that you have had a good life. I hope you receive this letter before I die and that you can visit me, although I am frightened for the effect that this might have on you.

I began searching for you about a year ago. It was a long process. I won’t bore you with it. There were many obstacles put in my way. I was an old woman who didn’t have the right connections. Anyway, eventually I found out that your last foster parents were the Brandts in Düsseldorf. They seem very nice people. They told me that you idealized your real father. I feel that you must know the truth about him. He was not the glorious soldier you imagined. His name was Hans Schreiber. He was an Obersturmführer in the SS. We pretended to be married but weren’t really. It was just after the war. There was devastation everywhere in Berlin. I was so desperate that I needed the comfort of a man. Hans Schreiber was nice to me at first. But then he turned into a brute, Dieter. He was a drunken bully. He used to beat me up. He would tell me he would treat me the same way as he treated the Jews in Theresienstadt. You would not believe what he did there and I cannot bring myself to tell you, even now. After a couple of months he came home drunk again and told me he thought the Allies were on to him. He said he had a master plan. He said he would pretend to be a Jew and try to reach England as a refugee. He laughed at the irony of it. I told him he was mad, but I was relieved that he was leaving me. Anyway, your father left and I was alone again and pregnant. Then I met this man named Fritz Vimmer. He was a good man. He tried to make a go of it when you were born. But he just couldn’t father another man’s son. Of course, I never told him who your real father was. I held out until you were almost four, but the rows were becoming more frequent. Eventually, I weakened and agreed to have you placed into care. Times were hard. We hardly had anything to eat. I thought you would be better off with another family, a family that would give you love from all sides. I wasn’t sure I should tell you about your father. But Germany has changed now and it is wrong to glorify the past. I am going to give you one thing Hans Schreiber left behind. I always kept it. It is his SS dagger. My fondest wish is that you will bury this and with it the past. Oh, Dieter. I am so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?

Your mother, Gertrude

TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN

If you are reading this letter, then it can only mean that I am dead. I explain my actions as a glorification of my leader and saviour, Adolf Hitler, and as a response to the sullying of His eternal name by my father. You will find accompanying this note a letter from my
mother which must be read in context with my own.

My father, who will also be dead by the time you read this, was a man who betrayed all the principles as delineated by our most glorious Führer. This man, instead of fighting to the death to save the blessed Third Reich, slunk from the scene of our temporary defeat like a weasel. This man, whom I can barely bring myself to call my father, not only ran away,
but adopted the identity of the very people he had so expertly and correctly murdered. This man, in order to save his own skin, actually became a member of that damned race. No words can express my horror at his perfidy.

Upon receiving the letter and his knife from my mother, I decided to attempt to find my father with the express purpose of killing him, but not without first confronting him with his crime, not against me, but against the whole German people.

To this end, I decided to come to England. I knew it was, as the English say, a longshot. I decided the best way to flush him out was to murder a Jew. Who would care anyway? I murdered the taxi driver, believing the police would publish the note I left by the body in full. Only one man would know the meaning of C-Street 33, and his curiosity would bring him there on the appropriate date. But the police did not publish the full note. Only “For you – Hans Schreiber”. I knew then that I must kill again. That it must be some prominent Jew-boy. A very rich one. Someone that would make them take notice. Imagine my surprise when Henry Sonntag was arrested for the murders I had committed. I mean, I knew I had killed Plant. At first I did not believe all the things that were said about Sonntag. I did not believe that he could be my father. And yet the testimony of Herschel Soferman made sense. I decided I would kill my father in court. And yet I was confused. Sonntag claimed that Soferman was really my father. I knew then that I must kill them both. I knew that the British private investigator, Brown, was on my trail and arranged to have him murdered. I also arranged the murder of Mark Edwards. I apologize to his family. I liked him. I am happy you are reading this, because it means I have succeeded in my aim. Traitors to the Fatherland must die. I must die, also, but as a true German patriot. 

LOYALTY IS MY HONOUR.

Franz Dieter Müller

“It was the grand gesture,” said Bob Webb, opening his arms wide and almost knocking his pint off the bar counter.

“But why did he do it when he did?” said Edwards.

“Either he just snapped or he realized the game was up when the court began to fill with uniformed
bobbies,” suggested Danielle.

“You know something?”  Webb and Danielle looked enquiringly at the reporter.
“I kind of feel sorry for him.”

“How can you say that, mate?” said Webb. “The guy nearly had you bumped off. Besides, he murdered four other innocent people.”

“Three innocent people,” said Danielle quickly. “Schreiber was hardly innocent.”

“The point remains,” said Edwards sadly, “now that we know that Sonntag didn’t murder Joe Hyams and Plant, it must leave open to doubt the identity of the real Schreiber. Sonntag or Soferman. Even the court didn’t get a chance to decide that.” The reporter had not mentioned Dr Wolfgang Schreiber to his police friend, or to his editor for that matter. As far as everyone was concerned, he had gone to Straelen only to check out Bill Brown. There was no point in involving the doctor. The old man had denied that his son was alive, anyway. The SS file’s photos were clearly of somebody else. Maybe it was just fortuitous that the names coincided. Anyway, perhaps there was another way that could prove who the real Hans Schreiber was.

“What about the funerals of the two men, Bob?” asked Danielle. “I hear they’ll both be buried in a Jewish cemetery. They’re both fully paid up for Waltham Abbey.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” said the detective. “But there’s not much that anyone can do about it. In England, you’re innocent until proven guilty. There’ve been noises from the Jewish Board of Deputies. I mean, they’re in a right state. They realize they might be burying a Nazi in their back garden.”  Edwards stroked his chin thoughtfully. “There’s one way we could clear the matter up, Bob.”

“How?” asked the policeman, his steel-grey eyes widening.

“A DNA test.”

“Shit. I hadn’t thought of that ... but there’s no precedent. We can’t ask for a DNA test if we haven’t got a reason. And as Müller’s dead, we haven’t got a reason.”

“Bob,” said Danielle, leaning towards the big man excitedly, “look into my eyes and tell me you can’t do anything.”

Webb looked into Danielle’s emerald-green gaze. “God, but you’re a lucky bastard, Edwards.”

“
Well ...?”

“Look,” replied the policeman, “we’ll have blood samples from the autopsies of each of them.”

“Well ...?”