Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  A paved path with lawns either side led up to Peak View Care Home – a functional, two-storey building, set back from the rows of suburban semis either side. Brook entered via clunky automatic doors, finding a pine reception desk to his left and a floral-patterned carpet beneath his feet. The whole place had the feel of a slightly dated budget hotel, albeit with the addition of a cloying, chemical sweetness that could be tasted as much as smelled. Behind the desk, a phone was ringing with little prospect of being answered.

  The only life Brook could see was in some kind of day room beyond a glazed dividing wall at the back of reception. Five people were in there: two suited Coroner’s officers, a male police constable and two women in staff-issue polo shirts − dark blue with matching logos. Brook made his way into the new room, meeting the group’s silent appraisal with a simple ‘Hi’.

  He noticed more detail now he was inside. Such as how every coffee table was strewn with half-eaten biscuits and cake, half-drunk teas and coffees. It looked like a police canteen following a call for urgent assistance (even if this place had likely emptied at a somewhat slower rate). He could see the five people better too.

  The Coroner’s officers both had shaved heads and big jowls. They looked like an older and younger version of the same person – a father and son team, no doubt. The uniformed PC was a cheery looking, red-faced fellow. Finally, the two female members of staff appeared to be in their mid-40s. A stocky blonde, with forearms perfect for any lifting of residents, and a neat brunette with her hair tied back in a ponytail and lively eyes. All five formed a rough semi-circle around a body bag on a gurney. The brunette spoke first as Brook approached.

  ‘Sorry there’s no-one out there at minute, love. We’ll be with you in just a sec if you don’t mind waiting.’

  Brook recognised Debbie’s voice and flashed his warrant card.

  ‘Debbie, isn’t it? Brook Deelman.’

  ‘Oh, my Lord,’ said Debbie. ‘I were going to call you. That’s your Harry Wilson in there, poor chap.’ She added a few words of explanation for the others: ‘Brook’s a detective in London. Been trying to trace someone’s next of kin and thought Harry might be able to ’elp.’

  Brook sensed five sets of eyes upon him as he looked down at the body bag. He realised he hadn’t shown the faintest reaction to the news that, of all the residents, the one on the gurney was the one he had come to see.

  ‘I thought it might be him,’ he said, keen to break the silence but only making things worse. ‘You know…’ he quickly added, turning to Debbie. ‘After what you said about him having those panic attacks and a racing heart.’

  ‘Oh, right. That’s right,’ said Debbie.

  Brook felt the intensity of the group’s attention move away from him. Good save.

  ‘Well, I think I’m done here,’ said the PC in broad Yorkshire tones, snapping his pocketbook shut and shoving it into the back of his trousers. ‘I’ll get doors for you, lads.’

  ‘Cheers, pal,’ said the Coroner’s officers in stereo, beginning to manoeuvre Harry’s gurney around the tables and chairs. Debbie’s blonde colleague followed them out, as if bringing up the rear of a mini funeral procession – albeit one with a wheel that had picked up a bit of Victoria sponge and was now laying down a broken line of icing sugar and jam.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey,’ said Debbie. Brook thought he could see a faint sheen in her eyes. ‘I know it’s daft, but I never get used to them dying.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ he replied, a little distractedly, scanning the coffee table closest to them. It appeared to be lacking the food and drink remnants of the others.

  ‘Was Harry having tea as well?’ he asked, hoping the question could squeeze under the radar as idle chitchat, rather than a specific interest in murder methods.

  ‘He were, yeah. Right there,’ said Debbie. ‘It all got knocked over when he turned a funny colour and we were trying to ’elp him. I think Tina cleared it away while we were waiting for that lot.’ She nodded to where the mini funeral procession was now trying to negotiate the automatic main doors. The Victoria sponge road markings had finally come to an end halfway across reception.

  Brook looked at the empty coffee table, thinking how any chemical evidence in food or drink was now in a bin or down a plughole. A beeper went off in Debbie’s pocket.

  ‘Sorry about this, love,’ she said, taking out the device. ‘Someone’s had a fall. I’ll be back with you soon as I can.’

  ‘That’s… fine,’ said Brook, the second word to himself as the glazed doors closed behind Debbie. He looked around the empty room. A quick check told him there was no CCTV in here. Maybe HD quality footage of the Tourist slipping something into Harry’s tea was too much to ask.

  There was nothing to be gained from staying where he was, but the heavy silence held him there for a moment. The empty chairs all seemed to be saying: ‘Well, we all saw what happened. What are you going to do about it?’

  Brook noticed a new member of staff was on duty in reception.

  ‘Let’s start there,’ he told the chairs.

  Chapter 27

  Friday, 20th April 1945

  Stalag IV-B, Mühlberg, Germany

  It was towards the end of the fifth day that it came to Victor. Halfway through the meat and potato broth. He put the spoon down and stared into the middle distance as the realisation settled in. ‘What the devil..?’ he said to himself.

  The evening food had been delivered by a new guard – his second delivery of the day after the usual assortment of bits and pieces in the morning. This guard wasn’t as friendly as the last one, spilling broth as he slammed it down on the small table (Victor recognised him from the vicious beating of an Indian prisoner who had ‘refused’ to stop shivering during a January roll-call).

  ‘English, Russians, Americans, Jews…’ said the Nazi through gritted teeth, as Victor wiped some broth from the Hans Christian Andersen book. Then he spat at the prisoner’s feet, barely able to contain his loathing, desperate for just one punch.

  ‘Ein Moment,’ said the Englishman… One moment.

  He went to the sleeping quarters at the back of the hut and returned with a small tin of peaches he had been saving for pudding. He held it out to the guard and tried to look as meek as possible.

  ‘Freunde?’ said Victor… ‘Friends?’

  The guard looked between Victor and the peaches with a quizzical expression. Then he grunted, grabbed the tin and shoved it in an overcoat pocket. He clearly hadn’t heard what happened to the last chap. Victor watched him leave and looked forward to a new guard in the morning.

  The light bulb moment – and the ‘What the devil?’ that accompanied it – arrived shortly after. It was all down to one phrase. ‘In wartime and in peace’. Von Eberstein had used it the previous day when describing how his family had always adapted to either circumstance.

  Even at the time, the words had sounded familiar to Victor. Not just in themselves, but when spoken in that light German accent of von Eberstein’s. Nevertheless, it had taken him more than a day to realise exactly when he had heard the SS officer use that phrase before. And, if he was right, then those primal instincts telling him the situation was not as it seemed had been correct all along.

  The afternoon had been spent engaging in von Eberstein’s attempts at conversation far more freely than before. He had asked about Victor’s early life, the Foundling Hospital, his joining the army, his war before Stalag IV-B and what he hoped to do when the war was over – small talk about anything and everything. The fact that any answer Victor lied about could be exposed by torturing Harry – who knew all the answers – meant there was little choice but to be truthful, while giving away as little as possible.

  Von Eberstein had seemed delighted at the new openness. Even if it had been achieved by blackmail. The whisky tumblers and cigarettes had skidded back and forth across the polished mahogany with greater frequency than ever before.

  But now… now Victor
knew when the SS officer had used those words before… ‘In wartime and in peace’.

  Tomorrow’s chat would be different.

  One way or another.

  Chapter 28

  Saturday, 23rd April 2016

  Peak View Care Home, Sheffield

  Brook headed back out to reception and introduced himself to the new person at the desk. The member of staff’s name was Nick. It turned out he had only just started his shift and had missed all the drama. Floppy hair, black-framed glasses and in his early 20s. He would have looked at home in some ‘tech start-up’ company.

  ‘So, you’re the detective from London who Debbie fancies?’

  He didn’t beat around the bush.

  ‘Umm… I’m a detective from London. I wouldn’t know about the rest. You don’t sound like you’re from round here either.’

  ‘From Cheshunt, originally. That used to be part of the Met but it switched to Hertfordshire Police when they changed the boundaries.’

  ‘Good knowledge,’ said Brook.

  ‘Yeah, I’m up here studying criminology at Sheffield Uni. This job’s just part-time for some extra money. I’d quite like to do what you do, actually.’

  First Debbie, now Nick. What was it with this place and people wanting to be detectives?

  ‘I’m sure you’d be more successful than me,’ said Brook. ‘Listen, since the person I came to speak to about this next of kin search has… died… I was wondering if you might be able to help me find the guy he met this morning. It’s one step removed, granted, but he still might be able to help.’

  It sounded plausible enough in a vague kind of way.

  ‘Sure,’ said Nick, opening the visitors’ book and spinning it round to face Brook. It took only a moment to see that the Tourist’s entry was both helpful and unhelpful in equal measure.

  Each line of visitor information comprised seven columns – date, time, resident name, visitor name, phone number, address and signature. In the case of ‘Logan Baird’, the phone number was one digit short while the address, once again, was John Logie Baird’s old house (1 Station Road, Bexhill-on-Sea, East Sussex). The signature was a meaningless scribble. He had apparently arrived at 10.05am.

  The useful part was that it showed a link between Victor’s and Harry’s deaths. After all, here were the same details (one lot obtained via DNA) in venues over 150 miles apart where both dead veterans had spent final or near-final moments. In terms of finding out who Logan Baird really was, however, it was entirely useless.

  ‘Is this filled out by the visitor or staff?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Visitor normally.’

  ‘I think he forgot a digit in his phone number.’

  ‘Shit. Sorry. At least you’ve still got his address.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Brook glanced up and noticed a CCTV camera above the desk.

  ‘Perhaps I could ask another favour…’

  Moments later, he was standing next to Nick, both men hunched over a monitor with a quartered display – the camera in reception, another one covering the front path, and a third over the patio that led to the garden. The final quarter of the screen stayed black.

  ‘Not exactly Big Brother, is it?’ said Nick.

  He went back to Logan Baird’s recorded arrival of 10.05. The front-facing camera was angled in such a way that it only picked up the bottom half of people walking past on the pavement. It meant the Tourist’s pale chinos and smart brown shoes appeared first.

  As he turned onto the path, the navy sports jacket entered the frame, followed by the wide, muscular neck and dark hair, cut short and sensible. He waited for the automatic doors to do their tedious admission ceremony and then he was through to the camera in reception, standing with his hands behind his back while Debbie’s blonde colleague with the strong forearms finished a phone call.

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked Nick.

  ‘Kind of,’ replied Brook.

  ‘Okay. That’s Tina on the phone,’ he added, pre-empting Brook’s question.

  The phone call came to an end, at which point there was a brief exchange of words between the two before Tina lifted the visitors’ book onto the reception desk and offered a pen. The Tourist took a pen of his own from an inner breast pocket and filled out his bogus details (maybe he was being more careful about forensics this time). Tina gave the details a cursory glance, then made a gesture towards the Tourist’s lapel.

  ‘She’s saying she’ll get him a visitor pass,’ said Nick.

  Sure enough, Tina walked over to a box of badge holders and began filling out the visitor’s details on a card. As she did so, the Tourist leaned over the desk a little, tilting his head to one side as if reading something. Brook and Nick both spotted the subtle movement and looked around to see what had caught his eye. Nothing obvious. Then Brook lifted up the moveable keyboard – beneath it was a yellow Post-it Note, apparently written by Debbie:

  ‘DC Brooke Deelman re. Victor Watson next of kin?? Met Police (!)’

  It was followed by the mobile number he had given.

  Brook looked back at the screen where Tina was still writing the visitor’s name on a card to slide into the guest pass. The Tourist was now staring straight into the CCTV camera. A part of him must have known Brook might end up watching this. The detective found his jaw muscles clenching. It was a curious feeling – the two adversaries occupying the same space but in different time zones. A challenge laid down through the fourth dimension.

  Nick seemed to sense the change in atmosphere.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Huh?’ said Brook, dragged back to his own timeline. ‘Yeah, Debbie put an ‘e’ on the end of my name. Makes me sound like a girl.’

  Nick’s smile suggested he accepted the explanation. Even so, Brook could probably have done without his name and number being offered on a plate to the bad guy. They watched as Tina handed over the guest pass then showed her visitor to one of the accommodation corridors.

  A couple of minutes later, the Tourist re-appeared on the camera over the patio with a shuffling old man beside him. Brook’s first sight of Harry. He was wearing a grey cardigan over a yellow shirt with brown trousers and plaid slippers. Every yard was hard won − planting his Zimmer frame and making his feet catch up with grim determination.

  After nearly twenty minutes, the pair re-appeared on the same camera, heading back into the building. And then, finally, on the reception camera as they made their way to the lounge for the fatal cup of tea. Harry looked small next to the Tourist but had lost none of his mop of hair, even if it was now completely white. In the brief moments when he wasn’t looking down, he seemed to have a distant air about him. A thousand yard stare in those old eyes as he moved the Zimmer frame with a metronomic resolve.

  Fifteen minutes after going into the lounge, the Tourist emerged alone, left his guest pass at reception and waved a cheery farewell. There was just the hint of another glance up at the camera. Then he was on the outside footage, walking along the path and turning left onto the pavement.

  Nick hit fast forward again and scrolled through the next hour… Debbie appeared, making her phone call to Brook, and everything seemed normal for a while. Then the explosion of activity amongst the carers, the frantic 999 calls and evacuation of the residents, the arrival of the paramedics… and the gradual return to normal. Game over.

  ‘That’s it, I guess,’ said Nick.

  Brook didn’t reply straight away. He was thinking.

  He was thinking that only a man with the backing of someone as powerful as the Deputy Commissioner could throw around his ridiculous alias and lay down challenges by staring into cameras like that. He didn’t like the arrogance. The sense of entitlement. A murderer creeping around in the shadows was one thing. One who delighted in parading his bullet-proof credentials was something else.

  ‘You think he’s a suspect, don’t you?’ suggested Nick, catching Brook by surprise.

  ‘Look, if everyone who spoke
to someone before a heart attack was a suspect, we’d have a lot of investigations going on,’ said Brook, swerving the question.

  ‘You still think he’s a suspect though, don’t you?’ came the reply. They were certainly a tenacious bunch at Peak View.

  ‘Well, let’s just put it like this,’ said Brook. ‘Since I’ve come all this way… it would probably be rude not to get a copy of that CCTV, photocopy the visitors’ book and seize his guest pass for forensics. And is there any chance I could take a quick look in Harry’s room?’

  Chapter 29

  So his DNA had come back on those bottles. A phone call from Barnes confirmed it. An inconvenience, but not a major problem. There were systems in place to deal with these things. More worrying than the DNA hit itself, was the fact that Deelman had clearly chosen to ignore the on-screen instruction to call Barnes. Even the safest systems could be bypassed by someone not playing by the rules. If the detective drifted into ‘rogue’ territory then that… changed things.

  It made him even more relieved that he had left that surprise for Deelman with the local cab firm he had used. Barnes knew nothing about that. It was his own little safety net. A way of snaring a rogue copper rather than one playing nicely. It meant that all eventualities were covered.

  As he held the phone to his ear, a passing resident glanced at him and the black Ford Fiesta. He wasn’t worried. They would choose one of the many innocent explanations. None would be ‘chatting to the Deputy Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police about covering up some murders’.

  Deelman was taking his time in there. He wondered if he had seen the CCTV yet. Hopefully, it would remind him of the power dynamic here. There was a cat. And there was a mouse. And even a determined and capable mouse was little more than a curiosity to a cat.

  He recalled a documentary he had seen about a remarkable brain parasite found in rodents. Given a choice, the parasite preferred a feline host, so – by some miracle of nature – it could make its rodent carrier attack cats in the suicidal hope of being eaten. The name came to him just as he was growing tired of Barnes’ update.