The King of Diamonds (41 page)

‘Did you go with Franz when he left Belgium in 1943?’ Trave asked, answering Jana’s question with a question of his own.

She shook her head.

‘But you know he went to Germany, don’t you?’

Jana nodded.

‘Do you know what he was doing there?’

Jana gave another shake of her head, almost imperceptible this time, but her eyes were wide open now, fixed on Trave across the table.

‘I thought not. All right, let me tell you. He had a job, an important government job. It was in a place called Referat
IV
B4 of the Reich Main Security Office at 116 Kurfürstenstrasse in Berlin. That was the department dealing with what the Nazis called Jewish affairs, and your brother was working there for a man called Eichmann, Lieutenant Colonel Adolf Eichmann. Have you heard of him, Miss Claes? I’m sure you have – he’s been in the news a lot recently because he’s about to go on trial in Jerusalem. He’s charged with being the chief organizer of the Holocaust, the extermination of the Jewish people . . .’

‘No.’ It was a cry more than a word, torn from deep inside Jana’s chest.

But Trave ignored the interruption. ‘Yes, Miss Claes. When he got to Berlin, your brother was given the rank of Sturmbannführer, a major in the SS. You couldn’t hold that rank if you were a foreigner, but then that wasn’t a problem because he wasn’t really Belgian, was he, Miss Claes? He was German just like you. And so in late 1943 he went back to being Franz Kleissen, which was the name he gave up when he went with you to Belgium in 1931. I don’t know why you both emigrated from Germany in the first place or changed your surname from Kleissen to a Belgian name. Perhaps it was to get work during the Depression. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. Franz Claes became Sturmbannführer Kleissen and went to work killing Jews, packing them up in cattle trains and sending them to Auschwitz from all over Europe, not just Belgium.’

‘You’re lying. It’s not true,’ screamed Jana, getting up from the table. Her fists were clenched, and Clayton thought for a moment that she was going to attack Trave. But Trave remained unperturbed.

‘I’m afraid it is true,’ he said. ‘And I have documents and photographs to prove it. Look, here’s your brother in full uniform standing beside Eichmann. The man on the right is Heinrich Müller, head of the Gestapo. They’re outside
SS
 headquarters in Berlin. And in this photograph he’s in Auschwitz itself with the commandant, Rudolf Höss. They’re standing on the platform at the end of the railroad track, and those are Jews in the background from a
sonderkommando
, collecting the belongings of the men, women, and children who have just been led off to their deaths. It was in Auschwitz apparently that your brother suffered the injury to the left side of his face. One of the prisoners attacked him during an inspection and was hanged for it afterwards, so it’s not a war wound at all. And in this photograph your brother’s at the camp entrance: you see the sign over the gate, do you, Miss Claes?
ARBEIT MACHT FREI
– ‘Work makes you free’? It’s him, Jana. There’s no doubt about it. Here, take your time. Look.’

Trave paused, fanning out the photographs across the table.

‘Where did you get these?’ asked Jana, subsiding back into her seat.

‘In Jerusalem. I flew there two days ago to see the investigators preparing the Eichmann trial and they gave them to me. They matched them with your brother straight away when I gave them his photograph and told them what I knew about his background. The Israelis would have loved to put him on trial too if they could have found him, but I told them he’s dead now, beyond their vengeance. No one can bring him back, and no one can change what he did. But there is something you can do, one small thing to make amends – now, before it’s too late.’

‘What? What can I do?’ asked Jana. Her voice was barely more than a whisper.

‘You can tell the truth. There’s a man up in London who’s going to hang for a crime you know your brother committed. But if you tell the truth about what happened to Katya, he can go back to his family and have his life back. And you won’t have to live with the guilt of his death for the rest of your life.’

‘What will happen to me if I tell you?’ asked Jana nervously. ‘I kept her locked in. I did not tell the truth.’

‘I’ll do my best for you,’ said Trave. ‘But I think it’s your immortal soul you should be concerned about right now, not the British courts. You don’t need me to tell you that you’re going to need absolution if you’re to have any chance of eternal salvation, and for that you must repent; you must tell the truth. Once we’re done here, I promise I’ll bring you a priest, and you can make your peace with God. But first you must save the living. It’s time, Miss Claes. It’s time.’

Trave was silent, waiting to see what effect his words would have on Jana. He wondered if she’d understood him – he’d deliberately used the ornate language of her religion to appeal to her conscience. She closed her eyes tight shut and opened them again and looked down at the crucifix in her hand. And then she took a deep breath, and her body trembled as she exhaled and began to speak:

‘Katya was sleeping. Franz came to me; he said: “Stay in your room.” And I did what Franz told me to do because he is my brother. Then I heard a bang – a shot from a gun. Franz came again and said he had to do it, because Katya was bad; she wanted to hurt us if she could. And I was crying. But Franz said I must say nothing. He made me promise. He said that a man is coming and I must stay inside, lock my door. And then later the man came and there was more shooting, and running – running all over the house. And then Titus told me the same thing – I must say nothing. And I did what they said because I was frightened, and because I promised, and because it was too late, too late.’ Jana began to cry as she repeated the words. Great shuddering sobs shook her body as the floodgates of emotion broke inside her and she wept for what she’d done.

‘I did not know,’ she said through her tears. ’You must believe me. I kept her in, but I did not know what they were going to do.’

‘I believe you,’ said Trave, passing Jana a box of tissues across the table. ‘Did you know about what they did to Ethan?’

‘Yes. Franz told me. At the end after Katya died. He needed me to understand that we had to stay together, protect one another. But now he’s dead, and I . . . I am all alone.’ Jana’s voice, previously not much more than a hoarse whisper, suddenly broke, and she put her hands up over her face.

Trave watched her for moment, realizing that he felt no pity for Jana at all, not one scrap of sympathy, and then abruptly got up from the table.

‘Thank you, Miss Claes,’ he said in a businesslike voice. ‘You’ll sign a statement confirming all this, won’t you? And you’ll tell it to a court if you have to?’

Jana nodded.

‘Well, then you can rely on us doing our best for you. Detective Clayton here will show you where to sign. And I’ll arrange for that priest to come and see you.’

*  *  *

Two hours later Trave and Clayton found themselves sitting opposite Sir Laurence Arne,
QC
, in his chambers at Number 2 Doctor Johnson’s Buildings in the Temple. It was Sunday evening, and Trave had rung up Arne’s clerk from the police station, hoping at most to get an appointment for the following day, but when he explained his business, the clerk had told him to wait and then returned a minute later to say that Sir Laurence was working late and would see Mr Trave that evening if Mr Trave so wished. And Trave had so wished, repeatedly breaking the speed limit as the pushed his old Ford to the limit on the road up to London so that there would be no delay in showing the prosecuting barrister Jana Claes’s statement and Katya’s little diary.

Arne finished reading and took off his half-moon glasses. ‘You guarantee to me that this is authentic?’ he asked, holding up the diary.

‘Yes,’ said Trave. ‘My wife risked her life to get it.’

‘And the Claes woman is telling the truth. You’re sure of it?’ Clayton and Trave nodded.

‘Why though? Why would she tell you all this now?’ asked Arne.

‘Because I told her that her brother worked for Adolf Eichmann in Berlin between 1943 and 1945. I went to Israel on Friday to talk to the investigators there, and they gave me documents that prove it. They didn’t know about him until now because he’s been living here under an assumed name,’ said Trave, reaching into his briefcase and taking out the same file of photographs that he’d shown to Jana Claes earlier in the evening. Arne looked at them one by one and then put them down on his desk with a heavy sigh. He looked shaken and his eyes were troubled.

‘Do you think that this is what Ethan Mendel found out in West Germany – that Claes worked for Eichmann? Is this why Claes and Osman killed him?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Trave. ‘Osman had to help Claes because Claes held the secret of his past too. They were tied together by what each of them knew about the other. They must have hated each other by the end.’

‘A pact made in hell,’ said Arne, nodding. ‘But why do you think Jacob couldn’t find what his brother found? He obviously didn’t leave any stone unturned looking.’

‘I think that Claes must have gone to West Germany and destroyed the records after Ethan’s death,’ said Trave thoughtfully. ‘Ethan’s mistake was to believe Osman wasn’t involved. He sealed his own death warrant when he came back to Blackwater and told Osman what he found.’

‘But yet you’ve found out the truth,’ countered Arne.

‘Yes, in Israel, not Germany. And the information about Claes and Eichmann only came to light there after the Israelis started interrogating Eichmann last year and preparing the case file for his trial. It wouldn’t have been available to Jacob even if he’d had the same kind of official access that I had, which he wouldn’t have done of course.’

Arne was silent for a moment and then got up and went over to the window, where he stood looking out into the darkness. ‘This is the devil’s work,’ he said gravely. ‘In all my years at the bar I have never seen the like of it. I prosecuted that boy twice for murder, and each time I was sure he was guilty. I thought he deserved to hang the first time. And yet he was innocent, as innocent as you and I. This news makes me doubt myself, makes me doubt our whole system of justice.’

‘So will you help us?’ asked Trave. ‘I didn’t know who else to come to.’

‘Yes,’ said Arne firmly. ‘There are people I need to talk to, but I can tell you my recommendation will be not to fight the appeal. You can rely on me for that. And I hope, Mr Trave, that you will soon be reinstated. It is the least that you deserve.’

As Trave shook Arne’s hand on the way out, he remembered how he’d once imagined him as a bird of prey hovering over his victim. He looked nothing like that now, thought Trave. In fact, he’d never seen a prosecuting barrister look more human.

Two days later, early on Tuesday morning, David Swain was told to get dressed for court. He was confused. His lawyers had told him that his appeal wouldn’t be heard for another week, and yet here he was being bundled into a prison van with no warning. He wondered if it perhaps had something to do with what he’d heard on the radio about Osman’s death out at Blackwater Hall. But there’d been nothing in the report about new evidence. David remembered the worried look on his lawyers’ faces when he’d asked them about his chances at the end of their last visit. It didn’t bode well for the appeal if that was where he was headed.

But there was no point speculating. Instead David glued his face to the window of the van, drinking in sights that he knew he might never see again – a newspaper seller setting up his stand outside Euston Station, the spray of silver water cascading from the fountains in Trafalgar Square, a cyclist weaving in and out of the traffic on Charing Cross Road while an anxious-looking woman gripped the hand of a little boy as they stood waiting to cross at the traffic lights. It could be his mother and Max, thought David with a wrench – how they might look a month from now when he was no longer in the world.

At last, with a lurch, the prison van turned in at the gates of the Royal Courts of Justice. David caught a brief glimpse of silver-grey stone spires and monumental archways before he was taken out and locked up in yet another cell. Iron doors and cement floors and concrete walls and dripping taps and the endless toxic smell of urine and faeces – this was the world where he belonged, far away from sunshine and grass and children playing in parks – other sights he’d seen flashing by the van window that morning on his way to court.

He didn’t have long to wait. A jangling of keys and an unlocking of endless doors and he emerged out into the Court of Criminal Appeal. To David it seemed more like a vast, cavernous library than a courtroom. Shelves of antique leather-bound books rose up on all sides from the floor to the distant wood-panelled ceiling, while far away to David’s right three old men in black gowns and horsehair wigs were sitting on tall high-backed chairs at a long polished wooden table on an elevated dais. Their bony hands were strangely illuminated by the green subaqueous light from their reading lamps, but otherwise the courtroom was a dark, shadowy place, inspiring in David not hope but despair.

After a moment the familiar hawk-like figure of the prosecutor, Sir Laurence Arne, rose from a bench below the judges and began to speak: ‘My lords, I have asked for this case to be called on today in advance of its appeal date as it appears that there has been a serious miscarriage of justice, not just in the lower court but also in relation to the defendant’s conviction on another murder charge in 1958. Inspector Trave of the Oxfordshire police has produced to me certain documents, which leave me in no doubt that Mr Swain has been the victim of a wide-ranging conspiracy to make him take the blame for not just one murder but two . . .’