Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  ‘I have this funny feeling that I am doing most of the talking in our little chats,’ said von Eberstein. He drew deeply on his cigarette and fixed Victor with a blue-eyed stare as he exhaled the swirling white clouds.

  Victor met his gaze with an equally blue-eyed stare and exhaled his own swirling white clouds. The two mini weather fronts met above the desk and engaged in tumbling combat.

  ‘You forget how a poor diet has affected my memory, old chap. I’m sure if you just bring me up to speed on everything you’ve told me, I’ll be able to contribute a little more.’

  Von Eberstein took a sip of his whisky, then allowed a thin smile.

  ‘Very well. I will humour your request. On the understanding that, as a proud Englishman, you will honour your commitment to be more talkful.’

  ‘I will be more talkful,’ agreed Victor.

  ‘Well… In the past few days you have learned that the von Ebersteins are German nobility. That my father is a successful banker who moved the family to London in the early twenties. Which is also where I spent the first nine years of my life before our return to Berlin…’

  He took another long drag on his cigarette.

  ‘…You have learned that my uncle is Friedrich Karl von Eberstein. A double Iron Cross recipient from the Great War, senior member of the Nazi Party and great friend of Himmler. Oh, and when not fighting wars, also a banker like my father. You have learned that, thanks to a somewhat swift elevation through the ranks and impeccable connections, I have been able to pick and choose where I fulfil my SS duties, from Greece to Norway, before finding myself here. By choice, naturally.’

  ‘All the time reserving the worst of your punishment for the same three groups,’ said Victor. There was nothing wrong with his memory.

  ‘Sehr gut,’ said von Eberstein. ‘You remember – cowards, those who tell lies to the SS, and those who accept the humiliation of being a prisoner.’

  ‘So why am I still alive?’ asked Victor.

  ‘Well, unless you tell me which category you are in, I cannot say.’

  The two men observed each other through the smoke. A new smile came over von Eberstein’s face. He topped up his own tumbler, then filled the empty one with a triple measure before sliding it across the desk. It was sliding back to him less than a second later.

  ‘And how did you become such a bloody psychopath?’ asked Victor.

  The SS officer swirled the returned whisky, absorbed the aroma, then downed it.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure I am a classic case. A psychiatrist’s dream. Distant, super rich parents, an emotionally cold nanny… I have no doubt I’m a walking cliché.’

  Victor resisted the urge to point out that a lack of parents and affection in his own upbringing hadn’t turned him into a psychopath.

  ‘Now!’ announced von Eberstein with sudden enthusiasm. ‘You just asked two questions in a row… Why are you alive and why am I a psychopath… So we are having a conversation at last! If you are able to ask a third to re-enforce this new friendship, then you will earn yourself a reward.’

  Victor closed his eyes and pulled on the cigarette, wondering what type of madman was sitting across from him. Von Eberstein saw only a man thinking hard about his next question.

  ‘I’ll keep it simple,’ said the Englishman.

  ‘As you wish.’

  ‘What’s your full name?’

  ‘Ah! Just the question for pleasant chats. My full name is Karl Friedrich von Eberstein.’

  ‘I thought that was your uncle’s name… Himmler’s mucker.’

  ‘Why would you think that? Neither our first names, nor our second names are the same. You were obviously right about the poor diet affecting your memory.’

  ‘So what was his name?’

  ‘Friedrich Karl von Eberstein.’

  Victor descended into a hybrid cough-laugh on his cigarette, the spasms of his lungs creating bursts of white smoke around him.

  ‘I think you just made a joke,’ he said at last.

  ‘Excellent. Then we are making progress.’

  Victor managed to take a proper breath.

  ‘Progress towards what?’

  ‘Well, let me put it like this…’ said the Nazi, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette and leaning forward. Victor braced himself for some self-indulgent, philosophical claptrap.

  ‘The von Ebersteins have always had an ability to adapt and overcome. In wartime and in peace. What other family spent the time between two wars making a fortune in the capital city of the enemy?’

  ‘Congratulations,’ said Victor with heavy sarcasm.

  ‘And now, here we are once again. Just as in 1918, the British are about to find themselves at the head table. Master of ceremonies, do you say? The key to succeeding in post-war Europe for a man such as me will be understanding the Englishman, knowing how he behaves, how he thinks. And here I have a real live one in front of me to study. So, perhaps you understand my enthusiasm for our little situation.’

  ‘Well, your whole family sounds quite bonkers to me,’ said Victor, pricking the pomposity.

  ‘Many millions of pounds says quite the opposite,’ replied von Eberstein.

  ‘I wouldn’t know about that, old chap. An Englishman finds it rather poor form to discuss financial matters.’

  ‘Excellent advice! This is exactly what I am talking about. Thank you.’

  Victor frowned at his unintended assistance as he tapped the ash off his cigarette.

  ‘Come now,’ said von Eberstein. ‘I promised you a reward for three questions…’

  Reaching down to a drawer, he unlocked it and produced two items, tossing both onto the desktop. One was a rather tatty calendar. Victor didn’t pay much attention to that because the other was a gold medal. It bore the motto ‘Ad Victoriam’.

  Von Eberstein tried to read the prisoner’s expression as he looked at it.

  ‘The medal was in your possession when you were processed on arrival,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘I like it.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette, picked up the medal and turned it around in his fingers, examining it. The words were surrounded by a circular design of some sort – the delicate impression somewhat worn down. A ring of flames maybe? A laurel leaf crown? The two words were cut deeper and remained legible enough. It was a fair assumption it had started life as some kind of sporting prize.

  ‘I have a little cousin who collects medals like this. Normally better quality, of course,’ said von Eberstein, weighing it in his palm. ‘Still, I think she would like it. She actually has three medals from the Berlin Olympics. I mean to say, they were won by Jew athletes, so at least they have a proper home now. I wonder… does this mean a lot to you?’ He kept his head down, while raising his eyes to see the Englishman’s reaction.

  ‘I found it,’ said Victor, keeping his gaze off the medal to feign a lack of interest. Some kind of mind game was going on. He wasn’t about to give up any emotional ammunition.

  ‘How?’ came the instant reply, trying to trip Victor up.

  ‘Wadi Akarit. Tunisia. Forty-three. We were busy giving Rommel’s mob another sound thrashing and there it was in the sand. Couldn’t even say if it came from one of our chaps or one of the fleeing Hun. Seemed a shame to leave it behind.’

  ‘I see,’ said von Eberstein, placing the medal carefully on the calendar. For the first time Victor looked at this other item… February was on display and two dates were marked with red crosses – the 8th and the 17th. Victor recognised them.

  The dates of the last two escapes by prisoners out on work parties.

  On account of the improving news over the radio, there had been no escape attempts since, but these two had been celebrated as successes. A Scotsman and a Kiwi. As far as anyone knew, the Germans were unaware of their absence (and the fact they hadn’t been returned to camp suggested things might have gone well – maybe even a home run to Blighty).

  But here were the dates of their escapes staring back at Victor. He did hi
s best to give nothing away. As it happened, the Nazi wasn’t finished with the account of finding the medal.

  ‘You lied,’ said von Eberstein. ‘You told me a lie.’

  Victor said nothing.

  ‘I thought an Englishman was true to his word.’

  Silence.

  ‘Why is the Englishman lying to me, please? WHY?’

  He slammed a fist down on the mahogany desk. Victor narrowed his eyes.

  ‘An Englishman can make an exception for Nazis.’

  Von Eberstein leapt to his feet, sending his leather chair crashing backwards. He leaned over the desk, pounding it with his fist on every word.

  ‘LIE! LIE! LIE! LIE! LIE! LIE! LIE!’

  Victor tilted his chair back to avoid the worst of the whisky breath and waited for von Eberstein to stop. He had known bullies since his earliest memories of the Foundling Hospital. He had known them during basic training. And he had known them more than ever among his captors at Stalag IV-B. It had all left him with a thicker skin than most.

  When von Eberstein had grown tired, he stood upright, breathing hard. Victor let his front two chair legs return to the floor. After a few seconds, the SS officer turned, retrieved his own chair, righted it and sat down again.

  ‘Besides,’ said Victor. ‘I was telling the truth about giving your boys a good hiding in North Africa.’

  He knew he was pushing his luck.

  In keeping with von Eberstein’s total lack of predictability, he showed no reaction to the taunt. Or maybe he was just too tired from his tantrum. He was still breathing heavily as he spoke.

  ‘The medal was with you when you were left at the Foundling Hospital on 28th April 1923… The staff allowed you to have it when you were seven or eight and it has been on your person ever since… Until your capture and arrival at Stalag IV-B… For some reason you treasure it as the only link to the mother who abandoned you… And you have never had any intention to escape because you refuse to leave it behind… Now, perhaps when you consider my knowledge of your life, and my knowledge of recent escapes, you will be able to realise my source…’

  Victor’s heart quickened. There was only one explanation.

  ‘You’re torturing Harry,’ he said.

  Von Eberstein clapped his hands together and grinned.

  ‘Wunderbar! A true Sherlock Holmes! I prefer to say that Harry has been persuaded to talk.’

  Victor leaned forward to make his appeal.

  ‘Look, there’s no need. Whatever information you want about me, I’ll give it to you. You can let Harry go. Give the order.’

  ‘Your request is noted,’ said von Eberstein, cheerily.

  He put the calendar back in the drawer, slipped the medal and cigarettes into his tunic, and grabbed the whisky bottle. It was considerably lighter than when he’d arrived. Then he stood up with a broad smile and dusted down the front of his immaculate uniform with his free hand.

  ‘Tomorrow, I will return. And we will have a chat about whatever I wish to talk about to explore the English mind. And your performance, and your honesty, will be better. I am sure. Lance Corporal Watson.’

  SS-Sturmbannführer von Eberstein walked round the desk, past Victor, and over to the hut’s door. He paused just before reaching it.

  ‘Ah! I almost forgot to say. A different guard will deliver your food tomorrow. I caught that lying old man trying to hide a tin of peaches in his pocket and had to discipline him. He offered the absurd defence that you gave it to him.’

  ‘I did,’ said Victor.

  ‘Really? Amazing. You see? Even now I am learning about the Englishman’s strange ways.’

  He opened the door.

  ‘If he survives his injuries I will give my apologies.’

  Chapter 22

  Saturday, 23rd April 2016

  North London

  Brook took his morning coffee through to the bedroom, recalling how it had been around 3am when he finally dragged himself the short distance from sofa to bed. He put the mug on the bedside table, swung his arms a few times, then dropped to the floor and hooked his feet up on the edge of the mattress. Ten ultra slow motion press-ups followed. He tried to focus on every working muscle on the way down, then their opposites on the way up. The aim was always to be totally spent after the tenth – any more press-ups left in the tank and the slow-mo tempo had not been slow enough. His arms quivered as he forced through the tenth. Then he was done. He finished his coffee and headed for the shower. That was enough exercise for a while.

  A home-made breakfast of fried eggs and more coffee didn’t last long. Brook had just put down an extra two slices of toast when his phone began buzzing on the counter… Marie.

  ‘You’re up early,’ he said.

  ‘I could say the same. I wasn’t sure if I’d wake you.’

  ‘As if I’d ever complain about being woken by you.’

  ‘Whatever, Deelman.’

  The soft Irish accent conveyed the hint of a smile.

  ‘Anyway,’ she continued. ‘I’m on the quick change-over shift. Plus, I had a text to say the results from the bottles were ready.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. How did you manage that?’

  ‘Well, the night shift cover at the lab may just have been an ex-flatmate of mine. You know, dealing with the urgent submissions.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And for the first time in forever there were no urgent submissions. So there was no point them having idle hands now, was there?’

  ‘Marie, you’re a miracle worker.’

  A pause indicated it was time to move on to the point of the call. Brook felt as if there was a lot riding on the next few seconds.

  ‘So were they able to get a DNA profile?’ he asked.

  ‘They were.’

  ‘And is there a hit on the database?’

  ‘There’s a hit. Are you coming in to the station?’

  ‘I bloody am now…’

  The forensics officer was sitting at her desk as Brook put his head round the door, unnoticed. Marie’s hair was still wet from the shower, brushed straight back to a horizontal cut just beneath the nape of her neck. In her mid-30s, she barely looked any different from when Brook had met her a decade ago.

  The detective tapped the door with his foot so as not to surprise her if she looked up.

  ‘Déjà vu,’ said Marie, smiling at Brook’s second delivery of coffee in the past twelve hours.

  She was wearing a white blouse beneath a light green cardigan that matched her eyes. Just like the previous evening, she was the only one present of the dwindling number of forensics officers who worked at the station. Brook placed the coffees on her desk.

  ‘So, is this staying then?’ she asked, reaching up and lightly brushing his heavy stubble with the back of a finger.

  ‘Not sure. What do you reckon?’

  ‘I’ll need a bit longer to think about it. You’ve definitely got a few hints of silver fox though.’

  That sounded much better than grey. Maybe he would keep it after all. He looked for the coffee cup with an ‘S’ and pushed it towards Marie.

  ‘One sugar,’ he said.

  ‘Perfect. I hope I’ll be able to train my husband this well.’

  They both took a sip of their drinks to mask the slight awkwardness that followed the remark.

  ‘Right,’ said Marie, clicking through her e-mails, keen to move on. ‘Here it is.’

  Brook selected the same office chair as his last visit. Once again, it creaked its objections. A dense report of scientific terms and lengthy statistics was on the screen. He squinted at it for a moment before leaning back and taking the easy option.

  ‘Can I have the edited highlights?’

  ‘You’re getting old, Deelman.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Okay. The edited highlights are… that the first bottle gave a gazillion mixed profiles, so had probably been dripped on by all sorts of things in that wheelie bin.’

  ‘I love it when a sc
ientific report contains the word ‘gazillion’.’

  ‘I thought you wanted the edited version.’

  ‘True. I’ll shut up.’

  ‘The second bottle was better and gave a partial DNA profile from one individual, but not enough to compare it to the database.’

  ‘Third time lucky then?’

  ‘Just like Goldilocks, isn’t it? The third bottle gave a full DNA profile from one individual. It matched the partial one and was also good enough to run through the national DNA database. Bringing back a big… fat… hit.’

  ‘So that will be our man,’ said Brook, leaning closer to the screen now.

  ‘I’d say so… Here he is.’

  Marie brought up the final page of the report. Brook didn’t need any edited highlights for this:

  Logan Baird

  6’0”

  M

  13/08/71

  Dunbartonshire, UK

  LKA: 1 Station Road, Bexhill-on-Sea, East Sussex

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Marie.

  Brook stared at it for a moment longer.

  ‘I think it’s an alias. Scottish-sounding name. Born in Dunbartonshire. The barman at The Junction got the impression he wasn’t British. I think he would have recognised a Scottish accent. Or even an English one, depending on how long this East Sussex place has been his last known address. Interesting name…’

  He got out his phone, tapped in an internet search and scrolled through the result.

  ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘if you had to name one famous person that comes to mind when you see Logan Baird, who would you say?’

  ‘Ooh, an early morning pub quiz? Okay… John Logie Baird. Was he the telephone or television?’

  ‘Invented television. The man responsible for me falling asleep on the sofa every night.’

  ‘So what about him?’

  Brook turned his phone around.

  ‘Born in Dunbartonshire on the thirteenth of August. Died at 1 Station Road, Bexhill-on-Sea, East Sussex. I think someone was having a bit of fun when they gave those details. At least they didn’t give 1888 as their year of birth.’