Mystery Man

by Bateman, Colin

  'The point, my friends, is that when I saw Mark Mayerova's tattoo, and jotted the number down, I didn't give it a second thought. But as I looked into the history of Auschwitz, trying to define what the secret might be, it came to me that given the dates when Mark Mayerova was a prisoner there, his B-series tattoo could and should have been anything up to 15,000, so how was it that his number was actually B17007? The B numbers didn't go that high. Was it some kind of clerical error, perhaps?'

  I looked down at Mark. No flicker of a reaction.

  'Mmm,' I pondered. 'Germans, Nazis, not otherwise known for slipshod work. So, intrigued, I began to look a little more closely at Mark Mayerova, and of course that's not an easy thing to do, because the Nazis were aware as the war ended that they would be in deep, deep shit when it came out what they'd been up to in the camps. They did their level best to destroy whatever records they had. But some were ferreted away and over the years they've turned up here and there, and actually there's been a lot of competition between different organisations to get hold of them, organisations whose main purpose is to make sure that we never forget the Holocaust. It's kind of a friendly rivalry. I turned first to the International Tracing Service, which has managed to accumulate some fifty million pages of records. After that I consulted America's National Archives. Then on to several foundations in Israel. I had it confirmed, and reconfirmed, that a man answering to the name of Mark Mayerova died in Auschwitz in 1944. And there it is.' I clicked on the PowerPoint, where Mark Mayerova's name, and Czech origin, were very clearly listed on a photostat of a typewritten document. 'So how is it that Mark is still with us, here tonight? How did he miraculously escape? Have you anything to say, Mark?'

  All eyes were upon him.

  When he spoke, he was calm and collected. 'This is preposterous.'

  His son Max suddenly jumped up and pointed an angry finger at me. 'Is this some kind of a joke? What the hell are you—'

  'Just sit down.'

  It was DI Robinson, up on the balls of his feet, speaking quietly but firmly. He moved a hand up to scratch his head, and in so doing, and quite deliberately, his coat fell open to reveal the holstered gun at his side.

  'Let the man finish,' he said. 'You'll get your turn.'

  Max glared at him. Karl leaned across and whispered something in his father's ear. The old man never took his eyes off me. Max reluctantly retook his seat.

  I nodded at DI Robinson. 'So anyway,' I continued, 'I thought to myself, how could this be? Another clerical error? How bizarre. Naturally, I wanted to find out a little bit more. If Mark Mayerova was really dead, then who was this man who was claiming to be him, who was married to Anne Mayerova? And do you know something, for someone who established a garage here in the late 1940s, who has gone on to become one of our country's leading businessmen, he has been rather remarkably publicity-shy. There are many, many photographs of his wife in circulation, but virtually none of him at all. Of course we're all entitled to our privacy – but still. I thought it strange. So I went hunting. Or should I say, I engaged what I like to think of as my family of beloved customers to hunt on my behalf. You see, they come from all walks of life; they are butchers, bakers, candlestick-makers – well actually, mostly they are white-collar, but you get my drift. Amongst them is one particular little genius who works for the Ulster Tatler, a magazine that has been recording our social elite at play for decades. He was sufficiently interested in this case to take it upon himself to go through the huge mountains of back issues in search of Mark Mayerova. Nothing was filed, nothing digitised or on-line; he couldn't just type the name in, he had to go through every issue. The only guidance I was able to give him was the suggestion that the immediate post-war years might be his best bet, the years when this man who claimed to be Mark Mayerova was perhaps struggling to establish himself in business in our strange little country – he would have needed to make connections, to get his face known amongst our movers and shakers. Perhaps some society photographer managed to capture him unawares, or he was unable to back out of a hastily arranged group shot without it making him appear odd. And do you know something? My guy found it.' I clicked on the PowerPoint, and the front cover of the magazine appeared, with a photograph from inside it immediately beneath. 'Ulster Tatler, October 1950, Belfast Round Table Christmas Dinner, there he is, Mark Smith, as he became, second from the left, beside his rather beautiful wife Anne – if you don't mind me saying?'

  I nodded down at the still remarkably impassive old man. He looked even thinner in the photograph than he was now. His shape was not helped by an ill-fitting suit.

  'I was thus armed with a photograph of the man claiming to be Mark Mayerova, all thanks to my wonderful customer, who unfortunately can't be with us tonight, but rest assured, a book token has his name on it already. So what next, then? Well, perhaps you're ahead of me already, but I got to thinking: if he's not the real Mark Mayerova, who can he be? Another prisoner? Why would another prisoner need to adopt a false identity? Perhaps he had something to hide? What if he had been a kapo, a prisoner appointed by the SS to make sure their orders were carried out? Kapos had no choice but to obey such orders, or they themselves would have been killed . . . but some certainly went about their business with more enthusiasm than others. And come liberation they couldn't suddenly revert to being ordinary prisoners again, for those prisoners they had beaten and bullied would surely want revenge. So there's a reason to adopt a false identity. My next step was of course to establish whether the man impersonating Mark Mayerova really was one of these dreaded kapos and if whatever he had done perhaps even qualified him as some kind of war criminal. And the simplest and most straightforward way of finding this out was to send this photograph to some real experts in the field. I e-mailed it to the Simon Wiesenthal Centre in Los Angeles. Within two days, they responded.' I looked down at Mark Mayerova. Icily calm. His sons were sweating, though, darting little looks around, particularly at DI Robinson. 'They had absolutely no idea who it was in the photograph.'

  I kept him waiting.

  'However, I don't give up easily. As I said, there's a lot of competition in the Holocaust business, so I sent the photo out to everyone I could find. And you know where it ended up? Almost full circle, back with the Wiesenthals. Only this time with his lesser-known brother, Erich, who ran his own centre out of Basle, Switzerland. He's dead now, but his sons continue to fight the good fight. Once they got a look at the photo, they said, we've been searching for this guy for sixty years. But no kapo he.'

  You could hear a pin drop.

  'Of course they weren't just going to name and shame him on the basis of a photograph. They said, we have his fingerprints on file from immediately after the war when he was briefly arrested.' I clocked the PowerPoint and a copy of the original arrest sheet, with photograph and fingerprints, appeared on the wall. 'If you think it's him, they said, if he's really still alive, we're going to have to get a new set to compare. As it happens, I said, I believe I have his fingerprints already.'

  I clicked the PowerPoint, and the next image came up.

  'This is the Auschwitz Bible Mark Mayerova himself handed to me in this very shop just a few days ago. The fingerprints were a perfect match.'

  I clicked again.

  This time the photo showed Mark Mayerova as he had looked during the war.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce to you SS Sergeant Major Wilhelm Koch. Otherwise known as the Mechanic of Auschwitz!'

  45

  So much happened in the next twenty seconds that it is much easier to list the events as bullet points. Which is quite fitting, really. In fact, it would be much easier to illustrate what happened by way of a graphic novel, because later Alison captured it perfectly, but there are copyright issues that prevent me reproducing her drawings here. Sufficient to say, it was chaotic for a while. These are my impressions of what happened:

  • Karl Mayerova makes a run at me.

  • DI Robinson takes him out with a rugby tackle
.

  • A lot of girlie-male dancers start screaming.

  • Mark Mayerova aka the Mechanic of Auschwitz sits placidly throughout.

  • Max Mayerova pulls a gun.

  • He is wrestled to the ground by undercover cops, but not before:

  • He fires one shot, which goes through the ceiling;

  • Drilling a neat hole through a copy of Weep for Me by John D. MacDonald, though I won't discover this for six months.

  • The girlie-male dancers rush the door but are repelled by more undercover cops.

  • My laptop is irretrievably damaged in the melee, forcing the abandonment of further revelations by PowerPoint demonstration.

  • I suffer an asthma attack.

  • The Mayerova brothers are handcuffed and held face down on the floor.

  • The smoke alarm goes off, not because of the bullet, but because someone has taken advantage of the chaotic scenes to light up in the toilet.

  • CCTV footage will reveal that the culprit is Brendan Coyle.

  • Alison takes advantage of Max Mayerova being on the ground to kick him in the ribs.

  Pandemonium is a word I like. I have a collection of words I like. Not many people know where it comes from. It is the name the poet John Milton gave to the capital of Hell in Paradise Lost. Pandemonium might be overstating things for what went on in No Alibis during those twenty seconds, but it certainly fits the source of all that trouble – what happened at Auschwitz, which was very much the capital of Hell. Like all cities, it needed someone to ensure that it ran smoothly. Much publicity has been given to the architects of the concentration camps and to the demon doctors who carried out experiments there, but very little to those who made sure the machinery kept working, who mended the fuses, who oiled the nuts and bolts, who ensured the gas pipes didn't rust. People like the Mechanic. A man who thought there was no contradiction between sharing his sandwich with a starving prisoner, and maintaining the ovens in which he or she would shortly perish. A man who could continue to sit impervious while everything erupted around him, a superior, supercilious and defiant smile on his white face.

  When order was restored, one of DI Robinson's colleagues sought permission to lead all three Mayerovas away for questioning. The detective looked towards me, kneeling on the floor over my broken laptop. I looked back and shook my head.

  'No,' he told his colleague, 'Mastermind has started, let's hear him finish.'

  'But sir . . .'

  The truth is that part of my agreement with DI Robinson was that I would be allowed to present my evidence in total before I handed it over to him. If he tried to stop me, I promised him that I would eat it. I was quite serious. Yes, I was keen to have the Mayerovas locked away, but I'd done all the donkey work and I was damned if anyone else was going to claim even a smidgen of the triumph. So, as people hesitantly retook their seats after what amounted to a short intermission, I stood before them again to continue my resolution of The Case of the Dancing Jews.

  Of course I had not planned for that sudden explosion of violence, and there was a very real danger of the rest of the proceedings being anticlimactic; Agatha must have known, for there are few scrums in her books, at least before the ultimate denouement. If I wasn't to let it slip away from me I knew that I would have to deliver the rest of my evidence as quickly and economically as possible.

  I raised my hands for quiet. I apologised for the disturbance. I told them that the Erich Wiesenthal Centre in Basle had vast quantities of damning testimony from prisoners at Auschwitz about the work SS Sergeant Major Wilhelm Koch had carried out at the camp. With parts in short supply and the number of murders being increased on an almost hourly basis as the war drew to a close, Koch had been instrumental in keeping the ovens and gas chambers functioning at a level of high efficiency. Several statements did refer to the preferential treatment he had given to a 'dancer' he took a shine to, and alluded to a sexual relationship. One claimed to have spotted him dressed in prison clothing immediately after the liberation. It seemed pretty clear to the people at the Erich Wiesenthal Centre that Koch had tattooed himself in a desperate measure to evade justice, and with the connivance of Anne Mayerova, who clearly owed her life to him, managed to escape the authorities. They made it as far as Prague, where he was quite probably recognised and they went on the run, eventually ending up in Belfast. Perhaps with the passing of the years Anne had found it increasingly hard to live with the fact of what her 'husband' had done during the war, and that led to their eventual separation. The fact that they had children, and the damage it would do to them if the secret came out, had undoubtedly led to her agreeing to keep it, and it was only with the onset of Alzheimer's that there was a real danger of it slipping out.

  'Only Sergeant Major Koch or his sons can say how it developed after that – whether he told them his secret, or whether they discovered it through their mother – but what I do know is that they decided or agreed to protect their father – and through violent means. Perhaps it's in the genes. As for the evidence, that will lead to one or two or all of them being charged with murder – and that's forgetting for the moment the war crimes charges, although not forgetting them, obviously. It's not my job to prove any of this; I merely present what I have found and let others take it away and use it as they see fit. But I can give you some examples of the evidence I have found that at least suggests to me that the police will have little difficulty securing convictions. Like – Malcolm Carlyle's body was found hung with Pine Fresh trees to hide the smell. Each Pine Fresh tree happens to have its own serial number. Those on Mr Carlyle were from a batch sold to Smith Motors just over a year ago. Quite a coincidence, I'd say. One of my customers . . .' I nodded across at Garth Corrigan, the FA Cup fan, who quickly sank down in his chair. '. . . is a banker who has gained access to the Smith-Mayerova bank accounts and can prove that Karl Mayerova flew to Frankfurt on the day of Manfredd's murder and returned the following day. That Max Mayerova purchased cigarettes using his cash card at a twenty-four-hour petrol station less than a mile from Daniel Trevor's house at four o'clock on the morning Daniel supposedly drowned. Another of my valued customers . . .' This time I nodded at Jimmy Martin, who smiled proudly. '. . . using his contacts in the painting and decorating industry was able to join a team working on a new showroom at Smith Motors, and gain access after hours to their computers. Now Jimmy won't mind me saying that he wouldn't know a hard drive from an orthopaedic shoe, but he was more than happy to smuggle out Karl and Max's computers overnight so that I could search them for incriminating evidence. And there was no lack of it. Boys, one should always remember that nothing ever truly disappears from a computer. If you know what you're doing, it's not hard to find. A few further tips for future reference – when planning a murder, do not use Google Earth to pinpoint the best access routes to your victim's house . . . that's Daniel I'm talking about . . . do not use e-mail to keep each other posted as to the movements of your intended victims . . . and most certainly do not describe my girlfriend, the girl I'm going to marry, as a sexy little thing you're going to have fun with before you plug her, because that only gets me angry, and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.'

  There was plenty of stuff, dozens of other e-mails, bank account details, receipts, invoices, a history of websites visited (including ones for the purchase of weapons), which together amounted, so far as I could see, to a mountain of incriminating evidence. There were also Brian's and Alison's statements about the attempted drugging, and lab reports of her hair sample showing Rohypnol use. Now it was up to someone else to prove it in a court of law. That wasn't my job. There was no reason for me to hog the limelight any further. As far as I was concerned the bad guys were in handcuffs and they were going away for a very long time.

  I was satisfied.

  I was vindicated.

  I was happy.

  'Now,' I asked, 'are there any questions?'

  I surveyed my frankly stunned audience. Towards the back, one young man
tentatively raised his hand. I nodded for him to speak.

  'Could you tell me how much the books are, and if it's possible to get one signed by the author?'

  One must never overestimate the intelligence of one's customers; equally, business is business.

  'Fourteen ninety-nine, and no.'

  Another hand was raised.

  'Are you serious about marrying your girlfriend?'

  It was, in fact, my girlfriend.

  I forced a smile. It was a rather poor attempt to shift the spotlight to her good self. 'It's not really the time or the place,' I said.

  'But you brought it up.'

  I shook my head dismissively. I turned to an impatient looking DI Robinson, then nodded down at the still-pinned-to-the-floor Mayerova brothers, and their impassive father.

  'Book 'em, Robbo,' I said.

  He did not look like he much appreciated it, or even understood.

  46

  As a lifelong studier of patterns, it is not difficult at all to establish the trends and fashions in mystery fiction. They tend to reflect society as a whole. The genre has become more violent, more pornographic, less literate, and there are a lot more serial killers around. One might debate whether mystery fiction influences society, or it is the other way around. Quite possibly there were always a lot of serial killers, they were just less well chronicled. However, one thing that does not change with crime or mystery fiction over the decades is that the public demands that in the next-to-final chapter the murder or crime be solved, leaving the final chapter to tie up the loose ends and to allow for some playful banter between the leading characters, who have probably fallen in love. These are the conventions. Occasionally there is a surprise ending, in which one or other of the characters the reader has grown to love turns out to be the killer after all, and has gotten away with murder, or reveals some unsuspected secret that leads one of the lovers to suspect that he or she is now in mortal danger. So it ends with an unresolved cliffhanger. Generally I do not like such books and do not often recommend them to my customers. Life is too short to leave questions unanswered and it often makes me think that it is a case of the author simply not knowing how to finish his story rather than him being particularly clever. For example, Brendan Coyle.