Schreiber's Secret (9 page)

Light worrying plagued Edwards most mornings until he actually got out of bed, or until it was interrupted by something more stimulating. A sigh to his right proved the catalyst. She was a mood changer. She had a sensuality that could make a shoal of barracuda turn on each other. Propped on a pillow, Edwards gazed down at the sweeping lines of the form beside him. His restlessness had caused him to pull the duvet almost completely off her. Her skin was like satin, her long and shapely legs, drawn up slightly, rose inexorably towards the most perfect bottom he had ever seen, then up, past the small of the back, and along the delicate delineation of her spine towards the nape of a neck that was half lapped by gold leaf. God, she was beautiful.

His lover’s right leg straightened languidly and the combination of the ripple of her buttocks and the lingering fragrance of Ysatis caused his mood to alter. He placed the duvet delicately around her and pressed his naked form against hers. She did not respond for a full two minutes. It just so happened that she was in the middle of an erotic dream. In the delicious and relaxing glow of half-sleep and sexual arousal, she luxuriated in the dream as if it were reality.

“Oh, God,” she groaned. She was already wet when she turned to face him. He was beautiful – the bright blue eyes and thick wavy blond hair, the snub nose and square jaw. She smiled, feeling her own lips and face beginning to flush.

“You don’t have to warm me up,” she moaned. “I’m almost coming already.”

It would be her third orgasm of the night.

Edwards needed no further invitation. He allowed her to guide him into her and began to stimulate her and himself, gently at first and then with increasing vigour. They came – she slightly ahead of him, the way she liked it – and lay spent in one another’s arms. Only the intrusive resonance of the telephone spoiled the idyll.

“Damn!” muttered Edwards. He knew the interruption had to be work related.

It had happened a few times before. But this time was the cruellest. He had been wining and dining the girl for two months and this was their first night together. The way she made love had matched her looks. She was simply stunning, and he knew he must be the envy of his colleagues. Maybe this was one of them on a spoiling mission. The receiver was by his bed, so he could still cradle her as he spoke.

“Oh, hello, Bob. What’s up? ... Where? ... I’ll be there in ten minutes.”  Edwards grappled with the phone. He’d have to ring Fred Diamond, the local freelance photographer. He wanted someone at the scene as soon as possible.

“What’s happened?” she moaned.

“A murder. Ten minutes up the road. My contact says it’s a biggie. I’ll contact you at the office later.”

Danielle Green hugged her new lover. He was only her second, but she felt instinctively that the relationship could flourish. Mummy and Daddy might not be too pleased, but the fact that he was a gentile caused her only slight disquiet.

Detective Inspector Robert William Webb knew local commuters would not be appreciative, but there was no question of Fairlop station being reopened until the evening rush hour. In fact, he doubted whether he could allow the hordes near the place for at least a couple of days.

“Smith, Carter,” he called out to two uniformed constables near by, “rope off an area fifty yards either side of the station entrance. The early morning mob’ll be here any moment. They’ll just have to walk to Barkingside.” Webb noted their acknowledgement and then turned his gaze on the station foreman. Poor sod. No fun in opening up in the morning and finding a stiff on your doorstep. And this was no ordinary stiff. This was a humdinger of a stiff. A shock-horror-drama headline-grabbing humdinger of a stiff.

“Are you all right, mate?” he called over to the man, who was ten yards away, slumped against a wall by the station entrance, the dawn’s early light causing a halo to play around his head.

“I’ll be all right, mon,” the man called out in thick West Indian brogue. “I just got to compose meself.”

Looked as white as a sheet, thought Webb, and then quickly turned his ensuing chuckle into a smile of reassurance. “Take as long as you like. We’re arranging for you to get the day off.”

The policeman knew the foreman would have a whole day of exhaustive questioning to go through. It was odds-on the man was an innocent party, but nothing would be left to chance. Not on this one. Not with the Super breathing down his neck, the Commissioner breathing down the Super’s neck and the politicians huffing and puffing down everyone’s neck. He had premonitions of a disaster if no arrest was quickly forthcoming.

“Hi, Bob. What’s up?”

Webb’s gangling six-foot-two frame started at the voice by his side. It belonged to a young man with whom Webb had many shared interests besides police work, such a
s football, tennis and more than the occasional round of golf. Although Mark Edwards was six years his junior, Webb could still match him at most sports.

“What took you so long?” the policeman smiled. “The body’s already cold.”

The mere mention of the word made Edwards shiver. The body was not all that was cold that morning. His side of the bed would soon be stone cold. Criminal, he thought, absolutely criminal. He was having a hard time keeping his bearings. He’d certainly never felt this way about anyone before. Danielle Green was simply mind-blowing.

“Are you with us?”

“It’s okay, Bob, I’m still half asleep.”

“She must be some lady.” Webb winked knowingly.

“Is that an educated guess or do you have inside information?”

“Nothing. Nothing, Mark, mate, it’s just that that girl journalist you introduced me to last week was an absolute knockout.”

“Talking about bodies, Bob,” said Edwards, “what gives on this one?”

“Cabbie murdered. A
molto bad one. Before you ask, I can’t let you or your photographer near the scene. Forensic already have their dabs on it. He can take a shot of the cab and I can let him shoot these.”

Edwards examined the police photographer’s preliminary Polaroids. “Jesus Christ!” he whistled.

“No, he was crucified,” said Webb humourlessly.

Edwards looked again at the pictures. The first one showed clearly a swastika carved into the victim’s forehead, the others the points of entry and exit of a bullet.

Webb pointed a finger. “Shot through the nape of the neck first and then the killer left his calling card. This was an execution, mate, pure and simple.”

“I don’t think we can use these, Bob, they’re too horrific. We’ll shoot ’em to keep ’em on file, but I know the editor’ll have his reservations. The Jewish community is going to be up in arms and th
e
Standar
d
is very pro-Jewish and very pro-Israel.

Is this the work of fascists or Arabs? Any clues?”

“Nothing much to go on at the moment,” Webb lied. As much as he cherished their friendship, there were some things a policeman had to keep secret. Information was a two-edged sword and there were always some clues which it would be injudicious to reveal. Timing was everything in a murder inquiry. “We’ll check out the Claybury nuthouse first, but somehow I don’t think we’ll find an inmate missing. Local nutters tend to belong to the dirty raincoat brigade.”

Edwards watched in fascination as the forensic boys milled around the black cab. The body of the cabbie was slumped over the steering wheel. He was thankful he could not make out the man’s altered features. The Polaroids were horrific enough.

“Okay, Bob, shoot. What’s known?”

Webb yawned and stretched his large frame. The breath exuded from his generous mouth in a fine mist. Reflectively, he ran his thumb and forefinger along a pencil-thin moustache, slowly bringing them together at the foot of his lantern jaw. “Hyams.
Joseph Stanley Hyams. Aged fifty. Married to Rebecca. Two sons, twenty-three and twenty-one. All living in Beatyville Gardens. Typical middleclass Jewish family, if you ask me. Hope she’s not the hysterical type. A couple of my boys are with her now.”

“Do you think a passenger did it?”

“More than likely. The meter had forty-five pounds on the clock. At first glance it looks like a Heathrow job. The cost per distance is about right. Funny, though ...”

“What?”

“The killer was obviously a pretty cool customer. He switched the motor off but didn’t try to destroy the evidence on the meter. Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to yield much. We’ll go through the flight lists, but I think we’ll probably be wasting our time.”

“What about known fascists?”

“The usual suspects will be questioned. Special Branch have a list of known activists in this area. The Yard’s method index may help, although I doubt whether there’s any previous form on this particular modus operandi.”

“You sound pretty depressed, Bob.”

“I’ve got bad vibes on this one, Mark.” Webb stared straight ahead. “It’s got all the hallmarks of the beginnings of a serial killing. Nobody bothers to carve a swastika on someone’s forehead unless he’s leaving some kind of message.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell you just yet,” said Webb, regretting his observation. “But I promise you you’ll be the first to know if we come up with anything.”

“Don’t bugger me about, Bob,” said Edwards, sensing his friend was being a little too circumspect.

“Look, mate,” the policeman rejoined tetchily, “don’t press me too far. You know all the big nobs will be breathing down my neck on this one. It’s got political overtones.”

Edwards realized he might indeed be pushing too hard. He respected Webb’s abilities as a copper and he knew the man was going to be under intense pressure to come up with something. The middle echelon in the police pecking order was always the hardest pressed. Those at the bottom of the heap had the least responsibility and those at the top could dump their frustration on the likes of Webb.

“Okay, Bob,” said Edwards, changing the subject, “let’s talk about the murder weapon.”

“Dunno yet. Forensic says the wound is typical of close quarters with a silencer. But as to the make of weapon, we’ll have to wait for the lab report on the bullet we found.”

“Where was it?”

“Lodged in the dashboard.”

“What was used to carve the swastika?”

“A knife, probably. We’ve only just started combing the area.”

Edwards closed his notebook. “Bob, can I interview the guy who found him, and then I’ll be off?”

“Sure,” said Webb. “He’s the station foreman. Sitting over there by the wall. He’s pretty shook up. I’ll give you five minutes.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you a bit later. There’ll probably be a news conference, right?”

“Probably,” Webb grimaced. “But I think we’ll hold you lot off until tomorrow.”

“Unless you have a little exclusive something just for little old me, eh?”

“Go on, bugger off. I’ll see you later, no doubt. I’ll get you on your mobile if anything comes up.”

Webb watched the reporter approach the West Indian. Edwards was a good journalist, a man who could be relied on to write the facts without too much embellishment. But he himself was a good policeman. And good policemen had to play some of their cards close to their chests. He withdrew the note from his breast pocket and re-read its contents. “All in good time,” he muttered. “All in good time.”

Mark Edwards, having filed his story on the hoof, knew he was in for a long and exhausting day. Nick Logan, his news editor, was a demanding tyrant. The man had decided to dispatch a relief reporter to the scene, while Edwards was to interview the widow and get hold of some family photos. It was always the shittiest part of being a crime reporter. He had to be pretty thick skinned to do the job anyway, but bereaved relatives always got to him.

Driving back to his flat to wash and shave, he couldn’t help feeling that he’d be a fish out of water with the Hyams family. People always responded better to their own. He thought of Danielle. He’d ask her to accompany him. She wasn’t due in her office until lunchtime, anyway.

Edwards parked his car in the lay-by outside Redbridge Court. Although traffic was light, some commuters were already making their way towards Redbridge station nearby to begin their regular boring journeys to the City. But at least they were alive. Not like poor old Joe Hyams.

He took the lift to the third floor and let himself in quietly. The flat was silent, save for the familiar hum of the refrigerator. Permeating the apartment was her favourite perfume, a strong yet delicate reminder of the carnal pleasures of the previous night. For one moment he felt like telling Nick Logan where to stick his orders. Professionalism, however, restored itself quickly. Edwards entered his bedroom. He could feel his desire welling up once again as he gazed at her form. Sitting gently on the bed, he stared at her bare white shoulders. Her gold Star of David had somehow worked its way around to the back of the chain. He fingered it delicately and then returned it to its rightful place just at the top of her cleavage. Danielle moaned as she attempted to pull the blankets higher.

“Dani,” he whispered. “Dani, please wake up.”

She sighed and lingered a few more seconds before turning slowly towards him. “Mark, is that you? What time is it?”