Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  The pancakes did not enjoy such a long existence.

  ‘It was good?’ asked the Polish waitress, removing the empty plate.

  ‘As good as a Polish Christmas.’

  ‘Is not possible,’ she replied, poker-faced. Brook wondered if she realised how funny she was.

  He picked up his phone – it had been in the doghouse long enough – and double-checked the search result for the last number dialled from Victor Watson’s landline. It remained the same:

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

  He tapped on the number that accompanied the care home’s website and waited for a receiver to be picked up 150 miles to the north. It was answered on the third ring.

  ‘Ello-Peak-View-ow-can-I-elp?’ A female with a broad Yorkshire accent made her greeting sound like a single, high-scoring Scrabble word.

  Brook introduced himself and received a similar courtesy in return (he was speaking to ‘Debbie’) then gave his best summary of the situation: Trying to find the next of kin of a gentleman in his nineties who passed away… He appears to have called this number in the past week… May have been contacting a friend or relative or just making an enquiry… Would you have a moment to help?

  A slight pause at the other end made him wonder if he’d been speaking for too long and Debbie had zoned out of the conversation. He needn’t have worried.

  ‘Ooh, don’t you just love a good mystery?’ she said with unexpected enthusiasm. ‘I mean, of course you do. Being a detective an’ all.’

  ‘I like solving them,’ said Brook.

  ‘Ooh, me too,’ she agreed.

  They established that the name Victor Watson didn’t ring any bells – and that there were no residents with that surname – then began approaching the riddle from different angles.

  ‘How many residents do you have there?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Forty-two at minute. That’s our capacity, like. Though it does go up and down as you can imagine in a place like this. Well, down and then back up I should probably say.’

  ‘And how does it work if someone wants to speak to one of your residents on the phone?’

  ‘Then they’ll come through this number first.’

  ‘Any kind of log?’

  ‘Nothing like that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘How about any residents with London links? The guy who died was born in London in 1923. He also served in the Middlesex Regiment in the war.’

  ‘Oh, right. I’m happy to ask around, like. Though, obviously, some aren’t quite ‘all there’, bless ’em. I know we’ve got a few old soldiers, mind. And I’ll see if others on staff know ’owt… Ey, you might have to give me a job after all this.’

  ‘I can’t say I would recommend this one.’

  ‘You should try mine for a day.’

  They exchanged friendly farewells. There were just two more calls Brook wanted to make before leaving his temporary workplace and its pancake aromas. The first was to the CCTV office to check on the street camera footage Jonboy had identified – Victor Watson’s final walk from The Junction pub to the churchyard. A civilian employee explained that the download to disc was on his to-do list behind a backlog of urgent jobs (a non-suspicious status didn’t exactly help when it came to queue jumping).

  The second call was to The Junction itself. Brook learned that the only two people who knew their way around the CCTV system were the manager and a barman called Danny. The manager was off today, but Danny would be starting at 6pm.

  And that was it. The last of the phone calls… Peak View Care Home, the CCTV office and The Junction. The outcomes had all left Brook with an empty few hours ahead of him. He began absent-mindedly scrolling through the photos he had taken in Victor’s flat and paused at the birth certificate. Those words again: ‘The Foundling Hospital’.

  He came out of Photos and typed the name into an internet search. The result told him the establishment had stopped functioning as an orphanage in the 1950s, but he could still visit ‘The Foundling Museum’ – next to the site of the original building – which was its successor of sorts. He checked the location… Bloomsbury… Russell Square was the closest tube station. Not far at all. Then he tapped the phone number on the screen. A male voice answered, chirpy and polite.

  Once again, Brook introduced himself and gave an overview of the situation. This time he gave all the details from Victor Watson’s birth certificate. Would a file exist from 1923? Would it have any family information? Most importantly, would it show if he had any siblings – either biological or in an adoptive family? Brook had definitely never gone back over ninety years to search for a next of kin. The fact he was doing so now showed just how little of himself Victor Watson was giving up.

  ‘Gosh. Well. It goes without saying, I would be more than happy to have a look for you, detective,’ said the voice at the other end. It had those hints of academia and friendly awkwardness that often go together. ‘Records were indeed kept for every child, though some have been lost over the years as a result of moving or accidents. Still, what remains has just been digitised by some diligent souls so, if anything is there, one should be able to find it without too much exertion. Are you nearby by any chance?’

  ‘Can be.’

  ‘Well, if you would like to drop by in, say, forty-five minutes, I’ll be more than happy to show you what we have.’

  ‘Perfect. Who should I ask for?’

  ‘If I’m not at reception, just say you’re here to see Theodore.’

  Great name, thought Brook. He was feeling a bit better about life as he settled the bill. Some wheels had been set in motion at least. The Polish waitress offered a ‘Thank-you-bye’; her pretty face and Slavic cheekbones still practising for that poker game.

  Chapter 10

  The Foundling Museum turned out to be a three-storey building with large sash windows and some ornate stonework giving a touch of grandeur. Brook approached it through Brunswick Square Gardens, one of the historic oases he had always liked about the capital. It wasn’t hard to picture strolling socialites of a bygone age discussing society scandal beneath parasols. No doubt secret liaisons between servant girls and their masters had accounted for some of the babies left on the Foundling Hospital’s steps (there were probably plenty of foundlings with half-siblings in the House of Lords).

  Raucous cheering from the AstroTurf football pitches that now adjoined the square brought an end to the train of thought. The strolling socialites had surely never had to contend with heated five-a-side matches.

  Inside, a redhead at reception greeted the detective with a smile.

  ‘Hi. I’m here to see Theodore. The name’s Brook.’

  ‘Ah, yes. He did mention you,’ came the reply. ‘I think he’s still fetching that information you asked for, but feel free to have a look at the permanent display and I’ll send him your way.’

  Brook followed her directions to a series of exhibits telling the story of the Foundling Hospital from its creation in 1739 for ‘the education and maintenance of exposed and deserted young children.’ One glass cabinet in particular caught his eye – a mix of buttons, brooches and assorted trinkets left with abandoned children as an identifier…

  ‘Each child accepted by the hospital was given a new name; if a relative later claimed a child, the tokens helped prove the claim was genuine’.

  He found himself staring at the items, each one a sad little tale that would never be known. The entirety of the end wall was covered in names given to the new arrivals. They ranged from the commonplace (John Gower), to the eccentric (Nancy Lovely) and the frankly criminal (Norman Conquest and Julius Caesar).

  ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting.’

  Brook recognised the voice from their phone conversation. He turned to see a friendly-looking man in his sixties with a shock of white hair and an open-collared floral shirt. It all reminded him of a British version of Doc from Back To The Future. Maybe he could jump in the DeLorean and sort out a new name for poor Norman Conquest
.

  ‘Theodore?’ enquired Brook, extending a hand.

  ‘Indeed. I’ve been neglecting you, I’m afraid,’ said Theodore, shaking it.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve been having a look around. Some interesting names.’

  ‘Ah yes. As if the poor mites didn’t have a hard enough start in life. So, did you like the displays?’ He waved an arm towards everything Brook had walked past to that point.

  ‘Very good,’ said Brook, feeling a little bad that Theodore’s enthusiastic smile dipped a bit at his generic answer. He tried to recover. ‘Did I read the original building was where those AstroTurf football pitches are now?’

  ‘Quite right,’ confirmed Theodore, smile restored. ‘Completed in 1752, sadly demolished in 1926. After that, the children were moved to a nunnery in Surrey and then to a new site out in Hertfordshire in 1935. It was thought the country air would be good for their little lungs. All that remains of the original building is the entrance gates, but if you go back through Brunswick Square and bear left you’ll bump into them. I always find it amazing to think what they’ve seen.’

  ‘I’ll make sure I do that.’

  Theodore nodded his approval. For a moment, the conversation dried up. Brook saw his host was carrying a few crisp sheets of A4 paper.

  ‘Is that the−’

  ‘Goodness, yes, sorry. Completely forgot the purpose of your visit for a moment there.’ He gave a little chuckle and raised himself on the balls of his feet.

  ‘Thanks for helping me with this,’ said Brook, though he imagined Theodore had probably rather enjoyed the task.

  ‘Actually, I’m the one who should be thanking you,’ replied the older man. ‘You seem to have stumbled across one of the most fascinating cases I’ve seen for a long time.’

  Brook wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad news.

  ‘Maybe we should sit down,’ suggested Theodore, ‘and all will be revealed.’

  He made the last remark with a playful hint of drama. Brook wondered what it must be like to be that happy at work. He followed Theodore past some TV screens showing old Foundlings talking of their memories and into a grand room with several immense oil paintings.

  ‘Please,’ said Theodore, inviting Brook to sit on one of the chairs around the edge. He took a seat next to the detective and held Victor Watson’s file between them – the dense cursive writing reminded Brook of the birth certificate and POW record he’d been looking at earlier.

  ‘Victor Watson,’ began Brook’s host, jabbing a finger onto the text. ‘Remarkable.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, by 1923 things had moved on a great deal with the way babies were accepted into this place. Rather than the earlier practice of little bundles being left on the steps, a mother had to make a formal application, be interviewed, provide references and be shown to be of good character. Then arrangements were made for the handover of the child. Plenty of applications were rejected, in fact. It wasn’t the open door policy of the early days.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Brook. He was waiting for a but…

  ‘But Victor’s mother appears to have paid no heed to that whatsoever. It’s really quite astounding that the child should have been accepted at all.’

  ‘So why was he?’

  ‘Well…’ Theodore’s finger traced some of the writing to remind himself of the details. ‘He was left on the steps of the Foundling Hospital on the morning of Saturday, 28th April 1923 – the date you told me was on the birth certificate.’

  Brook thought that might explain the asterisk. An official date of birth rather than an actual one. His host continued…

  ‘It just happened to be the day of the first ever FA Cup Final played at Wembley Stadium. Bolton Wanderers versus West Ham United.’

  ‘Interesting. Why would that change anything?’

  ‘Good question,’ said Theodore, raising an index finger then returning it to the page. He was in his element. ‘It would appear the little fellow was wrapped in a West Ham scarf amongst other things. Could have been Aston Villa, I suppose, but a bit far perhaps. In any case, the staff took it to be West Ham and looked upon him as something of a curiosity, you see − like finding a little mascot on their doorstep on Cup Final day. They seem to have bypassed the new admission process and even named him after West Ham’s star striker – Vic Watson.’

  ‘Two hundred and ninety-eight league goals,’ said Brook.

  ‘I… Goodness, that’s very impressive knowledge… I can see that young Victor weighed six pounds when he arrived here and was estimated to be two weeks old.’ His finger traced some more text. ‘No additional information could be obtained from the mother who was seen running away. And that’s about it for his arrival. He moved with the Foundling Hospital when it went to Surrey, and again when it went to Hertfordshire. Left in 1939 aged sixteen. You can see the final entry here…’

  He pointed to a note written in a different hand and lighter ink:

  ‘Mdx Reg?’

  ‘Middlesex Regiment,’ said Brook. ‘Like on his POW record.’

  ‘Indeed. So that’s it. No mother ever came back. He was never adopted out, no mention of any siblings. Probably not much use to you, I’m afraid. Even if such an unusual case is rather exciting for an oddball like me.’

  Brook shrugged. ‘It was always a long shot. Do you think I could have a copy of all that for the Coroner anyway? It can’t hurt.’

  ‘Of course. I’ll meet you in reception with it.’

  The pair stood up and Theodore made his way to the exit.

  ‘Just before you do that,’ said Brook, ‘how about those trinkets that some of the babies were left with? Like in your cabinet through there. Did he have anything like that when he arrived?’

  ‘I rather doubt it,’ said Theodore. ‘That practice had died out far earlier.’

  Nevertheless, he held the pages close enough to read and delved back into the impenetrable writing. After a few moments, he gave a loud ‘Ha!’ and looked up.

  ‘I can’t believe I missed it. Gosh, this admission really was a throwback.’

  ‘He had something?’

  ‘He did indeed. And it might explain why they chose a player named Victor to name him after. It seems the baby was left with a keepsake bearing the motto ‘Ad Victoriam’. That would mean To Victory in Latin.’

  ‘What type of keepsake was it?’

  ‘It’s described as a gold-coloured medal.’

  ‘Like a big gold coin?’

  ‘Yes, if you like. Like a big gold coin.’

  Brook’s pulse went up a notch. He could hear the Lumberjack’s voice in his head.

  ‘Would he have kept it when he left?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s such an unusual case. I can only say it’s possible.’

  The corners of Theodore’s smile dipped once again as he struggled to make sense of the distant look in the detective’s eyes.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.

  ‘I need to find Judas Iscariot,’ said Brook.

  Theodore’s smile returned as if he had just heard the most normal thing in the world.

  ‘Judas… Iscariot…’ he repeated, walking past Brook and squinting at the far wall with all the outrageous names… ‘Now, whereabouts is he?’

  Chapter 11

  Sunday, 15th April 1945

  Stalag IV-B, Mühlberg, Germany

  Victor Watson stood as close to the outside world as he dared and stared out through wire mesh at the surrounding fields and distant line of trees. The grey sky and flat landscape were each competing to be more featureless than the other. Escape was not an option. At least not by conventional means. The single wire in front of his shins was still twenty yards from the barbed wire-covered perimeter fence. One step over it and the sentry in the nearest watchtower would put a bullet in him before he even reached the impenetrable main barrier. He had seen it happen twice before, though neither could exactly be called an escape attempt.

  The first poor fellow had si
mply cracked. A young Ulsterman. He went charging across the little ‘no man’s land’ and, already full of bullets, flung himself into the tangle of razor wire at the foot of the main fence. The coup de grâce had been horribly long in coming – the guards wanting to make sure his helpless cries were heard by as many of the inmates as possible.

  The second transgressor was a Polish chap. Having not eaten for days, he put one foot over the wire to try and reach a wild strawberry that was growing in the mud. The end result was the same. He died with the tiny fruit in his hand and a bullet in his head. This was Victor’s world. It had been for the past one year, two months and four days. Some poor sods had been here three or four times as long.

  He looked up at the sentry in the nearest watchtower and raised a hand of greeting. The German stared back, motionless. Then Victor tilted his raised hand forward and tapped an imaginary watch on the back of his wrist. Not long now, Fritz, old chap. The end of the war was coming and they both knew it.

  Behind Victor a heaving throng of his fellow prisoners was facing the other way, absorbed in a football ‘international’ between POWs from Wales and Scotland. The dirt pitch was set back from the rows of overcrowded huts that formed Main Street in this ramshackle city of misery. Most prisoners of other nationalities had picked a side to support, though a number of Englishmen preferred to pour scorn on both teams. A Frenchman was refereeing while a Dane and Ukrainian performed linesman duties with flags made from sacking.

  The match itself was not high on skill, but nobody watching seemed to mind. If they focused on the general ebb and flow of play, and lost themselves in the cheers, jeers and cigarette smoke, then – just for a moment – they were back at the football grounds of their youth with fathers, brothers and uncles. What they would give for a half-time pie and Bovril now. The simple pleasures of free men.

  One of the spectators in the back row glanced over his shoulder and saw Victor tapping his imaginary watch. He peeled away from the crowd.