Read The Black Sun Online

Authors: James Twining

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General, #Suspense

The Black Sun (10 page)

BOOK: The Black Sun
7.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

“Gas,” he gasped. “Get out . . . gas.”

Bailey grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him toward the exit, his last sight the woman’s face pressed to the inspection panel, her eyes large and round and red. As he watched, she collapsed out of sight.

“Get everyone out of here,” Bailey shouted, shoving a convulsing Viggiano back up the stairs, into the kitchen, out through the hall, and back outside. The rest of the SWAT team spilled out onto the snow ahead of them.

“What happened?” Sheriff Hennessy came running up as they emerged, his sweaty face creased with alarm.

“The place has been booby-trapped,” Bailey said, panting, releasing Vasquez into the care of a team of paramedics, then bending to rest his hands on his knees as he caught his breath.

“Booby-trapped?” Hennessy looked in bewilderment at the farmhouse entrance.

“How?”

“Some sort of gas. It must have been rigged to the door. They’re all still inside. They’re dying.”

“They can’t be,” Hennessy cried out in an anguished voice, his desperate eyes wide with fear and confusion. “That was never the deal.”

Bailey looked up, his exhaustion and revulsion momentarily forgotten. “That was never
what

deal,

Sheriff?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

FORENSIC SCIENCE SERVICE, LAMBETH, LONDON

January 6—3:04 a.m.

The stump was bloody and raw, with strips of muscle, nerve fiber, and severed blood vessels hanging loose like wires, and the tip of the ulna peeking out from under the loose skin with a white smile.

“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, you 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.”

BOOK: The Black Sun
7.03Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Cut Off by Robertson, Edward W.
The German Girl by Armando Lucas Correa
Your Perfect Life by Liz Fenton
Siege by Jack Hight
Promised to a Sheik by Carla Cassidy