The Doomsday Testament(23)
X
JAMIE PAUSED. WALTER brohm? The context and the way the name was mentioned suggested it should be significant – someone well placed in the Nazi hierarchy – but it meant nothing to him. His research into looted artworks had given him a working knowledge of the coterie of top Nazis around Hitler and he could name every senior officer in Herman Goering’s semi-official looting organization, but that was the limit of his expertise.
He needed more information.
He checked out of the hospital after a brief physical inspection, but didn’t feel ready to go back to work. Instead, he retreated to his flat in Kensington High Street. When he opened the door he had a sense of things not being as they should be, a kind of alien presence hovering over the multitude of books and pictures stacked carelessly in every room apart from the kitchen. A quick check showed no evidence of anything missing or noticeably out of place and he shrugged off the feeling as a symptom of attack-induced paranoia.
He reached for the laptop, then had a better idea. He picked up the phone and dialled the university friend who had first put him in touch with Emil Mandelbaum.
‘Simon?’
‘Jamie! I heard you were in hospital. Bloody awful thing to happen, and in your old granddad’s house, too. I meant to visit, but you’re out, so you must be feeling OK. I hope you are?’
Jamie looked at himself in the living-room mirror. His face was comically one-sided because of the swelling to his right eye and the pain in his ribs made him move with a slight crouch. ‘I look a bit like Quasimodo’s uglier aunt, but apart from that I’m fine. Nothing that a good belt of Macallan won’t cure.’
His friend laughed. ‘If you feel up to it we could go somewhere tonight, somewhere quiet?’
Jamie winced. ‘I don’t think I’m ready for that yet. Look, I’m sorry to bother you at work, but I’m after a favour.’
‘Nothing new there, old son. I’m your man.’
‘Er, I’m trying to find someone in London with a specialist knowledge of high-ranking Germans during the war, maybe even some kind of Nazi hunter.’
‘And you think that because I’m one of Abraham’s chosen I might know someone like that?’ Jamie sensed an unfamiliar wariness in Simon’s voice.
‘It was a long shot,’ he admitted. ‘If I was wrong, I apologize. It really doesn’t matter. I can look it up on the internet, or something. I’ll give you a bell about that drink another time . . .’
‘No, wait. Look, there is somebody, but he’s often out of the country. Old Nazis and their whereabouts are a kind of hobby of his. It depends if he’s around?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘So I’d have to check with him to see if he’s willing to talk to you.’
‘Any time would be perfectly fine with me.’
‘Great. Let me have a word with him and I’ll get back to you.’
Jamie thanked him and when he’d hung up he returned to the journal. With the war drawing to a close, the danger less ever-present and more time on his hands, Matthew seemed to have a desperate need to record the final days in the kind of detail that had been denied to him for five years. He’d been reading for half an hour when the phone rang.
When he picked it up it was Simon. ‘That was bloody quick.’
‘He was very keen to see you after I explained about Uncle Emil and the Rembrandt, and he’ll be happy to help in any way he can, although, naturally, he can’t promise anything.’
‘That’s brilliant, Simon, I owe you one.’
‘Do you know the Builders Arms on the corner of Thackeray Street and Kensington Court Place?’
‘Sure, it’s just along the road.’
‘Of course it is . . . Can you meet him there in half an hour? He’s off on a business trip first thing tomorrow, but he can spare an hour this evening.’
Jamie hesitated. He’d been thinking in terms of days, possibly weeks. ‘It’s a little sooner than I expected, but sure. I’ll grab a quick shower. How will I know him?’
Simon thought for a few moments before Jamie heard him laugh. ‘He’ll be the one all the girls are eyeing up. He answers to David.’
Despite the name, the Builders Arms had long since cast off its working-class origins. Now it was comfortable and trendy, tight-packed leather sofas nudging glass-topped aluminium tables, with an emphasis on food and the designer beers that Jamie loathed but always found himself drinking. The place was almost empty when he arrived, with the few staff gratefully taking advantage of the lull between the lunch crowd and the after-office crowd.
A casually dressed, tanned young man sat at a table against the far wall with a perfect view of the door. When Jamie walked in he looked up and smiled in recognition even though they’d never met. Jamie saw immediately what Simon had meant. ‘David’ was of medium build but had the kind of strong features that would appeal to the ladies, thick dark hair and a chin that needed shaving twice a day. He rose from his seat and shook hands with a weightlifter’s iron grip.