Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  Judas Iscariot’s reign as the world’s most obscure fake details had lasted barely a day.

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Marie.

  ‘Hey!’ said Brook, nudging her arm. ‘No defeatism allowed. Let’s look at his full PNC.’

  Marie rose from her slump to call up the Police National Computer and entered Logan Baird’s details. The identical information came up, but with a couple of additions. A single crime report number from 2013 – the point at which the DNA sample must have been taken – and a footnote:

  ‘IN THE EVENT OF ANY DEALINGS, CONTACT DEP. COMM. BARNES BEFORE PROCEEDING ANY FURTHER.’

  It was accompanied by a phone number.

  ‘Dep. Comm…’ read Marie. ‘The Deputy Commissioner?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Are you going to call him?’

  ‘Maybe… Or maybe we should just take a look at that crime report first.’

  Marie gave him a look before punching in the solitary crime report number. The result did not take long to read:

  ‘REPORT RESTRICTED BY DEP. COMM. BARNES 22/04/16.’

  ‘A report that’s three years old but was only restricted yesterday,’ said Marie. ‘And by the Deputy Commissioner, no less. Whose name is also all over your suspect. I get the impression you’re treading on some big toes with all this, Deelman.’

  She was only saying what both of them were thinking.

  ‘Interesting timing, isn’t it?’ said Brook.

  ‘It is, but… there’ll be an explanation. I take it you’re still going to call him.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Brook.’

  ‘Eventually.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what he meant by ‘Before Proceeding Any Further’?’

  Brook pushed himself out of the chair and took his coffee for a wander around the office. He hadn’t yet brought Marie up to speed on the full strangeness of DS Beckford’s behaviour and, as such, on why he was so wary of taking the Deputy Commissioner’s instruction at face value.

  At the same time, a new thought dawned on him… Nobody ever called DS Beckford to the scene. What was it he had said? ‘Just grabbing a coffee round the corner. Heard this come out over the local channel and thought I’d see if we were needed.’ How had he missed that little coincidence?

  Marie’s voice broke the silence.

  ‘Look, Brook. You know I pulled some strings to get these results so quick. I guess I would just feel more comfortable if you called the Deputy Commissioner. You don’t really want us both getting sacked just before my wedding now, do you?’

  Brook’s impromptu wander around the office meant he had his back to Marie as he replied.

  ‘That wedding’s on your mind a lot today, isn’t it?’

  He immediately felt embarrassed by how petty and ungracious it sounded. When he turned around, he saw Marie’s expression had changed.

  ‘You know, that’s actually not entirely unusual, Brook. Maybe you’ll find out one day.’

  Now it was Marie who felt bad for how much harsher the comment sounded once it was verbalised. Brook tossed his empty coffee cup in the bin.

  ‘Maybe,’ he repeated, heading for the door.

  The printer in the corner began chuntering as he passed it.

  ‘That’s your lab report and your PNC for Logan Baird,’ said Marie, joylessly.

  Brook stood in awkward silence by the printer, his back to the room, the seconds passing painfully slowly. At last, the final page scuttled out and the printer stopped grumbling. Brook gathered them all up unceremoniously.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, half turning back towards Marie.

  ‘Welcome,’ she replied, her green eyes a little duller than before.

  Chapter 23

  ‘Well done, Brook… That went really well… You’re a genius.’

  The detective muttered sarcastically to himself as he wandered the police station’s corridors.

  ‘Have a medal… In fact, have Victor Watson’s fucking medal.’

  Far from helping, the monologue was only annoying him even more. He told himself to shut up and focus. Apart from falling out with Marie, he had learned a lot in the last few minutes. Not least that DS Chris Beckford appeared to have an ally in Deputy Commissioner Barnes when it came to obstructing the path to the man who killed Victor Watson. A man who went by the alias ‘Logan Baird’, or at least once had. That was a lot of new pieces for the jigsaw; if he could just stop beating himself up about the Marie stuff.

  Brook turned into the central stairwell just as a particularly tedious DI appeared at the far end of the corridor. He hoped he hadn’t been seen…

  ‘DC Deelman!’

  Shit.

  He reluctantly stepped back and watched as Detective Inspector Julian Self approached. He was about ten years younger than Brook. Maybe more. A beneficiary of the new Direct Entry Scheme that catapulted those with ‘special skills’ straight into a position of power (DI Self’s special skills had something to do with scraping a degree in Media Studies).

  ‘Just the man,’ he said, approaching. That didn’t sound good – there was clearly some point he was dying to make.

  ‘I’m not exactly in work today,’ said Brook, pre-empting any request to help with prisoners or take on a new investigation.

  ‘Funny,’ said the DI. ‘I could swear I can see you.’

  You’re fucking hilarious, thought Brook, giving something between a smile and a grimace.

  ‘I’m just doing a bit of overtime in relation to a non-suspicious death.’

  ‘Overtime for a non-suspicious death? Who authorised that?’

  Petty little prick.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Brook. ‘It’s not coming out of your budget.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ replied the DI, looking genuinely pleased at the saving. Maybe that was his equivalent of winning a big case. He was a skinny man, a few inches shorter than Brook, with a ruler-straight side parting in his fair hair and a smooth, weak chin. He never quite seemed to fill his expensive Italian suits. Standing in front of Brook – with his untamed dark hair, heavy stubble and sturdy frame – it must have looked like the first meeting between homo sapiens and Neanderthal man.

  ‘So, you’ll be out making enquiries, will you?’ asked the DI. ‘Dealing with members of the public? Representing the Metropolitan Police Service?’

  Brook knew where this was going but let it play out anyway.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ he replied.

  ‘So you’ll be wearing a−’

  ‘A smile?’

  ‘A suit, DC Deelman. You’ll be wearing a suit. Because that’s what we do.’

  We. Nice one. Brook had about as much intention of changing his attire as the Lumberjack, but the DI was on a roll…

  ‘I take it you also saw the e-mail about the change of clothing policy surrounding night duty. I hear you and DS Padmore also failed to wear suits during your week of nights.’

  ‘We did catch a lot of bad guys though.’

  ‘That’s not the−’

  ‘Not the point?’ offered Brook.

  Some colour came into the DI’s cheeks.

  ‘Look…’ he started again. ‘What I was going to say before I got sidetracked by the whole suit issue, was that you’re moving to us in the CSU next week.’

  The Community Safety Unit – domestic and racial violence.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Brook. Another e-mail he hadn’t read.

  ‘Now, we’re going to need everyone on board to get our detection rate up to the combined target of thirty-seven percent. So I expect you to play a full part in our reaching that challenging but achievable goal.’

  Christ. The chip had been implanted deep with this one. As the DI launched into some more leadership-speak, the sound of Brook’s ringtone offered a welcome escape route.

  ‘That’s all great, Sir,’ he agreed, whipping out the mobile and making for the stairwell. ‘Got to take this, I’m afraid. Very important.’

  �
�Actually, I haven’t fin−’

  ‘Hello..?’ shouted Brook, drowning out the DI and heading down the stairs. ‘Hello..?’

  Only when he reached the ground floor did he actually listen to the voice at the other end. It had a Yorkshire accent.

  ‘Ooh, blimey, can you ’ear me now, Brook, love?’ said Debbie.

  ‘Debbie. Sorry about that.’

  ‘Seems whenever I call up, you’re shouting ’ello at me.’

  Brook remembered her last call that had caught him in the Hen & Chickens.

  ‘You’re right. Still, better than shouting Goodbye.’

  ‘I’ll give you that much. Anyway, I thought you might like to know that Peak View’s finest team of detectives ’ave come up with an answer for you.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised, Brook. I told yer we would. Right… that bloke who were ’aving panic attack yesterday? I were able to talk to him this morning. Turns out he grew up down there in London and served in’t Middlesex Regiment during war. Went a bit quiet when I asked about Victor Watson, and I didn’t want to push things after his funny turn. But it’s got to be ’im, don’t yer think? Harry Wilson his name is.’

  ‘Brilliant work,’ said Brook, his thoughts turning to getting a local police officer to talk to this Harry. There was a limit to what he could request of a civilian.

  ‘What’s he doing today?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, right now, he’s with a nice chap I’m hoping will cheer ’im up. The one who called and said he’d like to chat to Harry ’bout his army days. Said Harry had served with his grandad or summat like that.’

  Brook’s pulse went up a notch. That sounded like a cover story. Or, to put it another way: Bullshit.

  ‘I don’t suppose you got his name did you?’ he asked.

  ‘Ooh, ’ang on a sec. Let me check visitors’ book.’

  It couldn’t be, could it? Logan Baird? Brook heard the brief clatter of the receiver being placed on a hard surface, then faint voices. Debbie was talking to a colleague. They started laughing about something. Then another brief clatter as Debbie lifted the receiver back up.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, through the tail end of the laughter. ‘We were struggling to read writing… It looks a bit like Yogi Bear.’

  Chapter 24

  The industrial ‘clunk, clunk, clunk’ of the winding mechanism came first. Then, as unseen wires tightened, the metal strips of the roller shutter appeared to stand to attention, each overlapping panel presenting a little prouder. Finally, the bottom edge lifted from the tarmac, the slatted steel curtain coiling itself around an overhead axle as the ramp to the underground car park greeted the outside world with a mechanical yawn. The whole process took about ten seconds. For the driver waiting on the ramp side, it felt like an eternity. He didn’t wait for the clunking to finish. As soon as the gap was high enough for his vehicle to squeeze through, he floored it.

  The 1980 Land Rover Defender roared into the daylight like a liberated beast. The second item Brook Deelman had shipped over from Botswana. The growling 4x4 had a navy blue body with a white roof to reflect the worst of the African sun. Right now, however, it was off to Sheffield.

  Brook had always felt too much of an affinity with the old family vehicle to leave it in that Maun scrapyard. A powerful unit with a few creaking joints – they had plenty in common. Now it just needed to get him to Peak View Care Home in world record time. The Defender tore through a couple of amber lights and treated the speed bumps with the sort of contempt befitting an off-road legend that had earned its stripes on dirt tracks.

  It was fifteen minutes since Debbie had said the words ‘Yogi Bear’, and a few seconds less since she had confirmed the name in the visitors’ book was ‘Logan Baird’. Brook had rushed straight to the back yard and flagged down a departing patrol car to beg an unauthorised lift home. He was relieved to recognise the driver from a recent case in which Brook had smoothed over a couple of fuck-ups. Whether it was eagerness to return the favour, or just the look in the detective’s eyes, the driver had slapped on the blue lights and his new passenger wasn’t about to complain about the breach of protocol.

  Staying on the phone to Debbie, he had managed to establish that Logan Baird had in fact just left. Harry Wilson was now in the communal lounge and seemed fine, enjoying a nice cup of tea. If that was good news, it posed a brand-new question – why was Victor’s killer meeting Victor’s friend a couple of days after his murder? Another question followed hot on the heels of that one – was Harry Wilson really fine?

  Brook made one lightning quick pit stop on the 150-mile journey to grab a takeaway coffee. It was all conducted at such speed he almost flattened a guy trying to sell him breakdown cover. Now that he was closer to Sheffield, he dug out an ancient satnav and typed in Peak View’s postcode. The stern female voice reminded the bachelor why he rarely used it.

  Nevertheless, Brook was soon rolling past a street name he recognised from the care home’s full address, leaning forward and scanning left and right for the building. In the end, he spotted it at the exact moment as the two questions on his mind were answered…

  Was Harry Wilson really fine after his meeting with Logan Baird?

  Answer: No.

  Why was Victor’s killer meeting Victor’s friend a couple of days after his murder?

  Answer: To kill him too.

  Brook pulled the Defender over to the kerb and brought it to a halt in front of a cluster of three vehicles. A police car. An ambulance. And a coroner’s wagon.

  The satnav had a message for Brook and Harry alike…

  ‘You have reached your destination.’

  Chapter 25

  He watched the Land Rover pull up from his vantage point and checked the dashboard clock. Deelman had made good time. The powdered ecstasy tablets had taken longer than he thought to kick in – and longer than he thought to finish off Harry’s old heart. He was glad now that he’d gone for the ‘overkill’ of using three.

  Having opted for a taxi to travel to and from Peak View – keeping his hire car sterile – he felt confident no-one would notice the black Ford Fiesta now he’d returned to monitor events from a handy side road. Sheffield seemed to be made entirely of hills. It made for a host of good surveillance spots.

  The dead-end residential street was what they called a ‘cul-de-sac’ in this country. Nobody had bothered him as he sat there in the instantly forgettable vehicle. Of course, he hadn’t been sure if this DC Deelman would show up – even though he had an idea he was poking around when Debbie asked that question about Harry serving in the Middlesex Regiment.

  At that point, it was still possible that the detective was just going through the motions – making a tick-box enquiry and writing up a banal report to show some bored supervisor. That was the usual way in any police force. But a call from Barnes had confirmed that Deelman’s phone was travelling north on the M1. And now here he was. A long way from home. He was clearly one of those annoying police officers who believed in getting things done.

  Barnes had already informed him of the detective’s private vehicle in case he came across it. Probably not the hardest thing for a man in his position to find out. Still, the phone tracking and vehicle description were all confirmation of his usefulness, even if things had been a bit tense between them (not least because Barnes’ initial dismissal of Deelman – as a drunk who was nothing to worry about – seemed worse by the day. If the detective was an alcoholic, he was a fucking high-functioning one).

  Anyway, he was in an upbeat mood. All in all, the day could hardly have gone better. Harry had been… what was the word?… ‘compliant’ throughout. Sure, the old bastard he killed in the churchyard had managed to get a call through to him – he had been right to think that was the source of his panic attack. But Harry also seemed to accept there was nothing he could do to outrun this. The funny thing was, that after coming through the panic, he appeared strangely serene. It was as if he had made his
peace with what was going to happen. Maybe, even, his peace with everything that had happened in the past.

  He recalled his words as they sat down with their cups of tea after a walk round the gardens – a walk during which Harry, resigned to his fate, had told him everything…

  ‘There’s something in there, isn’t there?’ he’d said, looking at the hot drink.

  If there was one lesson to take from the last few days, it was that these ninety-somethings were not to be underestimated. He hadn’t bothered to lie.

  ‘There is. You can drink it, or I can come back tomorrow and we’ll do this another way.’

  He knew it wasn’t the threat that had made him drink it. He was just… ready.

  ‘Don’t worry, guv,’ Harry had said, the Cockney accent still there, even though the voice was thin and weak. ‘You won’t have to come back.’

  Fast-forward to his vantage point, and the drop in urgency among the various people in uniform told him that Harry had been true to his word. Any lingering doubt was removed when the guys in suits from the Coroner’s office turned up.

  It was done.

  And now… now he was looking at a navy blue, long wheelbase, Land Rover Defender with a white roof. There was no need to check that the licence plate matched the one Barnes had given him. He knew this was Deelman. His first glimpse. He seemed to be taking his time getting out of the vehicle – no doubt taking in the scene and weighing up how best to approach it. Still, even from this distance, it was clear he was a big guy.

  He had left a little surprise for the detective. In a deliberately obscure way.

  The taxi firm he had used were the unwitting custodians of it.

  If Deelman was good enough, he would find it. And if he wasn’t then, well…

  Then maybe he was nothing to worry about after all.

  Chapter 26

  Brook sat in the Defender for a couple of minutes, staring at the three vehicles in front of him and considering his options… ‘Just wing it,’ he said to himself, stepping down. He nodded at a couple of paramedics unhurriedly completing some paperwork in their ambulance. Yep, Harry was dead all right.