“Well, the wounds are certainly consistent with the manner in which the victim’s arm was removed . . .” Dr. Derrick O’Neal rotated the limb, examining it under a highpowered magnifying lens, the glare of the overhead halogen lamps making it appear waxy and fake, like something wrenched from a shop mannequin. “But the DNA tests will confirm whether it’s his. We should have the results in a few hours.”
He yawned, clearly still missing the warmth of the bed from which Turnbull had summoned him.
“It’s remarkably well preserved. Where did you find it?” O’Neal asked, looking up. He had a large, misshapen nose speckled with odd hairs. A thick, wiry beard covered the lower half of his face, and his small green eyes sheltered behind a large pair of blackframed glasses that he kept balanced on his forehead, only to have them slip to the bridge of his nose whenever he leaned forward.
“In
someone’s
freezer.”
82 james twining
“That makes sense.” He yawned again. “Strange thing to hang on to, though. Who did you say you worked for again?”
“I didn’t, and it’s better you don’t know,” Turnbull replied. “What can you tell me about this?” He pointed at the loose, pale flesh of the inner arm. A livid red rectangle showed where a patch of skin had been cut out.
O’Neal’s glasses slid down his face again as he bent for a closer look. “What was there?”
“A tattoo.”
“Strange shape. What sort of tattoo?”
“The sort you get in a concentration camp.”
“Oh!”
Turnbull could see that this last piece of information had finally jolted O’Neal awake.
“I need to know what it said.”
O’Neal sucked air through his teeth. “Oh, that could be tricky. Very tricky. You see, it depends on the depth of the incision.”
“In what way?”
“The skin is made up of several layers . . .” O’Neal reached for pen and paper to illustrate his point. “The epidermis, dermis, and hypodermis. Typically, the ink on a tattoo is injected under the epidermis into the top layer of the dermis. It’s actually quite a delicate and skillful operation. It has to be deep enough to be permanent, but not too deep to scar the sensitive layers below.”
“You think this was done delicately?” Turnbull asked with a hollow laugh.
“No,” O’Neal conceded. “As far as I know, the Nazis employed two methods for tattooing. The first involved a metal plate with interchangeable needles attached to it. The plate was impressed into the flesh on the left side of the prisoners’ chests and then dye was rubbed into the wound.”
“And the second . . . ?”
“The second was even more crude. The tattoo was just carved into the flesh with pen and ink.”
“So, hardly skillful?”
“Right,” said O’Neal. “Which means that it will be deeper than usual. And, over time, the
ink
will
have
penetrated
the
83 the black sun
deep dermis, maybe even the lymph cells, which could also assist us with recovery. But even so, if the people who have done this have cut right down into the hypodermis, it’s unlikely we’ll find anything.”
“And have they?”
O’Neal examined the wound more closely.
“We might be lucky. Whoever’s done this has used some sort of scalpel, and he’s sliced the top layer clean off.”
“So you might be able to get something back?”
“It’s possible, yes. If the scarring is deep enough it will show up. But it’s going to take time.”
“Time is one thing you haven’t got, Doctor. I was told you were the best forensic dermatologist in the country. I need you to work some magic on this one. Here’s my number—
call
me
as
soon
as
you
get
something.”
PART II In war, truth is the fi rst casualty. Aeschylus
CHAPTER NINETEEN
GREENWICH, LONDON
January 6—3:00 p.m.
Apassing storm had left the sky bruised and the pavements slick and shiny. Turnbull was waiting for them outside number 52, a handsome Victorian redbrick house identical to all the others on the terrace. Standing up, he looked even larger than he had the previous day, a situation not helped by a cavernous dark blue overcoat whose heavy folds hung off his stomach like the awning of a Berber tent.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” Turnbull said, holding out his hand. This time, Tom and Archie shook it, though Archie made no attempt to disguise his reluctance. Turnbull didn’t seem to mind. “And for helping.”
“We’re not helping yet,” said Tom firmly.
“Well, for turning in the arm, at least. You could have just got rid of it. Others would.”
Tom noted that he glanced at Archie as he said this.
“What are we doing here?” Archie demanded impatiently.
“Meeting Elena Weissman. The victim’s daughter.”
Turnbull opened the gate and they made their way up the path under the watchful gaze of the bearded face that had been carved into the keystone over the front door. There was no
bell,
just
a
solid
brass
knocker
in
the
shape
of
a
lion’s
88 james twining
head. Turnbull gave it a loud rap, and they waited patiently until they heard the sound of approaching footsteps and saw a shadow through the rippled glass panels. The door opened to reveal a striking woman with jet-black hair, secured in a chignon by two lacquered red chopsticks, which matched her lipstick and nail polish. Tom put her age at forty, or thereabouts. She was wearing foundation that gave her skin a bronzed, healthy glow, although it couldn’t fully disguise the dark circles under her sad green eyes that betrayed a lack of sleep. She was dressed very sharply though, a black cashmere cardigan worn over a white blouse and black silk trousers, her feet clad in what looked like a very expensive pair of Italian shoes.
“Yes?” She had an immediately arresting, even formidable presence, her voice strong, her manner ever so slightly superior. Tom found himself wondering what she did for a living.
“Miss Weissman? My name is Detective Inspector Turn-bull. I’m with the Metropolitan Police.” Turnbull flashed a badge which, Tom noticed, was different from the one he had shown them yesterday. No doubt he had a drawer full of badges to choose from, depending on the situation. “It’s about your father . . .”
“Oh?” She looked surprised. “But I’ve already spoken to—”
“These are two colleagues of mine, Mr. Kirk and Mr. Connolly,” Turnbull continued, speaking over her. “Can we come in?”
She hesitated for a moment, then stepped aside.
“Yes, of course.”
The house smelled of wood polish and lemon-scented floor cleaner. Faint squares on the walls showed where pictures had hung until recently, their outlines preserved where they had shielded the aging wallpaper from forty-odd years of London pollution. She showed them into what Tom assumed had once been the sitting room. It had been stripped, brass rings clinging forlornly to the curtain rail, a single naked lightbulb drooping from
the
yellowing
ceiling.
A
sofa
and
two
armchairs
89 the black sun
were covered in large white dustsheets, and several cardboard boxes stood in the far left-hand corner, their lids taped down.
“I apologize for the mess,” she said, flicking the dust-sheets onto the floor and indicating that they should sit. “But I’ve got to go back down to Bath. I run a property business down there, y
ou see. I’m going to have to leave the place empty until all the legal and tax issues are sorted. I’m told it could be weeks before you even release the body.” She flashed an accusing stare at Turnbull.
“These matters are always very difficult,” he said gently, settling onto the sofa beside her while Tom and Archie sat on the two armchairs opposite. “I understand how very painful this must be, but we must balance the needs of the family with the need to find those responsible.”
“Yes, yes of course.” She nodded and swallowed hard.
Tom, with the benefit of a childhood spent in a country where the open display of human emotion was applauded, marveled at her uniquely English struggle to balance grief with the need to maintain dignity and self-control in front of strangers. Just for a second, he thought she would succumb and cry, but she was clearly a proud woman and the moment passed. She looked up again, her eyes glistening and defiant.
“What did you want to ask me?”
Turnbull took a deep breath. “Did your father ever talk about his time in Poland? In Auschwitz?”
She shook her head. “No. I tried to talk to him about it many times, to find out what happened, what it was like there. But he said he couldn’t, that he had locked it away in a dark corner of his mind that he couldn’t look into again. In a way, that told me all I needed to know.”
“And the tattoo on his arm—his prisoner number—did he ever show you that?”
Again she shook her head. “I saw it, of course, now and again. But he seemed to be embarrassed by it and usually wore a long-sleeved shirt or pullover to cover it up. I’ve known other survivors who regarded their tattoos as a badge of suffering, something they were
proud
of
showing,
but
my
90 james twining
father wasn’t like that. He was a very private man. He lost his entire family in that place. I think he just wanted to forget.”
“I see,” said Turnbull. “Was he religious?”
She shook her head. “No. People tried to bring him back into the Jewish community here, but he had no time for God. The war destroyed his faith in any force for good. Mine too, for that matter.”
“And politics? Was he involved in any way? Jewish rights, for example?”
“No, absolutely not. All he was ever interested in was railways and birds.”
There was a brief pause before Turnbull spoke again. “Miss Weissman, what I’m about to tell you may be difficult for you to hear.”
“Oh?”
Turnbull, looking uncomfortable for the first time since Tom and Archie had met him, hesitated before speaking. “We have recovered your father’s arm.” He snatched a glance at Tom as he said this.
“Oh.” Her reaction was one of relief, as if she’d been dreading a more traumatic revelation. “But that’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes . . . Except that his tattoo, his concentration camp number, had been . . . removed.”
“Removed?” Now she did look shocked.
“Sliced off.”
Her hand flew to her mouth in horror. Now that he was closer to her, Tom saw that her carefully painted nails were chipped and worn where she’d clearly been biting them.
“Oh, my God.”
“However, by analyzing the scar tissue and pigment discoloration in some of the deeper skin layers,” Turnbull continued quickly, as if the technical language would help lessen the impact of what he was saying, “our forensic experts were able to reconstitute his camp number.”
He paused and she looked from him to Tom and Archie, then back at Turnbull.
“And
.
.
.
?”
91 the black sun
“Are you familiar with the coding system employed at Auschwitz?” She shook her head silently. He gave a weak smile. “Neither was I, until this morning. It seems Auschwitz was the only camp to tattoo its prisoners systematically. This was made necessary by the sheer size of the place. The numbering system was divided into the regular series, where simple consecutive numbers were employed, and the AU, Z, EH, A and B series, which used a combination of letters and sequential numbers. The letters indicated where the prisoners were from, or ethnic groupings. AU, for example, signified Soviet prisoners of war—the original inmates of Auschwitz. Z stood for Zigeuner, the German word for gypsies. The numbers on Jewish prisoners mostly followed the regular unlettered series, although in many cases this was preceded by a triangle, until the A and B series took over from May 1944.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” There was a slightly hysterical edge to her voice now. Tom sensed that this time she really was on the verge of breaking down.
“Because the number on your father’s arm didn’t follow any of the known Auschwitz numbering series.”
“What?” Even her makeup couldn’t disguise how white she had gone.
“It was a ten-digit number with no alphabetical or geometric prefix. Auschwitz numbers never rose to ten digits . . .” He paused. “You see, Miss Weissman, it is possible that
your
father
was
never
actually
in
a
concentration
camp.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
3:16 p.m.
They sat there in embarrassed silence as she rocked gently in her seat, hands covering her face, shoulders shaking. Tom gently laid his hand on her arm.
“Miss Weissman, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” she said, her voice muffled by her fingers. “I’ve almost been expecting something like this.” “What do you mean?” Turnbull leaned forward, his brow creased in curiosity.
She lowered her hands and they could see now that, far from the tears they’d been expecting, her face shone with a dark and terrifying anger. With rage.
“There’s something I have to show you . . .” She got up and led them out into the hall, her heels clip-clipping on the tiles.
“I haven’t touched anything in here since I found it.” Her voice was strangled as she paused outside the next door down. “I think part of me was hoping that one day I would come in and it would all just be gone as if it had never been here.”
She opened the door and led them inside. Compared to the rest of the house, it was dark and smelled of pipe smoke and dust and dogs. Boxes of books were stacked in one corner of
the
room,
their
sides
compressing
and
collapsing
under
the
93 the black sun
weight. At the other end, in front of the window, stood a desk, its empty drawers halfopen and forming a small wooden staircase up to its stained and scratched surface. She walked over to the window and pulled the curtain open. A thick cloud of dust billowed out from the heavy material and danced through the beams of sunlight that were struggling to get through the filthy panes.
“Miss Weissman . . .” Turnbull began. She ignored him.
“I found it by accident.”
As she approached the bookcase, Tom saw that it was empty apart from one book. She pushed against the book’s spine. With a click, the middle section of the bookcase edged forward slightly.
Tom sensed Archie stiffen next to him.
She tugged on the bookcase and it swung open to reveal a flaking green door set into the wall. She stepped forward and then paused, her hand on the door handle, flashing them a weak smile over her shoulder.
“It’s funny, isn’t it? You love someone all your life. You think you know them. And then you find out it’s all been a lie.” Her voice was flat and unfeeling. “You never knew them at all. And it makes you wonder about yourself. About who you really are. About whether all this”—she waved her arm around her—“is just some big joke.”
Tom had to stop himself from noddin
g in agreement, for she had described, far more coherently than he’d ever managed, the way he’d felt when he unmasked Renwick. It wasn’t just that he’d lost a friend and a mentor that day. He’d lost a good part of himself. The door swung open and Tom gave a start as a featureless white face suddenly loomed out of the darkness. It took a moment for him to realize that it was a mannequin in full SS
dress uniform. Behind it, on the far wall of what appeared to be a small chamber, a vast swastika flag had been pinned, the excess material fanning out across the floor like a sinister bridal train. The right-hand wall, meanwhile, was lined with metal shelving that groaned under the weight of a vast collection of guns, photographs, daggers, swords, identity
cards,
books,
badges,
leaflets,
and
armbands.
94 james twining
Turnbull gave a low whistle and Tom immediately wished he hadn’t. The sound seemed strangely inappropriate.
“You never knew about this?” Tom asked.
She shook her head. “He would lock himself in his office for hours. I thought he was reading. But all the time he must have been in here.”
“It’s possible this was some sort of post-traumatic reaction,” Tom suggested. “A morbid fascination brought about by what happened to him. Stress, shock . . . they make people do strange things.”
“That’s what I hoped and prayed too,” she said. “Until I saw this—”
She reached past them and removed a photograph from the top shelf, then took it across to the window. Tom and Turnbull followed her. As she angled it to the light, the photo revealed three young men in SS uniform standing stiffly in front of a bookcase. They looked rather serious, even a little aloof.
“I’ve no idea who the other two are, but the man in the middle . . . the man in the middle is . . . is my father.” Her voice was completely expressionless now.
“Your father? But he’s wearing . . .” Tom trailed off at the pained expression on her face. “When was this taken?”
“In 1944, I think. There’s something else written on the back, but I can’t read it. I think it’s Cyrillic.”
The Black Sun Page 8
