The Minox Chronicles

By M. Frank Proctor

A senior British detective is on leave in Spain, as he tries to come to terms with the tragic death of his wife. The unexpected arrival of an old friend and colleague results in a chase across the Mediterranean, as they pursue a killer that has overshadowed both of their careers. They uncover a web of intrigue far beyond their expectations and are drawn into events of world changing proportions. One of them will come face to face with terrorism and the forces that have shaped the thoughts of man through the ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597054409

Book preview

Prelude

January 1958, Marrakech

Their faces were the colour of blood in the carmine light, and they looked out upon the scene without appearing to see its exotic beauty. The early winter sunset had turned the sky bright red above the old city, a red that was relieved only by the shimmering, golden disc of the dying sun. The two men on the terrace could see the spires and minarets of the city’s skyline in silhouette against the crimson and gold of the heavens.

They were physically very similar, despite displaying considerable differences in dress and style. One was dressed rather formally in an expensive black suit, his raven black hair neatly trimmed. He managed to look cool and comfortable even in the warmth of a North African twilight. The other man was more casually attired in a pale, linen suit that was a little wrinkled. There was a softer gleam in his black eyes, and he had an academic look about him. Their faces, however, were very alike, and the black eyes that were common to both glittered red sparks in the dying light. The ‘scholar’ broke the silence.

Our very good friend has returned. He sensed his companion’s gaze turn upon him.

Where is he? the other man asked, a smooth intensity to the voice.

At the moment he’s in England. The scholar replied. He’s quite safe. I have made the necessary arrangements for his care.

Does he have all seven marks?

The scholar nodded gently.

We must bring him in now. I will see to his welfare personally. The man in the elegant suit spoke firmly, but his companion shook his head.

No. We must content ourselves with watching from a distance for now. He has been gone a long time and been through a great deal—we must allow him time to recover.

That could take years, retorted the man in black. We can’t wait forever. We have a great deal of work to do, and we need him with us.

The scholarly one placed a hand on his shoulder. Patience, my brother—it is a virtue you know.

The man in the suit was unimpressed. His impatience, though cloaked, seemed close to the surface. If all we are here to do is exchange platitudes, then what about ‘procrastination is the thief of time’?

The scholar allowed himself a wry smile, but when he spoke it was with authority.

These matters are for me to deal with. You have your own responsibilities. You must not take any precipitant action. It could ruin everything. I will bring this business to a proper conclusion at the appropriate time.

The two stood side by side looking forward while the red of the sky gave way to purple and indigo as the stars began to appear. After a long silence the man in the suit spoke.

Don’t leave it too long. We have already lost a great deal of time, and the hand that writes history will not wait for us.

The man in pale linen smiled into the growing darkness. History, my brother, is a subjective subject. Let’s not worry too much about history.

Some distance away a muezzin was calling the faithful to prayer.

One

June 2005, Andalusia Spain

The sign above the bar was still lit as he stepped out of the door and into the plaza. Even at this late hour, the playful zephyr that swirled around the square was still warm against his face. He looked up at the fishing boat that was painted in white on a green background. It had the name of the bar, La Barca , painted below it in the same dubious green.

Twenty yards away, the subtle waves of the Mediterranean fell onto the dark sands of the beach. He could see their white crests in the light from the street lamps, and in the quiet of the night, he could hear them lapping onto the shoreline. It was not like the surf he remembered as a boy in England. Those waves would arrive on the beach like an invading army and then fall back, taking the shingle prisoner and dragging it with them. These were more like the ripples in a large and languid pond; they almost insinuated themselves ashore.

He turned to call goodnight to those few of his few companions who still populated the bar. One of them turned to wave in his direction, and he heard a mumbled little chorus of ‘goodnights’ and ‘hasta luegos.’

He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and then set off across the pristine tiles of the plaza, which had been newly laid a few weeks earlier as part of the ‘revitalisation’ of the town. He listened to his own footfalls as he walked. He was wearing proper shoes, a rare thing at this ‘flip flop’ time of year, and he could hear them click on the tiles as he went. He walked home from the bar, as he had so many times before, through the narrow streets of whitewashed houses and up the palm-lined pavements of the hill.

The little town of San Luis was asleep or, at least, as close to sleeping as it ever came. The old fishing village had sprinkled itself along the beach at the base of the Andalusian hills many years ago. The old church of San Luis was one of the few remaining original buildings. The church and a few narrow streets of white houses were once all that had stood here.

When the colony of English ‘beachcombers’ had begun to settle in this place, a few years ago, apartment buildings had begun to spring up. These grey, concrete enormities stood awkwardly amid the whitewashed charm of the old, whitewashed town. Spanish builders were always happy to cash in on the British and German need to buy property at crazy prices, so the town had doubled in size in just a few, short years.

The British lived comfortably enough alongside their Spanish neighbours. As the leisure culture was drifting off home and going to bed, the other and more industrious culture was just getting up. The Spanish fishermen would take their boats out long before sunrise for their day’s work on the clear, blue water.

The Brit-pack, for the most part, would sleep until late morning and emerge for breakfast around midday. Later they would congregate in the bars until the early hours, bolstering each other’s confidence. They would gather together, convinced that they had been right to escape the vagaries of their native home, a place of cold winters, wet summers and high taxes. The warmth of the sun numbed the pangs of insecurity that haunted all exiles.

He fell into neither camp. He did not rise early for work, but he did not sleep late either—in fact he slept very little. Most nights he spent on his balcony waiting for the sunrise and remembering the things that he most wanted to forget. Tonight he had no appetite for memory, and he had firmly decided that tonight he would sleep.

He had now crossed the overpass that bridged the highway and had started to climb the hill that led home, if that was what it was. From the fields across the road the cicadas filled the night with their endless chirping song. They were creating, as they always had, the background music to the southern night. Now at midsummer they sang even louder in the still, quiet warmth of the darkness. He remembered hearing somewhere that these noises were the mating calls of the large insects. Well if that were true, only a small percentage would need to be successful in order to ensure the future of the cicada population.

The heat seemed to be having a stronger effect on him than usual, and he felt his shirt growing damp with perspiration as he made his way up the incline towards the apartment. The hill had been getting gradually steeper recently; tonight it seemed to be more like a mountain as it rose before him.

Several times on his way up he had been forced to stop and rest. He stood leaning with his hand against the wall, waiting for his breath to return and for the biting ache in his legs to subside. He knew the causes well enough: too much whiskey, too many cigarettes, too little food and not enough sleep. He had spent his life in a state of readiness, ready to chase some criminal at the drop of a hat, and now this lethargy had descended upon him.

Despite these frequent pauses, he eventually made it up the hill. He approached the wrought iron gate, set in a rough stone wall, which bounded the property. Passing through the gate, he followed the stone path that led between the high bougainvilleas to the front door of the building.

He fished in his pocket for his keys and noticed that the ground floor windows were in darkness. His Spanish neighbour was apparently in bed. Better be quiet, he thought. The Spaniard was a quiet and considerate neighbour, and he felt it incumbent upon him to return the courtesy.

Having entered the hallway, he closed the door quietly behind him and slowly climbed the stairs, his feet echoing on the marble steps. Tonight even the stairs had grown steeper. He had to make heavy use of the handrail to haul his tired body up the winding flight of steps. At the top he paused for breath before unlocking his door.

Once inside the apartment he opened the sliding glass doors that led out onto his small balcony. He automatically poured himself a drink and then looked at it disapprovingly. Often, as now, he looked at the glass of whiskey in his hand and wondered why he kept on drinking so much of the damned stuff. It was something that he rarely enjoyed these days, and it caused him so many problems, all of which he could have well done without. Despite these good intentions, he took the drink out onto the balcony and sat down at the plastic patio table. He chastised himself at least once a day about his drinking. It had been her job to do that and she had done a better job of it, but she had been no more successful.

He took one of the Ducados from the packet that he had left on the table and lit it. The strong tobacco smoke drifted slowly and aromatically in the motionless, warm air. He looked at the blue and white packet in his hand. These strong but cheap cigarettes were his favourites—despite the fact that they made him cough, sometimes alarmingly.

A glance at his watch told him that it was 4:30, almost daybreak at this time of year. Another hour, or even two, would hardly matter; he had no need to get up early. He abandoned his plans to sleep and decided that he would sit and watch the midsummer sun rise. This was the third month of his six-month ‘sabbatical,’ and watching the sunrise had become another bad habit that he couldn’t break.

Partly, he supposed, because of the damned dreams. At this worst possible of times, the strange dreams of his childhood had come back to haunt him. Strange images that he could not explain came into his sleeping mind, those same images that had spoiled his nights as a boy. Then, as now, he would wake in panic and find it difficult to sleep again. He could not have explained why these dreams bothered him as they did. They were not really nightmares in the classic sense of the word, but they were always the same images and he always remembered them so clearly on waking.

In one of his dreams he could feel the warmth of the sun upon his body and hear the cheering of a happy crowd around him. It was not the content of this dream that disturbed him, but its intense familiarity. The other and most commonly recurring vision was even stranger: two great swords encircled by a huge serpent standing in a room lit by crimson light. He had not dreamt in all the years of their marriage, but now she was gone and the demons were back. So he stayed up each night drinking whiskey until tiredness and alcohol rendered him unconscious and safe from the creatures of his sleeping brain.

Settling back in his chair, he took a sip from his glass and faced the black outline of the mountains, just visible against a sky of deepest indigo. Looking down and ahead from his vantage point, he could see the occasional pair of headlights coming towards him along the highway, the ribbon of road that wound its way between the mountains and the sea. He sat alone in the cricket-singing darkness and drifted away on the stream of his own thoughts.

Even after all the time that he had now spent living alone, for him these were still the low hours—these hours when he sat alone in the dark while the world around him slept. There would be no voice from the bedroom to ask him why he was still up. There would be no sound of bare feet on tiles as she came out to join him. He would find no company here except in his thoughts.

As he looked down into the sleeping town and across to the darkness of the hills, he could see the soft rectangles of light that marked the positions of the houses. The lights gave off a soft, cosy glow. At this time most homes would be in darkness, but always there would be a few windows illuminated. He allowed himself to speculate about the reasons for those windows that were still giving out light at this hour. A lamp left on for a child afraid of the dark perhaps, or an old retired couple who could not sleep and sat up for half the night watching satellite television. Many of them were the homes of the fishermen, for whom the day would begin early. He wondered if there might be someone else out there, someone like him that was just sitting and waiting for the dawn.

The chair on the opposite side of the table seemed to stare back at him emptily, as if to confirm his complete isolation. Two chairs, but only one person to sit there... that was his reality. He had known it on that first day, on the day that he lost her. He had known that he would be alone from then on. She was not something that he could have replaced, like a worn-out car, or faded wallpaper. She had become his world, and that world had been taken away.

If only he hadn’t been so obsessed by Roth, he would still have her with him. ‘If’ is such a short word, yet such a big word. If only he hadn’t been so obsessed by Roth, and if he’d spent less time at work. ‘If’ he hadn’t been so ambitious. There were too many ‘ifs’ and too many regrets, too many bad memories.

He could never think of Roth without remembering that first day. Even now, at such a distance of time and space, it all rolled back over him. He realised with something close to alarm that it had been more than twenty years now, twenty years that had passed in the blinking of an eye. So much had happened, and it had all gone so quickly. The man now sitting on this balcony was a very different creature to that boy of twenty years ago.

November 1983, Manchester, England

HE HAD BEEN SO PLEASED with himself that afternoon, so sure of himself, and why should he not have been? He had finally achieved his greatest ambition. His uniform was hanging up in the wardrobe with mothballs in the pockets, and he was wearing a decent suit. He was now officially a detective, and this was his first day with CID.

What’s your name again, son? The blue eyes beneath greying hair pierced into him. You’re just up from uniform, aren’t you?

Clayton, he had replied. Lewis Clayton.

The ageing face scanned his carefully, as if assessing him with a shrewd eye.

I’m Mr. Prestige. He said at last. Stephen Prestige.

Clayton hadn’t needed to be told; the whole station knew about Prestige. Prestige was the only detective who was routinely sent out to investigate gas meter robberies. His conceit and incompetence were legendary in the station. He was due for retirement soon, and he would be little missed. He was old-fashioned in his approach, as demonstrated by the way that he liked to be called ‘Mr.’ Prestige. That old detective tradition had gone out with the ark. Still, Clayton felt a twinge of sympathy for him. To have reached the end of one’s life’s work and achieved so little must have caused the old man some regret.

Prestige pressed on with his dubious welcome. Being new, from time to time you’ll need a little help and advice.

Clayton tried to smile politely, but the old fart burbled on.

I’m always here, laddie, always here. Thankfully, he moved off.

It felt a little strange to Clayton being in the CID room, and he moved around the place awkwardly. He felt like he should be doing something, but he didn’t even know where to sit. He almost wished that old Prestige would come back—almost, but not quite. Eventually, the door of the detective inspector’s office burst open and Inspector John Hallam emerged. The inspector saw him and waved him over.

Hello, Lewie. Sorry you’ve been left on your own.

Hallam was a large, robust-looking man, with a bull neck, broad shoulders and a good reputation. He was obviously in something of a hurry. He spoke quickly and to the point.

Look, Lewie, take that desk over there. Settle yourself in and get to know the place. As soon as I can, I’ll have a word with you. Okay? Sorry, got to rush, these thieving bastards never take a day off. You’ll learn that soon enough.

He swept out of the room, no doubt to spoil some villain’s day. To some people he was a thug in a pinstriped suit, while to others he was a knight on a white horse. It all depended on whether you broke the law or not, but he was known to be a good copper.

Clayton made his way to the desk that Hallam had indicated and sat down. He spent a little time clearing out the rubbish from the last occupant, someone fond of chocolate bars and chewing gum. As he did so the phones kept ringing, and one by one, the detectives left the office. In the end there was just him, just him and old Prestige. That was when the phone rang.

‘Mr.’ Prestige answered it, and he kept the conversation very clipped and concise. When he put the phone down he looked across to the new boy.

Come on, laddie. It’s time to dip your toe into the water.

Prestige took a black overcoat from the rack and opened the office door. Clayton pulled on his yellow, padded rally jacket and followed him down to the car park. As they drove towards the city centre, Prestige filled in some details.

There are two dead people at the scene and an old woman. Apparently the two dead men attacked the old girl. God only knows what’s gone on, but we’ll soon get to the bottom of it. Prestige seemed very pleased with himself. He seemed to be relishing the moment, and indeed he was—a year from now he’d be retired and no more such opportunities would present themselves. He was fast approaching his thirtieth year on the force, and this would almost certainly be his last chance of any real glory.

Clayton may have been green as a detective, but he had served as a uniformed officer for four years. He knew that where a suspicious death was concerned, a senior officer must be informed. Old Prestige was certainly taking a flyer on this one. Clayton began to hope that this wouldn’t be his first and last day as a detective.

The car at that moment slithered to a halt at the scene of the crime. They had come to rest in a narrow side street that connected two of the city’s main thoroughfares. On this November afternoon the sun was already lowering in the sky and the air was beginning to chill. The northern cities of Britain felt the full force of the winter.

A uniformed officer was on the scene and was cordoning off the area. Clayton recognised the man instantly. The portly figure of Stan Bluett was unmistakable. He left his cordoning duties and approached them as they emerged from the car. He was too fat to be a policeman and realistically too old. He had a nose that managed to be hooked and bulbous at the same time, and it wobbled comically as he walked. He had large jowls that hung on either side of his face. In short, he looked like a bloodhound, but without possessing any of that fine animal’s better traits.

Hello, Mr. Prestige. This is a bit of a bugger. He had a slobbering mode of speech and constantly sucked back his spittle in a very disconcerting fashion.

Hello, Lewie. First day, then? He smiled in a way that he must have thought was affable. Clayton smiled back half-heartedly by way of response.

Prestige was like a greyhound out of the trap. He took in the sights of the crime scene with the relish of a hungry diner at a free buffet. The parsimonious figure in black looked carefully at the two Afro-Caribbean youths who lay dead at the side of the street. He then moved his attentions towards the old lady, who was sitting on an upturned dustbin in the middle of the road. She looked dazed and disconsolate as she waited for the ambulance, whose siren could be heard approaching.

Mrs. Rosa Schaeffer looked up as Prestige approached. She had recently moved into the seventy-fourth year of her life, and her dark, sad eyes were eyes that had seen too much. They had seen many like him before—the poseurs, the ones who aspired to leadership but ultimately failed. Whatever Prestige thought of himself he would not impress her, not today, not ever.

Mrs....? Prestige allowed the question to hang in the air.

She raised her eyes to his.

Schaeffer, Rosa Schaeffer.

She answered him in a resigned and slightly automatic fashion. Clayton thought, without knowing why, that she must once have been accustomed to some form of interrogation. Then she looked at Prestige coldly, waiting for his next move. Before he could speak, the ambulance entered the street and the paramedics rushed from it to her side.

Undeterred, Prestige intended to continue.

I’m Detective Constable Prestige, and this— He waved vaguely in Clayton’s direction. —is Detective Constable Clayton.

The old woman examined Clayton carefully and then smiled at him. Her gaze hardened again as she looked back at Prestige.

I thought you might be something like that, she said, and then went on, a constable, not an inspector, or even a sergeant. People like you are never in charge. You are not good enough, or bad enough, to be in charge.

Clayton looked towards Prestige, whose face was a picture of suppressed fury. During this time the ambulance crew had been checking her over and were preparing her now for the trip to hospital. Prestige obviously felt that the time had come to intervene. He put his hand on the shoulder of one of the paramedics.

I need to interview this woman, he said, pompously. There’s been a serious incident here, and I need to get to the bottom of it.

The paramedic looked scornfully at the hand on his shoulder, then he looked at Prestige.

If you need to speak to this lady you’d better come down to the hospital, and when the doctor decides that she’s up to it, you can.

He gripped the wrist and removed the detective’s hand from his shoulder. Then they trundled the old lady off to the ambulance. Prestige silently fumed. He called to the paramedic. Hold on! I’ll travel in the ambulance with you.

Not in this ambulance you won’t, mate.

The street was by now awash with uniformed officers, and the scenes of crimes people had arrived. They had been closely followed by the forensic medical examiner and her team. Then, Prestige’s face took on a wary expression, as John Hallam ducked under the incident tape and entered the area. He looked more than a little displeased.

Thank you for calling me, Stephen. It was very good of you. Hallam’s eyes were taking in the scene, and he didn’t bother to look at Prestige.

Has anything been disturbed?

Prestige knew he had overstepped the mark. He took a breath then replied.

No, sir, nothing has been touched.

Hallam stood with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overcoat. His bull neck was red above the collar of his shirt, a visible sign of his annoyance.

Thank God for that at least. He stood silent for a second or two. What about the old girl? What does she have to tell us?

There was an awkward silence for a moment.

Beyond managing to establish that she has a sarcastic way about her, I was unable to conduct an interview. Prestige tailed off the sentence sheepishly.

Hallam nodded and stared straight ahead, his face a humorless mask. Well done again, Mr. Prestige. You’ve obviously got everything under control. He seemed to think for a moment. Who was first on the scene? Now he looked straight at Prestige.

The older man stiffened a little, as if summoning up his dignity. Constable Bluett, Sir.

Hallam looked as if he had just been kicked in the groin. I see. Well, thank you for your efforts, Stephen. You may return to the station.

Prestige blustered a little. He said that he had intended to go to the hospital to interview the old woman. Hallam waved his suggestion aside and repeated his instruction to return to the station. Feeling that this instruction included him, Clayton began to follow Prestige, but Hallam called him back

Not you, Lewie. You stay here and you might learn something yet.

Clayton stood and watched Prestige disappear under the incident tape. Hallam, in the meantime, had called constable Bluett over. The overweight, ageing constable hurried across to them. His nose and jowls wobbled furiously during this exertion, and when he reached them his face was florid and he was sweating, despite the cold of the late afternoon. He cleared his mouth of saliva and waited to be addressed. Hallam looked at him, his expression hopeful.

Okay, Stan, you were first on the scene, is that right?

Bluett nodded his head vigorously. Yes, Mr. Hallam, sir. He went through the head nodding process again, as if to lend strength to his statement. I arrived here within minutes of the incident, perhaps seconds, sir. So far, so good Clayton thought. Hallam seemed calm at least.

As I entered the street I saw the old girl sittin’ on the ground, with her shoppin’ next to her. Then I saw the two stiffs, err I mean victims, sir.

Hallam thought about this for a moment. His eyes took in the whole street. Where was the old lady sitting when you found her? Exactly where was she?

Bluett pointed to a spot on the ground close to where they stood. She was right there, sir. I helped her up and turned the bin over so she could sit down. She was none too steady on her pins, sir. Bluett looked at Hallam cautiously, as if seeking approval of his actions.

Hallam seemed deep in thought for a moment. Thanks, Bluett. That’s all for now.

The portly policeman scurried away like a fat old rabbit released from the headlights, and Hallam turned his attentions to Clayton.

Well, Lewie, you’re a detective now. What do you make of this lot? Don’t be afraid to state the obvious.

Clayton took a deep breath. Well, sir, he began hesitantly, the way it looks to me, the old girl somehow ended up on the ground here, probably the result of an attempted mugging. It appears that she couldn’t have got up on her own because Bluett had to help her. The two bodies are fifteen yards away over there. So... unless she had a gun, she couldn’t have killed them. The other thing is that when I had a look at the bodies earlier, there was no sign of any blood. It doesn’t look like a shooting.

Hallam listened quietly, but seemed to be waiting for something more. Clayton decided to deliver his final thought so far. So if the old lady isn’t the killer, she’s probably our only witness. She looked a bit frail to me, and I think we need to get down to the hospital pronto.

Exactly, Lewie boy, and that’s where we’re going, as soon as we’ve had a quick word with the FME.

Hallam led the way across the street to where a crowd of white paper suits surrounded the bodies. They were bathed in the harsh light of the portable halogen lamps that had been erected around the gruesome tableau. The forensic medical examiner was a forty-something, female surgeon. She was short and dumpy, and the white paper suit that she wore was incredibly unflattering. As she emerged from the crowd to greet them she drew back the hood of the suit, revealing her mousey, greying hair. She pulled down her surgical mask and spoke to Hallam.

Hello, John. So, we meet again. No need to ask what you want to know. How and when? That’s my bit. Why and by who? That one is up to you. She sounded a bit ‘jolly hockey sticks,’ but she had a good reputation for her forensic work.

How? Well this time that’s a difficult one. No real signs of damage on either of the bodies. It’s going to have to wait till I can get them back and do a PM. When? That one’s easy. Less than fifteen minutes before we arrived.

Hallam thanked her then moved rapidly towards his car with Clayton in close pursuit. They hurtled through the heavy traffic of the twilight city, the car making its way towards the town’s general hospital. The blue and white signs at the hospital entrance were illuminated by the time that they arrived. Hallam ground the car to a halt on the car park, and they both decamped and entered the building.

As they approached the side ward where Mrs. Schaeffer was being kept, Clayton could see two uniformed officers on the door. Hallam was taking no chances; he was not about to have his star witness interfered with. The officers stood aside to allow them in.

Inside the room two nurses and a middle-aged, Asian doctor were at the bedside. The doctor turned as they entered.

Hello, Inspector, he said, recognising Hallam. He led them to the far side of the room, away from the bed. I expect that you want to talk to the patient, John.

Hallam nodded. The doctor’s face crinkled into a slight frown. She has a serious heart condition, and this excitement has already placed her under great stress. We have sedated her slightly and brought her heart rate under control. If I allow you to question her—and I stress, if!—then you must not get her excited in any way, and I must be present. Is that very clear?

Hallam reassured the doctor that he would treat the patient with the utmost care. The three of them approached the bedside.

Hello, Mrs. Schaeffer. My name’s John Hallam, and this is Lewis Clayton. We’re police officers. The inspector spoke in a soft, friendly voice. The old woman studied him closely.

Ah, she said softly. So you’re the boss. She seemed reassured, or perhaps it was the sedation. I met your young friend earlier. He was with that pompous idiot.

Clayton tried hard not to grin, but Hallam clearly intended to move forward.

Can you tell us anything about what happened, Mrs. Schaeffer? Take your time—we’re in no hurry.

There was what seemed like a long silence. Finally Rosa Schaeffer spoke.

I had been shopping in Deansgate, and I was cutting through that side street to get to Victoria Square for my bus home. I noticed the two black boys; they were in a doorway on the left. I didn’t like the look of them, but I could hear someone was walking a few yards behind me, so I kept going. The next thing I knew someone ran up behind me and knocked me over. When I was on the ground I could only see their feet. They had those silly shoes on—I think they call them trainers. Then I heard one of the black boys speak. I thought at first that he was speaking to me, but he wasn’t. It must have been the person that had been walking behind me. I heard him say, ‘You better fuck off if you know what’s good for you, mate.’ Then I could see the feet moving about... I thought they might step on me. I heard the black boy say, ‘Oh, shit!’ Then they started to run.

The old lady paused for a moment. She took a breath and then continued.

I was trying to get up and I couldn’t see what happened, but when I looked across the street, I saw the two black boys on the ground and the man standing over them.

Hallam’s eyes lit up when he heard this. Would you be able to describe this man, Mrs. Schaeffer?

The old woman looked at him very strangely and smiled. It was a disconcerting smile. It was the smile of someone who held the key to a great secret. Was it a secret that she might be willing to share? She nodded her head slowly and gently.

Yes, I can describe him, and I can describe him in great detail. He’s a man with dark hair, black hair and straight—not curly. A man immaculately dressed. He is wearing a very expensive black, cashmere overcoat and black leather gloves. He carries a black cane with a silver handle. He has a very slight limp in his right leg. He is obviously rich—these are rich man’s clothes, not copies. I would spot copies. She settled back onto her pillow as she finished.

Did you get all that, Lewie?

Clayton nodded and waved his notebook. Hallam allowed silence to reign briefly. Then, having considered everything, he spoke again.

That was a very good description given the circumstances. You couldn’t have had much time to take it all in. Most people are a little bit hazy about the finer details. He looked into the old woman’s eyes and again the strange, knowing smile.

It was easy to describe him, she said at last. I had seen him before, a couple of times.

Hallam was now literally, on the edge of his seat. Where, he asked, where had you seen him?

The old lady’s smile faded, and a cold, dead look came into her eyes. In Auschwitz she answered. The room fell silent. After a moment she went on. He came there with a man we all knew, even today everyone has heard of him. He came to the camp with Mengele. They came there to talk to some of us. That man was very pleasant, very courteous.

Clayton, who had recently read Lord Russell’s book The Scourge of the Swastika, was first with the question. You mean Josef Mengele? Doctor Mengele?

The old Jewish lady nodded. He had the cane then and the fine clothes. I don’t know what he was, but the Nazis treated him like visiting royalty. Mengele would ask us questions, and he would sit there looking at us with those black eyes. Sometimes he would ask a question too, always very politely.

Hallam spoke to her quietly when he spoke again. What year was this, Mrs. Schaeffer?

The old woman thought for the briefest of moments. Nineteen forty three, in the summer.

The room was silent, and the doctor was keeping a close eye on his patient, looking for signs of distress or confusion.

That was forty years ago. How old were you then? Hallam’s voice was soft.

I was thirty-four years old, but I must have looked a lot older. Rosa’s eyes were filled with an unspeakable sadness for the lost years, but Hallam pressed softly on.

This man, did he seem as old as you then?

The old lady nodded without speaking.

How old did he look today? Again there was a long silence, before she finally answered.

He looked the same. He looked exactly the same, and he still had that cane. I noticed it then and again today. The black hair and the fine clothes, the cane and the eyes were all just the same.

Hallam took her frail hand. Try to get some sleep, Rosa. We’ll see you again tomorrow. He gave Clayton a look that said, Let’s go, and he rose to leave.

Outside in the car park Clayton and his boss smoked a welcome cigarette before getting back into the car. Clayton was pondering the implications of the interview as they stood in the amber glow of the dimly lit space. For a minute or two neither of them said much. It was finally Clayton who gave voice to his thoughts.

Ignoring all the weird stuff—you know, Auschwitz and all that—I think the description might be okay.

Hallam looked at