Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  He tentatively felt the damage to his nose, before giving up with a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Oh, this is ideal,’ he said. ‘I was going to ask Schmidt, but I had a feeling you might oblige. The nose plays such a vital role in recognising a face – you have just blurred the lines between us. Thank you.’

  Victor inched himself back until he was leaning against the armchair opposite von Eberstein. He was still breathing hard. Right hand swelling up fast. His play having failed, he managed a resigned laugh.

  ‘Always wanted to break my hand on a Nazi’s face… Sick psychos, eh, Harry?’

  The voice was no longer raised. The energy in the room was dropping. Harry slumped into the middle armchair, the top of it still smouldering.

  ‘By the way,’ said Victor, raising his eyes to von Eberstein, the blood finally spoiling that perfect uniform. ‘You don’t even sound like me.’

  Von Eberstein lowered the edge of the scarf he was holding to his nostrils as a claret stain spread through the cream fabric.

  ‘Your voice? Ha! Films, films, films… So much easier to copy than some regional accent… But I agree it may take time. The only sure solution is silence. Perhaps for a number of years at least.’

  ‘Not suspicious at all,’ said Victor, sarcastically.

  ‘Well, if no-one even expects a man to speak…’ replied von Eberstein.

  Keeping his pistol trained on Victor, he began to remove the bloodstained scarf with his free hand, twirling it up and away. As the final loop was pulled clear, it revealed the Nazi’s neck – a sickening horizontal cut, closed up with big, ugly, vertical stitches. Victor stared at the butchered skin, transfixed by both its appearance and the audacity of the plan it represented.

  ‘You’re insane,’ he said at last. ‘And so is whatever Nazi doctor carved you up.’

  Von Eberstein’s pained behaviour in the hut now made perfect sense.

  ‘The doctor may be insane, but he is now also rich. His co-operation was not cheap. But, come now. It is important Harry and I remember our story.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I – Victor – was being horribly tortured by SS officers in this big old farmhouse when Harry here helped me escape. Luckily, we had overheard that the Americans were just a few miles to the west, so headed that way. All very plausible, no? In any case, it has to happen. The Russians are even closer than the Americans. In a few days they will take the camp, and God help any German who is still here for that.’

  Insane or not, they were really going to do this.

  ‘Of course,’ continued von Eberstein. ‘I imagine your country will be in some chaos when I arrive there. Millions of men returning to civilian life. All of which will be of great help to me. And a numbered Swiss bank account goes a long way. I confess that a background in banking and considerable wealth is not exactly a hindrance for the purpose of this project.’

  Victor was tiring of the boastful monologue. He glanced at the door leading back to the passage as surreptitiously as possible.

  ‘He’s thinking about it,’ said Harry.

  ‘Don’t,’ said von Eberstein. ‘Schmidt is already out there… I have a task for him.’

  Victor realised he had been vaguely aware of a vehicle pulling up in the courtyard while everything else had been going on. He looked at Harry and shook his head.

  ‘Listen to yourself,’ he said. ‘Good God, man! A few weeks from now we would have been getting drunk in an English pub. Now you’ll have a hundred thousand pounds to spend all on your own.’

  Harry didn’t reply at first, choosing simply to stare into the flames.

  ‘It’s already settled,’ he said at last.

  Victor sensed him wobbling.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, it’s not too late, Harry. Two of us will have a chance. Come on. Forget what you’ve done. It was the stress of war. We can be chasing girls in Leicester Square next month. Think about it.’

  Harry finally turned away from the flames to look at Victor. His old friend was right to think he had been wavering. A moment’s indecision over the choices he had made. But only a moment.

  ‘Vic…’ he said. ‘I’ll be able to buy a bleedin’ pub in Leicester Square.’

  The finality of the words sent a chill through Victor.

  ‘Don’t look so sad,’ interjected von Eberstein. ‘You fought a good war. In fact…’

  He stood up and moved over to a drinks cabinet in the corner, keeping Victor in his sights.

  ‘I saw the way you looked at the whisky during our chats,’ he said, clumsily pouring a generous measure. ‘There is really no need to deny yourself any longer.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Victor, looking at the heavy glass of the tumbler… a potentially lethal projectile. Then he glanced down at Harry’s empty brandy glass. At some point while pulling the armchair from the fire, he had left it on the edge of the low table. An altogether more delicate object, though perhaps it could still be useful.

  ‘You have to do something for me first,’ added von Eberstein. ‘I can’t very well turn up at the American lines dressed like an SS-Sturmbannführer. Your uniform and your boots. Give them to me.’

  Victor wanted that heavy tumbler. He also wanted his captor to mentally lower his guard. He wearily got up from the stone floor and began untying his laces, easing off each boot and casually tossing them over to the SS man. The shirt and trousers of his patched up uniform followed, leaving him standing in his underwear. He was glad of the warmth from the fire.

  ‘Good,’ said von Eberstein, pleased by the lack of resistance. He nodded at the thin chain round Victor’s neck. ‘Now those dog tags.’

  Victor pulled them over his head – yet another way for von Eberstein to ‘prove’ his new identity.

  ‘Out of interest…’ he began, throwing the tags onto the rest of his uniform, ‘…why did you bother explaining all of this to me? All you had to do was kill me when I got here.’

  Von Eberstein nodded at the rational question.

  ‘What can I say? When you have come up with a plan of such perfection… one that will have to stay hidden forever… it seems a shame not to show it off just once.’

  He handed Victor’s whisky to the seated Harry, then sank into his own armchair. The traitor avoided eye contact as he passed the tumbler on to his old pal. Victor took it in his broken right hand – it was still his throwing hand, after all. And his only hope now was to blind von Eberstein, thus forcing Harry to switch allegiance once again. A blind von Eberstein would never be able to make it cross-country to the American lines. It was a long shot, but the only one on offer.

  Victor stared into the tumbler. Swirling the whisky. Judging the weight.

  ‘I never asked if you were a religious man,’ said von Eberstein. ‘Perhaps you would like to say a few words?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ replied Victor, raising the glass to breathe in the aroma. ‘Hard not to have a few doubts when you’ve seen so many good men killed, wouldn’t you say, Harry?’

  His old mucker stared straight into the fire.

  ‘But there is one bit I once memorised. Just before we shipped out for the first time… Ephesians 6:10. The Armour of God.’

  Victor stopped swirling the whisky. Reciting the verse didn’t seem such a bad idea. On the one hand, von Eberstein would see a man accepting his fate. Surely that would dull his reflexes a little. On the other, if this really was to be the end, then, doubts or not, it still couldn’t hurt.

  ‘As you wish,’ said von Eberstein, the Walther P38 relaxing ever so slightly in his hand.

  The Englishman raised his eyes to a small window just behind the Nazi – a scrubby field and a distant line of trees. Crows were gathering on the neglected land. It seemed an appropriate view for the occasion. Victor had spent the last year looking out at a similar line of trees through the wire fence of Stalag IV-B. They were always just out of reach. If the heavy tumbler didn’t hit home in about thirty seconds time, they always would be.

/>   He invisibly tested the grip of each finger holding the glass in his damaged hand. From the nights of silent repetition on the troop ship to North Africa, he knew the passage contained exactly ninety-five words. He kept his eyes on the distant trees and began…

  ‘Finally, be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power. Put on the full armour of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes…’

  Sixty-six words to go.

  ‘For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms….’

  Thirty-two words.

  ‘Therefore put on the full armour of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground…’

  Eight.

  ‘…and after you have done everything…’

  Two.

  ‘…to STAND!’

  Victor downed the whisky and kicked a table leg, diverting eyes downward to the topple-and-shatter of the brandy glass while simultaneously drawing back the empty tumbler, focused on the point between von Eberstein’s eyes.

  Only Harry was distracted by the shattering brandy glass.

  Von Eberstein raised his Walther P38 and shot Victor in the head.

  The heavy tumbler fell vertically from the point at which it was about to be launched, reaching the ground with a smash at the same time as a crumpled Victor.

  The deafening echo of the shot gradually gave way to the sounds of Harry throwing up over the side of his chair and startled crows squawking skyward. Von Eberstein slowly got to his feet to inspect the scene.

  He looked down at the motionless heap of Victor, his hair a bloodied mess with glimpses of white skull beneath. Then he stepped over him, intrigued by the way the gramophone’s brass horn had created a blood-free silhouette on the spattered wall.

  A knock at the door.

  ‘Ja?’ answered von Eberstein.

  The door to the passage swung open and Blondie entered, the big elk hide from the other room under his arm. He showed no reaction to the sight before him. Blood, injuries, death… it was all very mundane to him.

  ‘Fertig?’ he asked… ‘Ready?’

  ‘Fertig,’ replied von Eberstein.

  With impressive speed, Blondie rolled out the animal skin next to Victor, then pushed and pulled his limp body onto it, before rolling it all up. Easier transportation.

  ‘Wie immer,’ said the new Victor… ‘The usual place.’

  Chapter 38

  Sunday, 24th April 2016

  North London

  Brook ordered the American-style pancakes while Jonboy asked for the ‘full Welsh breakfast’, before pointing to the full English on the menu to alleviate the waitress’s confusion. He never tired of that one. With none of the neighbouring tables occupied, Brook risked slipping the restricted crime report out of his bag for a first look.

  ‘I’m guessing that’s the top secret document Marie handed you in a folded newspaper,’ said Jonboy, any chance of being overheard drowned out by the nearby espresso machine.

  ‘Maybe I need to work on all that Cold War spy stuff,’ replied Brook.

  ‘Go on, then. What is it?’

  Brook leaned a little closer.

  ‘The crime report on Logan Baird that Barnes restricted.’

  Jonboy nodded approvingly at Marie’s clandestine skills.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said, before grabbing Marie’s newspaper and turning to the sports pages.

  ‘Hopefully,’ agreed Brook, starting to read. He reminded himself of Marie’s words: ‘VIW1 is an 88-year-old man called Paul Fisher and VIW2 is your Logan Baird…’

  The crime report described events in the borough of Westminster, central London, in June 2013. It explained how two uniformed PCs had been on an evening foot patrol in Hyde Park when they turned the corner past a wooded area to find an elderly white male (VIW1) lying on his back. Another white male of around forty (VIW2) was a few yards away. He stated: ‘Thank God you’re here’ to the officers, before rushing to the elderly male and attempting CPR.

  One of the PCs took over resuscitation attempts while another summoned an ambulance. VIW2 expressed surprise that police had ‘arrived so quickly’ as he had only just asked a passing female to call them. The female ‘could not be located’.

  VIW1 was pronounced dead at the scene. VIW2 was ‘helpful and co-operative’. He described coming across the elderly male on the ground while walking in the park and asking the unknown passing female to call police while he tried to resuscitate him.

  He was apparently doing this when he got up briefly ‘to check on the whereabouts of the female’ and bumped into the officers coming round the corner. No call about this incident could be found on the system. There was ‘no CCTV in that area of the park’.

  Owing to recent robberies in the area, this Crime Related Incident report had been created until it could be established that VIW1 was not the victim of an offence prior to being found by VIW2. Due to the physical contact during resuscitation attempts, ‘VIW2 was asked to provide elimination fingerprints and DNA, in case evidence of an earlier offence emerges and a forensic strategy is required’. He agreed to the request.

  The deceased’s details came from a wallet on his person, including photo ID. His next of kin was located after reporting her husband missing. The couple had been visiting London from their home in Florida.

  VIW1’s wife had viewed the items in his possession and did not believe anything had been stolen. Medical reports found no obvious signs of foul play. Intel reports and the closest CCTV cameras had also been checked and gave no indication that any offences played a role in VIW1’s death, which was believed to be heart-related… ‘Report submitted for closure’.

  A single line from a supervisor approved the conclusions.

  Brook leaned back in his chair, shuffled the report back together and pushed it across the table to Jonboy, who was shaking his head at all the multi-millionaire footballers in the sports pages. He began reading the crime report as the Polish waitress arrived with their breakfasts.

  ‘Are you cross with me for ‘big kiss’ shouting?’ she asked Brook.

  ‘Very cross,’ replied the detective with a wink. The waitress smiled back. Jonboy had clearly cracked the code where that smile was concerned. Brook began dissecting everything he had just read, while Jonboy took it all in for the first time. It turned out he was an even quicker reader.

  ‘Well now then,’ he said, pushing the report back across the table.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘I think this Logan Baird fella was disturbed just after killing the old boy and styled it out to perfection. You?’

  ‘The same,’ said Brook. ‘But none of that’s provable now. The official record is that he’s a Good Samaritan, tried to save someone and helped the police.’

  ‘Okay. You’re saying the official version does more to prove his good character than his bad character, so why did Barnes go to the trouble of restricting it two days ago?’

  ‘Exactly. I think there’s something in there we’re not seeing.’

  ‘Bit weird about the elimination DNA ending up on the database, isn’t it?’

  ‘True. Though I guess you only had to tick the wrong box on those old green forms.’

  ‘But it’s not as if it hasn’t been spotted. Barnes has got those instructions to contact him written all over it. If it started off as a mistaken entry on the database, he seems happy enough to leave it up there. Seems he’s quite invested in this fella one way or another.’

  Brook began to read it again, but the smell of pancakes easily defeated his remaining willpower. He slid the report back into the bag.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Jonboy, skewering a Cumberland sausage. ‘These things come to you when you stop thinking about them.’

  Brook tried to heed the good advice as he ate, looking at the framed sporting photos to give the police part
s of his brain a rest. Behind him, a customer was chatting to the waitress as he paid. He asked her to give his best to the owner.

  Brook dropped his cutlery on the plate.

  ‘Fiona,’ he said.

  ‘Or just Jonboy is fine.’

  ‘Fiona wants this back… The Lumberjack misheard him.’

  ‘How’s that then?’

  ‘It never made sense, did it? Our killer saying ‘Fiona wants this back’ when he took Victor’s medal. It didn’t make sense because he didn’t say it.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘He said The owner wants this back…’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘The Lumberjack said he would never mishear his wife’s name, but it’s the exact opposite. It’s exactly why he did mishear it. He was preconditioned to hear the name in his head.’

  Jonboy nodded cautiously. It did seem to make more sense than Fiona. Though it still left an obvious problem.

  ‘You realise you’re only replacing one question with another, don’t you? If Victor has had that medal since he was a baby and his killer says the owner wants it back, then who’s he talking about? I’m guessing Victor’s long lost mum didn’t hire a hitman on her hundred-and-fifteenth birthday to whack her son and take her medal back.’

  ‘I think I’m with you on that.’

  ‘So what’s the answer, Number One?’

  ‘Patience, Jonboy. All we do is acknowledge that there’s some sort of dispute over the medal and toss that jigsaw piece back into the mix.’

  ‘So it doesn’t get us anywhere?’

  ‘But it stops us getting nowhere.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  When the waitress collected their plates, Brook ordered two double espressos.

  ‘Come on. I’m in a problem-solving mood…’

  He reached back into his bag and pulled out the Christmas card from Harry’s bedroom.

  ‘This old chestnut,’ said Jonboy.

  ‘There’s an answer to this. I’m convinced it’s to do with that date inside the card. Six days out from the official frank. It’s deliberately chosen, so it’s saying something. The twenty-first of December… Twenty-one twelve… Two, one, one, two… It feels familiar.’