by Ed Church
Brook wasn’t sure of the right word for the upcoming event. A meeting? A rendezvous? It all sounded a bit too friendly when his intention was to arrest the other guy for murder. As for the Tourist’s intentions… who knew what they were?
Still, first things first. It was the Christmas card in Harry’s room that had got him thinking about searching Victor’s flat again. He and Kev really hadn’t done a thorough job the first time. Understandable perhaps, given how little they had known back then. But it still felt like a weak point in the investigation until done properly.
Jonboy had agreed to help in return for a simple payment plan – one doughnut for every new piece of evidence found. It seemed a fair price for getting up early on a Sunday morning.
Alfredo’s café, round the corner from the police station, was their agreed meeting point. Approaching with Victor’s flat keys tucked in his pocket, Brook saw that Jonboy was already well-settled with a cup of tea and a window seat. He had gone for the radical wardrobe change of swapping his 2009 British & Irish Lions rugby top for a near identical one from their 2013 tour. At least the team had won in the new version – maybe it would bring some good luck with it. It certainly seemed to be bringing Jonboy luck with the Polish waitress. She had abandoned the poker face to laugh at one of his jokes.
Brook was halfway across the road, planning to ask how he had done it, when a voice stopped him in his tracks.
‘Where do you think you’re off to, Deelman?’
It was female. And Irish.
He turned to see Marie walking his way – looking good in black jeans and a white top. She was carrying a folded newspaper and appeared far happier than the last time they had seen each other. Brook returned the smile, silently regretting he hadn’t spent a couple more seconds looking in the mirror.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said.
‘You’re meant to say it’s a nice surprise,’ replied Marie. ‘Jeez, you look tired.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Whatcha up to?’
Brook nodded over at his big Welsh friend in the café.
‘Jonboy’s just helping me out with a few things. You remember Jonboy?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ said Marie, returning Jonboy’s wave. ‘Anyway, I just saw you through the window and thought I’d chase you down. I’ve been trying to call you.’
‘Ah. Yeah. New number. Sorry about that. I’ll text it to you.’
‘You sure I’m not blocked?’
‘Only on the old phone,’ teased Brook. ‘I might offer you a fresh start on the new one. It all depends if you still want to beat me up.’
‘You got lucky. I decided to let you off with a caution.’ She gave a little wink. Brook was relieved the awkwardness of their last encounter had been dealt with so quickly. He nodded at a few sheets of A4 paper just visible in the fold of Marie’s newspaper.
‘So, is this a new friendship contract in case we fall out again?’
‘I think we can take our chances, don’t you?’
The forensics officer grabbed Brook’s shoulder bag and pulled him towards her until there were just a couple of inches between them. Then she slipped the newspaper inside the bag and stepped back.
‘… It’s the crime report that Barnes restricted on Logan Baird. From when his prints and DNA were taken in 2013.’
Brook’s skin tingled as he looked up and down the street.
‘Christ, Marie. I thought you didn’t like the idea of getting sacked just before your wedding.’
‘Well, I’d still prefer not to be. But there’s nothing in any marriage vows about turning into a complete wuss now, is there?’
‘I suppose not. But how−’
‘Just good old Irish charm.’
Brook raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Okay, maybe I know someone with administrator access who agreed to open it in View mode for me.’
‘They must be quite a friend.’
‘Not really. I just know something bad he did. Anyway, I didn’t do anything as stupid as print it at work and leave a digital trail. Just took screenshots on my phone and printed them off at home.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘It was a tad rushed when I took them though, so you’ve only got the main body of it there. No Victim or Witness pages. Just remember that VIW1 is an 88-year-old man called Paul Fisher and VIW2 is your Logan Baird.’
‘So Logan Baird wasn’t a suspect?’
‘Officially just a witness. Only had his prints and DNA taken for elimination purposes.’
‘Weird.’
‘I know.’
The pair were interrupted by Jonboy banging on the café window. As they looked over, he beckoned the Polish waitress and whispered something in her ear. She opened the front door to the café and leaned out into the street.
‘He says you must big kiss!’ she called over to them.
Behind her, Jonboy dissolved into fits of laughter.
Brook turned back to Marie, glad to see he wasn’t the only one trying to hide a smirk.
‘You got time for a coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, you’re all right. I’ve… got some things to do in the office.’
‘Okay. Well… thanks again for this.’ He patted the bag at his side.
‘You’re welcome. I hope it helps.’
They exchanged little smiles and nods then walked off in opposite directions, Marie back to the police station, Brook to Alfredo’s. Both glanced back at different moments, missing the other doing the same. When Brook pulled up a chair opposite Jonboy, his friend was still laughing.
‘You’re an idiot,’ said Brook, shaking his head.
Jonboy watched Marie disappear round the corner.
‘So are you,’ he said.
Chapter 37
Saturday, 21st April 1945
near Mühlberg, Germany
‘Meine Herren. Lassen Sie uns bitte alleine,’ said von Eberstein…
‘Gentlemen. Leave us alone, please.’
The SS officers in the armchairs either side of Harry Wilson got to their feet and left their fireside spots, taking their drinks and cigars with them. Just three men in the room now – Victor, von Eberstein and Harry. The gramophone needle reached the edge of the record and the singing faded to a static hiss. Then silence flooded the room.
‘That all looked very cosy,’ said Victor to his old friend. ‘And your German has certainly come on in leaps and bounds.’
The two men appraised each other over the middle armchair. Harry was wearing civilian clothes – a white shirt and grey trousers held up with braces. He took a sip of his Cognac.
‘You know ’ow it is. Just clicks after a while, don’t it, Vic?’
‘Funny. We all thought you could barely speak a word of it.’
Victor glanced between Harry and von Eberstein, the pain of his shackled wrists overtaken by more pressing thoughts.
‘Is someone going to tell me what the hell is going on? I come here to check on my mucker’s welfare and find him hosting a bloody SS house party.’
‘I’m afraid there is no easy way of putting it,’ said von Eberstein, steadying himself against the back of the armchair to Victor’s left. ‘Harry is not exactly… well… perhaps he should explain.’
‘I think he should too,’ said Victor, turning back to the friend he had made on that daunting first day at Mill Hill Barracks in 1940.
‘It’s just survival, Vic. You understand that, growing up in that bloody orphanage. You see a chance, you take it. Even if other people get… Look… No-one’s gonna do you any favours if you don’t do yourself any, are they?’
Victor tried to make sense of the weasel words coming out of Harry’s mouth.
‘The St George Legionnaire,’ he said. ‘That traitor who came into camp a week after we got there…’
Von Eberstein seemed to delight in Victor’s comment.
‘Wunderbar! He is so sharp, your friend!’ he beamed at Harry.
Victor ignored him.
/> ‘You threw a bucket of shit over him when he was scouting for more traitors and you both got hauled out of camp. Great laugh, we all thought. But that was the start, wasn’t it? My best friend… a bloody collaborator.’
‘A survivor,’ protested Harry.
‘Genau,’ agreed von Eberstein, raising a forefinger… ‘Exactly.’
Harry was looking far too at home in the SS house – left hand in the pocket of his new trousers, right hand cradling the glass of Cognac. A fresh realisation dawned on Victor as to just how such acceptance must have been earned.
‘Those crosses on the calendars weren’t made after the fact, were they? You were giving up our men all along.’
‘I knew I couldn’t hack that camp, Vic. I would have done myself in. Don’t be all holier than bloody thou about it. It’s a war for God’s sake. The aim is to survive.’
‘So you played up every time you had new information to pass on. And we all thought you were just a joker getting thrown in the cooler again and again.’ Victor looked around at the old farmhouse – the comfy chairs, the booze, the warm fire. ‘And all the time you were here. Building your reputation with every escape you grassed up, until… Look at you. An honorary bloody member of their little club.’
Von Eberstein had moved a little unsteadily over to the fireside table while Victor was speaking. He produced a cigar and lit it from the flames.
‘The hardest thing was stopping him growing fat and giving the game away,’ he said. ‘Lots of good food, but only little bits. Right, Harry?’
Victor took no notice. He had bigger questions.
‘So how many escapers did you give up?’
‘Dozen maybe,’ said Harry with a shrug.
‘Fifteen!’ exclaimed von Eberstein, jabbing his cigar in the air as if in triumph.
‘And how many were recaptured?’
‘Fifteen!’ cried von Eberstein again, repeating the celebratory action.
‘I knew a lot of those men,’ said Victor. ‘How many were executed?’
‘Fifteen!’ bellowed von Eberstein, punching the air a third time with his cigar.
No-one spoke for a few moments as the full scale of Harry’s treachery sank in.
‘What a bloody hero,’ said Victor at last.
‘And how many millions have died in the war?’ countered Harry. ‘What’s fifteen?’
He was unable to hide a more plaintive tone – trying to convince himself as much as Victor.
‘Whatever the number is, you can add fifteen good men to it thanks to you, you bloody coward. And that business with Blondie when he wanted to throw you over the wire? Was that just another ruse to get taken out of camp and back to your SS pals?’
‘Actually, that was quite real,’ interrupted von Eberstein. ‘Schmidt – or Blondie as you call him – was not fully…’ He circled his cigar in mid-air, looking for the right phrase. ‘…on board, at that point. Things have changed since that near miss. I actually owe you a debt of gratitude.’
‘What difference would it have made? You’d already squeezed all the usefulness out of this little turncoat by then.’
‘Not quite. In actual fact… his usefulness is only just beginning.’
Victor addressed his response to Harry.
‘What the hell does that mean?’
Harry threw back the last of his Cognac and grimaced.
‘This don’t end well for you, Vic.’
‘And it was all looking so bloody rosy,’ said Victor, raising his shackled wrists.
‘No… I mean it really don’t fuckin’ end well,’ said Harry.
Victor looked at von Eberstein for an explanation. The Nazi had given up a brief search for a fresh brandy glass and was now swigging directly from the Cognac bottle.
‘Excuse my manners,’ he said. ‘You know, just for a moment, I thought you were going to work it out. You saw through the letter, but you didn’t pursue your questions to the end.’
‘Enlighten me,’ said Victor.
‘You see… developing an agent who helps in the elimination of fifteen escapers earns one great credit in war. Unofficially, at least. But the same actions do not look so good in peacetime. In fact, thanks to the Geneva Convention, such patriotic acts get you hanged. Crazy, no?’
Von Eberstein took another swig and shook his head.
‘Too many people know of my wartime successes, Victor. Too many. In such circumstances, one needs a plan for when the peace arrives. Otherwise, it’s the gallows. Harry mentioned you one night and it just seemed too perfect. I invented the… the… confusion with this footballer Vic Watson simply to study you for a week.’
‘I still have no idea what you’re talking about,’ said Victor.
‘In a way I’m disappointed. You liked the Hans Christian Andersen book, no? The stories of illusion. Of new beginnings…’
Von Eberstein raised his hands to the bottom edge of the motorcycle helmet he had been wearing all day and awkwardly edged it upwards until it was clear of his head.
The top third of his left ear was missing.
He tossed the helmet into an armchair. The leather gloves followed. Then he raised both hands, palms facing forward, fingers splayed, like a magician showing the crowd he wasn’t hiding anything.
The left little finger was missing beyond the first knuckle.
‘What the..?’
Victor looked over to Harry, then back to von Eberstein – and the wounds that mirrored his own. Each had a layer of crusty blood. They were fresh.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ blurted Victor, now straining against the shackles. ‘You want to escape your war crimes by impersonating me? That’s… bloody ridiculous!’
‘Were the subject anyone else I would agree,’ replied von Eberstein, gently feeling along the top of his newly reduced ear. ‘But with you there is actually a chance of success. And I will take even a small chance over the certainty of the hangman’s noose.’
‘And what makes me so special?’ demanded Victor, giving up the brief and fruitless struggle against his restraints.
‘Think about it. You are not just special as far as my requirements are concerned – you are perfect! No family… No fräulein waiting for you… Your only close friend standing right here… You have been a forgettable member of two institutions – an orphanage and the army. There is no life of any substance for you to return to. Plus, you have these unique wounds that identify you. Well, that is to say, they were unique.’
He allowed himself a little chuckle. Yes, he would count that as a joke…
‘The basic physical resemblance is acceptable. Height, eyes, frame and phrenology. Naturally, I have reduced my food intake on account of your time in camp…’
‘You’re bloody mad.’
‘…but none of that would have been enough without the ear and the finger. Man is a lazy beast. We look for simple markers. And, of course, the wounds are not the only thing that identifies you as being you…’
He put his uninjured right hand into a pocket of his decorated tunic and inched it back out, looking at Victor with eyebrows raised as if playing a game with a child.
‘Surprise!’ he said at last, holding up the gold medal with ‘Ad Victoriam’ engraved into it. ‘A token from the mother who abandoned you. Now, who else would have this other than the real Victor Watson? Hmmm?’
With a roar of frustration, Victor kicked the back of the armchair that separated them. The SS officer stepped aside as it struck the low table and pitched forward into the fire, the flames taking hold immediately. Harry dragged it out and began patting them down.
‘Fuckin’ hell, Vic. You can’t treat other people’s stuff like that.’
‘You can’t…. What?’ Victor couldn’t even bring himself to explain the clunking irony of the comment. His heart was thumping. Blondie had been right after all. He was going to die today.
‘And what’s your role in this?’ he yelled at Harry, as his old mucker got the singed armchair under control. ‘You’ve
already told him all about me. Why would he keep you alive just to spill the beans on all this one day?’
Von Eberstein saved his new English friend the trouble of answering.
‘He will vouch that I am you,’ he said with unerring calm. ‘What greater insurance than Victor’s best friend to crush any doubts? Even better than the medal and the injuries, no? In return, I will keep quiet about his actions of the past year.’ He brushed a hot cinder from the sleeve of his uniform. ‘There is also the small matter of one hundred thousand pounds and a sizeable annual payment for life. Not that Harry would need such an incentive to keep his word, I’m sure. But a little extra security can’t hurt.’
‘Nice to know what my life is worth,’ said Victor, looking Harry up and down in disgust.
‘It’s just survival, Vic,’ said Harry, sticking to his theme.
‘Not for me it bloody isn’t.’
Von Eberstein tossed some small, metallic object to Harry, who caught it.
‘Do it,’ he commanded. ‘Now.’
Harry lifted Victor’s wrists and used the small key to finally release them from their iron bindings. The shackles clattered to the flagstones. The condemned man held each wrist in turn and began rubbing life back into the nerve endings, all the time staring at his former friend. His right fist slowly clenched and unclenched.
‘Go on then,’ said Harry. ‘Hit me if you−’
He didn’t quite reach the end of his sentence before Victor spun and charged von Eberstein, slamming a punch into the middle of his face. The Nazi staggered backwards, landing in an armchair on top of his motorcycle helmet. Victor dived on him, slamming home another punch, then a third as soon as the right hand could be pulled back and unleashed again. The chair rocked back with the SS officer pinned to it. He made no attempt to fight back.
As Victor drew back his bloodied fist for a fourth punch, Harry grabbed it and hauled him off, both of them falling to the ground. An exhausted Victor made to scramble to his feet before freezing… von Eberstein was pointing his Walther P38 pistol straight at him. The Nazi spluttered a little, blood pouring from his shattered nose, then pulled the helmet from beneath him and sank into the chair.
‘I am so glad I’m drunk,’ he said.