by Ed Church
The wrought iron swirls of the back of the bench, the weave of twigs and foliage behind – it was just too much of an obstruction. Brook stood back up. Maybe Kev had been right about this guy being full of shit. But that detail he had mentioned about someone stealing Victor’s ‘big gold coin’. Could it be coincidence? Maybe. Though Brook’s natural suspicion of coincidences hadn’t changed.
He looked again at the tomb, barely fifteen feet away, then down at the bench. And, this time, beneath the bench. The ground was covered with bark chippings. He forced himself into another crouch and pressed a flat palm onto them. Dry, a little spongy, with a firmer base of compacted earth beneath. Then he stared at the newspapers on the bench, still showing the crumpled signs of drying out from an earlier soaking.
He silently berated himself for taking so long to realise it. The Lumberjack hadn’t been lying on the bench at all. He had been under it – the bark chippings his mattress, the newspapers and magazines his flimsy roof against any showers in the night.
The detective got down on his hands and knees and observed the tomb from the new angle. The dense foliage of the bushes didn’t reach all the way down to the ground. It stopped about ten inches shy. The only obstacles now were the sporadic… what were they? Trunks? Legs? Do bushes have legs? Brook’s botanical vocabulary was letting him down. More importantly, however, the line of sight to the tomb was clearer. Much clearer. Yes, if the Lumberjack had been lying beneath this bench when Victor Watson met his demise, he may have had an excellent view.
Before he stood up, something else caught Brook’s eye. A few drops of something that looked like blood. He wasn’t sure how it fitted into the grand scheme of things (had the Lumberjack already had that head wound when he was lying here?). Brook took two photos on his phone – one of the tomb from the new vantage point and one of the blood-like substance. Then he clicked himself upright.
‘Stems,’ he said to himself. ‘They’re called stems, you idiot.’
One more quick scan of the grounds. No Lumberjack. He looked at his watch – 5.55pm. Time to get to The Junction and speak to Danny about their CCTV.
Brook guessed the barman in front of him was about a dozen years his junior – early to mid-20s. Black jeans, black polo shirt and that tousled, blond, beach look that left him in no doubt he was about to hear an Australian accent.
‘Danny?’ said Brook, extending a hand.
‘That’s right, mate,’ came the reply. There it was.
‘DC Brook Deelman,’ said the detective, flipping open his warrant card. ‘I hear you’re the man to talk to about CCTV.’
‘I’ll definitely see what I can do. I take it you’re a rugby man with an accent like that?’
Brook smiled at the way they had both instantly profiled each other.
‘Armchair fan these days,’ he replied.
‘Well, plenty of comfy chairs and cold beer here when there’s an international on. Normally a decent atmosphere too.’
‘Sounds like heaven,’ said Brook, and meant it.
‘Only when the Wallabies win,’ smiled Danny.
Common ground established, they were soon crammed into a narrow office marked ‘Staff Only’ – scribbled rosters and Polaroid party photos pinned to the wall around an old computer monitor. A few clicks of the mouse brought up last night’s footage from the camera above the main entrance. As the images rewound in the search for Victor, a steady stream of customers began walking backwards into the pub with jerky double-speed movements. The clock rolled back from 21:55 towards 21:52 – the time Jonboy had given for Victor leaving the pub and appearing on the nearest street camera.
‘Can I ask who we’re looking for?’ enquired Danny, as the reverse marching drill continued.
‘Old guy with a walking stick. Tweed suit.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yep. Do you know him?’
‘I think so. If it’s who I think it is.’
The clock retreated past 21:52 and into the 21:51 range. At 21:51:37, Victor Watson appeared on the screen, seeming to quick march back into the pub while tapping his stick on the ground.
‘There!’ said Brook, pointing.
Danny clicked Play and Victor’s speed and direction reverted to normal. He made his way steadily towards the main doors, leaning slightly on his stick with each step. The barman paused the footage as Victor passed beneath the camera.
‘This guy?’ he asked, making no attempt to hide his surprise.
‘That’s him,’ said Brook.
‘He’s your suspect?’
‘Not a suspect,’ said Brook. ‘He was found dead.’
Danny’s eyes settled back on the screen.
‘You’re kidding me.’
‘I take it you remember him then.’
‘Yeah, how could you forget that neck scar? Even spoke to him. How’d he die?’
‘I’m not entirely sure yet,’ replied Brook, choosing his words carefully. ‘Would you mind if I took a statement before we do anything else? Better if it’s your own recollection rather than influenced by CCTV.’
‘Course, mate… So do you think he was bumped off?’
Brook absorbed the question while smoothing out some statement forms from a jacket pocket.
‘It’s not being treated as suspicious,’ he said, keeping his eyes down. It seemed the easiest way to put it. Even if it did sound a little suspicious.
As it turned out, Brook was impressed by the younger man’s power of recall. He described in some detail the old guy’s physical appearance, adding that he hadn’t appeared drunk, that he wasn’t aware of him smelling of whisky, and that, as far as he could tell, he had arrived and left on his own. Brook scribbled it all down in note form to write up neatly at the end. But it was the conversation between the two that interested him most.
‘So, I made some kind of comment about how he was really getting through the beers and he goes: ‘It’s my birthday’. So I say: ‘That’s great. How old are you?’ and he holds out his fingers – you know he only has half a pinky on his left hand, right? And he goes: ‘I lost count’.’
Brook caught up with his notes then wrote down two dates… 28th April and 21st April. The first was the date on Victor’s birth certificate – the day he was left at the Foundling Hospital in 1923. The second was the date on which Victor had told Danny it was his birthday. Fair enough. If he didn’t know the exact date he was born then maybe he had picked one. It was within a reasonable margin.
What’s more, it might explain the old report that had led them to Victor’s home address – the drunken singing shortly before midnight on 21st April 2005. A few too many birthday tipples, perhaps.
‘Sorry,’ said Brook, realising he had been staring at the dates while Danny sat in silence. ‘Carry on.’
‘So I asked him how he lost his little finger and he goes ‘Mousetrap’. So, obviously, I didn’t know if he was kidding. Then he starts laughing. I mean, I still didn’t know if he was kidding. Anyway, the crowd at the bar was getting pretty big at this point and my manager starts getting on my case for chatting so much. So I just say to the old guy something like ‘I hope you got lots of birthday cards’.’
‘And did he say anything to that?’
‘Yeah, he said he didn’t like cards. I mean, I guess you might not when you get to… Am I allowed to ask how old he was?’
‘Early nineties,’ said Brook.
‘Jeez… Anyway, then he headed back to his table with his pint and that was the last time I spoke to him. Didn’t really notice him again until he was leaving, a few minutes after the game.’
‘How about his accent?’ asked Brook.
‘I guess all I could say is it was kinda posh-sounding. English but… sort of old-fashioned? I remember thinking it sounded like actors in old movies.’
Brook’s eyes stayed down for a little longer as his notes caught up with the conversation.
‘Perfect,’ he said, leaning back. ‘This will take about twenty minutes for me to wr
ite up. Would you mind if I use this office?’
‘No, of course not, mate. Go for it.’
The detective was glad to be on his own again. He had a lot to consider. Like how someone who was ‘kinda posh’ ended up looking like a prizefighter. Quick-witted enough to make jokes about his finger, excellent at handling his drink, pretty steady on his feet… Wow, they had been so far off the mark with the idea of a shambolic, whisky-soaked drunk. Was that bottle of Tesco Value whisky beneath Victor’s hand even his? And if the Lumberjack had been right about the ‘big gold coin’ then what about that other, even stranger, comment he had made – that it was the old man who had the knife?
What the hell was that all about?
Chapter 13
A panic attack? Doctor recommends complete rest? No visitors? This wasn’t ideal. Not ideal at all. Why would a care home resident in his nineties be having a panic attack? Every day must be pretty much the same as the last, right?
He recalled the words...
‘Sorry, love. Doctor’s orders. ’Ee can’t do ’owt but rest fer’t time being.’
Debbie, her name was. Jesus, he needed a fucking interpreter to understand these people.
No, this could only mean one thing. The first target had spotted his surveillance and got a message to the second, who knew what was coming and was freaking out about it. And why wouldn’t he? The end was nigh. Very fucking nigh.
Not for the first time, he was cross with himself. It was bad enough that the first target had nearly pulled a knife on him. Now it felt like he had been outwitted all over again. A landline call, he imagined, since the first target didn’t seem to own a mobile phone. There was no denying it now – he had underestimated an opponent. Something he swore he would never do.
Look, it was a rush job from the start, he told himself. He would have taken more time and done it better had his contact in the police not been retiring in a few days. The contact was his safety net. His ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card if things went wrong. He always felt better operating in the UK with him there. Not that he would tell him that. He preferred to keep the balance of power between them a little more nuanced. As was only natural, when one man’s power was official and the other’s came from a willingness to take lives in the shadows.
Yet again, he tried to emphasise the positive. So… at least things were well set for tomorrow. Once the second target’s ridiculous panic attack was out of the way. And his cover story to the care home seemed to have been a success.
‘I’m the grandson of one of his old army friends… I’d love to meet him and discuss some of the stories my late grandad used to talk about…’.
The reply suggested that a meeting would be suitably facilitated.
‘Ooh, that would right cheer ’im up after all this funny panic business today.’
Only one other thing bothered him as he sat in the hire car and flicked through his phone for a hotel in which to spend the night. The words that ‘Debbie’ had uttered next.
‘Actually, you might be able to ’elp me since you mentioned army. D’you know if he were ever in Middlesex Regiment by any chance?’
He had feigned ignorance. But that question… Why the sudden desire to find out if the second target had served in the Middlesex Regiment? Someone had been asking questions. Someone was ‘getting involved’. He didn’t know who, and he didn’t like that.
He finished the tedious business of booking a room, then called his contact in the police. So who was it? Who was snooping around? ‘The idiot’ or ‘the drunk’? He waited for the return call, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, then answered on the first buzz... Ah, it was the drunk.
‘What’s his name?’
‘You don’t need to know his name.’
‘I didn’t say I need to know it. I want to know it.’
‘Look, he’s a serving police officer. You can’t just−’
‘Blah, blah, blah. What’s his name?’
‘Okay… it’s Brook Deelman.’
‘What kind of a stupid name is that?’
Chapter 14
In the end it was Danny who came looking for Brook. A pile of four or five neatly handwritten statement pages now lay on the desk. The detective was glued to the computer monitor. He looked at his watch as Danny came in.
‘Shit. Sorry. Completely lost track of time.’
‘No worries. Find anything interesting?’
‘Not sure.’
The barman pulled up a chair while Brook used the on-screen controls to select Camera 7 – a behind-the-bar view, looking out at the waiting customers.
‘What can you tell me about this guy?’ he asked.
Danny leaned in a bit closer. He was looking at a man in his mid-40s, dark brown hair cut short and sensible, a solid jaw and muscular neck beneath a navy blue sports jacket. The last man Victor Watson ever saw.
‘Blimey, not much. Served him once, I think.’
‘Can you remember his accent?’
‘Nothing specific. I guess we only said a few words. If you had to push me I’d say he was English-speaking, but not actually British. What’s the deal with this guy anyway?’
Brook had been asking himself the same thing. The answer, in terms of hard evidence, was ‘not much’. The man on the screen had entered shortly after Victor and taken a position slightly behind him (but so had a few others), he had sent some glances Victor’s way (a fairly common occurrence thanks to his scars), and he didn’t seem overly concerned by the action on the big screens (not that this proved anything). At a push, Brook would say he adjusted his position slightly when people stood between him and Victor. He had also left just after him, albeit along with plenty of others.
‘Just a feeling, I suppose,’ said Brook. It seemed a fair summary.
He looked a little closer. There was just something of the other about him. Was it his comportment? His clothes, maybe? This ‘smart casual’ get-up that made him look like he should be on a yacht. He just wasn’t entirely in his comfort zone. Someone in a strange place or a foreign country. A tourist, perhaps.
He let the image play. A member of staff that Brook was yet to meet placed a drink down on the bar and took payment from the Tourist.
‘That’s Craig, the manager,’ said Danny, pre-empting Brook’s question.
As Craig moved away, the drink was revealed as a bottle with a black and yellow label.
‘What’s that beer he’s drinking?’ asked Brook.
‘Well, I suppose you could call it beer. It’s one of those non-alcoholic ones.’
‘You sell many of those?’
‘Not that particular one. The other type sells a few – the Becks Blue. But this one? I’m not sure why we stock it, to be honest.’
‘Did he have the same when you served him?’
‘Yeah, the same. If I had to guess I’d say that Craig’s served him first and the bloke’s just asked for a non-alcoholic beer, so he’s flogged him the ones that don’t sell.’
Brook’s mind was already adding the non-alcoholic beer to the list of tiny details that aroused his suspicion. The implication was obvious. At least if you chose to see it that way. A man with a task to complete. A need to stay sharp and focused.
‘How many of those do you think you sold last night?’
‘When I re-stocked the fridge there were only four to replace.’
‘And you think he had..?’
‘Three, but the footage would show you for definite.’
‘Where do bottles go once they’re collected?’
‘First into a bottle bin at the end of the bar. Then that gets emptied into a big wheelie bin of bottles out the back when it’s full.’
‘And how often does that get collected?’
‘Once a week. Next time is tomorrow morning.’
Brook fell silent for a moment and rubbed his chin through the heavy, night shift stubble. He was thinking how that wheelie bin must be a forensic nightmare. All the bottles pushed together, dripping dregs o
ver each other, smearing fingerprints and mixing DNA.
‘You want to look at those bottles for prints or something, don’t you?’ asked Danny.
Brook smiled. His comment about it not being treated as suspicious had clearly worn thin. Yes, he was curious to find out who the Tourist was. But his curiosity was no match for the protocols he would have to overcome to get those bottles submitted to the lab. Without any other evidence against this guy, forensic tests would never be authorised.
‘Okay, listen,’ said Brook. ‘I know the bar must be filling up, but is there any chance you could burn this footage onto a disc for me while I make a quick call? And maybe just have a check of that statement and whack a signature at the bottom of each page if you’re happy.’
‘No worries,’ said Danny, putting a blank disc into the computer and whirring through some more key tapping and mouse clicking. ‘The police can compensate me when I get fired.’
Brook took out his phone. At some point in the last thirty seconds, it had dawned on him where the additional evidence to get those bottles submitted was going to come from. It was quite obvious now he had the answer. If the street CCTV on which he was waiting showed the same guy in the navy sports jacket entering the churchyard shortly after Victor, then it might just be enough to get the bottles he drank from analysed. Not enough for a charge on its own, of course. Let alone a conviction. But little steps were still progress.
Brook tapped on the number for the CCTV office while Danny worked away on the computer. He recognised the voice of the same civilian worker as earlier. Some guy called Steve.
‘DC Deelman! Good timing. I was just about to call. Have you picked up your disc?’
‘I didn’t even know it was ready.’
‘Well, in that case, someone must have picked it up with their own by mistake.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Brook, sarcastically. ‘Has anyone signed the book for it?’