Payne took a moment to regain his concentration. Then he set to work.
He examined the copies of Der Stürmer first.
So, this was Julius Streicher’s infamous Jew-baiters’ bible. Owing to its worldwide infamy Payne had always imagined Der Stürmer as a great tome of a publication, but it was really little more than a pamphlet. It was quite gratifying to see Streicher’s tripe limited to so few pages. The pre-war issues had sixteen pages. By the ‘forties, though, it had been reduced to a mere four pages.
What it lacked in size, it made up for in offensiveness. Payne paused to examine the cover of one issue on which a fat-lipped man in Hassidic garb and ringlets was feeding an Aryan child into a sausage machine with pound and dollar signs on the barrel.
An issue of Der Stürmer dated September 1942 was the first to report anything that might corroborate Amon Toth’s claims. The headline read ‘New Jew Horror’ and described the discovery of a Brunswick house at which ‘Jew blood rituals’ had been practised, killing ‘more than four good Aryans’.
It described in graphic detail how the victims were slowly bled and tortured by Jews still hiding in the Reich. The article claimed the ‘Jew killers’ went on to mutilate their victims’ corpses, although in what way was not specified.
That was hardly surprising, Payne decided. The article – if that was the correct word for it – was short on any real details as to what had happened. It ended with hysterical warnings to ‘watch for the Jew among us’ and never to hesitate in denouncing ‘race-traitors’ who might be hiding ‘murdering Jewboys’.
Payne threw the copy of Der Stürmer back into the box with the others, glad to be done with it. Still, the article had served one purpose: it had given Payne a date he could use as a reference point when searching the other newspapers.
Payne then turned to the copies of the Volkischer Beobachter and Goebbels’s own personal newspaper, Das Reich.
Both covered the series of murders. This time they were attributed to a new terror weapon being employed by – depending on which newspaper you read – English spies parachuted into the Reich for the purpose or enemy aircrews that had bailed out over Germany. According to the articles, these ‘murder squads’ lured Germans into secluded places and killed them before mutilating the bodies. Goebbels had even written a brief editorial on the subject in Das Reich:
But London is mistaken if it believes it can by terror break German morale. We have said it a hundred times before and will say it a hundred times again: today’s German people has nothing in common with the German people of 1918. Our morale breakdown then was a one-time exception, not the rule.
Proof of their desperation has seen them turn to the cruellest of methods. Even when shot from the skies by the steel ring of defences that surrounds the capital, the English aircrews fall among us and behave like animals, murdering and mutilating. This latest outrage shows to what lengths they are prepared to go: a young soldier, home on leave, murdered alongside his fiancée, their bodies mutilated in the most horrific ways imaginable.
By early 1943, though, both newspapers had begun speaking of a single killer, a man they took to calling the Flickschuster. Payne paused. How could he best render that name in English? Translated literally, it meant a person that cobbled or patched something together, like a shoemaker, but Payne sensed the word was used more figuratively in relation to the killer: the Patchwork Man might be a more accurate translation.
The reports in the newspapers mentioned the discovery of a cellar full of dismembered body parts after an air raid on Brunswick. Some of the body parts had been buried under the floor of the cellar; others had been shoved into a furnace and burnt. The newspapers said the remains of six people had been found in the cellar, although bone and tooth fragments found in the stove indicated there might have been more.
Payne read on, cross-referencing each news story.
Another ‘House of Horror’ was discovered in Berlin in July 1943. This was the crime Toth had mentioned investigating. Again, the bodies were discovered in the cellar of the house. This time, though, witnesses spoke of a tall, well-built man who had been seen leaving the house on a number of occasions.
According to the newspapers, a Dutch worker named Wilhelmus van Rijn was arrested in May, 1944 and charged with the murders. The captions that accompanied the grainy photos of van Rijn surrounded by Gestapo agents highlighted his bulbous eyes and ‘Jewish features’. A large amount of coverage was given to the show trial and subsequent execution.
Payne stopped. Execution?
He checked his notes. Toth said they had caught the murderer but had mentioned nothing about the man being executed. What did it mean? Clearly, Toth knew something the newspapers had not reported.
The Dutchman was probably innocent, Payne decided. If not, why would Toth have deliberately steered Payne towards looking in newspapers, knowing the stories published there would undermine his claims? Is that what he had meant when he said the newspaper reports contained an ‘important error’?
Payne massaged the back of his neck. He was tired. And hungry, he realised. It was nearly eleven and he hadn’t had any breakfast.
He rose from the desk. Then he stopped and frowned.
A familiar voice was echoing off the walls of the cellar. It took Payne a moment to place it: Captain Booth. He leant against the door frame and listened to the captain’s voice.
‘. . . looking for German newspapers. Anything really, the more populist the better. Why? I’m looking for details on a series of murders that happened here in Germany during the war, sergeant.’
Payne frowned. How the hell had Booth discovered the same line of enquiry? It was too much of a coincidence. He would have to speak to the man. He rose and stepped out into the corridor.
‘Hello again, Captain Booth,’ he said, hands in his pockets. ‘Do you know, I think I might be able to save you a lot of time and effort.’
9
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, the two men sat opposite each other in Booth’s office, the relevant German newspapers piled on the table between them.
They had spoken for half an hour in the cellar of the Rathaus. Payne had shown Booth everything he’d found in the newspapers about the Flickschuster series of murders. Then he had told Booth about the claims made by the Gestapo man, Toth.
It was very strange. Booth had spoken to Tubbs at length about the interrogation, but the lieutenant had mentioned nothing about a series of murders that had already taken place in Germany. Then again, though, Tubbs was all over the place emotionally.
‘Your theories are all very well and good, Detective Inspector,’ Booth said, ‘but I think there’s one serious problem: according to the Jerry newspapers, they caught the killer. Guillotined him in June last year.’
Payne shook his head. ‘They got the wrong man. At least, that’s what I think Toth was intimating. He claimed more killings occurred after the Dutchman’s execution. Killings that weren’t reported.’
‘But Toth is looking to save his neck. I’ve seen his files. Even though the evidence is incomplete, it seems likely he’ll be indicted for war crimes. He’d say anything to get out of that.’
Payne nodded. ‘That’s very true and we’ll have to bear it in mind. But it doesn’t mean we can discount everything he’s told us. Didn’t you once mention to me that you had a list of German policemen?’
‘That’s correct. Why do you ask?’
Payne indicated the newspapers. ‘According to these reports, there was a man from the Kripo criminal police in this area that headed up the investigation into the house they found in Brunswick, a policeman by the name of Metzger. It would be useful to find him. Perhaps he could tell us more.’
Booth nodded and promised to dig out the relevant files. Payne continued to look at his notes.
‘Do you know anything about this Operation Greif? Toth mentioned that, too; said it was
relevant.’
‘Yes, I remember it very well. It was the German codename for a false flag operation the Jerries ran last year – their soldiers in our uniforms up to mischief behind the lines.’
Booth rose, rummaged through a filing cabinet and withdrew a file.
‘Here it is. According to this, Operation Greif was a false flag operation organised by an SS man, Otto Skorzeny, the same man that organised Mussolini’s rescue in Italy. In October 1944, Skorzeny got the green light to gather together a special unit of SS personnel that could speak English. The troops were trained in Grafenwöhr, in Bavaria, then moved to Münstereifel in Westphalia for the beginning of operations. During the December ’44 Ardennes offensive, Skorzeny’s men donned American uniforms and wrought havoc behind the Allied lines. Many of the men involved are now being sought in connection with war crimes.’
Payne frowned. ‘What possible connection could it have to what I am investigating?’
‘Perhaps Toth used it as window dressing. You know, a little bit of truth to sweeten the odour of an otherwise entirely rotten barrel of fish. I can look into it, though, if you like.’
Payne nodded almost imperceptibly and murmured ‘thanks’ as he pored over his notes. Booth sat back in his chair and watched Payne work.
What he’d previously mistaken in the policeman for haughtiness was actually concentration, Booth realised. That was why Payne gave the impression of being such a cold fish. Little that was outside the immediate focus of his attention seemed to really register. Booth wondered if it was an inevitable consequence of a life spent trying to catch others out.
Booth had the desk sergeant run over to the mess and bring them a round of sandwiches and a flask of tea. As Booth tucked in, he told Payne of what he had found in the basement of Wolffslust prison.
‘Do you think it could be related to what you are investigating?’ Booth said when he’d finished.
‘It’s possible. And even if it’s not related, the possibility that hundreds of serious criminals were released is something that needs to be looked into. We need to ascertain who this British officer at Wolfsslust was,’ Payne said, ‘the one who went in with the advance guard and oversaw the sacking of the prison. Perhaps he might know something.’
‘I’ve looked into that already,’ Booth said. ‘I’m afraid there don’t seem to be any records as to precisely which unit overran the prison. It was all very chaotic back then. But I’ve got Lieutenant Taylor investigating. Tubbs is a bit of a wiz when it comes to unravelling army red tape. If anyone can discover who this officer chap was, it will be Tubbs. And I wouldn’t like to be in that officer’s shoes if we do find him. Christ, if Toth is right and this idiot has released a mass murderer, it’s going to make the British look bloody stupid,’ Booth said.
‘Have you had time to examine the medical documents you found at the prison?’ Payne said.
‘No. Since the business with Mr Lockwood in the minefield, Colonel Bassett has had me working overtime investigating this alleged werewolf cell. I’ve got a Czech professor looking at the documentation, though. Hopefully, he’ll get back to me soon. But I have done some digging elsewhere.
‘From a Nazi perspective, every one of the men in this medical programme seemed to possess faultless bloodlines, so I phoned their names through to Corps HQ. That’s where they store the RuSha files, the ones we captured from the SS Race and Settlement Main Office. I’ll phone now and see if the archivist up there has had time to cross-reference the names with the lists they’ve got.’
‘Hello Killy,’ Booth said when he’d been connected. ‘Had any luck?’
Corporal Kilminster was the chief archivist at Corps HQ. ‘Hello, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure whether it constitutes luck or not, but out of the forty-odd names you gave me, thirty-one appear in our files.’
‘So the others weren’t SS?’
‘Not necessarily. It could be that the others are in the files somewhere and I just haven’t found them yet.’
‘What have you got on the men you have found then?’
‘All of them were SS officers with equivalent ranks of lieutenant and above. But that’s beside the point. The interesting thing is where these men served. Out of the thirty-one I’ve found records for, seventeen served as concentration camp guards and the others all served in Einsatzgruppen in Poland and Russia.’
‘So, all of these men are potential war criminals?’
‘They would be if they weren’t all dead.’
‘Dead?’
‘Yes, sir. Every one of them was killed in action, sir.’
‘Are you sure? Because I got their names from the records of a medical programme they were all part of.’
Booth wrote the dates of death down. He and Payne then cross-referenced the names with the data Booth had taken from the medical files. Five minutes later, Booth was back on the phone to Killy.
‘Are you absolutely certain about those dates you gave me?’
‘Of course.’ Killy sounded slightly peeved at the inference they might not be. ‘Why?’
Booth didn’t answer that. He was too busy tapping a pencil against his teeth and wondering why, according to Killy’s official files, every single man on the list had supposedly died a week before they entered Doctor Wiegand’s medical programme.
10
THAT SAME DAY, Ilse had to work at the transit camp.
As she pulled on her woollen stockings a sudden thought occurred to her. What with one thing and another, she’d forgotten what was, potentially, her biggest problem: the hag woman that knew her real name.
She thought about her problem as she walked to the camp. It was obvious the woman intended to blackmail her. If not, she would already have gone to the Tommies and denounced her.
The best thing to do was avoid her, Ilse decided. If they didn’t see each other, the woman wouldn’t be able to make her demands. Ilse hurried her pace and arrived at the camp twenty minutes early, before the other German women had got there. She volunteered to work in the laundry room again.
I’ll have to get a transfer to work somewhere else, Ilse thought as she tipped piles of dirty clothing into the vats of boiling water. Yes, that was the best idea. She would have to speak to Booth about that. Not that Booth had paid her much attention the day before. After Ilse had mentioned the Flickschuster murders, Booth had become so pensive she could hardly get a word out of him.
At midday Ilse volunteered to walk across the camp with a wheelbarrow and fetch a fresh crate of detergent from the stores. She wanted an excuse to see O’Donnell and tell him what she had learned about the murders. She steered the rickety wheelbarrow along the camp’s main road, but when she was out of sight of the laundry she turned to the right and headed towards the admin building.
As usual, it was chaos outside that building. Hundreds of people had formed into straggling, swaying queues, all of which converged on a single doorway. Ragged children danced between the legs of the adults and the air was filled with a dozen unintelligible languages.
When Ilse asked the guard on the door where O’Donnell was he pointed across the way to a gap between two buildings.
O’Donnell was talking with the soldier, Suttpen.
The two men seemed to be arguing. As Ilse watched, Suttpen raised his fist at the Irishman, who shook his head and began explaining something. Suttpen looked at his watch. Then he nodded, turned and stalked away.
When O’Donnell walked back towards the admin building, his face was furious. Ilse turned away. Nothing would induce her to speak to him now. She hurried back across the camp towards the storehouse.
The rest of the day passed in the usual fug of monotony. Ilse thought about what she had witnessed. What were those two up to? Because it was clear they were up to something. She knew that the soldier, Suttpen, was even worse than O’Donnell. Rumour had it he exchanged food with German women
for sexual favours. What connection could he have to O’Donnell, though? The men gambled together, she knew that, but what she’d witnessed had seemed something far more serious than a simple argument over money. As well as being angry, both men had looked worried about something.
At five o’clock the Red Cross woman signalled that Ilse could go. She took her coat from the peg, trying to flex some feeling back into her raw, swollen fingers. She returned to the admin building and asked for O’Donnell, but he wasn’t there.
Her route home took her near to a field where some of the camp inmates slept in tents. She was close to the camp gates when a sudden series of screams erupted amid the rows of tents.
Ilse’s first reaction was to flinch; then she realised the screams were of happiness.
An old Jew wearing a ridiculously small fur coat stood with his hands clasped towards heaven in an attitude of profound gratitude, tears flooding his cheeks as a young woman knelt in the dirt, hugging his legs and kissing his knees.
Ilse had never seen two people happier to see each other. All around people stared and the air was suddenly heavy with raw emotion. Some smiled. Others cried. The Jews were hugging and kissing now, touching fingers to each other’s faces as if to ensure the flesh each felt was real. The young woman trembled all over and kept making small steps on the spot, as if the ground burnt her feet.
Ilse hurried past, surprised to find her own eyes moist with half-formed tears. Then she felt a hand grab her arm. She spun round, expecting to see O’Donnell.
It wasn’t him, though. It was the hag.
‘If you run away this time, I’ll tell the Tommies who you are,’ the old woman hissed.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Ilse said, but her voice quavered as she spoke.
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