Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  The officer reached down to another drawer and produced a bottle of Scotch and two tumblers. He cradled the bottle in one hand as he examined the label.

  ‘Six years old,’ he said with evident disappointment. ‘The deprivations of war.’

  He poured two generous measures and slid one across the polished mahogany to Victor.

  ‘As I was saying. This letter is good news for both of us. We should have some toast.’

  ‘Raise a toast,’ corrected Victor.

  ‘Of course. Raise a toast.’

  Victor glanced down at the glass then back at von Eberstein.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ he said, sliding the tumbler back.

  The Nazi retrieved the glass from the middle of the desktop – the limit of Victor’s half-hearted push – and swirled the amber liquid under his nose before closing his eyes, downing it and smacking his lips. As his eyes opened, he caught Victor looking at the empty glass.

  ‘Oh, I think you drink,’ said the SS officer. ‘A smoke, perhaps?’

  A packet of cigarettes followed the same polished route as the tumbler. Victor trapped it beneath his left hand just before it toppled off the edge. He thought for a moment, then took a cigarette and placed it in the breast pocket of his army issue shirt.

  ‘Maybe later,’ he said, sliding the packet back.

  ‘Very well,’ said von Eberstein. ‘How did you lose the finger?’

  He nodded at the hand with which Victor had trapped the cigarettes.

  ‘Mousetrap,’ replied Victor, since he had no wish to discuss the events of that day. As soon as he heard himself say the word, he wondered if he might be in one right now.

  The Nazi gave a broad smile. Then it became even broader. He gazed at Victor’s left ear and tilted his head, examining the missing section, now beaming with delight.

  ‘I have a joke!’ he announced, swirling the whisky in his tumbler faster. ‘I have a good one!’

  Victor nodded. Von Eberstein seemed to be bursting at the seams of his uniform to get this joke out into the open.

  ‘So… So… If you lost your finger in a mousetrap, then perhaps you also lost your ear in the same mousetrap because you crawled in to try and eat the cheese like a big mouse. No, wait. Like a big, English mouse. Who is in mouse prison.’

  Victor grimaced.

  ‘You don’t like my joke?’

  ‘Maybe it’s the delivery.’

  Chapter 16

  Friday, 22nd April 2016

  North London

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Ello..? Is that..?’

  ‘Hello..? Hang on a second…’

  Brook pushed his way through the crowded bar to the exit.

  ‘Hi. Sorry about that. Just had to step out of a noisy pub.’

  ‘Oh, that’s much better. Is that Brook?’

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘It’s Debbie from Peak View Care Home.’

  ‘Debbie. Hi.’

  ‘I just thought I’d give update on who your Victor might’ve rung. We’ve been running a right little detective agency ’ere.’

  Brook looked back through the window of the Hen & Chickens. He had been just about to order a second pint. It would take a while now.

  ‘So, have you cracked the case yet?’ he asked.

  It seemed like the sort of private eye language Debbie would appreciate.

  ‘Well, not quite. But I think we’re dead close.’

  ‘That’s great.’

  The detective was finding it hard to match her enthusiasm having mentally checked out once the first pint went down.

  ‘We’re down to three possibles,’ continued Debbie.

  ‘Are they holding out against your questioning?’

  ‘Ha! As if. More to do with dementia, poor souls.’

  Brook closed his eyes and tapped the phone against his forehead.

  ‘All three of them?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, just two, actually. Third one were tekken sick yesterday with racing pulse – like a panic attack – so I’ve not had chance to ask him. But I think he were in army from what someone said. Doctor finally gave him something today and he’s been proper zonked out.’

  ‘No dementia?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Just bit of a sad case, really. His son dropped him off a year ago. Off to live in Canada he were. And I know his wife died not long before. But he’s not had any visitors and he says that little I couldn’t even tell you where he grew up. Just spends whole time looking out across gardens at back, poor chap.’

  ‘So three possibles.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Well, you’ve done far more than I could have hoped for, Debbie.’

  ‘Ooh, I’m not finished yet. Reckon I’ll ’ave it down to just the one by tomorrow. Like one of them murder mystery weekends.’

  ‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’

  Brook gave his thanks and hung up, unsure what to think. Was anyone really going to know or care why Victor Watson called Peak View Care Home? And, even if they did, was it going to be of any relevance to anything? A part of him wondered if he was just wasting Debbie’s time (even if she did seem to be enjoying it).

  On another note, he had – to his own surprise – been dragged out of the negative mindset that had begun to settle on him. He looked back into the Hen & Chickens once more… then set off walking in the opposite direction.

  Not for the first time, some deep-set part of his mind had been working away at a riddle without him really thinking about it. That name… ‘Judas Iscariot’. Why had the biblical character been in the Lumberjack’s head?

  With the light starting to fade, Brook approached St Mary Magdalene Church with a new purpose. In a rear corner of the building were glazed double doors with vertical bar handles – the only nod to modernity. Brook rattled them both… Nothing. Moving to the front of the church, he yanked on the ancient main doors, turning a ring handle this way and that… Nothing again.

  Undeterred, he continued his route round the building, scanning the walls for another entry point. Three quarters of the way along the more secluded flank he found it – steps leading down to a door at basement level. The old door was small (the sort that always generates the comment ‘People were much shorter in those days’). More importantly, it was ever so slightly ajar.

  A few moments later, Brook found himself emerging into the main body of the church. What was it called again? The nave? The lights were on, though the place seemed empty. Above him, the undecorated windows felt just as bleak from the inside as the outside.

  Perhaps to make up for it, enormous Bible-themed tapestries were hanging on the walls, like an art display from Gulliver’s Travels. Brook noticed one bearing the image of a hunched villain carrying a bulging purse. He was fairly confident it contained thirty pieces of silver… Judas Iscariot.

  The detective looked over the pews to the back of the silent church. It was dimmer back there. Either a light had not been switched on or a bulb was out. But there was definitely a figure.

  Brook took out his phone, selected the flashlight and advanced towards the shadows.

  ‘Hello?’

  No answer.

  Then he could see him. Sitting in the rearmost pew.

  Long hair… Big beard…

  Dressed like a lumberjack…

  ‘Hello, mate,’ said Brook, aiming for light and friendly. The Lumberjack glanced his way then went back to looking straight ahead. Maybe he didn’t remember him. After a few more seconds of Zen-like stillness, the homeless man reached out a hand and smacked the pew hard, twice. The sound bounced around the empty church. Brook waited for some territorial utterance in that piratical Cornish. Something along the lines of ‘My bench!’. It never came.

  ‘Sit down, officer,’ said the Lumberjack.

  Now that was unexpected.

  Brook overruled his nostrils and accepted the offer.

  ‘How’s the head?’ he enquired.

  The older man lifted up a curta
in of dark hair and felt around for the injury, his thick fingers finally settling upon a bump and two stitches.

  ‘How’s it look?’ he asked. The accent was still there, the voice gruff and the words a little slow. But the slurring and stuttering had disappeared. Brook pulled a sympathetic face.

  ‘That’s your modelling career gone.’

  The Lumberjack let the curtain of hair flop back; the hint of a smile on his bearded cheeks.

  ‘Well, this certainly beats your last bench,’ said Brook, taking in their surroundings.

  ‘Can’t stay this late most days. Vicar’s doin’ some work in the office.’

  ‘You spend a lot of time in here?’

  ‘Much as I can, I s’pose. Longer I’m sittin’ in here, longer I’m not drinkin’ out there.’

  Brook was grateful to the vicar for working late. It seemed he had caught the Lumberjack at one of his better times.

  ‘We didn’t give you a fair hearing earlier,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  It was met with a shrug and an indirect answer.

  ‘I was wondrin’ if you’d be back.’

  ‘So, how’s your memory?’

  ‘I remember your friend, all right. One who said I was full of… nonsense.’ He turned to Brook. ‘Not comin’ here, is he?’

  ‘No. I’m on my own.’

  ‘Good.’ The Lumberjack nodded as if to confirm it. ‘I’m very good at turnin’ the other cheek, but… I might just have to knock his block off first.’

  Brook smiled. Without the combined influences of extreme inebriation and DS Kev Padmore, they seemed to be getting on okay.

  ‘Adam,’ said the Lumberjack, extending a chunky-fingered hand.

  ‘Are you just picking another Bible name?’ asked Brook, shaking it.

  ‘Not this time.’

  The handshake was firm. He was strong and stocky for a homeless person. All the same, Brook suspected the name ‘Adam’ was never going to replace ‘the Lumberjack’ in his mind.

  ‘So… What are the chances of you telling me what you saw and I’ll listen properly this time?’

  The Lumberjack wiped some non-existent dust from the back of the pew in front, as if clearing the way for a fresh start…

  ‘Church had closed pretty early. Never good news for me. I’d been drinkin’ on the street but I made it to that bench. Laid out some papers and stuff, case it rained, then got my head down.’

  Brook nodded. Bench theory confirmed.

  ‘And then I s’pose I was aware of folk nearby. You get into a lot of scrapes out there so your senses are always kind of up, even when you’re smashed. It was the voice that did it, mind. Close enough I thought it was in my own head at first.’

  ‘What was said?’

  ‘He called out… He said… said…’

  Brook felt a moment’s anxiety. The old hesitancy was returning. Then he broke through it.

  ‘He said ‘Victor’. What was it? ‘Victor Watson’. Yep. Full name. Enough to make me open my eyes, anyway. Then there they are. Standin’ in front of each other. And pretty much in front of me.’

  Brook heard the clunk and scrape of a heavy door opening behind the pulpit. A fresh-faced man with curly hair, grey jumper and a dog collar appeared. He put a shielding hand over the top of his eyes and peered into the shadows at the far end.

  ‘Everything okay, Adam?’ he asked.

  ‘All good, thank you, Rev. Just helpin’ the local bobby.’

  ‘Right you are. Remind me to get that light fixed.’

  Brook gave a wave.

  ‘What happened then?’ he asked.

  ‘The old man said something ’bout how he knew why the other fella was there, or what he was up to. Something like that. Then he asked if he could smoke.’

  Brook cast his mind back to the scene. He hadn’t noticed any cigarette butts.

  ‘I s’pose that’s when it all started goin’ a bit weird,’ said the Lumberjack.

  He was glancing up and down to his left – a sign of recollection rather than invention if you believed the theory – as if watching the events play out on a big screen projected from his mind.

  ‘It looked like the young fella tried grabbin’ the old man’s cigarettes. But then this thing falls to the ground, and it ain’t cigarettes. It’s a knife. Sticks right in on its end.’

  Brook leaned forward and ran a hand over his stubble.

  ‘I told you it started goin’ weird,’ said the Lumberjack.

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well… I prob’ly miss a bit ’cos I’m staring at this knife. But the young fella shoves his hand in the other’s jacket and pulls out this gold thing. Medal. Medallion. Whatever you wanna call it.’

  ‘You called it a big gold coin this morning.’

  ‘Did I? That does the job. So I’m listenin’ again now, and the young fella asks why he still carries it. And he says something ’bout second chances in life.’

  ‘His keepsake from the orphanage,’ said Brook, moving the jigsaw pieces around in his mind.

  ‘And then the younger fella says ‘I got a message for you’.’

  ‘A message?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  ‘Did you hear it?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well, what was it?’

  ‘He said ‘Fiona wants this back’.’

  ‘Fiona?’

  ‘I told you it was weird.’

  ‘So who’s Fiona?’

  ‘How the h… How should I know?’

  ‘And you definitely didn’t mishear?’

  ‘I’m not gonna mishear that. Was my wife’s name.’

  The Lumberjack sensed Brook’s hesitation over whether to enquire and saved him the trouble.

  ‘Well… Would you stay married to this?’

  The detective couldn’t think of what to say, so carried on.

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘The end. Young fella sweeps him up, slams him against the stone. Bang.’

  For all that Brook had started to imagine this was how Victor Watson’s life had ended – in some distant, abstract way – it still felt shocking to hear it from an eyewitness.

  ‘Shit,’ he said, completely forgetting where he was. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘You need to slow down,’ said the Lumberjack. ‘Or you’ll miss something.’

  The comment took Brook by surprise, shifting the dynamic between the two. He had been convinced he was running this show – winning the Lumberjack’s confidence and directing his recollections. Now he realised the other man was far more than a hapless witness in need of guidance. He had a total grasp of everything that was going on.

  ‘The whisky,’ said Brook, suddenly aware of what he had nearly missed.

  The Lumberjack nodded his approval.

  ‘From his own jacket pocket. Poured some over the old man, then stuck it under his hand.’

  Those fine single malts in Victor Watson’s drinks cabinet… the little voice in Brook’s head had been right. The Lumberjack carried on.

  ‘So, by now I’ve seen enough of this. Adrenalin’s cuttin’ right through the booze. I go to get up and… That’s the last I remember.’

  ‘You banged your head on the bench,’ said Brook.

  ‘Think so.’

  ‘The blood’s still there.’

  ‘Next thing the rain’s wakin’ me up. Comin’ through the newspapers. Drippin’ on me. And these officers are takin’ down the tape like nothing’s happened. One’s even eatin’ a chocolate bar. I wasn’t havin’ that, so I just… sort of… crawled out and threw myself to make ’em stop.’

  ‘You did well,’ said Brook, feeling a fresh embarrassment at the way they had treated him. The Lumberjack let his eyes settle on the pew in front.

  ‘Anyway. There you go,’ he said with a hint of a sigh.

  The two men fell into silence as Brook processed all the new information. And there was a lot to process. It was the detective who spoke first.

 
‘Look, if there’s any way you could make a formal statement about this, then I could get Homicide to take on the whole investigation.’

  ‘Not you then?’ asked the Lumberjack, still staring at the back of the pew.

  ‘I’m not with Homicide.’

  ‘And if I don’t make a formal statement?’

  ‘Then I guess it stays with me.’

  ‘I want it to stay with you. I don’t like coppers. You seem all right.’

  ‘Look… Adam… They’ve got the resources, the budget, the expertise.’

  ‘I want you to do it,’ said the Lumberjack flatly. ‘If makin’ a statement means it goes to them, I’m not makin’ a statement.’

  Brook decided to move on quickly from the impasse. There was one question he had deliberately been putting off because he knew a part of him would stop listening to anything else once he had the answer. But now was the time.

  ‘What did the younger man look like?’ he asked.

  The Lumberjack looked up.

  ‘I was wondrin’ when you’d get to that.’

  ‘Sometimes you have to slow down or you miss things,’ said Brook.

  The Lumberjack seemed to like hearing his own words repeated back to him.

  ‘Short brown hair. Tallish. Forties, I s’pose. White, but he’d had the sun on him. Looked strong. Picked the old man up like he was nothing.’

  ‘What about his clothes?’

  ‘Pale trousers and a navy kind of jacket. Like a blazer.’

  Bingo.

  Brook took out his phone, went into Contacts and tapped a brief text to a friend in Forensics.

  ‘Hi Marie. Favour to ask. Are you on lates? Brook.’

  Then he pulled out Danny-the-barman’s statement and dialled the mobile number on the back.

  ‘Hello?’ The familiar Aussie accent. A noisy bar in the background.

  ‘Danny. Brook Deelman. Don’t put any more bottles in that wheelie bin. I’m coming back.’

  ‘Okay, mate.’

  It was too loud to talk any further.

  Brook put a hand on the pew in front and pushed himself upright, his mind already lining up the next steps of the reborn investigation.

  ‘Maybe it’s for the best that you knocked yourself out rather than confronting him,’ he said.