Schreiber's Secret (27 page)

He shifted position once again, feeling subconsciously for the warmth of her body. The fact that flesh did not meet flesh would not necessarily have woken him. But there was a sound.
A sobbing sound. Someone, somewhere was crying. He awoke with a start and turned towards her. She was sitting up, her bloodshot eyes staring straight ahead. Tears were streaming down her delicate pale cheeks.

“What is it, darling?” he said with mounting concern. He moved across the bed and put his right arm around her, cradling her head to his chest. He stroked the layers of satin around her temple. “Please, Dani, tell me,” he said soothingly. “Don’t keep it inside.”

“I can’t help it, Mark,” she sniffed. “I was suddenly overcome.”

“By what?”

“Please don’t think I’m being silly.”

“Of course I won’t, Dani. I love you.”

“I am crying for my people.” She sniffed again. “I’m crying for all those millions who died. For all those children. For all the children who were never born because of men like Hans Schreiber. Oh, darling,” she sobbed bitterly, “I’m so confused. I know you don’t believe Sonntag’s claims. When he said Soferman was really Schreiber, my whole world turned upside down. I no longer know what to believe.”

“It’s up to the lawyers now, Dani,” said Edwards, kissing her delicately on the cheek and on the eyelid, savouring the saltiness of her tears. A lump formed in his throat. It was only now that he realized how much the strain of these extraordinary events had taken its toll of her emotions. She had always played hard when it came to dealing with people like Sonntag, Soferman, even Dieter Müller. Sure, she had supported the financier and she was bound to feel betrayed. Yet she had managed to portray a kind of controlled aloofness throughout. After his own interviews with Soferman, he truly believed he was beginning to understand what it meant to be a Jew.

“Maybe we could take a holiday together,” he counselled. “We’ve both got some weeks owing.”

“Yes, Mark,” she replied, wiping her eyes. “There are two places I want so much to visit.” She hesitated, unsure of his reaction. “I want to visit Prague, to see Theresienstadt for myself. I also want to visit a place I should already have been to. Jerusalem.”

Edwards was momentarily nonplussed. These were the very places he thought she would have wanted to avoid. “Are you sure?” he asked gingerly.

“I’m sure. I know what you’re thinking, but in a way I think it will help me exorcize this thing. This whole affair has made me feel that I ought to be more of a Jew; that I ought to try to understand more about what my people have suffered. I don’t think I can get any closer if I don’t visit Theresienstadt and Yad Vashem.

“That’s the memorial in Jerusalem, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“When shall we go?”

Danielle reached up and kissed him gently on the lips. “I can go alone if you don’t feel like coming.”

“I go where you go, Dani.”

“I love you,” she said simply.

“Tell me that again on the Temple Mount.”

CHAPTER 13

It was almost four months later when Edwards and Danielle finally got around to booking their holiday. Pressure of work and the chief crime reporter’s continuing fascination with Herschel Soferman conspired to prevent swifter action. Webb, fully satisfied that he had caught the right man, had confided to the reporter that he had released only part of the contents of the killer’s note to the press. It had also apparently contained the cryptic reference “C-street 33”. Sonntag, unsurprisingly, had told the policeman that this meant nothing to him. Soferman too had expressed ignorance. In Edwards’ mind it represented only a minor irritant. Dani, unfortunately, did not get another chance to quiz Sonntag. Sir John Scrivener, his barrister, had forbidden the accused to be visited by anyone unless first vetted by himself. Needless to say, journalists had been bottom of the lawyer’s list of priorities.

Dieter Müller, meanwhile, had become like a friend of the family. Danielle admitted having been won over by his sincerity even if she did not agree with some of his views. The only black cloud had been the sudden demise of Jim Pottage. Almost fittingly it had been on 1 April. Booze and gluttony had conspired to make the inevitable heart attack massive. The only solace was that Gentleman Jim had gone the way he would have wished, with a pint in his hand at the Elephant. Although Pottage had been somewhat irreligious, his friends had decided to hold a small memorial service in the journalists
’ church of St Bride’s in Fleet Street. Edwards was surprised by the number of coppers who had turned up. It was testimony to the esteem in which Pottage had been held by London’s finest.

The sudden death of the jovial West Countryman had been the only blot on a period in which the mutual regard the two journalists had for one another had deepened and matured.
Sleeping together had been superseded by living together. The experiment was clearly working, although neither of them had broached the question of marriage.

“That’s it, then,” beamed Edwards, slamming down the phone in his lounge.

“It’s springtime in Prague ...”

“And springtime in the Holy Land,” Danielle called from the kitchen.

“It’s going to be a hectic couple of weeks,” he said, joining her.

“I know Prague’s a beautiful city and all that, Mark, but I’m glad we’ll be spending most of the time in Israel. I’m glad we’ll be there for Holocaust Memorial Day. Then we can let our hair down a few days later during the Independence Day celebrations.”

“Sounds great to me,” he enthused, coming up behind her. Placing his arms around her midriff, he nestled his face into the pit between her neck and shoulder. “There’s just one snag.”

“What’s that?”

“What happens if we get a trial date for then?”

Danielle stopped chopping the salad and turned towards him. “That’s the only thing that will put a spanner in the works.” Her eyes then narrowed in determination. “Otherwise, neither my editor nor your bloody news editor is going to upset our plans. Not even if they get on bended knee.”

“That’ll be the day,” he laughed, “Nick Logan pleading with me. Do me a favour.”

“Mark,” she laughed. “I do believe you’re picking up Jewish expressions.”

“Not surprising, is it, my little girl. M
y
medele
h
.

“It’s pronounce
d
maidele
h
.”

“Well, you don’t expect me to learn Yiddish overnight,” he said with mock hurt.

“What do you mean, overnight?” she retorted, pecking him on the tip of his nose. “We’ve been going together long enough.”

“It’s funny you should say that,
but ...” At that moment the mobile phone rang.

“There you go,” he said. “Talk of the devil. That’s bound to be Logan.”

He retrieved the mobile from the dining-room table. “No, Nick, I’m not available tonight, I ...”

“Hello,” came an unfamiliar voice, “who is that? I want to speak to Mark Edwards, please.”

“Edwards speaking.”

“Mr Edwards, good evening. You don’t know me. My name is Sam Cohen. I’m the chairman of Ilford Synagogue. I must see you urgently.”

“Look, I ...”

“It’s about Henry Sonntag, Mr Edwards.”

“What about him?”

“I believe he’s innocent.”

“Well, you must be the only person who does, Mr Cohen.”

“Please, Mr Edwards. I know you are very closely connected with this case. I would like to meet you. You know Luigi’s Restaurant?”

“In Beehive Lane?”

“Yes, opposite the synagogue. Can you meet me there in an hour?”

“This is all a bit rushed, isn’t it, Mr Cohen?”

“Please, Mr Edwards. Money is no object.”

“All right, in an hour.” The reporter switched off his mobile, asking himself what money had to do with it.

“What was all that about?” Danielle called out.

“Forget about making supper,” he said. “I’m inviting you to Luigi’s. Some guy wants to meet me there to discuss Henry Sonntag. He believes the man’s innocent and said something about money being no object. I don’t know what he meant, but I don’t want to be compromised in any way. Put your glad rags on.” This time the BT phone rang.

“Oh, no. Here we go again. The bane of my life ... Hello, Edwards.”

“Hi, Mark. It’s Bob.”

“Okay, mate, no need to gloat. My putting’ll be much better next time.”

“Will you forget about golf for just one minute. I’ve got a bit of news for you.”

“Fire away.”

“Apparently the War Crimes Unit have come up with another witness. Some Polish priest claims he was tortured by Schreiber. The Crown Prosecution Service has been informed.”

“Thanks, Bob. Any word on when the case might be?”

“Not yet, mate. But the way things are going I shouldn’t be surprised if it’ll be soon.”

“As long as it doesn’t start between the last week in April and the first week in May.”

“Why’s that?”

“The good lady and myself are taking off on a long overdue holiday.”

“A pre-honeymoon honeymoon, eh?”

“From your mouth to God’s ears. See you, mate.”

Edwards gazed at the dead phone in his hand. Dammit, he really did want to marry the girl. He had almost chosen the wrong time to propose a few moments earlier. Timing. It was all down to timing.

“Webb, I presume,” Danielle smiled.

“Right.”

“Well, what has he got to say for himself?”

“Oh, apparently the prosecution have got another witness. A Polish priest who remembers Schreiber from the war.”

“The more the merrier.” She now wanted, perhaps needed, the full weight of the law to be brought to bear on Henry Sonntag.

Thus it was with a degree of cynicism that the two journalists entered Luigi’s, a three-minute drive from the flat. It was midweek and relatively early. There was only one customer: a squat, balding man in his early fifties.

“Ah, Mr Edwards,” the man said, rising. “I recognize you from your photograph. Here, I have one of your by-lined stories.” Cohen produced a yellowing copy of the edition that had carried the story of Plant’s murder. He held out his hand, at the same time casting a quizzical look in the direction of Danielle.

“May I introduce you to my colleague, Danielle Green,” said Edwards, shaking the man’s outstretched hand. “We’ve been working on this story together.”

“Please, be my guests, sit down,” Cohen gestured. “I must say, young lady, your face looks extremely familiar. Haven’t I seen you i
n
shu
l
?”

“Only on Rosh Hashanah. I’m Stanley Green’s daughter.”

“Ah, Stanley,” enthused the older man. “Know him well.”

“You will know then that his brother-in-law was Joe Hyams.”

“Of course, of course. On your mother’s side. I’m very sorry, Miss Green. It’s been a terrible business. The whole community is still in shock.”

“Can I help you, Signor Cohen,” the waiter asked.

“Please, order what you like, you two. I can recommend the lasagne.”

“We’ve just eaten, thanks, Mr Cohen,” Edwards lied, “but a lager will do nicely, thanks.”

“Diet Coke,” said Danielle, glancing up at the waiter.

“I’ll have another Pernod, please, Silvio,” said Cohen.

“
Prego
,
” said the waiter, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. These were recessionary times.

After the waiter had sidled away, Edwards turned to his host. “How can I help you, Mr Cohen?”

“Call me Sam. Everyone does.”

“What’s your interest in Henry Sonntag, Sam?”

“Look, first of all he was a member of our congregation. Okay, he didn’t attend services that often. But when he did, Mark – may I call you Mark? – when he did, it was like royalty arriving.” Cohen could see his two guests were puzzled. “You see, the majority of our members are cab drivers and minor businessmen. But we do have a few who struck oil and moved out to Chigwell. They still retain an affectionfor ou
r
shu
l
. We’re orthodox, you know, not reform. Anyway, these few prime movers, o
r
gunser macher
s
, as we call them, had a lot to be thankful to Henry Sonntag for. He made them even richer.”

“I take it you’re one of th
e
macher
s
,” Danielle interrupted baldly.

“Quite so,” said Cohen, unruffled. “I don’t like the term myself, but I suppose if I am one, I ought to admit to it.” He shrugged his shoulders again in a gesture of resignation.

Edwards was warming to his host. The man had none of the pretensions of new money. “I think I can guess what you’re trying to say, Sam. With Sonntag out of the way, some people are not going to coin it like they used to.”

Cohen cleared his throat nervously. “Look, all that’s true, Mark. But my friends and I also happen to believe that Henry Sonntag’s innocent.”