Trave caught Clayton’s eye and whistled softly under his breath, but he didn’t speak, remaining intent on his inspection of the room. Now his torch was shining on a large map of Europe with a series of coloured lines stretching out west and south from tiny Belgium like an octopus’s tentacles. They were obviously escape routes, thought Trave — ones along which people had got away and ones where they had been caught and sent to the transit camp at Mechelen, and then east. Like Jacob’s parents. There was a picture of them with their two sons on the mantelpiece above the gas fire — a framed studio portrait taken when Ethan and Jacob were children. The boys were wearing tweed suits with knee breeches and stood posed on either side of their mother, who was seated, wearing a long ankle-length black dress with her husband standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder. Their expressions were rigid, formal, but the parents’ touch was natural — enough for Trave to know that Avi Mendel and his wife had loved each other once years ago, before they were murdered. Trave closed his eyes thinking of the millions of other victims. It was incomprehensible. Photographs were the only way to begin to understand the horror, he thought, with sudden insight — to make some small sense of the meaningless numbers.
Clayton had been standing by the window, dividing his attention between following Trave’s torch beam as it travelled across the walls and keeping watch on the pavement down below, which was lit by a nearby street light; but now, as Trave remained immobile, lost in thought, Clayton became impatient and took the torch from Trave’s hand and began to look through the pile of papers on the table in the centre of the room. One by one he turned them over: correspondence; cut-out newspaper reports on Swain’s trial, including several describing its opening at the Old Bailey the previous Wednesday; a handwritten document listing possible prosecution witnesses marked with crossings out and question marks — Clayton noticed that his name and Trave’s had been left unamended; a letter from two months earlier confirming Edward Newman’s membership of a local rifle-shooting club; a tenancy agreement for the flat dating from the previous May, this time in the name of Jacob Mendel…
‘Something must have happened. Jacob changed his name after he got here,’ said Clayton, showing Trave the document.
‘Yes, can’t you guess?’ Trave paused, but Clayton shook his head. ‘He’s our burglar, Adam. The one who broke into Osman’s study last summer and had a boxing match with our Nazi friend over there,’ said Trave, pointing to the pictures of Claes on the opposite wall. ‘There’s a pair of glasses in the bedroom, and I’d bet my house they’ll turn out to be a match for the ones he left behind at Blackwater. I don’t suppose you’ll have much choice but to take him in now, Macrae or no Macrae.’
Clayton was about to respond, but the words died in his throat. There was the unmistakable sound of a key being fitted in the front door of the flat, and Clayton cursed himself for having abandoned his watch on the pavement down below. Instinctively the two policemen flattened themselves against the wall on either side of the open door to the living room and waited, holding their breath.
CHAPTER 20
The light went on in the hall, footsteps approached, and Jacob cried out as Trave seized him from behind, shouting ‘police’ as he did so. But the young man’s reactions were quicker than Trave had anticipated. He twisted his body violently to the left, throwing Trave off balance, and then slammed his right arm back, catching Trave a glancing blow on the side of the face, sufficient to make Trave let go of his jacket. And then he took off, running back down the corridor, pulling open the front door of the flat, and taking the stairs three at a time. Clayton set off in pursuit, but Jacob had a head start and would certainly have got away if he’d taken the time to turn on the upper landing light before he began his mad descent of the stairs. Instead he lost his footing in the dark, two flights down, and fell head over heels down the remaining steps, ending up in a heap on the floor of the entrance hall.
By the time he regained consciousness, the lights were on and Clayton and Trave were standing over him, barring his way to the door. Slowly he got to his feet, rubbing his head, and gingerly took a few steps towards a suspicious-looking old lady who had emerged from the ground-floor flat at the other end of the hall.
‘It’s all right, Mrs Harris,’ he said, speaking in fluent English. ‘Nothing to worry about — just a silly accident, that’s all.’
The old lady looked unimpressed by the explanation. She peered distrustfully at the strangers by the door, and then retreated back inside her flat, closing the door. A moment later there was the sound of a key turning in the lock.
‘What the hell do you want?’ asked Jacob furiously, turning back to face the two policemen.
‘To talk to you. About Blackwater Hall and your brother, Ethan Mendel,’ said Trave calmly.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m Edward Newman. My name’s on the doorbell out there, if you can be bothered to look.’
‘Please don’t waste our time,’ said Trave evenly. ‘You’re Jacob Mendel. I recognize you from when you gave evidence at the Old Bailey two and a half years ago. And you probably know who I am too, judging from the interest you’ve been taking in Mr Swain’s new trial.’
There was the glint of recognition in Jacob’s eyes, but Jacob said nothing, continuing to glower at Trave and Clayton as if trying to work out a strategy for a second escape attempt.
‘We can talk down here,’ said Trave, ‘or upstairs. Personally I’d prefer upstairs. But it’s up to you.’
Jacob appeared to hesitate, and then, to Clayton’s surprise, he turned and began slowly climbing the stairs, keeping hold of the banister for support. The policemen followed at a cautious distance behind, and then, once they were back in the living room, Jacob pulled out the chair and sat down heavily at the table with his hands folded in front of him, watching silently as Trave turned on the light and then went over to the armchair by the window. Clayton took up position in the doorway on Jacob’s other side, barring his route of escape.
‘I went to Antwerp to see your grandmother,’ said Trave, opening the conversation. ‘She’s worried about you, wants to know where you are.’
‘Well, you can tell her you found me and that I’m all right,’ said Jacob with finality, as if there was nothing more to say.
‘Why don’t you tell her yourself? She’s an old lady and she loves you — she told me you’re her last living relative.’
‘She’s old and she’s blind,’ Jacob burst out angrily. ‘Wilfully blind — she believes in Titus Osman and all his lies. Just like Ethan did, and I don’t want to hear any more of that.’
‘Well, you won’t from me,’ said Trave quietly. ‘I’ve lost my job over Osman, but I think you already know that, don’t you?’ he added, pointing up at a newsapaper cutting sellotaped to the wall, describing David Swain’s arrest and Trave’s suspension from duty. ‘We’re on the same side, you and I. Why do you say Ethan believed in Osman?’
‘Because he had to have done. He wrote me that letter from Munich about finding out something vital and then flew back to England and went straight to see Osman. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t believe in Osman, would he? He’d found out something that affected Osman — that’s why he wanted to talk to him, but it wasn’t something that shook his faith in the bastard. If it had, he’d be alive today,’ said Jacob bitterly. He spoke in a rush, as if relieved to finally have an outlet for the thoughts that had obsessed him for so long.
‘And you think that that something he found out was about Franz Claes?’ asked Trave, looking over at Claes’s photographs on the wall.
‘Yes. Who else? Claes was Osman’s contact in the secret police. That’s how Osman got Jews out, or got them caught.’
‘All right, so what you’re saying is that Ethan found out something incriminating about Claes and told Osman, who killed Ethan because of it and then set up David Swain to take the blame? Is that right?’ asked Trave, speaking slowly as he put the pieces together.
‘Yes, exactly right. It’s the truth,’ said Jacob passionately. ‘I know it is. I just can’t prove it — that’s all. Claes is the key. I can show he was involved in Belgian fascist politics before the war; that he was invalided out of the Belgian army after the German invasion and went to work for the interior ministry; that he had dealings with the AJB, the Jewish Council; and that he was involved with the secret police…’
‘Sipo SD?’ asked Trave, pointing over at the photograph of Claes with the two men in German uniforms.
‘Yes. Ernst Ehlers, the man on the right, was in charge of the Gestapo in Belgium, and the other one, Kurt Asche, was head of its anti-Jewish department, but Claes was always behind them in the shadows. I don’t know what he did. And what I’ve got on him isn’t enough. I’m not sure that it’s even a crime; it’s certainly not enough of a secret to kill people for. No, the information Ethan discovered was in West Germany, not Belgium, and in Germany I’ve found nothing. But it’s there. I know it is,’ said Jacob, making no effort to conceal his frustration.
‘Why?’ asked Trave. ‘Why are you so certain?’
‘Because Claes disappeared in late 1943 — just after my parents got arrested at the French border, in fact, although I don’t know if there’s a connection. And then there’s no trace of him until he turns up here a couple of years after the war, living the good life with Titus Osman. But that’s not all. He’s a man without a beginning as well. There’s no record of him or his sister in Belgium before 1931, when he joined the army — no birth certificate, nothing. He came from somewhere else — where I don’t know. Maybe he went back to wherever it was in 1943.’
‘To Germany?’
‘Yes, maybe. But there’s no trace of him there or anywhere else in Europe that I can find. And in Belgium I’ve been to every office and read every document that I can lay my hands on, but I need authority to go further, and it doesn’t make it any easier that there’s no appetite for investigating the occupation in my country. They want to look forward, not back. I think it’s because a lot of them collaborated with the Nazis. Belgian police helped with the round-ups, you know. Just like in France.’
Jacob’s bitterness was obvious, and Clayton, watching from over by the door, thought that Jacob was the first real fanatic that he’d ever met. Silent at first, Jacob now couldn’t stop talking — it was like a dam had burst, releasing the rage and frustration that had built up inside him through the long, lonely months he’d spent in this room cutting up newspapers and feeding his obsession with Titus Osman, who was almost certainly an entirely innocent man. If Claes had committed the murders in order to conceal his criminal past, then there was no reason he hadn’t acted alone or with his peculiar sister. Jacob was even more obsessed with Osman than Trave, thought Clayton. He remembered the shooting-club document he’d seen on the table earlier and wondered uneasily if Jacob had a gun.
‘What were you doing out at Blackwater today?’ Clayton asked, speaking for the first time. ‘I saw you in the woods watching the house.’
Jacob swung round to look at Clayton, and the hostility was back in his eyes.
‘I was looking,’ he said. ‘That’s all.’
‘But you broke in there last summer, didn’t you, and had a fight with Claes? Is that why you changed your name? In case he came looking for you? Or the police did?’
Jacob glowered at Clayton and then turned back to Trave. ‘Who’s he?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Does he work for that man who’s taken over from you — Macrae?’
‘He’s with me,’ said Trave. ‘And there’s no point pretending it wasn’t you. Your glasses in the bedroom match the ones Claes knocked off your nose. You broke into Blackwater Hall because you wanted to find evidence against Osman, didn’t you? I’d probably have done the same in your shoes.’
Jacob looked defiant, saying nothing.
‘So what did you do when breaking in didn’t work?’ Trave pressed. ‘What did you do next?’
‘I talked to Katya,’ said Jacob flatly.
‘Yes,’ said Trave quietly. ‘I thought you might have done.’ He put his hand up to his face and turned away, looking out through the window into the darkness. The image of Katya dead pushed up at him from where it always lay, frozen just beneath the surface of his consciousness with all the other horrors that he tried to keep shut out of his conscious mind. Again he saw her long blonde hair trailing across the pillow, her sunken cheeks, her beautiful, empty eyes. She’d died because she’d found something out, because Jacob Mendel had asked her to look, because he hadn’t had the courage to go in there again himself. A wave of hatred for Jacob shook Trave for a moment, but then with an effort of will he pushed it away, clearing his mind of emotion.
‘I wish I hadn’t,’ said Jacob, sensing the accusation in Trave’s silence. ‘God knows I feel responsible for what happened to her. And to Swain — I’ve sent his lawyers copies of everything I’ve got on Claes, but I don’t know if it’ll make any difference…’
‘Tell me what happened with Katya,’ said Trave, ignoring Jacob’s attempt to change the subject. ‘Maybe you’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.’
‘I’d met her at Ethan’s funeral, and so she knew who I was,’ said Jacob, speaking slowly as if the words were hard to get out. ‘We sat in a cafe down the road from here, and I showed her the photographs of Claes. I told her everything, and she went white, whiter than I’ve ever seen anyone — white and silent. And then she believed. Just like she believed it was David Swain before. Because that’s what she was like — she was passionate, overflowing with emotion. And beautiful too — I understood why Ethan had loved her. And I didn’t even have to ask her to look, you know. She said she would — in Osman’s bedroom, in Claes’s bedroom — places I could never hope to get at. She called me a week later at the time we’d agreed on. She said she hadn’t found anything, but not to give up because she hadn’t finished searching. And then, after that, I heard nothing until… until she died.’
‘How long? How long did you hear nothing?’ asked Trave.
‘Three or four weeks. I don’t know. She told me that I’d have to be patient, and there was no way I could contact her without attracting Osman’s suspicion. Don’t you think I regret it now?’ said Jacob angrily.
‘Yes, I’m sure you do,’ said Trave. ‘But breaking into Blackwater Hall won’t help.’
‘How do you know? Katya found something. That’s why they killed her.’
‘And if she found something, they’ve already got rid of it a long time ago,’ said Trave. ‘You’re clutching at straws.’
‘Maybe. But that’s better than doing nothing — like you,’ said Jacob angrily. ‘This is the end game, don’t you see?’ he went on passionately. ‘If Swain is convicted of Katya’s murder, if he’s executed for it, then they’ve won. They’ll have got away with everything.’
‘Then you need to give evidence at his trial. Sending Swain’s lawyers copies of old pictures of Claes isn’t enough. You know that,’ said Trave, pointing up at the documents covering the walls. ‘You need to tell the jury that you asked Katya to search. Without that they’ve got no connection between Claes and Katya.’
‘But the connection’s not enough,’ said Jacob. ‘Like I told you before, hiding what I’ve dug up isn’t worth killing for. I need more. That’s why I asked Katya to look, for God’s sake.’
‘The jurors will still need to hear from you. Without you they won’t understand why she was vulnerable in that house,’ said Trave urgently.
‘Assuming they believe me,’ said Jacob. It was obvious from his tone that he didn’t believe they would.
‘Try them. Maybe they will.’
But Jacob didn’t rise to the challenge. ‘I know what you’re saying,’ he said with a sigh — ‘don’t think I haven’t thought about going to court, still think about it all the time, but if I give evidence, Osman and Claes will know who I am, and I won’t last long after that.’
‘They probably
do already, and anyway it’s a chance you’ll have to take,’ said Trave. ‘You owe Katya that much.’
‘I owe her everything. And that’s why I can’t let them find me. I can’t let them succeed. I have to stop them.’
‘They — you keep saying they,’ said Clayton, unable to contain his irritation. He didn’t like Jacob, he realized — didn’t like the man’s melodrama, his certainty that he knew best. ‘You’ve got no evidence whatsoever against Osman that I can see. Just guilt by association. Why couldn’t Claes have been acting alone — if he acted at all?’
‘Because he wasn’t — my brother died because he spoke to Osman
…’
‘You don’t know that. Maybe he talked to Claes that afternoon after he saw Osman,’ said Clayton, interrupting. ‘Didn’t you just say five minutes ago that whatever your brother dug up in West Germany had nothing to do with Osman because, if it had, Ethan wouldn’t have rushed back to have lunch with him? You can’t have it both ways.’
‘I’m not trying to,’ said Jacob angrily. ‘You’re just twisting my words. Claes couldn’t have kept Katya a prisoner without Osman…’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean Osman killed her. He told us he was keeping Katya at Blackwater for her own good when we talked to him, and we’ve got independent evidence that that much is true,’ said Clayton, glancing over at Trave, who refused to meet his eye.
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