Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  ‘No. I checked. The entry for your disc is blank.’

  Brook rolled his eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Look… Don’t worry about it. I’ll get Jonboy to do me another copy when he’s in tonight.’

  ‘Slight problem with that,’ said Steve. ‘That camera’s fucked.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Some point this afternoon.’

  ‘You’ll still have the thirty days of stored footage though, won’t you?’

  ‘By fucked, I mean fucked. Nothing.’

  Now even Danny was wincing at the overheard conversation.

  ‘How often does this happen to cameras?’ asked the detective.

  ‘Now and again. The whole system needs replacing, really. The fault has been logged.’

  Well, that’s wonderfully comforting, thought Brook.

  ‘So how many of them have gone wrong today?’ he asked.

  ‘This and one other. The one here, covering the building entrance.’

  ‘The one that might show who left with my disc.’

  ‘If you’re into conspiracy theories.’

  Brook fell silent. Right now I bloody am, he thought.

  ‘Anyway, sorry about that,’ added Steve. ‘It was only non-suspicious though, right?’

  Brook hung up. He had nothing useful to say to that. Sure, there would be other cameras on Holloway Road. Private cameras covering shops and apartment entrances. But a nice high overview that could trace Victor and any follower through the post-match crowds and show the key moment of them entering the churchyard one after the other? Highly unlikely.

  Danny had finished creating the disc of the pub’s footage (at least this one wasn’t about to go missing) and was busy reading his statement. Brook spent the time mentally running through the investigation so far…

  The crime scene was gone. The key witness was gone. The street CCTV was gone. And now any chance of submitting the bottles was gone too. Four missed tackles. Had it been a rugby match, he would be 28−0 down already. He had to find a way to start scoring points.

  The barman filled in his details on the statement and handed it over with the CD. Brook did his best to smile. Since ordering a pint from a witness seemed a tad unprofessional, he made his way over the road to the Hen & Chickens, forced his way through the Friday evening crush and drank at the bar. After a few big swigs, he was surprised to find himself having to suppress a laugh at his own investigation.

  Ignoring the fact he still hadn’t found a next of kin, what did he have to show for it all? Some footage of an unknown man drinking non-alcoholic lager and not paying much attention to the big screen sport. Well, naturally, the beer-guzzling, sports-mad, investigating officer had decided he must be the fucking culprit. How could a jury ever disagree?

  As Brook drained some more of his pint, his gaze settled on a blackboard showing a list of cocktails. The top one was clearly mocking him with the name ‘Smoking Gun’.

  In a crowded bar, DC Brook Deelman told a blackboard to fuck off.

  Chapter 15

  Sunday, 15th April 1945

  Stalag IV-B, Mühlberg, Germany

  Lance Corporal Victor Watson followed Oberst Lührsen towards the towering main gates of Stalag IV-B, uniformed guards flanking him all the way. With turret-like structures on either side, the gates looked like something from a medieval fortress (albeit, on this occasion, designed to keep the enemy in). The salutes thrown up by the guards as the colonel approached were crisp and quick, a world away from Blondie’s half-hearted effort.

  ‘Wohin gehen wir?’… Where are we going?… asked Victor as the small party was allowed to pass through.

  ‘Wir bringen dich zu von Eberstein’… We’re taking you to von Eberstein.

  The statement left him none the wiser.

  It was not the first time Victor had been back through the gates since his arrival. On two previous occasions he had joined work parties of prisoners, allowed out under heavily armed guard to labour in nearby fields. There were some who refused to take part – citing the principle of not working for the enemy – but Victor had decided that his lacklustre digging was unlikely to sway the course of the war, though the change of scene might just help preserve his sanity.

  Work parties were also the only realistic chance of escape for those who, unlike Victor, were interested in such a pursuit. The chances were slim, but not quite prohibitively so. It had been known for the odd prisoner – during a pre-planned disturbance by their pals – to slip away into undergrowth during the march back to camp. If the head count could then be fudged by way of further antics, and the escaper’s dog tags and papers conveyed back into camp by sleight of hand, then his identity could be taken up by a stooge and the escape kept secret. Even when initially successful, the ruse was often swiftly rumbled – the stooge thrown in the cooler and a hungry escaper quickly recaptured for similar treatment or worse. But there had still been a few successes.

  Outside the main gates, half a dozen large huts provided accommodation for the guards and officers who ran the camp. Far from luxury, but a thousand-fold improvement on the cramped, lice-ridden dwellings of the prisoners. Oberst Lührsen led the way to the furthest one.

  ‘Warte hier’… Wait here.

  He ascended the couple of steps to the door, knocked twice and entered. Victor heard the muffled sounds of a brief conversation before the door opened again and Oberst Lührsen beckoned him in. The space inside the hut was dominated by a large mahogany desk with a leather chair on either side. Third Reich themed pictures hung on the walls while, behind the desk, a man in Nazi uniform stood looking away from them, hands clasped behind his back.

  ‘Danke, Oberst’… Thank you, Colonel.

  Oberst Lührsen left the hut without a word. The man behind the desk switched to English.

  ‘Please. Take a seat, Lance Corporal.’

  The speaker was looking out of a small window that offered yet another version of the staple view. Featureless fields and a distant line of trees.

  ‘Not thinking of doing a runner, are you?’ asked Victor.

  ‘Hmm?’ replied the German, turning around.

  ‘Joke,’ said Victor, taking up the offer of a seat. A part of him wanted to stand defiantly, but he was still aching from his encounter with Blondie, and the padded leather chair – with a high back and arm rests – was practically begging him to enjoy a rare moment of comfort.

  ‘Of course. The famous British sense of humour. You know, I rather miss it,’ came the reply.

  The comment was an obvious cue for Victor to make further enquiries, so he made a point of saying nothing. After a moment, the German realised no question was coming, raised an eyebrow and took the leather chair opposite.

  The two men assessed each other in silence for a few seconds. The Nazi officer appeared to be no older than Victor – though the different ageing effects of personal wars made it hard to be sure. Slim to the point of sinewy, blue-eyed and clean-shaven, his hair was a touch fairer than the Englishman’s, though still a little off the Aryan ideal.

  The uniform was every bit as immaculate as Oberst Lührsen’s. Polished buttons, elaborate epaulettes and a host of shiny crests, emblems and chains around the chest area of the tunic. There was a rumour among the Allies that Nazi uniforms were the brainchild of a German theatre company. It was easy to believe.

  Victor’s gaze quickly settled on one particular part of the uniform – two angular letters on the collar. The classic double lightning strike. He was sitting in front of an officer of the Waffen-SS. The Nazi Party’s muscle. Hitler’s enforcers. Victor remembered a French prisoner telling him and Harry how ‘SS’ stood for ‘Sans Sentiment’. Since ‘Without Sentiment’ didn’t work in English, Harry had come up with his own version. ‘Sick Psychos’. It made people laugh every time he said it, so no-one had ever corrected him.

  ‘I am endlessly amazed by your capacity to laugh,’ said the SS officer. It took Victor a second to realise they had already been on
the theme of humour and his mind wasn’t being read. ‘Take this theatre that you have created in the camp. What other race of men, at its lowest point, decides to put all remaining energy into staging a comic performance?’

  He spoke excellent English, far more lightly accented than his compatriots.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. We can’t take all the credit,’ replied Victor, glancing up at a framed photo of a staring Hitler receiving his salute from a unit of grey, goose-stepping clones. ‘You give us so much material, we have to do something with it.’

  Von Eberstein’s roar of laughter was so unexpected it made Victor jump – the size of his lungs apparently belying his slim frame. Then he punched the air.

  ‘Yes! I love it.’

  The laughter continued to come in waves until he managed to compose himself, dabbing at the corners of his eyes. At last he was quiet again. Victor had no idea what to make of this fellow.

  ‘I believe Oberst Lührsen said your name was von Eberstein,’ he ventured, as the man opposite re-folded his tear-stained handkerchief.

  ‘Indeed,’ said von Eberstein, now smoothing down the front of his tunic, as if the laughter might have creased it.

  ‘May I ask your rank,’ said Victor.

  ‘SS-Sturmbannführer,’ came the swift reply, delivered with the sort of dramatic flourish that so many Nazi titles seemed to demand. ‘Do you have any more questions?’

  ‘I have three.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Where is Private Harry Wilson? What am I doing here? And how does an SS officer whose rank equates to Major have Oberst Lührsen running errands for him?’

  Von Eberstein took a deep breath, as if finally putting the laughter behind him. Then he was perfectly still. He smiled, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at the prisoner with a new intensity.

  ‘Interesting…’ he said. ‘Behind the jokes there is an alert mind.’

  Victor sat in silence, waiting for answers to his questions.

  ‘Well,’ said von Eberstein at last. ‘Your friend Wilson is not really my concern. But from what Oberst Lührsen tells me, he is on his way to the cooler for trying to start a riot.’

  ‘Good grief. And you say the British have a sense of humour?’

  ‘As for why you are here, I will come to that in a moment.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry.’

  ‘And as for me holding the hand whip over a higher rank…’

  ‘The whip hand,’ corrected Victor.

  ‘Of course. The whip hand. As far as that is concerned, it is what you might call a question of circumstance. When an army is on the brink of defeat, a hierarchy can become a little more… flexible. Would you not agree?’

  ‘If I’m ever in an army that’s on the brink of defeat I’ll let you know.’

  Von Eberstein smiled again. He had to admit he liked the Englishman’s spirit.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you can imagine that if two different ranks know that in a few weeks they will just be two unemployed civilians, then the dynamic can shift somewhat.’

  Victor continued to be impressed by the German’s level of English, though he was not in the habit of praising Nazis. Even those who accepted that the war was lost.

  ‘At that point,’ continued the SS officer, ‘everyone starts to think about life after the war. How they will survive. Their families. When a hierarchy is so weakened, what matters is not rank, but money.’

  ‘So, Oberst Lührsen is on your payroll?’ asked Victor.

  ‘In a manner of speaking. As are many others. I am more than happy for Oberst Lührsen to be the official head of this camp, but in reality – the only reality that matters – people answer to me.’

  ‘And is it money that explains your young age and impressive rank? Even if rank is now meaningless, of course.’

  The SS-Sturmbannführer allowed a half-smile at the Englishman’s irreverence.

  ‘Money and connections, you might say. Perhaps you know of my uncle? Obergruppenführer Friedrich Karl von Eberstein. One of the founders of the SS and a personal friend of Himmler.’

  ‘Lucky him.’

  Stony-faced silence replaced the half-smile as von Eberstein realised the conversation about his uncle had come to an abrupt end. He had expected a reaction somewhere between interest and respect – maybe even awe – rather than mockery and dismissal.

  ‘So am I allowed to know why I’m here yet? The suspense is killing me,’ said Victor, rather regretting his choice of words.

  Von Eberstein leaned down to his left and opened a drawer, coming up with a manila envelope.

  ‘This is why you are here.’

  He removed a letter from the envelope and briefly showed it to the Englishman (typewritten text and some official stamps) before turning it back to read.

  ‘A direct order from SS-Brigadeführer Schwarzmann.’

  Once again, the dramatic title and name were delivered with the obligatory flair.

  ‘I am aware you speak some German, but allow me to paraphrase…’

  Victor nodded.

  ‘The Brigadeführer has seen a roll-call of the camp and noticed your name on it… He is concerned that you are a person of ‘cultural significance’… He instructs that you receive the same treatment as the most senior of captured officers… He goes on to describe your impressive achievements… Finally, he states this gesture should serve as an indication of the Third Reich’s continued belief in the great shared culture of the Anglo-Saxon race, in wartime and in peace.’

  Victor leaned forward and listened with a deepening frown – part concentration, part confusion. Finally, he was able to decode the pompous language.

  ‘He’s a football fan,’ he said. ‘He thinks I’m Vic Watson the footballer.’

  ‘Sehr gut!’ exclaimed von Eberstein. ‘I happen to know the Brigadeführer spent some time in England, at the same time as my family was living there, and had a liking for Western Ham United.’

  ‘West Ham United,’ corrected Victor, simultaneously absorbing the information that von Eberstein’s family had lived in England. ‘Well, I’m sure you can do the honours of telling the Brigadeführer he is mistaken and returning me to camp. Vic Watson the footballer must be in his mid-40s by now. I’m sure the war has aged us all, but you can see perfectly well I’m too young.’

  ‘Very well,’ said von Eberstein, delving back into the drawer and this time emerging with a fountain pen and writing pad. ‘I will reply to SS-Brigadeführer Schwarzmann and inform him of your exact date of birth.’ He hovered the pen over the writing paper and looked up at Victor with eyebrows raised.

  Victor opened his mouth to give the date on his birth certificate, then paused for a moment. Something about the way the question was worded. How would von Eberstein know that his ‘exact’ date of birth was a mystery?

  The German was clearly anticipating the hesitation.

  ‘No? So be it.’ He whisked the pad of paper from the desk and tossed it back in the drawer, slamming it shut. ‘Since I have no way of contradicting the Brigadeführer’s assumption, I will faithfully follow his orders.’

  Victor was getting an unsettling sense of secret games, hidden agendas.

  ‘Now what the blazes is going on here?’

  Von Eberstein leaned back and opened his arms wide like a welcoming host.

  ‘Please. You are not thinking properly. This is good news for everyone. In the days after the war, Herr Schwarzmann will be able to demonstrate to the occupying powers that he was generous towards the enemy. I will be able to demonstrate that I assisted in such kind deeds. And, if an innocent error of identification was made, then the spirit of the gesture remains the same. As for you? Well, you are able to enjoy much-improved living conditions and a touch more… humanity. The situation benefits us all, does it not?’

  Victor didn’t reply. He was trying to work out where the truth lay in this bewildering charade.

  ‘We all have to think of the future,’ added von Eberstein, going for a co-conspiratorial ton
e. ‘It is closer than many will admit. I imagine you will not have heard, but the great camp of Bergen-Belsen fell today.’

  ‘I think liberated is the word you’re looking for,’ said Victor.

  ‘Ah. Liberated. Of course. I must learn the new language for after the war.’

  They fell quiet again, Victor lost in thought.

  ‘Excellent,’ said von Eberstein, as if the prisoner’s silence was a tacit agreement. ‘Since we are now friends, I will tell you my favourite joke. Though I’m afraid it was not provided by an Englishman, but a Dutchman. An old, Jew-hiding Dutchman.’

  Victor sensed a subtle darkening in the Nazi’s expression despite the supposed subject matter of favourite jokes.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, his mind still on other things.

  ‘I was in his house. Ugly little house. And he was at my feet. Badly injured, of course. He was crying like a baby and he said: ‘Please. Just kill me. Let my family live’.’

  Von Eberstein’s eyes seemed to lose focus as he spoke, his mind drifting back to the pleading Dutchman. Re-living every moment.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s really a joke,’ said Victor, the chair no longer feeling quite as comfortable.

  A look of fury came over the Nazi’s face at having his daydream interrupted. He slammed a fist down on the desk, causing a low-level chatter outside to fade to perfect silence. The unfocused gaze had been replaced by something altogether wilder.

  ‘A Jew-hider making a request of an SS-Sturmbannführer? This is the biggest joke EVER!’

  As quickly as the anger filled the hut it vanished, replaced by a fond look of reminiscence.

  ‘Besides,’ he continued, calmly, ‘if it is not a joke, then why could I not stop laughing when I killed him last of all?’

  Victor felt a shiver rush down his spine – fight or flight hormones bouncing around with no outlet in the confines of his seated position. He clenched his jaw and waited for it to pass.

  Sick Psychos.

  ‘Or maybe you are right,’ said von Eberstein, shrugging. ‘I am sure I can find a better joke.’

  Victor realised his fingers had been digging into the arms of the leather chair and released his whitening knuckles before they were noticed. He was beginning to think he preferred the simple thuggery of Blondie to the unpredictable lunatic in front of him.