Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  Jonboy was staring at the card in silence so Brook shut up. Espressos duly arrived at the newly becalmed table. Jonboy tipped three sugars into his, gave it a stir and downed it in one.

  ‘Have you transferred all the photos from this job onto your new phone?’ he asked.

  Brook called up the photos and handed over the mobile. Jonboy scrolled through them, forward and back, pausing here and there. Then he slid the card and phone across the table, leaned back in his chair and casually opened the sports pages again.

  ‘Giving up already?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Au Cointreau,’ replied Jonboy, deliberately mangling the French. ‘It’s not giving up when you’ve figured it out, is it?’

  ‘You’re kidding me.’

  ‘Nope… You said it looked familiar, didn’t you? If the twenty-first of December was turned into digits. Have you got the dog tags in that bag?’

  ‘I’ve got everything in that bag.’

  ‘Take them out and have a look.’

  Brook fished around until he had the evidence bag with the dog tags from Victor’s flat. He laid it on the table and looked at the inscription:

  STALAG IVB 211251

  ‘Two, one, one, two,’ said Brook, staring at the dog tags. ‘The first four digits of Victor’s prisoner number.’

  ‘Exactly. Like the twenty-first of December. That’s why it seemed familiar. I don’t know if it helps us though. It’s not even an exact match, is it? The first four digits of a six-digit number. Could just be a coincidence.’

  Brook tutted. ‘You know my views on the C-word.’

  He placed the dog tags alongside the open Christmas card and looked between the two, rubbing his heavy night shift stubble. After a minute or two, a smile began to emerge.

  ‘Humour me with this,’ he said, placing a pen and paper in front of his friend.

  ‘I hate it when you’re smug. Go on then.’

  ‘Write fifteen as if you were writing about a rugby team – the first fifteen.’

  Jonboy picked up the pen and wrote ‘XV’. Brook carried on.

  ‘Now write eleven as if you’re writing about a cricket or football team.’

  Jonboy wrote ‘XI’ next to the ‘XV’.

  ‘Now get rid of all the Xs. What are you left with?’

  ‘V and I.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Six. Or a five and a one.’

  ‘Now look at the card again. And the name next to the date.’

  Jonboy looked once more at the date of ‘21st December’ and then, beneath it to the right, the name ‘VICTOR’ in capitals, the V and I bigger than the other letters. The penny dropped.

  ‘The last two digits of the prisoner number are in the name,’ he said. ‘V and I. Five and one.’

  ‘Two, one… one, two… five, one… Victor’s entire POW number encoded in the card.’

  Jonboy scratched his head. ‘Am I allowed to point out that you’ve just replaced one question with another again? It’s signed from Victor anyway. Why go to all the effort of secretly confirming which Victor it is?’

  ‘You don’t need to have all the answers straight away. It’s−’

  ‘I know, I know. Another piece of Brook’s never-ending jigsaw.’

  ‘You’re getting the hang of this.’

  ‘Would Harry even have noticed it in there? It took us long enough to figure it out.’

  ‘But we knew there was something, didn’t we? The little anomalies flagged that up. Plus, these old soldiers lived in a world of codes and secret messages. Not like us idiots.’

  ‘So let’s accept all of that. It’s included deliberately and it’s meant to be noticed. But… why?’

  Brook took a deep breath, then let all the air out in a sigh.

  ‘Not sure,’ he said.

  ‘Brilliant.’

  He finished his espresso and put everything back into the shoulder bag.

  ‘So what are we looking for at Victor’s flat?’ asked Jonboy. ‘And you’re not allowed to say any pieces of the jigsaw.’

  ‘I think we’re looking for two things,’ said Brook. ‘Victor told the barman he didn’t like cards. It was so insignificant, I almost didn’t include it in his statement. But, since there’s something funny going on with cards, let’s look for cards.’

  ‘What’s the other thing?’

  ‘Any pieces of the jigsaw.’

  Chapter 39

  He felt a certain amount of satisfaction as he watched the two of them approach. Okay, he admitted it, a massive amount. The fact he was watching them had nothing to do with any tip-off from Barnes. This was all his own initiative, and his hunches had proved right.

  Firstly, that Deelman would find the ‘invitation’ he had left for him with New York Cabs in Sheffield. He was very confident of that now. Secondly, that the detective would want to squeeze in another visit to ‘Victor’s’ flat for anything he had missed before their little tête-à-tête tomorrow. Some time after breakfast had always seemed the most likely window. This Deelman seemed to like his food. And here he was. Right on cue. Hadn’t he told Barnes he needed to trust him more?

  Whoever was walking alongside Deelman didn’t look shy of a square meal either. Tall, too. Where were the Met Police getting these giants from? Assuming this new guy was police, of course. Which seemed highly likely since he was heading towards the flat with Deelman. He didn’t recognise whatever red sports jersey he was wearing, but it definitely seemed the Met had ditched their shaving requirement.

  He raised the can of super-strength cider to his lips as the two police officers walked past his bench on the other side of the street. With a grey hoodie, stained baseball cap and copy of the Daily Star, there was little danger of being recognised as the man they had seen on CCTV. Amazing the character you can create when you put your mind to it.

  He took a good look at them now – he had only seen Deelman from afar at Peak View and, obviously, it was his first view of this other big lump. But assuming they would be operating as some kind of team tomorrow, this was an invaluable head start.

  He still had no idea how this whole thing would end. A lot of it would depend on what layer of truth Deelman had drilled down to by the time of their meeting. Because there were many, many layers, and he was genuinely curious to see how deep he would get.

  If they foolishly decided to go for him then they would regret it, of course. Being a big, burly London ‘copper’ was one thing. Even being two big, burly London coppers. Having five percent body fat and twenty years of intensive hand-to-hand combat training under your belt was something else. It was up to them if they wanted to make the mistake.

  As the two police officers passed beyond his position and approached the flat, he was glad to lower the can of super-strength cider from his lips.

  How did people drink that shit?

  Chapter 40

  ‘This is it,’ said Brook, as they reached 64 Duke Crescent. He took in the scene for a moment. With everything that had happened, it was hard to believe it was only a few days since he had been here with Kev. A loud click focused their attention on the front door just before it began to open. A blonde of around thirty came into view, struggling to manoeuvre a buggy with off-road wheels.

  ‘Yummy mummy,’ whispered Jonboy, before making light of his bulk to dance up the steps and assist with the door.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said the blonde, blowing a disobedient fringe out of her eyes. ‘I always struggle with that.’

  ‘Pram’s too big,’ said Jonboy, helpfully. ‘You could fit a massive baby in there and you’ve only got a little one.’

  Brook bit his lip and winced as he presented his warrant card…

  ‘Would it be okay if we came in? We’re from the police station down the road. Just dealing with the death of the old man in 1A.’

  The resident couldn’t quite hide her surprise that Jonboy also presented a warrant card.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, closing the door softly enough that it rested against
the latch. ‘Yes, I saw that you were looking for his next of kin on the local police Twitter account.’

  The two men gave each other a glance that said ‘We have a Twitter account?’ at the same time as Brook realised his request for the press officer to hold fire had been totally ignored. Oh well. Too late now.

  ‘I’m so sorry we haven’t been able to help more,’ the blonde continued. ‘I suppose nobody really knows their neighbours these days, do they?’

  She moved the buggy towards the top of the steps.

  ‘I’ll get that for you,’ said Jonboy, hoisting the contraption skyward before whisking it down to street level. The yummy mummy followed with just a hint of concern on her face.

  ‘There you go, little fella,’ said the big Welshman, handing over control.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied the baby’s mother. ‘Though she’s a girl, actually.’

  ‘Oh, right. I just thought with all the blue stuff and the… other blue stuff.’

  ‘We don’t believe in gender stereotyping.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Jonboy. ‘Quite right. Very bad business indeed all that gender… business.’

  ‘You coming, mate?’ called Brook, mercifully, from the top of the steps.

  Jonboy took them three at a time while the yummy mummy walked off with a strange story to tell at baby yoga.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at, Number One.’

  ‘Shall we just stick to searching the flat from now on?’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Victor’s home looked exactly the same as before. Dated yet meticulously maintained.

  ‘Not a bad place, is it?’ observed Jonboy, taking himself on a quick tour… ‘And he owned it?’ he called from the dining room, staring at the photo of Stalag IV-B’s theatre.

  ‘Looks like it. But the version of the land registry database I checked only went back fifty years. Still, it hasn’t been bought or sold for half a century at least.’

  ‘Blimey. Just think of the increase in value.’

  ‘Yep… You’d think there would be no trouble finding a next of kin.’

  They both looked around in silence for a moment.

  ‘Right then,’ said Jonboy. ‘Let’s get cracking.’

  It would be fair to say that Brook had known easier searches, but plenty of harder ones too. After about ten minutes, he was close to completing the kitchen – taking infinitely more care than he and Kev had shown the first time – when a familiar baritone shattered the silence. It filled the flat with a single triumphant word.

  ‘Doughnuts!’

  Brook headed through to the bedroom, where Jonboy was standing in front of an open wardrobe. The top drawer of its internal unit was open too – some neatly arranged socks, underwear and handkerchiefs inside. Brook looked down at them, then across at Jonboy.

  ‘You’re not getting doughnuts for finding his pants.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Jonboy, sliding the drawer out and placing it on the bed.

  Whatever was hiding in there, he’d clearly already seen it.

  Brook began removing the small items from the drawer, soon revealing a white envelope. It had the same handwriting as the one in Harry’s room and a similar Christmas scene on its stamp. The frank told him the card had been sent from Perth in 1992.

  He lifted it out of the drawer… another envelope was beneath it. He tilted his head to look in from an angle… plenty more beneath that one. Brook tipped them all onto the bed.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘doughnuts it is.’

  They spread out the envelopes. Eleven in total. All addressed to ‘Mr Victor Watson’ at the flat in which they were standing and all franked in Australia… Brisbane, Cairns, Adelaide, Bundaberg, Canberra, two from Perth, two from Sydney and two from Melbourne.

  The most recent was from Melbourne in 2015. The oldest from Sydney, sent in 1954. The others were from the intervening decades, each slit envelope still holding its contents.

  Brook pulled out eleven Christmas cards and laid them open. Apart from changes to the generic printed greeting, the writing inside was always the same. ‘To Victor... 21st December… VICTOR… See you soon’. The V and I were always a bit bigger than the other letters – exactly the same coded message as Harry’s card. The Stalag IV-B prisoner number of one Victor Watson.

  Brook checked the frank on the Melbourne envelope from 2015. It matched the one on the card in Harry’s bedroom. Sent together.

  ‘I’m guessing Harry received matching cards for all these other ones too, but one way or another they didn’t survive his move to Peak View.’

  ‘This is making my head explode,’ said Jonboy.

  Only the oldest card contained any additions – the different ink and handwriting suggesting they were the work of the recipient rather than the sender. The date and the first two letters of VICTOR were ringed, followed by the same ‘answer’ Brook and Jonboy had arrived at in the café… 211251.

  Victor Watson’s POW number was followed by a couple of words.

  ‘You speak a bit of German from your time based over there, don’t you?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Often mistaken for a local,’ said Jonboy, staring at the words being pointed out:

  Er lebt??

  ‘He’s… in love?’ he offered.

  Childhood holidays in Namibia and a varied home schooling meant Brook was, fortunately, not reliant on Jonboy’s translation skills.

  ‘He’s alive,’ he said.

  Jonboy ran a hand over his face, ruffled his hair and grunted.

  ‘Right… Just… Right… So the Victor who phones Harry does so from this flat. But the Victor who sends Christmas cards to Harry does so from the other side of the world. And that Victor also sends cards to this Victor. And both Victors lay claim to the same POW number. Because one puts it in his cards, while the other has it here on his dog tags and Red Cross record.’

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples as he spoke.

  ‘But logic says Victor can’t be two people. So we must have one Victor and one nut job. And if the nut job is the guy who lived here, then… who the hell is he? And what’s with the German?’

  Brook stayed lost in thought while Jonboy continued his monologue, trying to rationalise everything before his head went pop…

  ‘It would be nice if the cards said a bit more. I mean, See you soon is pretty standard fare and, apart from that, they’re just saying ‘this is me and this is you’.’

  ‘Or put that another way,’ said Brook. ‘I exist and I know where you live.’

  Jonboy noticed the distant look in his friend’s eyes.

  ‘You’re shuffling those jigsaw pieces again, aren’t you?’

  ‘Think motive and opportunity,’ suggested Brook, returning to the flat’s only photograph… So why this one? Why this as your one and only photo? He read the caption again:

  ‘Stalag IV-B, Christmas 1944, ‘The Empire’ Theatre’

  Just four months before the camp was liberated and the captors became the captives. Motive and opportunity. He examined the image once more. The uproar of the stage show, the mixed crowd of prisoners and guards… But he looked at it differently this time.

  There was a Nazi officer nearest the camera. Immaculate uniform. He was throwing his head back and laughing even more than most (he clearly liked the jokes). One could almost have been forgiven for thinking the photo was all about him.

  Brook took out his phone and found the solitary shot he had taken from The Junction’s CCTV – ‘Victor’ passing under the camera, momentarily glancing up at someone holding the door open. He put the images side by side and tried to mentally undo the injuries and years of ageing.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Jonboy.

  ‘I think it’s called an epiphany.’

  Chapter 41

  Saturday, 21st April 1945

  near Mühlberg, Germany

  Darkness.

  Is this what it was like, then? Being dead?

  He was pretty sure h
is eyes were open. But it was hard to tell. Just… darkness.

  Odd that he was aware of the physical sensation of opening his eyes though. Do you still have sensations like that? When you’re dead?

  There were other feelings too. Like a vague sense of movement. And his head felt strange. Cold. Different.

  He tried to raise a hand to it in the darkness. If he could raise an eyelid then surely he could raise a hand. Ah… No… It didn’t move at all. Dead then. And yet he was aware of the muscles trying to move the arm and meeting some kind of resistance. Strange.

  Light.

  Blinding light everywhere.

  So this was it. The moment of ascent. Two questions answered in the affirmative: Was heaven real? And would he ever see it? He hadn’t expected the ascent to be this loud though. It sounded like an explosion.

  And flames? Flames were everywhere now.

  No. Not this way. Not down. Come on! Hey! I did my best!

  Blue sky.

  Better. Much better. Now, this was more like heaven.

  Serene blue sky with some fluffy white clouds just ambling by. Take your time, clouds. This was far more pleasant than the flames.

  And now a new shape up there. He knew this… A plane! Not the glorious curves of a Spitfire, but some other fighter. Russian maybe. Flying low and looking for targets of opportunity. Funny thing to be doing in Heaven.

  Still, it looked like it had nailed one. Some thirty feet away. The burning shell of a vehicle. Hard to say what it once was. A Kübelwagen maybe. The German army Jeep.

  Now what… what was this beneath him? An animal skin rug? All scorched and smoking. So would this animal have been killed on Earth or in Heaven? This was all very confusing.

  Ah! A face! A face he recognised. What was his name again? Come on, Victor… Think now… Think… Blondie! That was it. But how did he get up there when he was so heavy? All the way up in that tree?

  Of course! It was obvious once you realised. He had left the bottom half of his body behind. To make himself lighter. Clever Blondie. He didn’t look very happy up there though. Maybe because he was on fire.