Schreiber's Secret (20 page)

“Makes a change from the old days,” said Brand, as if reading the reporter’s thoughts. “Then it was a seedy old room and the witness had to come face to face with the suspect, even put his hand on the bloke’s shoulder.”

“I can’t think of anything more intimidating for a witness,” observed Edwards.

“Precisely,” said the inspector. “That’s why it’s not done that way any more. This, my friend, is state of the art.”

Edwards turned his attention to the television screens and electronic hardware directly in front of him. One screen focused on the parade area and another was split into various views, including one of the witness’s gallery.

“When the lineup people come in you’ll notice their movements onscreen will be jerky,” the inspector explained. “This is because there are seven cameras operating at the same time. The camera in the witness area is black and white because the lighting has to be very subdued in
there, otherwise the suspect in the line-up may see the witness through the two-way mirror. It doesn’t give a very good image, I’m afraid.”

“Where is the witness?” asked Edwards with a hint of irritation. He wanted them to get on with it. “And did he give his name?”

“One of my colleagues is waiting with him in the TV room adjoining the corridor behind the mirror. The witness will be required to give his name to the duty inspector for the official record of the ID parade. I haven’t even seen the witness yet. I’ve been more concerned with the suspect.”

“How does the suspect seem to you?” asked Webb. “I haven’t seen him since they shipped him here.”

“Calm,” said Brand. “Very calm.”

“But then he’s a professional chameleon, isn’t he?” said Edwards.

“Ahem.” Webb cleared his throat. “We’ll soon find out. Here they come.”

The three onlookers in the control room turned their attention to the parade area. Eight men and an accompanying police officer filed into the room. They were all elderly and
of similar stature. Each was smartly dressed in suit and tie.

“We’ve got a lot of pensioners on our books,” explained Brand. “They get four quid and a cup of tea for standing in line for few minutes. Not a bad rate, really.”

“Which one is Sonntag?” asked Edwards eagerly, suddenly remembering that he did not even know what the man looked like.

“Number five,” said Webb. “Handsome bugger, isn’t he?”

The reporter strained to get a clearer view of Sonntag. He found it more rewarding to peer at the colour screen in front of him. The man had a military bearing and was certainly more handsome than the others. Each of them had a full head of yellowy-white or white hair. Obviously this must have been a stipulation demanded by Sonntag’s solicitor. His aim, after all, was to make identification as hard as possible for the witness.

The members of the parade were then requested to sit on the bench running the length of the rear wall and behind the allotted numbers placed at their feet. They were told by their escorting officer to sit with their heels together, hands on laps, and to stare directly at their reflections in the mirror. Edwards found the whole process fascinating.

“Here comes the witness,” whispered Brand. “We must keep silent during the ID. You can only see him from here on the video screen.”

Edwards’ heart pounded as the witness was ushered into the viewing area.

The image, in black and white, was disappointing. It was difficult to make out the man’s features or his reactions.

The three onlookers then heard the voice of the inspector who was accompanying the witness. He was standing by a lectern at the near end of the viewing corridor. Sonntag’s solicitor was also present, although out of view. The inspector’s address to the witness was formal and precise and could only be heard in the control room. “You have been asked here today to see if you can identify the person you saw in the Small Fortress of Theresienstadt transit camp during the winter of nineteen forty-two and forty-three. I am going to ask you in a moment to walk along the line at least twice, taking as much care and time as you wish. I want to make it clear to you that the person you saw may or may not be here. If you cannot make a positive identification you should say so. Please indicate the person by calling out his number. Do you understand?”

The witness’s affirmation was muffled.

“You may go ahead, sir.”

The old man shuffled slowly along the line and then appeared to press himself against the glass. The tension in the control room was almost unbearable. Edwards stole a glance at Webb. He knew his friend was counting on a positive ID to help sew up his case. This was one hell of a moment.

The witness continued staring ahead for what seemed an eternity. Then he croaked, “It is him. My God, it is really
him. It is Hans Schreiber.”

“What number are you referring to, sir?”

“Number five,” came the faltering reply. “Number five is Hans Schreiber.”

Webb gave a huge sigh of relief. “That’s it, my boy,” he hissed. “Open and shut.”

“Please sign here,” came the officer’s voice from the viewing corridor.

“Okay,” said Brand, “we’ll wait a bit. Bert will check with the suspect and his representative on whether they have any comment to make and then you can have both of your men back.”

When Edwards and Webb finally left the control room, a grey-suited, weedy fellow carrying a briefcase scurried past.

“That’s your suspect’s solicitor,” grinned Brand. “Looks as though he’s seen a ghost.”

Webb smiled. He knew why the man was ashen faced and his golfing companion was just about to find out.

“And there’s your suspect.”

Mark Edwards stared hard and fast at the man who now stood only five yards from him, handcuffed to a uniformed constable. Henry Sonntag was even more imposing in the flesh. No wonder Danielle had been taken with him. Edwards felt his skin creep as the small brown eyes returned his gaze impassively. A shiver passed down his spine. He was convinced now that they were the eyes of a mass murderer.

“I’d like Mark here to meet the witness,” said Webb, ushering them away from the prisoner.

“Sure,” said the uniformed man. “I’ll take you to the waiting room.”

The reporter’s heart once again began to pound and he could feel his palms becoming clammy. As the door opened, Edwards almost took refuge behind the gangling frame of his friend.

“This is your anonymous caller, Mark,” said Webb knowingly.

For a moment there was utter silence, punctured only by a bubble of trapped air escaping to the surface of a bottled water fountain in the far corner of the room. “Good God,” muttered the reporter. “It’s unbelievable.”

“Hello, Mr Edwards,” rasped the old man. “I recognize you from your photograph in the newspaper.”

“I’m surprised,” said the reporter sheepishly. “It was a lousy picture.”

Edwards took the old man’s outstretched hand tamely. Its skin had all the consistency of a ready-to-cook broiler.

“Why do you blush, Mr Edwards? I forgive you. As soon as I saw that monster I was glad that things had turned out this way. Now that he is behind bars I can relax a little. God bless you, Mr Edwards.”

The reporter stared at the man who, in a sense, he had betrayed. The beady brown eyes bore no hint of malice and yet conveyed a sense of deep hurt. The pallid face showed evidence of several scars. The nose was thin and straight. In fact, the whole was an amalgam of what he had variously imagined it to be during the period leading up to this moment. And yet, put a wig on this man and he could pass for Henry Sonntag.

Edwards found his voice at last. “It’s just uncanny. You look so much like the man you just identified.”

“It is impossible for any man to recognize himself in others,” the witness said calmly. “But what you say does not surprise me. You see, Schreiber thought he had murdered me. Gentlemen, I believe that monster, whatever he now calls himself, stole my identity. Hans Schreiber is pretending to be me and now I am here to haunt him.”

“Are you really sure?” asked the reporter.

“Anyone who was in a concentration camp knew the face of his persecutor-in-chief. He knew every muscle. The features are etched into his mind, into his memory and into his heart. I remember Schreiber’s face better than I remember my own mother’s.”

“I am sure there is much you now want to relate, sir,” said Webb kindly.

“But a good start would be your name.”

The old man looked at them wanly, his eyes suddenly rheumy and dull. He sighed deeply. “My name is Herschel Soferman.”

CHAPTER 10

MILLIONAIRE BONDS DEALER CHARGED

WITH SWASTIKA MURDERS

by
Mark Edwards

Financial wizard Henry Sonntag has been arrested and charged with the murders of software magnate Howard Plant and taxi driver Joe Hyams. Sonntag, 73, of Chigwell, Essex, will appear at Redbridge Magistrates Court tomorrow. Sonntag was Mr Plant’s close adviser on all matters relating to the financial futures market.

The accused came to England as a refugee from Germany after the Second World War. He achieved multimillionaire status after backing the pound’s demise on Black Wednesday.

Howard Plant, one of Britain’s richest men, was found dead in the grounds of his
home ...

“Doesn’t tell us much,” opined Dieter Müller, folding the newspaper in half and placing it on the table. He removed his horn-rims and picked up his glass of ice-cold Holsten in two gulps. A rivulet of lager dribbled into his grey goatee.

“Th
e
sub judic
e
law is pretty strict here, Dieter,” said Edwards. He had already filled Müller in on the identity of the anonymous caller. “The remand hearing will also have to be a rehash.”

“I love your English pubs,” said the German, changing the subject. “Such atmosphere.”

“Yes, it’s because the smoke gets in your eyes,” laughed Danielle nervously. This was the first time she had met the man who had been such a great help to her lover. Müller was probably just an affable professor, but he was so clearly Teutonic that she felt a certain discomfort. She was fully prepared to accept that children could not be held responsible for the sins of their fathers, but this did not mean she could feel comfortable around pukka Germans.

“Here comes Jim with the next round,” said Edwards as the portly Pottage juggled with a further pint of Holsten, two whisky macs and a gin and tonic for the lady. “Easy, Jim, easy.”

“When I retire from Fleet Street,” the West Countryman drawled, “I want to buy a pub in Devon.”

“Knowing you, Jim, you’ll be too pickled to run it,” quipped Edwards.

“There’s an old saying in the Rhineland,” Müller chipped in. “Let the hen distribute the corn-seed and only one chicken will get fat.”

Pottage guffawed and almost knocked over the drinks. “I bet you just made that up,” he said.

“I did, actually,” said Müller in impeccable Received English. “Rather clever, don’t you think?” He picked up the paper and stroked his goatee, his smile turning quickly to a frown. “What’s going to happen between now and the trial, Mark?”

“It could all take six months or more, Dieter. Apparently the Crown Prosecution Service will be trying to find another witness to back up our man Soferman. From what I hear, the file will be passed to Scotland Yard’s war crimes unit.”

“But Henry Sonntag isn’t being charged with being a war criminal, Mark,” said Danielle defensively.

“No, darling, but that’s not to say they won’t try to pin it on him at a later date.”

“So what will the war crimes unit do?” asked Müller.

“Oh, I’m surprised you don’t know about Detective Chief Superintendent Eddie Barnard and his crew, Dieter,” replied the reporter. “They’ll probably contact foreign governments and ask them to appeal for witnesses. They’re already building cases against a number of other war criminals who found refuge in this country.”

“Of course, of course, my friend,” Müller blushed. “It’s just that in practical terms I believe they will achieve very little.”

“What do you mean?” asked Danielle.

“I mean that so many years have passed that surely no witness can be regarded as reliable. Look at the Demjanjuk fiasco.”

“You mean the odds are that Soferman is fingering the wrong man,” said Danielle, grabbing hold of straws on behalf of Sonntag.

“Perhaps,” said Müller, “but we must always keep uppermost in our minds the fact that Henry Sonntag is being charged with the murders of Plant and Hyams and those murders alone. It is only the modus operandi of the crime and this Soferman character which are raising the spectre of a Nazi past.”

“The evidence looks pretty conclusive,” said Edwards. “Apparently they found a whole arsenal of SS weapons in his home, including a dagger like the one found near Plant’s body.”

“
Meine Ehre heisst Treu
e
,” said the professor. “Loyalty is my Honour. That’s the SS motto. It’s inscribed on every dagger. Do you want to hear the SS oath of allegiance?”

“Why not?” said Danielle, intrigued. Her voice carried just the faintest hint of sarcasm.