Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  ‘Course I’m bloody right. Set your stopwatch if you like.’

  Brook managed a half-smile at Kev’s quick-fire East London patter and glanced at the dashboard clock… 5.16am. Still plenty of time to be sipping on his first Guinness in the Fox & Anchor at 7am as planned – as long as there were no complications.

  ‘Deal,’ he said.

  ‘Good. You fucking miserable lump.’

  After Kev’s brief attempt to lift the mood, the pair drove wordlessly to the scene; their coffees from the 24-hour Starbucks at St Pancras making steamy circles on the windscreen. As a crime-fighting vehicle, the high-roofed, silver Ford C-Max scored low on stealth. But its array of adjustable coffee cup holders still made it the most popular CID choice on nights. Brook wasn’t sure if the person who had ordered it for the fleet knew nothing about policing or everything.

  He flicked the wipers a couple of times as misty rain added a shine to Pentonville Road and the night buses lumbering up and down it like giant oxen.

  ‘Control receiving from 262…’

  A female voice came over the radios both men carried in their jackets (Brook’s an army-green workhorse from a military surplus store, Kev’s a branded product from an overpriced camping chain). She waited for the acknowledgement.

  ‘Go ahead,’ replied the operator at last, her slightly muffled words betraying the hurried mouthful of cake.

  ‘We’ve got a scene set up now at St Mary Magdalene Church. I’m here with 548. I’ll give you an update once CID have been.’

  Kev pressed the button on the side of his radio.

  ‘We’re en route.’

  At a red light, Brook reached for his coffee and glimpsed the effects of nocturnal living in the rear-view mirror. His white skin was a little paler than usual – the perma-tan of his youth long gone – while some fresh crinkle lines were emerging at the edges of his grey-blue eyes. The dark hair had a mind of its own as always, but there were definitely more flecks of silver around the temples. Heavy stubble had also crept up over the week of nights. The whole assessment took about three seconds (longer than Brook usually spent looking in the mirror, but the female PC at the crime scene sounded nice).

  It took less than five minutes to get there. A patrol car was facing them as they turned into Madras Place, the reflective elements of its Met Police livery appearing to twinkle in greeting as the C-Max’s headlights played across the bodywork. Brook pulled over to the kerb and rolled to a halt in front of it. To his right, a low wall marked the edge of the church grounds beyond.

  The patrol car had one occupant – an overweight male PC in the driver’s seat. Brook recognised his chubby features from a few previous encounters. Baz or Daz. Something like that. He had never been very impressed. The uniformed cop had the car’s internal light switched on and was laughing into his mobile phone while simultaneously shovelling a Snickers into his mouth. Brilliant, thought Brook. Illuminate yourself, reduce your external visibility, eliminate your ability to hear anything and pay no attention to your surroundings. What a cop.

  Kev reached the same conclusion via a less analytical route.

  ‘Not that fat prick.’

  Brook hauled himself out of the car and into the light drizzle. At 6’2” and 230 pounds, he wasn’t the biggest officer at the station, but he looked every inch the former rugby player he was. He had the sort of broad shoulders and thick arms that had more to do with big Dutch genes and ignoring red meat guidelines than powdered supplements and gym regimes.

  Any medical scan of the numerous rugby-related repairs – of varying success – to tendon, ligament and bone would confirm the initial impression. It was why he rarely exited a vehicle without at least a couple of non-specific clicks and twinges in his back and knees.

  Despite being slightly older, Kev had no such difficulty. Just an inch or two shorter but with far less bulk and accumulated damage to contend with. Fit enough, in a weekly five-a-side kind of way, he denied dying his light brown hair – in a gelled style that was a bit too young for him – but Brook had his doubts.

  Both detectives ignored PC Snickers.

  They stepped over the low wall and into the churchyard…

  The side elevation of St Mary Magdalene Church loomed large ahead of them. In front of it, blue and white cordon tape and a torchlight scanning the ground. A little closer and they could make out the form of a female constable holding a white A4 scene log. Her torch beam raised its angle and settled on them for a second before flicking off out of courtesy. Brook and Kev flashed their warrant cards as they drew near.

  ‘Nice to have some company,’ said the PC, leaving it open as to whether it was a comment on her work-shy colleague in the car. Tied up blonde hair was visible beneath the never-flattering female version of the police hat. The fact it was still in its factory shape – the bowler hat-style rim not yet bent up at the sides – marked her out as a probationer.

  Kev scanned the area within the cordon but saw no sign of a body. ‘Has the dead guy got up and fucked off then?’

  ‘Behind there,’ said the blonde PC, nodding at one of the tombs. Kev lifted the cordon tape and ducked under.

  ‘Can I just..?’ The female officer showed the open scene log and waved a pen in Kev’s direction, but he was already striding off. Brook shook his head at his colleague’s rudeness.

  ‘That’s DS Padmore,’ he told the probationer. Up close, he realised he had seen her a couple of times around the station. A little taller than average. Pale blue eyes. She had a pleasant way about her, though her youthful looks made him feel old.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied, checking her watch and carefully writing the time and DS Padmore’s name into the log. Brook took the opportunity to glance at the Velcro name badge on the left side of her waterproof. ‘Constable Sanderson’. Maybe some Scandinavian in there, way back.

  ‘And you’re DS Brook, aren’t you?’ she asked, looking up, pen poised.

  ‘DC. But thanks for the promotion.’

  He was glad Kev hadn’t been there to do the inevitable routine of ‘DS? God help us!’

  ‘And it’s Deelman,’ he added. ‘D, double E, L, man.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said the probationer, writing the correct name. ‘Where did I get Brook from?’

  Her unaccented voice had a certain warm, friendly quality to it.

  ‘Well, that’s my first name. So you’re forgiven.’

  ‘Ohhhh,’ came the elongated reply, a wrinkle of the nose and self-deprecating smile. ‘Like Brooke Shields?’

  ‘Without the ‘e’. Or the Hollywood mansion.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Brook was enjoying talking to her, but thought it was probably time he looked at the corpse. He produced a torch and lifted the cordon tape.

  ‘Come over, if you like,’ he said. It didn’t look as if there was about to be a rush of names to add to the scene log. PC Sanderson hesitated for a moment, no doubt remembering some dos and don’ts about scene management from training school, then joined him in heading over to the body.

  ‘Any sign of the informant when you got here?’ he asked.

  ‘None. His phone just rings out. The call handler said it sounded like someone on their way home drunk from a party.’

  ‘Lucky devil.’

  They joined Kev on the far side of the tomb. It was about eight feet long, three feet high and a similar width – a few yards beyond the point where the footpath turned left towards the church’s front steps.

  The three officers found themselves looking down at the lifeless body of a white-haired old man in a brown tweed suit. He was lying on his front, perpendicular to the long side of the Victorian family grave, his legs awkwardly splayed and his arms giving the appearance of reaching for the stone monolith.

  His head was the only part of him that wasn’t flat to the ground. It was pressed against the tomb, right cheek against the stone, neck broken. Damage to the forehead marked the fatal point of impact. The eye nearest th
e tomb was still open, giving the odd impression that the dead man was looking down the side to check it was vertical. A zombie surveyor.

  ‘Shouldn’t have gone for that diving header,’ said Kev, chuckling at his own joke.

  Brook shone his torch on the dead man’s right hand, its fingers pressed against the lichen-covered stone. The slender forearm protruding from the tweed sleeve was lying on top of a near-empty 50cl bottle of supermarket own brand whisky. Bruising around the wrist suggested something might be broken. He sniffed the air. A stale odour of cheap whisky filled his nostrils.

  The two detectives crouched closer to the body and worked their way through the old injuries – the partial ear, the battered nose, the gruesome scar (‘Fuck me. It looks like Sweeney Todd shaved that neck’). Then they looked more closely at the new ones. The neck break and the head wound. Brook suspected there might be a skull fracture under there.

  Finally, he angled the torch beam at the left hand that had landed just shy of the tomb. He noted the missing half finger. A walking stick lay a couple of feet away at a haphazard angle. It was just possible to imagine the old drunk falling badly, putting an arm out to arrest his descent – even letting go of his precious whisky at the last second – only for his efforts to be in vain. Wrist and neck both breaking. The latter fatally so.

  ‘Well, that all seems pretty straightforward,’ said Kev, standing up from his crouched position. ‘Looks like he’s got injuries galore from getting pissed and falling over before. Luck has to run out at some point, I guess. I don’t know how these fuckers last so long.’

  PC Sanderson had been quietly watching them, the scene log now tucked into her waterproof.

  ‘Horrible scar on his neck, isn’t it?’ she said to no-one in particular.

  ‘Funny thing with chronic drinkers,’ said Kev, ‘is they often let some fucking horrendous injuries go untreated. Either because they’re so off their face they hardly feel it, or they know they’re Wanted for their latest booze theft and don’t want to risk getting nicked at hospital. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of his mates did those stitches. Maybe even the one who slashed his neck in the first place. They’re forever falling out and making up.’

  ‘He looks really old, doesn’t he?’ she added.

  ‘Yeah, these drinkers always look a lot older than they really are. Look at Brook. You wouldn’t think he was eighteen, would you?’

  Kev was clearly enjoying grandstanding in front of his attractive, young audience. His points weren’t entirely without merit but he was definitely using some pretty broad brush strokes, while Brook hadn’t finished looking for the details.

  ‘Come on then, Brook. Let’s have it.’ Kev gave him a thump on the arm. ‘You’ve gone all quiet. Spit it out. What’s on your mind?’

  Brook was still looking down at the body, absent-mindedly stroking his chin. Apart from a slight regret at having invited PC Sanderson over to witness Kev’s masterclass of assumption, there was indeed something on his mind. Or rather two things. Shoes.

  ‘He’s got some nice new brogues on,’ he said, using the torch to make his point. ‘Even got a bit of polish on them.’ It didn’t seem to fit the quickly accepted narrative of a down-and-out succumbing to a booze-related accident. Kev was unmoved.

  ‘It’s amazing what people throw out these days,’ he said, barely glancing at the shoes.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Brook, not pushing the point for now. ‘We need to find out who is. Has he been searched yet?’

  ‘I had a quick check for other injuries, but I haven’t looked in his pockets,’ replied PC Sanderson. ‘They always give you horror stories at Hendon about missing the big knife sticking out of their back.’

  Kev muttered something cynical about the police force knowing all about sticking a knife in your back, while Brook pulled on some blue latex gloves and began going through the dead man’s pockets. There wasn’t much. A few quid in loose change and a betting slip didn’t cause much surprise. Brook opened the blue receipt from Ladbrokes.

  ‘Didn’t Arsenal win 2−0 earlier?’

  He knew Kev had a season ticket at West Ham which, by definition, meant he followed the other London clubs in the hope they would lose.

  ‘Yep,’ he replied, joylessly.

  ‘Two goals from Alexis Sánchez,’ confirmed PC Sanderson.

  Both men looked at her, impressed. She smiled and shrugged.

  ‘Poor bastard never collected his winnings,’ observed Brook, holding up the square of paper with the correct prediction.

  He carried on his search.

  ‘What’s your first name, by the way?’ he asked in the direction of PC Sanderson, his blue latex fingers going from pocket to pocket.

  ‘Caroline. But everyone calls me Sandy.’

  ‘Sandy Sanderson. That’s easy to remember.’

  He plucked an old wallet from a rear trouser pocket. It didn’t contain much. Promotional takeaway voucher, £10 note, local library card with a membership number rather than a name and, finally, a slightly battered Post Office account card. This time, there was a name: Victor Watson.

  He moved on to the tweed jacket. An outer pocket gave up the only other item. A couple of house keys on a simple ring. One for a Yale lock and one for a mortice.

  ‘A hostel,’ said Kev, seeing the keys and clinging to his narrative. ‘Bet you anything.’

  Brook put all the items in a clear property bag except for the Post Office card. Then he placed both hands just above his knees and pushed himself upright, momentarily self-conscious of the un-athletic action in front of PC Sanderson.

  ‘So, that’s Victor Watson,’ he said, holding out the Post Office card.

  ‘Vic Watson?’ said Kev, with unexpected gusto. ‘Vic Watson? Fuck me. West Ham legend. Three hundred league goals. Can you believe that? Three… hun… dred. Mental.’

  After rugby, Brook took an interest in all sports, but he couldn’t compete with Kev’s football trivia. Especially when it came to his own team.

  ‘This guy?’ asked PC Sanderson. An incredulous tone.

  ‘Well, no. Not this guy,’ replied Kev. ‘Vic Watson’s era was the twenties and thirties. Been dead a while. I’ve just never met another one.’

  ‘He doesn’t look as thrilled as you,’ said Sandy.

  Brook was already on his radio, passing on Victor Watson’s name and description for a support operator to search police databases for an address. It was a long shot without a date of birth but still worth a try.

  ‘No cameras around here, are there?’ he asked PC Sanderson once he’d finished.

  ‘Nothing covering the churchyard. I had a look around. Holloway Road and Liverpool Road will be the closest.’

  Brook thumbed his Nokia radio to the ‘CCTV’ channel and asked for someone to acknowledge him. A Welsh accent answered his request…

  ‘Go ahead, Number One.’

  He immediately recognised the booming baritone of ‘Jonboy’ – an old friend from his uniform days, and legendary boozer, shuffled into CCTV following something of a meltdown. From the moment he discovered Brook was from Botswana, he had called him ‘Number One’ in honour of his only other reference to the country – a book he had read called ‘The Number One Ladies’ Detective Agency’. Since they shared a love of beer and rugby, Brook had always let him get away with it. Jonboy listened to the location and description of the deceased.

  ‘Right you are. What sort of time frame are we looking at?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, he must have placed the bet before kick-off. I think that was 8pm. The body was called in thirty minutes ago, so that’s a window of about eight hours for you to try and find out how he got here. Not busy are you?’

  ‘Rushed off my feet,’ said Jonboy suppressing a yawn. ‘But I’ll try and squeeze you in. You do know it’s one doughnut per hour of footage checked, don’t you?’

  ‘I thought you had a fast-forward button.’

  ‘Right. Just for that, it’s two doughnuts now.’

  �
�Let’s call it performance-related,’ said Brook.

  ‘You have yourself a deal, Number One,’ said Jonboy. ‘Performance-related. On top of the flat rate of two doughnuts per hour.’

  He signed off just as Brook became aware of someone new for PC Sanderson to add to her scene log – a task which would have been far easier had the new arrival not been totally ignoring her to address Kev over the PC’s shoulder.

  ‘Night Duty SCD1 skipper,’ he said, flashing a warrant card. SCD1 meaning Homicide. Skipper meaning Sergeant. A murder squad DS.

  He was tall and thin in a trench coat buttoned all the way up. Clean-shaven face. Clean-shaven head. Totally smooth. The long darkness of the coat and pale skin of the head made him appear completely bereft of colour. A black-and-white photo of a person.

  ‘Did someone call you?’ asked Kev, getting straight to the point.

  ‘No-one. We were just on your borough grabbing a coffee. Heard this come out over the local channel and thought I’d see if we were needed.’ His voice was as expressionless as his face. A monotone, monochrome man.

  Kev was still standing near the body. He had been secretly looking at the nice shoes.

  ‘Be my guest,’ he said.

  The tall murder detective stooped under the cordon and walked round to the far side of the tomb, taking out a torch and illuminating the dead man.

  ‘I was thinking of putting in an application for your lot,’ said Kev, never one to miss an opportunity.

  ‘You should do it. Might be a few vacancies coming out soon. We’re definitely under quota. How many years have you got in?’

  ‘Coming up to twenty.’

  ‘Perfect. A bit of experience. We’ve got too many kids at the moment. Make sure you do it.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  The two fell quiet once again. Kev smiling a little, the bald man without any discernible expression.

  ‘He was found by some drunk party-goer on his way home,’ said Kev to break the silence.

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘None around here.’

  ‘Witnesses?’