Huber's Tattoo

by Quentin Smith

  For a while, the only movement in the room was the languid stroll and occasional stretch of a cat.

  “But then, there is the disgrace, the shame, the… how you say… travestie… of nature: that all tattooed offspring are probably related to each other, cross-bred in a scientific manner to enhance their carefully selected, er, attributen,” Schröder said. “I may have fathered some of them.”

  Natasha could not hide the look of horror on her face.

  “What attributes?” she said, frowning.

  Schröder looked at Natasha, unblinking.

  “Intelligence.” He glanced at Henry, who appeared to be hypnotized.

  Natasha stared at Schröder, studying his hands, imagining them wielding a weapon in anger, studying his eyes and wondering how cold and hateful they could be. Suddenly, she felt alone in the room with him. Henry seemed lost in his thoughts, perhaps deeply shocked by what he had learned.

  “Have you ever travelled to England, Mr Schröder, or to France?” she said eventually.

  “What is this Mr Schröder? Call me Dieter, please.”

  “Have you ever been to England or France?” she repeated in measured tones, slightly irritably.

  Schröder glanced uneasily from Natasha’s determined face to the stupefied countenance of Henry where he sat, slouched in his seat.

  “Ja, I have. So what?” He shrugged, making a face. “I breed cats, I deliver them.”

  Silence. Still no reaction from Henry, who appeared to be in a trance. Natasha tried to recall whether Jeremy Haysbrook, Vera Schmidt, David Barnabus, or indeed any of the victims had kept a cat. She couldn’t.

  “Are you a member of Mensa?” she asked.

  Schröder studied the floor and thought for a moment, pursing his fat lips.

  “I have never heard of this word,” he replied, shaking his head, his eyes avoiding hers.

  “What would you do if you met the people who had been responsible for your Lebensborn heritage?” Natasha asked.

  Schröder turned to meet her eyes confidently, his face serious as he plucked the frameless glasses off his nose. For an icy moment the only sounds in the room were purring cats and the tick of the cuckoo clock on the wall behind Schröder. Natasha saw his cold eyes and breathed in sharply.

  “I would kill them, every one of them,” Schröder said.

  Sixty-One

  The phone rang just five times before it was answered. A sleepy voice slurred a few words together incongruously.

  “It’s me, George, it’s Henry”

  “God, Henry it’s three o’clock in the morning!”

  He could hear the rustle of bed clothing and the click of a light switch.

  “Sorry, it’s only midnight here in Germany.” “Germany?”

  Henry pressed the phone closer to his ear and continued to walk along the darkened road outside Ebersberg. Above him a cloudless sky twinkled as only starry skies in unpolluted countryside can. The air was very cool and his shirt sleeves were insufficient insulation.

  “We’re in Steinhöring, a small town near Munich.”

  “We?”

  “It’s the murder investigation, George. Natasha and I have followed leads to this little town and it has… yielded some disturbing facts.”

  George remained silent and Henry knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “Disturbing for whom?”

  “For everyone, but principally for me,” he said, irritated.

  “Where is Natasha?”

  “She’s at the hotel, sleeping. I am walking. Will you just forget about her and listen to me, for once!”

  Henry stopped, felt his eye twitching and sighed. Across the fence from where he stood a small herd of black and white Holstein cows stared at him indifferently.

  “I have found out where I come from, George, where I was born and… who my mother was…”

  “What?”

  “I did come from Germany. I was born down here somewhere. It’s complicated and I still don’t know how I got to London…”

  “What about Vera?”

  Henry stared back at the cows.

  “We may well have been born in the same place, for the same reasons.”

  “The same reasons? What does that mean?” George said sharply.

  “It was a kind of breeding programme conceived by the Nazis in the 1930s.”

  “What?”

  “Lebensborn.”

  “I’ve heard of that. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Why do you think? I’ve only just found out, George. Are you listening?”

  Bright lights approached and Henry shielded his eyes, stepping on to the grassy verge of the narrow road. He could see the cows’ breath steaming out of their flared nostrils in the glare of the headlights.

  “Does Natasha know?” George asked.

  He waited for the car, an old VW Polo, to pass.

  “Of course she knows. She’s on the investigation with me,” Henry said, exasperated.

  “Your personal life is not part of any investigation,” George returned icily.

  The night was perfectly tranquil and the countryside as quiet as a cemetery. But, despite having George on the line, the woman with whom he had shared his life for the past six years, Henry felt quite alone in the remoteness of Bavaria.

  “I could do with a sympathetic ear, George, someone with whom I could talk through all of this. It’s come as a bit of a… surprise.” He felt strangely uncomfortable, baring his soul to George. He was suddenly aware that it felt unnatural, inappropriate even. There was an emotional chasm between them.

  “Well, I can’t talk about it now. There’s a news conference at the Mogamma tomorrow at nine o’clock and I must get some sleep. I’ll call you soon.”

  Henry felt like hurling his phone into the cow manure in the field beside him and heading back to the hotel to talk to Natasha. She always listened sympathetically.

  Sixty-Two

  Scotland Yard, September 2011

  “Did you know you were born in Steinhöring?” Natasha asked as they sat side by side on moulded plastic chairs outside Bruce’s office.

  Henry’s hands were clasped between his legs, which bounced rhythmically up and down.

  “My passport says so. I’ve tried to trace my roots without any success. Steinhöring meant nothing special to me and only recently became so relevant.”

  Natasha looked at him with sadness in her eyes. She wanted to place a hand on his but thought better of it outside Bruce’s office, in the heart of the Met.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Henry pursed his lips tightly.

  “I knew that if Bruce found out I’d be off the case, no question about it. I so badly needed to go there, to find out… but now I… almost wish…”

  “Superintendent will see you now.” A head looked around Bruce’s office door.

  Two high-ranking policemen exited Bruce’s office. One was the Assistant Chief Commissioner, the other Henry did not recognise. Both of them glanced at Henry and Natasha, sitting on their chairs. In his office, Bruce sat deep in thought with his elbows on the desk, fingers splayed and the tips pressed together in front of his face. He motioned wordlessly for them to sit down.

  “I’ve read your report, which seems to add relatively little to what we already know,” he said.

  “If we’d been allowed to stay longer we would have investigated the provenance of that final record book, which may well…” Henry began.

  “I had no choice but to pull you back to London immediately, Chief Inspector.”

  Bruce’s use of the formal title sounded ominous. Henry shifted in his seat.

  “You deliberately withheld crucial personal information from the investigating team, information which compromises you and the Met in this investigation.”

  “I had no idea…” Henry tried again.

  “Imagine if we go to court, Henry, our entire case could be blown out of the water. An inspector of your experience, what were you thinking?”


  Natasha swallowed noisily. Henry said nothing. He studied Bruce’s shiny epaulettes and buttons.

  “The fact that you used a criminal investigation evidence chain to surreptitiously submit personal tissue for examination is a disciplinable offence, Henry. I have little choice but to suspend you from duty. The heat is on me from a dizzy height for a lot of your actions.”

  “You can’t be serious, sir. We’re so close to…”

  “I am serious, Henry. I’ve never been more serious. I don’t like having you off any investigation, let alone a multiple murder case, but you have given me no option. The only question now is whether I can keep Sergeant Keeler off suspension.” Bruce sighed deeply and leaned back in his chair.

  Henry shot a concerned look across at Natasha. Her worst fears must be materializing. She might be the youngest DS in the Met, but she was probably about to become the shortest-serving as well.

  “Sergeant Keeler had nothing to do with this. She was unaware of any of my personal history in this case, until we came face to face with it in Steinhöring,” Henry said in a monotone.

  Bruce considered them both for a moment, picking up a pencil and twirling it around in his grasp.

  “HR will be in contact later this morning, Henry. I need to speak to Sergeant Keeler now, if you’ll excuse us.”

  Henry nodded, eased his chair back and stood up with a resigned sigh.

  “Natasha has done nothing wrong, sir.”

  Once the door had clicked behind Henry, Bruce suddenly made eye contact with Natasha.

  “I trust that you didn’t report to me only because you did not know?” Bruce leaned forward again, almost threatening.

  “Sir, I found out in Steinhöring. So did Henry. He was utterly bewildered by the revelation.”

  Bruce nodded.

  “Perhaps so, but apparently his passport does indicate Steinhöring as his place of birth, plus he did furtively insert his skin tattoo into the evidence chain without so much as a nod or a wink. Have you any idea how many codes of conduct that breaches?”

  Natasha’s gaze fell upon her fingers and nails, the dry cracks around her cuticles from the cheap soap at the Gasthaus in Ebersberg. She knew Henry had gone too far.

  “Sir, I think we may have uncovered a suspect for these murders.”

  Bruce straightened in his seat.

  “Why didn’t you say earlier?”

  “I don’t think Henry altogether agrees with me, or perhaps I should say that yesterday he was in too desperate a state of mind to assimilate the information,” Natasha explained, licking her dry lips.

  Bruce studied her finely freckled face and troubled eyes without saying a word.

  “I was desperately worried for his safety over there once it struck me that this man actually ticked almost very box as our prime suspect, especially the night…”

  Natasha bit her tongue and cursed her carelessness.

  “Especially… what, Sergeant?”

  “Especially the night… that you told me about how Henry so closely resembled all our victims’ profiles. Suddenly, it fell into place in my head.”

  Natasha breathed out cautiously, hoping she had covered her tracks.

  “Tell me about this man,” Bruce prompted.

  “Schröder is a reclusive and embittered man in Steinhöring. Also a product of the Steinhöring Lebensborn programme, he too has a tattoo on the back of his neck, just like Henry, and he has made a lifetime’s work out of gathering information and records on the Lebensborn progeny in Steinhöring.” She paused. “He hates what it stands for, what has been done to him and others, and he has a wealth of personal information on everyone who has, to date, been killed.”

  Bruce picked up his pen.

  “Who is this man?”

  “Dieter Schröder, late sixties, lives alone and has apparently travelled to both France and Britain, he says to deliver cats.”

  “Cats?”

  “He breeds Persian cats,” Natasha explained.

  Bruce pulled out a sheet of notepaper and began to write.

  “I think we should contact the Munich Police and ask them to check out his travel dates to France and England to see if they correlate with any of the murders.”

  Bruce looked up at Natasha and then smiled slightly.

  “Good work, Sergeant. The ACC voiced his reservations, but I want you to stay on the case, on one condition, though.”

  Natasha frowned.

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “You are not to have any contact with Henry.”

  Sixty-Three

  Henry sat in a rattan chair at the window of his fifth floor apartment and stared out through the rain-spattered glass at his fifteen degree view of the distant River Thames. On the carpet, near the dangling fingers of his left hand, a tumbler with scotch and ice waited as his attention was focused on the mobile phone pressed against his right ear.

  “Hi George, it’s me.” His face lit up briefly.

  “Henry? Where are you?”

  “I’m back in London, sitting in our apartment.”

  A pause.

  “It’s the middle of the day, isn’t it?”

  Henry nodded and reached down for his scotch.

  “I’ve been suspended from duty.”

  “What?”

  “Bruce reckons I’m too close to this case and will compromise the evidence.”

  “Perhaps he’s right, Henry. Did you do anything else?” she asked.

  Henry savoured the aged, honeyed malt on his palate and shrugged, as though George was seated in front of him and could see him. In the distant sky an Airbus A-380 slowly descended on its approach to Heathrow. The fact that such an enormous machine could defy the laws of gravity and fly still amazed Henry whenever he watched them hanging in the sky.

  “I was thinking I might come to Cairo and see you, George.” Henry smiled cautiously.

  “You know it’s not safe, Henry. The Foreign Office advises against all but essential travel.”

  Always sensible, never spontaneous, totally risk averse, Henry thought.

  “But I’ll stay in the hotel. It must be safe enough for you journalists.”

  He could hear her sighing.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to see you, but we are used to the dangers, we are able to look after ourselves. I couldn’t babysit you as well as do my job.”

  Henry looked down. The Airbus was out of view, and a siren and flashing blue light caught his eye.

  “I need someone to talk to, George. Do you understand what I’m going through, what I’ve uncovered about myself?”

  “Someone?”

  “I need you, George. I want you. You’re becoming so elusive.”

  “You’ve never spoken about yourself for six years. I’m not used to this sort of thing.”

  “But you wanted it to happen,” Henry said. “Didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t expect it in the middle of an Egyptian uprising.”

  Henry took another mouthful of scotch.

  “I’m sorry, Henry. It won’t work.”

  He felt a sudden impulse of frustration surge through him.

  “I suppose I’ll have to call Natasha then.”

  He knew it was petulant and provocative, but he wanted to say it, even though he regretted it instantly.

  “Well, maybe you should!” George’s voice sounded hurt, upset, but also angry.

  Damn it, he thought, he hadn’t had a decent heartfelt conversation with George in weeks, perhaps longer. He needed someone to talk this through with him, someone to care about him.

  He wasn’t sure who had terminated the call. He downed the remaining scotch and dialled Natasha.

  “What are you up to, Sergeant?” he asked.

  “Are you OK, Henry?” she replied, her voice hushed.

  “I suppose, under the circumstances. Who have they paired you up with? Not old Bugsy Malone?”

  Natasha didn’t laugh, as she usually would. He imagined her sweeping the h
air back from her face, revealing those high cheek bones and sparkling eyes, the delicately blemished skin and soft, innocent lips.

  “I’m not supposed to have any contact with you, Henry.”

  “What! Why ever not?”

  “Bruce’s instructions if I am to stay on the case.”

  “You’re still on the case? That’s excellent. You can keep me posted and if I get any bright ideas I’ll feed them in to you.”

  “Uh-huh. Look, I have to go. I’d like to see you. I’m just not sure how to do it without…”

  Henry stood up and walked around to the kitchen where a half empty bottle of Aberlour awaited.

  “I understand. I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”

  “You know, in some ways I feel better that you’re off the case because… I hope you’re safer now. I do worry about you, you know. Bruce is also concerned about you.”

  These were the words he should have heard from George, the words he needed to hear from someone close to him, reminding him that someone cared about his welfare, about him, that he was important to somebody. He badly wanted to see Natasha.

  “Look, I’m going down to the Mensa Club, see who’s there. Why don’t you come down later and have a drink with me, meet some of the members?”

  “I’m not allowed in there!” she protested.

  “I’ll sneak you in the tradesmen’s entrance. What do you say?”

  She didn’t turn him down, despite the restrictions laid down by Bruce. Henry took great heart from that and smiled as he poured a small Aberlour.

  *

  The flashing blue light was there because a delivery van had jumped the red traffic light and collided with a Jaguar. Ground glass and strips of chrome lay strewn across the road with traffic backed up in every direction.

  Henry strode purposefully towards Canada Wharf Underground station. He turned his collar up against the rain being blown in every direction by a mutinous breeze. His phone rang.

  “Inspector Webber?” said a Germanic voice.

  “Yes.” Henry frowned. It was not Schröder and he could not place the speaker.

  “I am calling from Gasthaus Huber in Ebersberg.”

  Henry’s first thought was that he and Natasha had forgotten to pay for something.