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‘Jack’ Hersh pottered around the kitchen. He still hadn’t got used to where his friend Rose kept all the things, but he was ‘getting there’. Dropping some tea bags into the pot he added the milk to his cup and switched on the kettle. Rose. He smiled at the memory of a friendship lasting the years.
Washed and dressed in her fresh nightgown by the nurses who’d moved on to their next call, she’d eaten the toast he’d gently fed her earlier and had taken some sweet tea from her ‘baby’ cup. She was asleep now. In Liverpool for a short series of talks about life and death in the Nazi extermination camps, he’d volunteered to help out, so Rose’s son could take a short break.
At 88 years of age, he was still a fit man. A long brisk walk every afternoon, snow and ice permitting, and daily use of some light weights kept him feeling sprightly. Both he and Rose were survivors of the camps.
After the war, he’d tried to put that existence behind him as best he could, then in 2002 he’d read an article about a wealthy German industrialist and had instantly recognised the photograph. Contacting renowned Nazi hunter Simon Wiesenthal’s office he’d explained the man had formerly been known as Hauptscharführer Ernst Sauer, the man in charge of running the gas wagons at Chelmno, the man in charge of Chelmo’s Leichenkommando Corpse Units during the Aktion Reinhard clean-up operation; the man known and feared by the inmates for his enjoyment of the killing and barbarity.
It had taken a long time but shortly Jack Hersh would travel to Germany to give evidence in the 96-year-old’s trial; the last-ditch attempt to bring him to justice. Witnesses had been few; Jack was now the last one still alive.
The doorbell rang. He dropped the teaspoon into the cup and strolled to the door. Opening it he saw a young woman in her early 40’s.
“Alright luv, I’m Barbara’s friend. You know? The cleaning lady? She was here yesterday, well she can’t make it today so I’ve come to sort you out as a favour.”
She grinned cheekily at him. He closed the door behind her and they walked into the living room. She seemed like a nice young woman but was about to lose points by insisting on speaking to him as if he was a 5-year-old.
“You don’t need to show me where all the things are, Barbara’s told me. Is that a cup of tea you were making? Why don’t you sit yourself down in front of the telly? I’m just gonna pop me handbag in the hall and I’ll make you a nice cuppa before I get started.” She smiled brightly. “Right, come on, you get sat down there. That’s nice. There, the telly’s on and here’s the remote so you can choose whatever you like and I’ll bring your tea shortly.”
She left him, returning five minutes later with a tray upon which sat a cup of steaming tea, a sugar bowl, spoon and a plate of digestive biscuits. She placed it on the small table next to him. “I’ve just got to nip to the loo then I’ll start with the hoovering.”
She disappeared into the hall. He put two sugars into the cup, stirred, broke off half a biscuit and dipped it in his tea. In the hall, she opened her handbag to remove the already loaded and cocked Smith and Wesson M and P 9mm pistol. Screwing a suppressor on it, she slowly returned to the door of the living room and quietly peered around the frame. She could see the back of his head as he sat in the armchair, sipping his tea and watching the news. Stealthily, she stepped into the room and began to level the weapon.
On either side of her ponytail, a slight, almost imperceptible breeze caught her neck.
She was still trying to register its significance when the bullet hit her, crumpling her straight down onto the limp rags that were her own legs, her torso flopping on its side into the carpeted floor.
Nicks, who’d entered through the French windows and hidden momentarily behind the rich velvet curtain, strode over the body and recovered the Smith and Wesson. The pool of blood from her head was expanding.
Jack Hersh stood up and said: “I’ll get some towels from the cupboard.”
Returning a few moments later he and Nicks placed them around her head. Jack shook his hand. “Thank you, young man. I could see her reflection on the silver vase. I have to admit I was worried. Look, I’ve spilt my tea.” He wiped the front of his jumper.
Nicks clicked his radio. “Elvis, clean up.”
“Yes, yes”.
He went to the front door. Within a minute a black transit marked ‘Private Ambulance’ pulled up. Three men entered the building, one of them carrying a tool bag.
In the front room, two of them rolled the ‘cleaning lady’ and towels into a body bag and carried it out to the van. The third studied the blood-stained carpet. Opening his tool kit he produced a Stanley knife, cut a square around the blood, removed the section and rolled it up into a plastic bag. He and Nicks moved the settee. The ‘fitter’ eyed the floor then quickly cut another square of carpet which he slotted into the space the bloodstained one had occupied. They replaced the seating. He examined his work.
Stuffing the knife and bloody carpet remnant in the tool bag, he shook Jack’s hand as if he was just a run of the mill workman affecting a temporary repair and declared with a smile:
“Not a perfect match but it will do for now. Someone will pop round to replace the whole thing tomorrow.”
Nicks handed him the unloaded Smith and Wesson with the fully charged magazine and saw him to the door.
In the distance, the emergency sirens closed in.