Chapter 22
There’s only one thing on my mind when I wake up. I want to be fit and full of energy to face my first full day as a proper film director without any other distractions. So I hit the gym early in the morning. I set the treadmill for ten minutes, and push the “plus” button at thirty second intervals until I’m storming it, at eleven Ks on a five per cent gradient. I hang in there for two whole minutes, watching the second counter tick over, as the pain slides up my thighs and tightens its grip. I push the air out of my lungs and suck in deeply. My mind goes into neutral, and images from last night’s show wash in. I wonder if – the time display ticking the seconds off one by one towards my target – I wonder if – is it possible? Images of Stamford Hill run through my mind, both the real thing and Dave’s vivid portraits. They swirl together as I push my legs to keep up the pace. Is it possible that the murder was committed by someone within the Hasidic community?
I can’t breathe any more, my lungs are pulling at a void. I grasp the handrail with my left and reduce the speed. With so little spare oxygen I can’t think. And I need to think. I’m down to 6km now which should be a comfortable jog, but I’m panting. I guess it’s possible that the killer came from within the community, then pointing the finger at Pavel Wiśniewski would amount to little more than a diversionary tactic. But how do I even begin to unpick this one?
The office is almost empty when I get there just after ten. Most of the others are still recovering from a late night entertaining our “colleagues” in Her Majesty’s constabularies. I slip off my coat and switch on the computer. But one person has got there before me.
“So, late night then? says Andrew, far louder than necessary. “Finally succumbed to the attractions of the dashing young detective inspector at Stoke Newington nick?” It’s easier to ignore the provocation now that I know Sarah’s backing me, but I need to justify her faith in me by getting to grips with the story.
By the time I go for coffee, I’ve covered four pages of my notebook. Outside Starbucks there’s a spare table. I sit there, feeling the morning sun glowing hot on my forehead as I sip my coffee. The dazzling light has fractured my vision, making my squiggles dance around the page with blotches of red and blue. My mind drifts back to last night. Who were those callers? Someone who’s got it in for Pavel Wiśniewski, that’s for sure. Or is he just a scapegoat? My phone rings. It’s Dave.
“Hi, did you get my text?”
“What? Oh yes, something important but good. What’s that all about?”
“I’ve worked out (BLEEP) what to (BLEEP) and it’s…”
“Hold on a sec, darling, I’ve got another call coming in.” I put him on hold and switch to the incoming call.
“Hello?”
“Is that Miss Mueller? From the TV?
“Morrie?”
“I wanted to congratulate you on last night’s programme. Very well done.”
“Thanks, but call me Elizabeth, please.” As I’m saying it, a thought comes to me. “Hey Morrie, is there any chance you could meet me for a chat?”
An hour later, I’m upping my caffeine intake yet again, stirring the cocoa powder into the foam on top of a cappuccino. We’re on the terrace of what was a grand house, overlooking its former estate. What should be a great view is obscured by a six foot wire mesh fence designed to keep wildlife in or vandals out. Either way, it’s a scruffy, or if you like well-used, municipal park café, over-supplied with screaming toddlers.
“I’m torn, Morrie,” I say. “Of course I don’t want to point the finger of blame at the Hasidic community. But if they know who murdered Bruchi Friedmann…”
“I’m not entirely sure how I can help.”
“You can. Tell me about the community. Do you think there’s any chance they’d go as far as protecting someone? If they had suspicions?” He purses his lips, putting his head to one side as if thinking about it.
“Well, there have been cases. Not murder, of course. But I think there was something about child abuse. Alleged child abuse, I should say. It was a few years ago. Now what was it? A young man was accused of something. Perhaps there was babysitting involved.” He sips his tea. “My memory’s not what it was.”
“Think hard. Can you remember how was the whole thing resolved?” The moustache twitches, as he bites his upper lip.
“I wouldn’t want to be seen as criticising the Hasidim. The community has its own way of doing things.”
“Meaning?”
“I believe there was pressure brought to bear on the family.”
“Tell me more.”
“It was suggested that they shouldn’t have said anything. They’d committed the sin of loshen hara – the evil tongue. ”
“So, how exactly was it suggested that they shouldn’t have said anything?” He sighs, looks around us, as though he thinks someone might eavesdrop on us. “How, Morrie?”
“There was an incident. Outside their house.”
“An incident. You mean some kind of demo? The family did what? Made an allegation, and there was a demo in front of their house?” He nods. “To shut them up?” He nods. “And the young man?”
“A quick flight to Israel. Or maybe New York.”
“Why those two places?”
“Big Jewish communities. Easy to lose someone.”
Instead of going straight back to the office, I drive up towards Manor House tube station. Just past the traffic lights on Lordship Road, there’s a white minibus. It’s parked next to the curb. As I slow down to pass it, the driver opens his door and gets out without warning. A frummer with floppy earlocks. What is it with these guys? I jerk to a halt and stamp on the brakes as the manspins round looking startled and terrified. And then I see who it is. Nachmann Cohen, Bruchi’s odd uncle.
Why would anybody give him a job as a minibus driver? In charge of kids? He’s not even on this planet. I’m parking the car at the tube station and thinking does the link between Nachmann and the white minibus add up to evidence? Circumstantial at best, but then so was the evidence against Pavel Wiśniewski from what I can tell.
I get out of the tube at Holborn, heading for the offices of the Jewish Times. The lovely old glass doors of a graceful building have become the latest victim of security policy. They’ve been replaced by wood reinforced with metal strips, and an electronic buzzer system.
“It’s me, Betty,” I say into the microphone, grimacing up at the video camera. She buzzes me in and waves me through. The papers are stored on old-style microfiches. Each one has to be loaded onto the reader. I have to scroll through them one by one, going back through the years. It takes me the best part of an hour to get through 1997, and gives me a crick in the neck. I manage 1996 in half that, and decide to jump 1995 and 1994, and spin through 1993 as fast as I can. Nothing so far, and it’s mid-afternoon. Shit. I should be seen in the office. I’m just about to ditch the microfiches, when I find it.
Family of alleged abuse victim driven from home by mob
A family from Stamford Hill, North London, whose son made claims of sexual abuse against a teacher, are now at a secret address after their home was besieged by a mob. The mother of the boy said her community knew she was telling the truth, but would never admit it. She claimed she had been offered hundreds of thousands of pounds to withdraw the allegations.
I scan down the page. What happened to the boy’s attacker? I run down the whole column. There it is. Right at the end.
No charges have been brought. The alleged attacker, Nathan Ginsberg, is said to be living in the Crown Heights area of New York, home to the world’s largest Orthodox community.
I scroll through another few weeks as fast as I can, and find a couple more items about the same story. After that, the trail goes cold. I pack everything away order my printouts, and grab them before getting the Central Line to west London. I’ll have to pick up the car later.
I’m sweating in the rumbling carriage, and thinking, so they might protect their own when it comes to child abuse – but not murder, surely? Reb Stern seemed keen to point out that his community was made up of law-abiding citizens with a deep respect for justice. But what kind of justice? Ours or theirs?
I dive into the office. Thank God my computer is still on, papers and rollerball pens scattered around my desk. If anyone comes looking for me, it looks as though I’ve sloped off for a coffee break. The redundant latte I picked up at Holborn has now gone cold, but I put the cup on my desk anyway. It’ll add to the general impression I’ve been sitting here hard at work the entire day.
Anyway, it’s time to forget about Stamford Hill. That’s the past. I’ve got to concentrate on my film. “My film,” I say to myself over and over again. “My film.” It should be my only focus, everything else is irrelevant. I must be mad, dashing out of the office on a wild goose chase. Pavel Wiśniewski’s innocence is not my problem. I’ve done my bit. Time to move on.
But of course there’s the little matter of the yellow sticky on my desk saying call DI Jenkins, so I do that. It’s a kind of courtesy thing more than anything. I need to keep up the relationship. I should thank him anyway, and well before now. Just the one call, I say to myself, and after that I will be focusing solely on the new film.
“Thought you might like to know,” he says, “we’ve taken another three calls since last night.”
“And?”
“Two of them described someone rather like Wiśniewski again. One did give a new name and address, so we’ll be following that up.”
“The third?”
“Slightly odd. A woman talking rather cryptically along the lines of ‘Look in the back garden. There are weeds in the flower bed. Not all grow straight and true.’ All very poetic.”
“What do you think?” He pauses. I wonder whether he’s playing some kind of warped game of double bluff with me. With the whole bloody programme. After all, it’s usually the dad or the step-dad who is the prime suspect when kids are murdered, but that possibility has never even been mentioned by Jenkins. That’s suspicious in itself. Maybe the film was just a massive smokescreen while they picked apart what was happening inside the family. That’s why he’s so interested in cryptic phone calls about weeds in the flower bed.
“It’s definitely worth taking another look inside the community,” says Jenkins.
“There’s that rather odd brother-in-law of Mrs Friedmann’s…” I hesitate.
“Yes.”
“So you know about him?”
“I can’t say…”
“You do know that he drives one of those crazy, rust-bucket school minibuses. A white one?” A red light is blinking on my phone.
“Can we speak later? I’ve got another call coming in. Catch up tomorrow?” I switch lines before I hear his reply.
“Hello, I’m calling from the British Embassy in Budapest.”
“Yes?”
“Am I speaking to Elizabeth Mueller?”
“Yes, that’s me. How can I help you?” My brain must be quite slow to catch up because even as I’m saying this I’m wondering what kind of crime the British embassy might want to discuss with me. What a coincidence, I’m thinking, it’s —
“I’m calling because a Mrs Aranca Mueller has been detained by airport police at Ferihegy International Airport.”
“Oh Christ. Sorry. What on earth is she doing there?” But of course I know. I know exactly.
“Mrs Mueller was detained on the flight from London.”
“I hardly dare to ask you what for.” A strained cough.
“I gather Mrs Mueller was reluctant to go along with the No Smoking policy.” Why am I not surprised?
“Sounds, er, consistent. And how do I bail her? Do they take credit cards over the phone?”
“I’m afraid not. The airport police seem to be saying that Mrs Mueller will only be released into the custody of a responsible adult.”
“She’s not a baby.” There’s a curt silence on the line.
“I think – there’s a suggestion that Mrs Mueller may have been – I think you probably—”
“Are you trying to say she was drunk?”
“That does seem to be a possibility, yes, and possibly the Hungarian police will have sought to confirm that with a blood test.”
I’m already beginning to weigh up my options. How do I get Mutti home? The guy on the other end of the line has got there before me. “The police seem to feel that there is a safety issue with either releasing her in Budapest or sending her home unaccompanied.” Of course she was pissed, I don’t know why they are even bothering with the test, it must be pretty obvious. In fact, she’s probably been on a month long bender. How could I be stupid enough to miss that? The slurring phone calls at odd hours, the wild plans – what an idiot I am to miss all the signs of Mutti going off the rails.
“So they want someone to come over to get her?”
“A responsible person is what’s required.”
“That would be me, then.” That’s great. Absolutely brilliant.
I slam the phone down and as I put my hands up to my face, catching the gleam in Andrew’s eye as I do so. I have to get out of the office. The walls are looming in on me. The suspended ceiling tiles are pressing down on my head, the air is as thick as engine oil. It’s choking me. I grab my jacket and bag. The carpeted floor is sticky on the soles of my shoes, as though it’s trying to slow me down. Hurtling towards the door, I can feel dozens of pair of eyes following me. Smirking. It’s only when I tumble out of the lift in the basement car park that I remember I parked at Manor House station, on the other side of London.
The tube is hot and humid. I’m jammed up against the door, with somebody else’s bum pushed into my stomach. I let go of the handrail, wriggle out of my jacket, and use it to wipe the droplets of sweat from my forehead. What on earth shall I do? I should leave Mutti in jail until the weekend just to show her. I can’t ask for leave now, anyway. Sarah would go ballistic with me, and that would be the end of my frigging film directing career. Game over.
What would Dad do? That’s the question tormenting me as the tube rattles along. I just want to pick up the phone and call him, like I used to. There’s a physical absence around my right hand and a cold sensation on that side of me because I know I can’t just dial their number right now and catch him sitting at his desk working on his invoices. There was a phone extension in the kitchen, of course, which meant the sometimes she got to the phone first when it was him and him only I wanted to speak to. So I’d cut the line because I didn’t want my conversation with him to be mediated by her. He was constant, predictable, safe. Gone.
By the time I hit King’s Cross station, I’ve decided to ask Sarah for one day’s leave. Just one. I’ll book a cheap flight, nip out there, get Mutti and be back pronto, without causing the slightest ripple in my film schedule. At Holloway Road, someone gets out and I collapse into the empty seat. Of course I can’t ask Sarah for leave, even a single day. She’s just made a massive favour of giving me this great opportunity. It’s my last chance, and all the rest of it. She has spotted my latent talent under layers of crap, and all that. It’s a big front, power suit and all, but I can’t help wanting to be like her, one day when I’m a grown up.
Come to think of it, I can probably get away without even asking for leave. I’ll be out on a recce in the Leicester area. Nobody will even notice I’m gone. By now I’m halfway to Dave’s place, but that’s no good. I stumble out of the tube. It’s still only four-thirty. Not sure which way to choose, I set off down High Holborn looking for a travel agent. I find one soon enough. Not part of a big chain, just a scruffy looking office with dayglo posters in the window advertising cheap flights. Long haul and short haul – Jo’burg, Paris, Bangkok, Amsterdam, Delhi, Munich. And Budapest. The whole transaction takes less than twenty minutes. I walk out holding a ticket.
Clasped in my hand, the flimsy paper has a reassuring feel between my thumb and index finger. I get back onto the Piccadilly Line. As the tube chunters along the dark tunnel, I turn the separate, thin sheets, with their self-carbon backs, the clerk’s neat handwriting transmitted from sheet to sheet. Each page is parent to the next, the words a bit fuzzier and fainter as they pass all the way to the back of the booklet.
I fall out of the train at Manor House and head home in the car. The flat is hot and airless. I open all the windows, letting a breeze blow through. It scatters all my papers on the floor and makes a mess of my study. I pick up the phone to call the British Embassy back again. I imagine Mutti must be absolutely frantic, banged up in a Hungarian cell, like a bad rewrite of all her worst childhood traumas. I try calling the numbers I’ve got for the Budapest police, but it seems impossible to get through to the right person. Nobody answers the phone, at least nobody who can speak English. I speak to the Embassy again. The woman I get hold of treats me like someone used to dealing with slow learners in a primary school. No we don’t need a lawyer. All that is required is that I turn up with my British passport and the means of paying a fine.
Out on the balcony, I glug down the dregs of an old bottle of wine, watching the neighbours’ kids play in their back garden. Kids and parents. Will they grow up to torture each other? I’m haunted by thoughts of Mutti returning to the place where she hid from murderous fascist gangs in a crowded cellar, as her city collapsed under Russian bombardment. Starving and cowering, surrounded by death. And now she’s there again, banged up and all alone.
I call Dave. He’s a bit abrupt, and I can’t even remember whether he’s right to be so. I’m in a goldfish bowl, and the sounds coming through the glass and water is thick and muffled. I’m trying to explain myself and what the problem is but it’s impossible and in the end I just put the phone down. He calls again and says he’s coming round.
While I’m waiting, I decide to go for a walk round the back streets behind Camden Road, leaving the windows open. A burglary would be a pleasant diversion right now. The traffic’s backed up. I look at the people stuck inside their hot little tin cans. They’re probably on their way to normal homes and families, where people plan a barbecue on the weekend instead of a hopeless quest for restitution in a country only recently liberated from the yoke of communism.
Dave’s sitting on the step when I come back, and I burst into tears when he puts his arms around me. We open a fresh bottle of red and sit on the balcony, in the cooling night, watching the lights flicking on in back windows along the terrace opposite.
“The problem,” I say, “is that she clicks her fingers and I jump.”
“You don’t actually believe that, Elizabeth. She’s been arrested in the place where she endured stuff we can’t even imagine. That hardly counts as clicking her fingers.”
“Yes I know, I know. I know what she went through, and I really feel for her – I’m not just saying that I do. But that’s little comfort right now because I’m effectively responsible for her. Isn’t it usually parents who go and get their wayward kids from police custody for breaking some minor law or getting drunk? This feels uncomfortably like role reversal but the upshot is that I need to go over there and get her. There’s no alternative. I’m stuck.”
“Why didn’t you ask me to go?” I look at him, uncomprehending. “Why did it have to be you?” He insists.
“Well — ”
“I haven’t got anything I have to do. I’ve got no films to set up or shot lists to compile for my career altering current project. You didn’t ask me. I bet you didn’t even think of it.” He’s right, of course. I’m locked into this metaphorical bloody arm-wrestling match with my mother. But I don’t know if I’m pulling her towards me or pushing her away.
“And shall I tell you what?” he says. “You’re going because you want to, and you don’t want anybody else to take your place with Mummy. Until you stop doing that, you’ll never be free to grow up.” I feel as though I’m being told off, yet again. I open my mouth to snipe back, but haven’t got the energy. Because I know he’s right, and when I tell him, he puts his arm around me, accepting that this is something Mutti and I must work out together.
We lie together, spoon-wise, his chin nestling on my shoulder. I can’t remember if I dream, but I wake up at five with my pulse racing. I throw some jeans and a summer dress into an overnight bag, and walk down the road to get on the first tube of the morning.
While Dave sleeps on, I’m rattling along to Heathrow, trying to envisage the scene at the airport when Mutti was arrested. The thing is, their police are probably still communist boot boys. There may even be Gulags in Eastern Europe, for all I know.