Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any calls to do with a disturbance?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Anything taken?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be. Money’s still there. Old wallet. Doubt there was ever a phone.’

  The Homicide officer let his torch beam fall on the bottle of whisky, then the walking stick, then the broken neck, as if leading someone through the A, B, C of what happened.

  ‘Cause of death seems pretty clear,’ he said.

  His phone buzzed and he answered it on the second vibration.

  ‘Hello? Tell them to keep it warm. Nothing for us here. See you in two minutes.’

  He hung up and waited for an indication that everyone was on the same page…

  ‘Yeah,’ said Kev, obligingly. ‘I don’t think we’ll be needing you on this one, but thanks for coming down. Think we can go with ‘Non-suspicious’ on this.’

  Correct answer, thought the bald DS. Now he just had to reinforce the point.

  ‘I mean, to be honest,’ he said, ‘everyone could faff around for ages, calling it ‘Unexplained’. But I guarantee it would end up being bounced back to you and called non-suspicious anyway.’

  ‘Nah, you’re right. I’m not going to argue with any of that. I was just telling this lot the same as it happens. I’ll let you get back to your coffee.’

  ‘Thanks. Listen, I’ll try to let you know a couple of weeks before the next openings come out. Give you a bit of a heads-up. See if you can come down for a few shifts.’

  ‘That would be brilliant. Cheers,’ said Kev. ‘It’s Padmore. Kev Padmore.’

  The black-and-white man nodded and gave his first hint of a smile. He didn’t write the name down.

  ‘Got it,’ he said.

  Brook had been observing from a short distance. He hadn’t warmed to the new arrival. More importantly, a little voice in his head was giving him a hard time. Much as he wanted this to be a straightforward, non-suspicious death – to facilitate his swift departure to the pub – the little voice wasn’t going away.

  ‘Quite an impact though, isn’t it?’ he said, walking back to the body. The tall DS had already started to walk away. Kev flashed Brook a look that told him to shut up and stop ruining his networking. When it came, there was a hint of annoyance in the reply – the first deviation from the monotone.

  ‘Well, I imagine it would be. If your walking stick goes from beneath you while you’re pissed out of your skull on shit whisky. A metre and a half of free fall then it’s game over.’

  Brook felt no need to rise to the more confrontational tone.

  ‘What do you make of his polished brogues?’ he asked, calmly.

  This time the murder detective answered over his shoulder, stooping under the cordon tape to leave the crime scene.

  ‘People throw out all sorts these days.’

  ‘So people keep telling me.’

  The black-and-white man stopped on the other side of the tape and turned to face Brook (PC Sanderson glanced between the two with raised eyebrows, intrigued by the sudden tension).

  ‘South Africa?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ said Brook, without further explanation.

  The DS looked him up and down.

  ‘Huh,’ he said dismissively, before walking away.

  PC Sanderson waited until he was safely out of earshot.

  ‘He was rude, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Very,’ agreed Brook.

  ‘You didn’t have to fuck things up for me though, did you?’ said Kev.

  Brook shrugged. ‘I didn’t like him. Did someone get his name anyway?’

  Kev suddenly realised his networking skills weren’t quite as good as he thought.

  ‘I… Fuck…’ He looked at PC Sanderson. ‘And he just walked straight past you, didn’t he?’

  ‘It’s okay. I got it when he flashed his warrant card.’ She checked her scene log. ‘DS… Chris Beckford.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Brook, staring in the direction in which DS Beckford had walked off, even though he was now long gone.

  The radio in his jacket beeped twice and a voice came over it.

  ‘DC Deelman receiving?’

  He took it out and hit the talk button.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I think I’ve got an address for your Victor Watson.’

  Chapter 4

  Brook headed back to the C-Max to write down the new information out of the drizzle. The support operator explained that after ruling out a few Vic or Victor Watsons of the wrong age or ethnicity, he had just one possible hit. It was old. Over a decade old. A short intel report from 2005. It did, at least, contain a pretty good description of the subject.

  ‘Has your man got any scars?’ asked the operator.

  ‘Where do I start?’

  It was him.

  The report related to a call from a local resident about a man in her block, drunkenly singing shortly before midnight. The caller said they were concerned for his welfare, which was a clever way of saying ‘Can you come and shut him up?’.

  Officers had attended and satisfied themselves with some words of advice to the drunk man, before one had written the brief intel report and attached some flag to do with ‘Elderly Welfare Concern’. That was it. No mention of his circumstances. It had all the hallmarks of a report banged out at the end of a shift. But at least there was an address: 64 Duke Crescent. It was close.

  ‘What was the date on that report?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Funny thing. Yesterday’s date. Minus eleven years. Twenty-one, four, oh five.’

  21st April 2005.

  Brook raised an eyebrow. He had a healthy mistrust of coincidences.

  ‘I take it they got a date of birth for him?’

  ‘Negative. Seems he was a bit rambling. Sorry.’

  Not very useful.

  ‘Okay, mate. Cheers for your help.’

  The exchange came to an end just as Kev stepped back over the churchyard wall. He banged on the marked police car as he passed it, causing PC Snickers to jump and drop his latest chocolate bar in the footwell (the light blue wrapper suggested he had moved on to a Bounty). Kev settled into the C-Max passenger seat and gave him a little wave.

  ‘So is it a hostel then?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll find out in about two minutes.’

  Brook swung the C-Max around, turning away from the first glimmers of dawn in the east and back into the night.

  ‘Why did you tell that guy you weren’t from South Africa?’ asked Kev.

  ‘Because I’m from Botswana.’

  ‘Which is in South Africa.’

  ‘Seriously, Kev.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How many times?’

  Brook’s estimate of two minutes was accurate to within a few seconds. The address was part of a Georgian terrace, the windows getting smaller on each floor until the old servants’ quarters at the top. Wide stone steps led up to a communal front door with a chrome panel of buzzers beside it.

  ‘My money’s still on a hostel,’ said Kev as they climbed the steps. He sounded like a man trying hard to convince himself.

  Brook didn’t reply. He was already reading the little nameplates that accompanied the buzzers. Eight in all, split into two columns from 1A to 4B – some neatly typed, others in Biro or felt-tip, the remainder blank or broken. Nothing indicated either Victor Watson or a hostel.

  As Kev started hitting buzzers at random, Brook asked the support operator if there was a flat number to go with the 64 Duke Crescent address. Nothing. Then he tried Victor’s keys in the communal door. No good. The intercom stayed resolutely silent.

  ‘Going to be a job for Early Turn at this rate,’ said Kev, rattling the door in its frame. As a last resort, he took a battered Oyster travel card from his wallet and began sliding it up and down the narrow gap between door and door frame. It always looked easy on TV.

  Brook left him to it. He forced his knees into a crouch and peered through the letter box to
see a dimly lit communal lobby – white walls and a tiled floor resembling a diagonal chessboard. To the left and right were the front doors of the first apartments, while a stone staircase at the rear led up to the higher floors, turning clockwise at each landing. He allowed the letter box to snap shut and descended the steps to street level before looking up at the windows.

  ‘Oi. Don’t quit now. I’ve nearly got this,’ said Kev.

  Brook could see only one flat with a light on. He imagined climbing the internal stairs. The turns to the right. The first flat on each floor an A, the second a B…

  ‘Hit 3B again,’ he said.

  Kev allowed the momentary interruption, pressed the requested buzzer, then returned to his manipulation of the Oyster card, as obsessive as it was fruitless.

  After a few seconds, a face appeared at the sole illuminated window – a neat-looking man in his 30s. Black framed glasses, white shirt with the collar still up, a tie draped loosely around his neck. Early start at the office, perhaps.

  Brook raised his warrant card in his left hand and gave an open palm of acknowledgement with his right. Then he pointed at the communal door and made his middle and forefinger walk through the air. The neat man disappeared from view.

  The detective went back up the steps and heard the universal buzz of admission as he reached the top. The heavy door swung effortlessly open on the first push, Kev’s ineffective Oyster card immediately falling from his grasp.

  ‘I was so close,’ he said, scrambling for it in the shadows.

  Inside the lobby, a domed button at shoulder height activated the main lighting, over and above the low-level glow of the standby setting. At the foot of the stairs stood a pot plant and a small table that clearly served as a dumping ground for the local postman. The two of them sifted through a dozen or so letters, ignoring the reams of pizza and kebab advertising. Nothing for a Victor Watson.

  Somewhere above them, a latch clicked and a door scraped open over a rough mat.

  ‘Can I help?’ came a voice. The Good Samaritan who had let them in – well-spoken and hushed. Wife and kids still asleep maybe.

  Brook and Kev made their way up a couple of flights until the angles allowed them to crane their necks and see him standing outside his doorway, one hand stopping the door closing behind him. The tie was still loose around his neck.

  ‘Thanks for buzzing us in,’ said Brook. ‘Sorry for the early hour.’ He held out his warrant card for the man to take a closer look as both detectives reached his landing. ‘I’m DC Deelman and this is DS Padmore. From the police station down the road.’

  Always try to make it sound friendly.

  The neat man looked at the warrant card, then at Brook, then at Kev, then back at Brook. He was a few years younger than the officers. Apart from the black-framed glasses, he had perfectly maintained designer stubble and cropped hair, beginning to recede at the sides.

  ‘Can I help?’ he said again.

  ‘We’re trying to establish if there’s an old guy in this block by the name of Vi−’

  With a loud click, the main lights switched themselves off, returning everyone to the low glow of the standby setting. An energy saving timer system. Without needing to look, the neat man extended a hand to the side of his front door and pressed another domed button to reactivate them. He must have done it a million times.

  ‘That would drive me mad,’ said Kev, receiving a look that said I paid a lot for this place.

  ‘Yeah, Victor Watson,’ continued Brook, trying to get things back on track. ‘White hair. Walking stick.’

  ‘Right… Well, I couldn’t tell you his name, but there’s an old man who lives on the ground floor who sounds like that. The first on your right as you come in. He’s got… erm…’ He waved a finger at his own neck and then at one of his ears. Brook saved him the trouble of searching for the socially acceptable way to say a fucked up neck and a fucked up ear.

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘Is it some kind of hostel down there?’ asked Kev. ‘Bail hostel? Halfway house? Charity thing?’ He wasn’t going to give up easily.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ came the reply, along with a repeat of the I paid a lot for this place look. ‘As far as I know he just lives there on his own. I’ve never seen him with anyone else.’

  ‘Bit of a loner, yeah? Bit of a drinker?’

  Brook clenched his jaw and blinked. Kev’s contributions were proving less than helpful.

  ‘I… I wouldn’t… Is everything okay?’ asked the neat man.

  Kev was already heading back down the stairs, bored of a conversation that was failing to confirm his assumptions. He called his answer in the questioner’s general direction.

  ‘If I tell you we’re looking for his next of kin, you’ll know he hasn’t won the fucking lottery.’

  Brook was glad to hear Kev’s footsteps retreating down the stairwell. He allowed his eyes to emerge from their long blink and noticed the black-framed glasses were now topped by a deep frown. Just one more unimpressed taxpayer.

  ‘I’m afraid your neighbour died a little earlier,’ said Brook. ‘We found this address for him and we’re just trying to establish some basic facts. Date of birth, family circumstances…’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ came the standard reply. Brook doubted the news would ruin his day, but at least the frown was disappearing now that Kev had gone.

  ‘You said you used to see him on his own. Do you know of any relatives? A carer perhaps?’

  The resident puffed out his cheeks and exhaled.

  ‘Well, I never saw any family or friends. And I never had a real conversation with him, so I can’t say that he mentioned any. I mean, he certainly seemed to be fully independent. I knew him to say hello to but that’s about it.’

  ‘Okay, thank you. And thanks again for letting us in.’ Brook hoped he had smoothed over any damage done by Kev. ‘We’ve got his flat keys, so don’t worry if you hear someone in there on your way out. We’ll just see if we can find some next of kin details.’

  ‘Of course.’ The neat man nodded and pushed his front door fully open, before pausing on his way back in. ‘I hope he wasn’t too lonely.’

  Maybe the news would spoil his day a little bit after all.

  Brook headed down to the ground floor and found his colleague waiting outside the door indicated by the early riser in 3B (‘The first on your right as you come in’).

  ‘You took your time,’ said Kev.

  ‘Just getting you out of a complaint as usual.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s have those keys.’

  ‘I thought you would have got in with your Oyster card by now.’

  They knocked and buzzed first. Just in case. No reply. The mortice key worked smoothly, sliding the unseen deadbolt out of the door frame.

  ‘It’s the right place then,’ said Kev.

  The Yale key completed the job.

  The communal lighting clicked off once more as Victor Watson’s door eased open.

  Chapter 5

  For a moment the detectives’ unadjusted eyes registered only darkness. Fumbling fingers eventually settled on a light switch and revealed the space before them.

  ‘This isn’t screaming hostel to me,’ said Brook.

  The front door led straight into a pristine living room. Dated but immaculate. Vintage wallpaper, maroon curtains and a patterned carpet provided the backdrop, while a Chesterfield sofa, antique armchair and landscape paintings completed the heritage effect. There were only two nods to modernity – a television and a push-button telephone. Neither was exactly cutting edge.

  Kev didn’t respond to Brook’s hostel comment. Nevertheless, it seemed fair. He was having trouble marrying the meticulous room with the idea of a shambolic drunk.

  ‘Let’s just find some next of kin details,’ he said. At least that bit hadn’t changed.

  Two doorways led from the living room – one into a kitchen that was old enough to have become retro cool again (duck egg blue cabi
nets and bevelled wall tiles), the other into a modest dining room with formal table and dresser.

  The dining room wall also displayed the only photograph in the flat – a black-and-white image of some kind of raucous stage production. Half the cast were in outrageous drag, while a piano provided the music and a boisterous crowd roared their approval. Brook read the caption at the foot of the blown-up image:

  ‘Stalag IV-B, Christmas 1944, ‘The Empire’ Theatre’

  It was easy to be mesmerised by the scene… he eventually tore himself away.

  A dated green bathroom suite and unfussy bedroom completed the tour. Brook returned to the main room where Kev was finishing his search of the telephone stand.

  ‘Nope,’ he said, shutting the drawer and looking around.

  The kitchen offered few opportunities. No notice board or calendar. Brook soon moved on to the dining room where the dresser gave up the first find – a small pile of bills. Utilities, council tax and telephone.

  ‘Got something here,’ he said, laying out the paperwork in Victor Watson’s name. The council tax included a ‘single occupant discount’ – confirmation that Victor lived on his own – while the BT phone bills for the last two months showed just six calls and four separate numbers. Brook tapped each one into the chipped screen of his ageing iPhone. All local takeaways.

  ‘I’ll take a wild guess his next of kin doesn’t work at the Phoenix Golden Dragon,’ said Kev. Victor Watson was proving a hard man to pin down.

  While Kev disappeared into the bedroom, Brook looked again at the phone bills. The most recent covered a period ending seven days ago. The place may hardly have been a hive of activity, but there was still a chance a call had been made in the past week. He went through to the landline. With its rectangular screen above the keypad it was not dissimilar to the ones in his CID office.

  Lifting the receiver, he hovered his iPhone’s camera over the grey screen and hit Re-dial. A number flashed up… his iPhone made a shutter noise… he cut the call before it could connect. The whole thing took less than half a second. Brook looked at the photo, memorised the digits, then tapped them into an internet search:

  ‘Peak View Care Home, Sheffield, S. Yorks’