Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

Better. Much better… Was Victor calling to speak to a friend or relative? To talk to staff and discuss a place for himself? Either way it was progress.

  ‘I don’t know what you’d do without me,’ he called to his colleague.

  Kev emerged from the bedroom a few seconds later but didn’t respond. He was holding two bits of paper.

  ‘You’d better see this,’ he said. ‘From the bedside drawer.’

  Brook followed him into the dining room where he placed the two pages on the table. Neither was particularly easy to read. In both instances, cursive handwriting filled boxes on administrative forms faded by the passing of time.

  It was the birth certificate that Brook recognised first. He could make out ‘Victor Watson’… ‘The Foundling Hospital’ (some kind of orphanage, he guessed)… ‘28th April 1923*’. Whatever the asterisk stood for wasn’t made clear.

  ‘Christ, he was ninety-two years old,’ said Brook, a finger resting on the date as if to confirm it was real. Kev nodded without offering any more. He knew that his own recent words were running through both their minds. ‘These drunks always look a lot older than they are…’

  Brook turned his attention to the second bit of paper. The basics were the same – densely swirled handwriting on some archaic piece of officialdom. After a couple of seconds, he had figured out the nature of it. A record of overseas internment. A POW record:

  ‘L. Cpl. Victor Watson’… ‘Middlesex Regiment’… ‘Stalag IV-B, Mühlberg, Germany’… ‘11th Feb 1944 – ? Apr 1945’… ‘no. 211251’

  ‘And these too,’ said Kev, adding some battered metal dog tags on a chain to the collection. They were embossed with details of the same camp and prisoner number:

  ‘STALAG IVB 211251’

  Brook turned to the framed photo of the Stalag IV-B stage show and looked at it more closely, wondering if the face from the churchyard could possibly be there, young and re-animated. Allied prisoners in a variety of patched up uniforms were crowded onto benches with pockets of smart German guards among them. All were united in bawdy laughter at the antics of those on stage. After a while, he gave up. Maybe it was too much to ask.

  Using his phone once again, he took photos of all the documents, then one of the theatre scene for no other reason than it intrigued him. He found Kev back in the living room, staring blankly at a landscape painting, lost in thought.

  ‘I think the whole street-drinker theory may be up for review,’ said Brook.

  ‘Mmm,’ replied Kev, distantly.

  ‘I mean, if there’s any chance of foul play, and this guy is a 92-year-old war hero, then we’d better play it safe. Even if it means calling baldie from Homicide back to the scene.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Brook glanced down at a glass-fronted drinks cabinet. Then he looked a little closer.

  ‘And why was someone with a taste for 40-year-old single malt necking Tesco Value whisky in a churchyard?’

  Kev finally snapped out of his trance. He looked at the whisky that was the same age as him.

  ‘For fuck’s sake. You were right. Those shoes… I’ll tell them to keep the scene up.’

  He took out his personal radio to hail PC Sandy Sanderson, only to hear her voice already emerging from it…

  ‘Control from 262.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Update from St Mary Magdalene Church. The Coroner’s officer has now left and this crime scene is closed on the authority of DS Padmore. We’re available for any outstanding calls.’

  Coroner’s officer has left. Crime scene is closed.

  The words hung in the air as Kev searched for the appropriate response.

  ‘Fuck!’ That did the job… ‘I told her to treat it as non-suspicious while you were in the car. I mean, it fucking was non-suspicious. Even Homicide weren’t interested… And how fast was that fucking Coroner’s officer? He must be the Ayrton fucking Senna of Coroner’s officers.’

  Just a few minutes earlier Kev had been smooth-talking his way into a job with Homicide while dealing with the routine death of a routine drunk. Now it was the increasingly strange death of a war veteran, the body taken away and the scene closed down on his authority. No forensics, no photographs, no thorough search. He could hardly get the Coroner’s officer to return the corpse, re-arrange the limbs a bit, put the cordon tape back up and say: ‘Okay, people. As you were.’

  A familiar voice broke the awkward silence in the flat.

  ‘CID receiving from 262.’

  Sandy Sanderson was still doing all the updates. Maybe her partner was locked in mortal combat with a Twix.

  ‘Go ahead,’ replied Brook, since it didn’t look like Kev wanted to talk to anyone. For once, the probationer’s radio protocol deserted her.

  ‘There’s been a… I mean… We’ve had…’

  Whatever it was, she was struggling to say it. In the end she kept things simple.

  ‘Can you two just come back to the church? You’ll see when you get here.’

  Chapter 6

  The dashboard clock showed 6.23am as Brook rolled the C-Max into the same spot as before. Dawn had broken while they were in the flat. The marked police car was still in front of them, but it was empty now. Brook and Kev stepped over the low wall and back into the churchyard.

  The misty rain had disappeared with the night and the wet grass now shimmered in a hazy morning light. Ahead of them, both uniformed officers were standing on the far side of the tomb that had – in one sense, at least – been Victor Watson’s final resting place. They were staring at the exact spot where the body had lain.

  ‘Don’t tell me his head fell off,’ said Kev. He was now officially having a bad night.

  While Kev made his way around the tomb to PC Sanderson – who, he presumed, would be doing most of the talking – Brook skirted the opposite end, towards her colleague. There was something he quickly wanted to address.

  PC Snickers was leaning on Victor Watson’s walking stick. ‘Just messing around’ no doubt, but Brook didn’t like his attitude towards the dead man’s property. As he joined him, he made sure his foot nudged the bottom of the stick, moving it a few inches on the wet grass. The uniformed PC stumbled forward as his centre of gravity shifted, just about managing to avoid propelling himself head first into the tomb. It seemed to be a popular pastime around here.

  ‘Sorry, Baz,’ said Brook.

  ‘It’s Daz.’

  ‘Right.’

  The little sideshow meant Brook was the last of the four to turn his attention to whatever was making everyone else stare. The fact that Kev was yet to deliver a one-liner should have told him to expect something out of the ordinary.

  Victor Watson was definitely gone (and his head hadn’t fallen off). But in his place was another man. He was sitting on the damp ground, shoulders against the tomb and chin resting on his chest. He was also snoring loudly.

  The gatecrasher had dark matted hair, a thick beard in similar condition and a padded lumberjack-style coat – black and red checks with a few rips where the fluffy internal padding was poking through. Dark grey trousers with a couple more rips and black trainers with lopsided soles completed the Spring Collection. He was mid-50s maybe – not that Kev would be guessing any more ages for a while. The overall impression was of a homeless, hibernating bear.

  ‘Well, Victor’s looking better these days,’ said Kev at last. The gallows humour of a man who had decided things couldn’t get any worse. He was wrong about that too.

  ‘Who’s this?’ asked Brook. Less funny, but probably more important.

  Over the course of the next couple of minutes, PC Sanderson explained how she’d been taking down the crime scene tape when she heard groaning, then coughing, coming from the bushes a few yards away. Before she could investigate, the ‘lumberjack’ had lurched from the undergrowth and collapsed to the ground in front of her.

  ‘He gave me the fright of my life,’ she said (Brook rather liked the slightly old-fashioned phrase – ninety-nine percent of of
ficers would have said ‘it scared the shit out of me’).

  The Lumberjack had apparently tried to get back up a couple of times, without any great success, and eventually decided he was better off having a snooze against the tomb. The same smell of cheap whisky that had emanated from Victor Watson was now mixed in with all manner of other odours.

  ‘He’s got a bit of a cut on his forehead too,’ explained Sandy, some curls of matted hair having flopped over the injury.

  ‘Right,’ said Kev. ‘If that’s everything, then call for a paramedic to check him out if you like. Up to you. You don’t need CID for any of this.’ There was a hint of annoyance in his voice that Brook thought was a bit harsh on the probationer.

  ‘No. That’s not everything,’ said PC Sanderson. ‘Before he fell asleep, he said the old man was murdered.’

  To Kev’s frustration, there wasn’t much PC Sanderson could add to the few words that had just ruined his night. The Lumberjack had not gone into detail before succumbing to the snoring. Nevertheless, Kev wanted to know exactly what had been said.

  ‘Well, he pointed at the ground where he’s sitting,’ said Sandy. ‘And he said… ‘The man here. Killed. He was killed’. That’s it, word for word. I wrote it in my pocketbook.’

  Killed. He was killed.

  Shit.

  There was probably only one thing worse than prematurely shutting down the scene of a possible murder. And that was prematurely shutting down the scene of a definite murder. Unfortunately for the Lumberjack, he was going to have to be woken. Brook placed a hand on his shoulder and began trying to shake him awake.

  ‘Can you hear me, mate? Open your eyes, fella.’ A big paw tried to swat his hand away. It lacked any real co-ordination, but it did give Brook a bargaining chip.

  ‘I’ll stop shaking your shoulder when you open your eyes,’ he said.

  ‘They’re open,’ grunted the Lumberjack, without a flicker of movement in his eyelids. At least he had a sense of humour.

  ‘Have to be wider than that,’ said Brook, shaking the shoulder a little harder. After a few seconds, the eyes finally opened and the shaking stopped. Deal done.

  ‘There was an incident here. Can you tell us anything about it?’

  The Lumberjack opened his mouth a few times in different shapes, as if repeatedly on the brink of starting a sentence but unable to decide upon the first word. Maybe the question was too broad.

  ‘Where were you?’ asked Brook, keeping things simpler.

  ‘The… that… the bench,’ said the Lumberjack, nodding towards the bushes. What was that accent? Cornwall? Devon? Sure enough, cut into the bushes that bordered the church’s front approach was a bench, facing away from them. From the officers’ position, it was just about visible through the foliage, which, logic suggested, meant Victor Watson’s last moments might have been just about visible from the bench.

  ‘And did you see anything?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Heard… first… heard.’

  The man may have been fighting some pretty extreme effects of alcohol – both short and long-term – but he was switched on enough to specify which sense had alerted him.

  ‘A voice… voice said… ‘Victor’.’

  That got their attention.

  ‘Someone said ‘Victor’?’ asked Brook.

  The Lumberjack either nodded slowly to confirm or slipped into a micro-sleep. Whichever it was, his head came back up after a moment and he answered.

  ‘Umm… younger… younger man…’ He waved a finger around the area in front of him, as if to say this is where it happened, then tried some more words.

  ‘Victor… was… Victor was… he was… old.’

  Thanks for bringing that up, thought Kev.

  The more he heard, the more Brook thought he was right about the Cornish accent. It had that piratical twang.

  ‘And what happened?’ he asked. It was slow progress, but progress nonetheless. The Lumberjack made some actions with his hands, as if his faltering speech was again letting him down. In the end he settled for one word.

  ‘Knife.’

  The single syllable prompted an exchange of glances between the officers. Kev’s face – already pale from a week of nights – was rapidly turning paler. He could see it all panning out before him…

  ‘War hero killed by knife-wielding attacker’... ‘Victim dismissed as accident-prone homeless drunk’... ‘Police missed witness only fifteen feet away’...

  A career in the property store beckoned. He may as well report straight for duty.

  ‘The younger man had a knife?’ asked Brook, looking for clarification.

  The Lumberjack wagged a finger in the air again. What did that mean? There wasn’t a knife? Or was he waving the knife? He shook his head. Okay. They had got something wrong.

  ‘The old… the other… had… had the…’

  He stopped and composed himself for a few seconds before charging at the sentence again.

  ‘The old man had… the knife.’

  A hiccup served as an exclamation mark.

  Colour returned to Kev’s face.

  ‘Ha! Wow! Oh, thank fuck for that. He’s just talking nonsense. Jesus, he almost had me for a moment there. So Victor was lurking around the churchyard all tooled up, was he? That’s a good one. I guess he was only in that old suit because his hoodie was in the wash. Fuck me, this guy’s good.’

  Brook wasn’t sure what to make of it. At face value, it seemed every bit as ridiculous as Kev’s little rant was taking such pleasure in pointing out. But the Lumberjack had shown all the signs of someone trying to help. In the end, it was Sandy who spoke first.

  ‘He heard the name Victor though,’ she offered. Fair play to her. Despite her lack of service, she wasn’t afraid to put her point across to a ranting DS.

  ‘Of course he heard it,’ said Kev. ‘From us! After we found the wallet. How many times did we say the name Victor Watson? Christ, I was even going on about Victor Watson the footballer. I’m sure he heard all of that while lying on his fucking bench.’

  Sandy looked a little crestfallen.

  ‘All right, Kev,’ said Brook.

  ‘What does all right mean?’ came the spiky reply.

  ‘It means I think you’ve made your point.’

  ‘Well… Good.’

  A few more hiccups aside, the Lumberjack had gone quiet – happy to close his eyes while the officers argued amongst themselves. Kev began clicking his fingers in front of his face… ‘Hey!’… The heavy eyelids began to open.

  ‘So the old man is the bad guy?’ he asked.

  The Lumberjack gave a slow shake of his head.

  ‘Victim… victim… theft… and…’ He paused for a second, then made a fist of his right hand and swung it against the tomb with a ferocity that made everyone jump. It could have been frustration at the struggle to get his words out or a demonstration of what happened to Victor’s head.

  ‘Oi! Don’t bloody wake them up,’ said Kev, nodding at the tomb.

  ‘Did you say theft?’ asked Brook.

  A nod.

  ‘From the old man?’

  A nod.

  Kev wanted to remind everyone that this was nonsense.

  ‘From the old man with the knife, lurking in the churchyard?’

  For the first time, the Lumberjack raised his eyes above the horizontal and fixed them on Kev.

  ‘What was taken?’ asked Brook.

  The Lumberjack kept his eyes on Kev as he spoke.

  ‘Big… gold… coin.’

  The combination of the piratical Cornish accent and the treasure-like description gave the words a certain pantomime quality. Kev wasn’t about to turn down such an opportunity.

  ‘A big gold coin? Ha! Fucking hell. I’ll start putting up the Wanted posters for Long John fucking Silver, shall I?’

  He glanced around at the others, his big grin slowly fading – disappointed they weren’t joining in the hilarity.

  ‘Fuck it. I’ve heard enough. I’l
l be in the car.’

  He set off, shaking his head – the relief that the witness wasn’t sober and credible replaced by frustration at his colleagues for not being equally dismissive.

  ‘Hey!’ Brook shouted after him.

  ‘What?’ snapped Kev.

  Brook tossed something through the air in a looping underarm throw.

  ‘Keys.’

  Kev caught them, the simple gesture seeming to cut through his anger. He took a breath.

  ‘Thanks.’

  After a couple of seconds, he carried on walking.

  The remaining officers shared a look of mutual relief that Kev’s mania was no longer around. Brook turned back to the man sitting on the ground and aimed for a friendlier tone.

  ‘What’s your name, mate?’

  Despite his intoxication, the Lumberjack had come to the very reasonable conclusion that he was heartily sick of these officers. A whole bunch of ridicule and not a single ‘thank you’. That was all he got for trying to help. Fuck ’em. He had never liked them anyway.

  ‘Jud–’ he said.

  ‘Jude?’

  ‘Judas… Iscariot.’

  Brook had met a few Mickey Mouses and Jesus Christs in his career. Even a couple of Elvis Presleys. But this was the first Judas Iscariot. The withdrawal of co-operation was confirmed by way of a ‘V’ sign and a loud raspberry.

  The detective came out of the stoop in which he had been trying to converse – a grimace of disgust at the raspberry and a wince at his straightening back blurring into one generally pained expression.

  ‘Well, I think that’s the end of that,’ he said to Sandy. ‘Are you going to get him looked at?’

  The cut on his forehead was still there.

  ‘I think so. I should probably have sorted that out first but, well, it’s been a strange one.’

  ‘Good way of putting it,’ said Brook.

  ‘Yep,’ said Baz or Daz.

  Brook and Sandy both looked at him.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Brook. ‘I was just going to say thanks for your input.’

  ‘S’okay.’

  ‘So, what’s your favourite – Snickers or Bounty?’

  ‘Umm. Snickers.’

  ‘I knew it. Me too. What do you like best about it?’