Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  ‘My name is Lance Corporal Victor Watson… Middlesex Regiment… British Army… Combined Allied Forces… We’re on the same side.’

  The Commander looked at Victor. The blood oozing from his bandages. His broken leg. His thin body being used as a shield to protect Gerti. Then he extended a massive hand. Victor took it in his broken right hand and shook it without flinching.

  ‘Good people?’ asked the Commander, nodding at Gerti and back at her parents.

  ‘Good people,’ said Victor. ‘Very good.’

  That evening, a crate of food was left on the doorstep. Enough for four to eat well.

  For Victor, the war was over.

  Chapter 47

  Monday, 25th April 2016

  Big Dave’s Café, North London

  Brook approached the café along the opposite pavement to give some distance and a wider field of view. Smells of fast food and cannabis mingled with traffic fumes as he passed kebab houses, bookies and payday loan shops. Some places that had closed for the day were now hidden behind graffiti-covered roller shutters. The megabucks of Premier League football rarely extended beyond the players’ car park.

  The neon sign outside Big Dave’s was still illuminated (or the neon sign outside ‘Bi Dav s’) while a police carrier was parked up fifty yards beyond it. Brook knew from experience that the driver and sergeant in the front seats would be joined by half a dozen colleagues once the match kicked off. He could probably borrow their manpower to ensure a swift and smooth arrest of the Tourist.

  But this case wasn’t that simple. If he ever wanted the full picture… if he ever wanted the truth… he had to go in there alone.

  The detective was opposite the café now. He made no attempt to conceal himself as he looked into it from the other side of the street. The Tourist looked different in his grey hoodie as he returned the silent appraisal. No wonder Jonboy hadn’t noticed him – especially if his hood had been up. But here he was. Dark hair cut short and sensible, solid jaw, and that wide, muscular neck. Action Man made real, sitting in a Tottenham greasy spoon.

  Brook’s strange sense of calm remained as he crossed the road and pushed open the café’s front door. He was already familiar with the bolted-down tables, fixed stools and special offer-covered mirror along the right wall. The counter at the back housed a cash register between two curved glass units (hot snacks and cold drinks) while the general clutter suggested pre-match trade had been brisk. An armful of plates was being whisked away by the same battle-hardened waitress as yesterday – blonde ponytail with grey roots, blue jeans and a yellow blouse.

  ‘Take a seat, darlin’. I’ll be wiv you in a sec!’ she shouted, disappearing through the hanging beads to the kitchen.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Brook, maintaining an air of normality.

  Apart from the Tourist, only the two rearmost tables were still occupied. The one on the left by a man of about eighty – flat cap, cup of tea, copy of the Racing Post. The one on the right (behind the Tourist) by two teenage girls. They were talking about a fight outside their school gates. Something about someone filming it for YouTube.

  Brook wanted their table with the minimum of fuss.

  He took out his warrant card and let it flap open as he looked at the special offers – making a big play of struggling to extract the emergency tenner he kept tucked in the holder. After a few seconds, one of the girls kicked her friend and the whisper of ‘Fed’ told Brook his warrant card had been spotted. They got up and left in exaggerated silence, starting to run and laugh as they reached the door. Brook strode past the Tourist and sat down at their table.

  ‘Cup of tea?’ asked the waitress from behind the counter.

  ‘Please,’ replied Brook, looking at the Tourist’s back.

  Your move now, mate.

  As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long. The Tourist may not have been happy at the prospect of turning his back to the entrance, but having his back to Brook for too long wasn’t much of an option either. With unhurried movements, he got to his feet – twisting to his right on the fixed stool then standing up.

  Brook noticed the total lack of any hands on the table as he completed the manoeuvre. It was the total opposite of how the detective tended to haul himself in and out of position with a clicking back and reluctant knees. The impression was one of controlled power. Then the Tourist stood there, still facing away from Brook, staring out of the café’s window and into the street.

  Was he checking if the detective had backup? Letting him know he didn’t consider him a threat? Showing that he would do things at his own speed? Perhaps an element of all three. Brook waited in silence.

  Finally, the Tourist turned around.

  He gave a contemptuous snort to show Brook what he thought of his little game and reluctantly took the seat opposite, placing his elbows on the table with exaggerated precision. As he brought his hands together, his right made a fist that his left enveloped. Up close, there was a leathery quality to the tanned skin. He spoke calmly over the top of the triangle created by his forearms…

  ‘Why are you harassing me, officer?’

  The detective’s forearms were also forming a triangle. Horizontal rather than vertical. His fingertips lightly touching on the table in front of him. Guarded. Ready.

  ‘Where is that accent from?’ asked Brook, ignoring the Tourist’s question.

  ‘You must get asked that a lot yourself.’

  ‘All of us Japanese do.’

  Not a flicker.

  ‘You do realise no-one’s laughing at your jokes, detective?’

  ‘They’re too busy laughing at your attempts to be a competent hitman.’

  The old man at the adjacent table gathered up his coat and left in a hurry, dropping the Racing Post but deciding against going back for it. Now they were alone.

  ‘Hitman?’ asked the Tourist, smiling for the first time in either CCTV form or real life. ‘I take it back. People do laugh at your jokes.’

  ‘What term would you prefer?’ asked Brook, impassive.

  The Tourist opened his mouth to speak then closed it again as the waitress came round the counter, carrying a mug of tea and a glass of Coke. She placed the mug in front of Brook and the Coke in front of the Tourist. He must have ordered just before Brook arrived.

  ‘There you go, my darlin’s,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said both men, staring straight ahead.

  ‘What’s happened to your other friend then?’ she asked Brook, referring to the big Welsh bloke she had taken a shine to yesterday.

  ‘That’s a good question,’ he replied.

  The waitress took a step back and glanced between the two men, easily noticing the atmosphere between them.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, turning and retrieving the Racing Post from the floor. ‘You boys.’

  They waited until she was out of earshot.

  ‘You were about to tell me how you’re not a hitman,’ said Brook.

  ‘Well, let’s see,’ said the Tourist, his arms and upper body staying almost unnaturally still. ‘On Thursday I had a pleasant evening in a pub, watching some soccer. The Junction, I think they call it. Then, the following morning, I’m in a café and some police officers are talking about this poor war veteran who was found dead after leaving that same pub.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that a coincidence.’

  ‘Middlesex Regiment, they said he was. It got me thinking how sad it is that we don’t really speak to these people while they’re still around. I’m into history, you see. So, I was able to find this other veteran of the same regiment. Harry Wilson. In a care home in some place called Sheffield. It’s amazing what you can do with the internet these days.’

  ‘Isn’t it just.’

  ‘So, I head up there and spend this fantastic hour with him as he tells me all about his war and the POW camp. Amazing, really amazing. I call back later to see if we can to do it again and they tell me the poor guy’s had a heart attack. Just horrible news. But as if that�
��s not bad enough, I have some psycho detective chasing me who’s got it into his head that I killed these heroes. You’re a sick man, DC Deelman.’

  Brook used a single hand to slide his mug of tea to the far end of the table while keeping his eyes on the man opposite. The Tourist did the same with his glass of Coke. Neither was going to risk taking a sip from an object that could be smashed straight into their face.

  ‘Don’t stop now,’ said Brook, ‘you’ve got the jury in the palm of your hand. Why don’t you tell them how you know my name?’

  ‘Your name? Well, it seems to crop up everywhere, doesn’t it? Those officers were using it as they spoke about the dead veteran. Then it was on some kind of note at the nursing home. And now it’s all over your own force’s website with some search for a next of kin.’

  That bloody enthusiastic press officer. All the business about overhearing the case was total bullshit of course, but vague enough to be hard to disprove among the other nuggets of truth about Post-it Notes and police appeals.

  ‘You’re doing well,’ said Brook. ‘You must have seven or eight jurors on your side by now. Why don’t you tell the others why you used my details to order that taxi?’

  ‘Your details? Did I? That’s weird. I mean, I already had them from one of those officers in the café. I told him I’d been in the same pub as the poor veteran and he said I should call you if I had any information. I remember looking at that bit of paper as I was booking the taxi and… How ridiculous of me. I guess I just wasn’t concentrating. It’s funny how the mind works.’

  ‘Nine jurors on your side… What made you say I was harassing you?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? When I called Peak View to see if I could meet Harry again… And when I went back to The Junction… They were all telling me the same thing – ‘There’s this detective, Brook Deelman. He thinks you’re a murderer’. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Ten jurors… Who’s Paul Fischer?’

  ‘Fischer? Wait. Is that the poor old guy I tried to save in Hyde Park a few years ago? God, that was awful. The cops actually wanted to give me some sort of citizen’s award for my efforts, but I just wanted to put it all behind me.’

  ‘Eleven jurors… How did we come to be in this café?’

  ‘I wish we weren’t. I’ve got a ticket to the match. I was having a smoke outside The Elbow Room and there was this big, drunk, Welsh guy mouthing off about work. Obviously an off-duty police officer. Everyone was sort of embarrassed. At one point he tried to put his phone back in his pocket and dropped it. I was just picking it up for him when this young kid bumped past us – twelve, thirteen years old, maybe. The drunk cop patted his pocket, decided the kid had stolen his phone and set off after him. Obviously the terrified kid just ran away as fast as he could.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Well, the lock screen hadn’t kicked in yet, so I thought I would call one of his contacts to let them know I had the phone. And who should I see up there near the top? Brook Deelman. Under ‘B’, you see? Near the top.’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘So I think to myself: Great! I can get the phone back to a friend of his at the same time as explaining this whole other… you know… misunderstanding. And maybe even get to see the rest of the game.’

  ‘Boom. Twelve jurors on your side. You win,’ said Brook, leaning back.

  ‘Oh, it’s not a case of winning or losing. I’m just trying to stop a valued officer of the law wasting any more time. I mean, you’ve probably been running around gathering forensics and CCTV to place me in the pub and the nursing home. But I’ve just explained all of that.’

  ‘And that stuff you said when you rang me? About stealing Jonboy’s phone and standing close enough to see his passcode?’

  ‘Well, a mad detective with some kind of vendetta against me would say that, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  The Tourist lowered his defensive forearm triangle, now placing his hands on the table. He looked more relaxed. Tension evaporating.

  ‘I’m glad we didn’t have to fall out,’ he said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Brook.

  Senses heightened. Pulse normal.

  ‘You never did tell me where that accent was from,’ he added.

  ‘Around,’ said the Tourist, a hint of steel returning to his expression.

  ‘Well, mine’s from Botswana. You know that already, of course. There wasn’t much on TV when I was growing up, but my second favourite show was Columbo.’

  ‘Is this where I ask what your favourite was?’

  ‘Batman,’ replied Brook. ‘The original. Adam West and Burt what’s-his-name. You see, Batman was good, but those really long explanations by the bad guys were just so fucking boring. I was thinking about that a moment ago when you were talking.’

  The Tourist began returning his forearms to their vertical triangle, then became aware it was too obvious a defensive movement. Brook raised an eyebrow to let him know the indecision had been noted. Then he carried on.

  ‘Columbo was better at cutting to the chase, wasn’t he? What was it he used to say?’

  ‘You know what he used to say.’

  ‘I know that I know. I just want to hear you say it.’

  ‘And why would I perform for you, detective?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, I won’t tell you what you’re missing. And the not knowing will drive you mad.’

  Both men fell quiet as the Tourist weighed up his two options… Either say Columbo’s catchphrase at Brook’s behest, or refuse and risk not finding out what he was ‘missing’ just to avoid a momentary loss of face. Somehow both seemed to be a victory for the officer. The Tourist’s stare seemed to increase in wattage as he forced himself to say the well-known words.

  ‘Just… One… More… Thing…’

  ‘The cards,’ said Brook.

  ‘The cards?’

  ‘The cards.’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Congratulations. That’s the first truthful thing you’ve said in the past five minutes. But don’t beat yourself up about it. If it’s beyond your skill set then it’s hardly your fault.’

  The Tourist thought back to those evidence bags he had seen Brook and Jonboy carrying out of the flat. The ones that had made him so curious.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘So tell me about the cards.’

  Brook leaned in a little, sacrificing some of the reactionary gap in order to dominate the space between them. It was his turn to hold court now.

  ‘Both of your victims this week were receiving Christmas cards from a ‘Victor’ in Australia, with a coded reference to the POW number of one Victor Watson. Which throws a bit of a spanner in the works, doesn’t it? Considering the first dead guy was meant to be Victor Watson.’

  The Tourist gave nothing away. There was no need to worry yet.

  ‘Fascinating,’ he said, with undisguised sarcasm.

  ‘Just look at the basics,’ continued Brook. ‘Seventy years after the war, those two men were still being prodded and poked by someone letting them know he was still around. Victor Watson. The real Victor Watson. Not that Nazi you killed in the churchyard.’

  The Tourist continued to hold his nerve – the corners of his mouth turning up in a show of amusement and disdain.

  ‘Nazi, you say? I do love a good conspiracy theory. And what about Harry Wilson? Was he a Nazi too?’

  ‘Looks like I won’t get the chance to ask him now. Ideology? Money? Who knows? But the two were in touch and received identical treatment – the cards then the killing. Which is a pretty good sign Harry Wilson was in cahoots with Karl Friedrich von Eberstein.’

  Brook dropped the name with all the relish of a big reveal in interview – that key bit of information the other guy wasn’t counting on. A tiny muscle beneath the Tourist’s left eye gave the faintest of twitches and his jaw set a little firmer. Brook welcomed the confirmation of his theory.

  ‘You killed them both on be
half of Victor Watson. And he found you, or Barnes, or your little team, because this is what you do. Just like you did in Hyde Park a few years ago. How hard would I have to look into this Paul Fischer before I found he was another on the wrong side of history?’

  For the first time, the Tourist lowered his gaze, looking instead at Brook’s hands resting on the table. He made a shape with his mouth as if trying to dislodge something stuck in his teeth. Trying to get rid of an irritant. He was thinking. Considering options. He looked up.

  ‘I hate to spoil your little world of guesswork and supposition. But I’m going to drag you back to that annoying little thing called evidence, detective. You have none. I mean, fucking zero.’

  It was the first time Brook had heard him swear.

  ‘And to be perfectly honest…’ he continued.

  ‘You should always be honest,’ said Brook.

  ‘…You’re getting in my fucking way.’

  The detective let the Tourist’s loss of cool hang in the air. He was rattled. The waitress put her head through the hanging beads, picking up on the first edge to the measured tones in which the men had been talking.

  ‘Are you two playing nicely?’ she asked.

  ‘Just talking about Columbo,’ replied Brook, without turning around.

  ‘Good. No falling out allowed.’

  The swishing of the beads was replaced by the faint sounds of a debate between waitress and chef over whether Columbo had a glass eye.

  ‘I’ll give you some credit,’ said Brook. ‘Two bodies in three days and neither police force calling it murder. A defence lawyer would fancy your chances even if you did get brought in. Your only worry would be if someone proved the bigger picture, and for that they’d need to find Victor.’

  The Tourist stayed quiet this time. He was curious…

  ‘New Zealand,’ said Brook, cutting straight to his best guess in the hope of catching another micro-reaction. The rogue nerve ending beneath the Tourist’s left eye did not disappoint. The detective continued, emboldened…