Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  The Tourist grabbed at Brook’s army surplus jacket, trying to pull him in and deny the space for another punch. The blood-covered cop flexed a straight left arm to restore the gap and drew back his fist for a second strike… at which point, the right edge of his world started closing in.

  The ruined plasterwork caused by tables tearing free had swallowed up key fixtures for the big wall mirror and its sheer weight had done the rest. It had effectively been standing on its bottom edge since the massive collision. Now it toppled towards the two men. Eight-foot by four-foot of accelerating glass.

  Brook aborted the second punch and grabbed the Tourist, hauling him off the table and throwing both of them to the floor in front of the main counter. The air was forced out of the hitman’s lungs as his back hit the ground just as the mirror crashed onto the tables, scattering razor-edged shards.

  ‘What part of arrest don’t you understand?’ growled Brook, his winded opponent grappling with him more weakly than before. The Tourist was running out of ideas. Brook found he could hold him down with one arm and the weight of his body, while his right hand moved inside his jacket for the handcuffs. For a moment they didn’t want to budge – one of the bracelets having come open and snagged on the pocket’s lining.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brook saw a huge figure emerge round the end of the counter. A 22-stone man with a mullet and goatee, wearing all black beneath a blue-and-white striped apron. The chef. Maybe even ‘Big Dave’ himself. He had a fire extinguisher in his right hand and was looking nervously at the two men destroying his café to a 70s disco classic.

  ‘Wait there!’ ordered Brook, briefly interrupting his attempt to free the handcuffs to bat away a grip the Tourist had established on him. Then he began ripping out the entire jacket pocket to try and release the snagged restraints. Big Dave continued to hover nervously with the fire extinguisher. Maybe the waitress had told him to ‘do something’.

  The Tourist saw one final chance.

  On the blind side from Big Dave, he managed to snake a couple of fingers into the pocket of Brook’s jeans, feeling for the officer’s warrant card… Then he turned his head towards the chef, held the police ID aloft and forced out a few desperate words.

  ‘POLICE! HELP ME!’

  Big Dave stepped forward with sudden purpose as Brook opened his mouth to protest. Too late. The fire extinguisher smacked into the side of the detective’s head, instantly knocking him sideways off his stricken opponent. Brook’s vision turned to reds and greens and the sides began to close in like theatre curtains as he was sent rolling onto his back…

  The Tourist composed himself for a moment. Then he got to his feet with just a hint of unsteadiness, dusted himself down and turned to his accidental saviour.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, tossing the warrant card on top of Brook.

  Big Dave dropped the fire extinguisher with a clang and ran back to the kitchen as fast as 22-stone could move, shouting out his mistake to the waitress.

  ‘TRACY! TRACE! I HIT THE WRONG ONE!’

  Brook tried to concentrate on little more than staying conscious as his hearing developed a distant quality to accompany the distorted vision. His senses were going into basic mode to avoid total shutdown, the blood from his injuries now trickling down his neck and chest. In all the destruction, his left foot had ended up dangling over an errant crossbar that used to attach one of the fixed stools to a table.

  The Tourist had seen enough Lazarus-like comebacks for one day. He stepped over to where the foot was hanging over the crossbar and stamped down on it, snapping the ankle and turning the foot most of the way round. Brook made only a muffled ‘Nnnng’ sound through gritted teeth, the black theatre curtains closing in a little more.

  Primitive survival instinct still compelled him to push back with his hands on the floor, moving a pathetic distance away from the threat until he was pressed against the counter. He refused to direct his increasingly blurred vision towards his ankle, knowing that would be the end of whatever scrap of consciousness he was clinging on to.

  The last man standing looked down and shook his head at the struggling detective. He didn’t care about Queensbury Rules. A win was a win. Brook began reaching around for a way to pull himself up as ABBA entered their final chorus. He felt anything but young, sweet and seventeen.

  ‘Just stop trying,’ said the Tourist, the area around his eye starting to swell, even though the leathery skin refused to give up a speck of blood.

  ‘You first,’ said Brook.

  His right hand found the counter above him and he began hauling himself upright on one leg. Some sort of automatic pilot was kicking in. Fifty points down with moments to play. Victory impossible… Never give up. Never give in.

  As his right hand slipped on the counter top, he blindly swung out his left in a vain attempt to stop himself falling back down. It smashed through one of the curved glass display units, sending cans of Coke, 7 Up and Fanta cascading out. Unable to find a grip, he slumped back to the ground as the soft drinks tumbled around him.

  In the clatter, and through his half-functioning vision, he was vaguely aware of a figure ducking under the roller shutter and opening the café door. Any noise they made was masked by the last moments of ABBA and the waterfall of cans.

  The Tourist had seen enough. It had gone badly – and he would have a lot of explaining to do to Barnes – but it could have gone worse. Just about. He watched in disbelief as the blood-covered detective with his mangled ankle reached up for the counter once again.

  ‘You’ve got some kind of problem,’ he said.

  Brook blinked away the blood to hold his gaze. ABBA faded out.

  He could see the new figure now.

  ‘You too,’ he replied.

  The Tourist turned to finally leave the madman behind.

  He never completed a step towards the front door.

  The clunking right fist of Jonboy sent him slamming into the counter as if attached to a recoiling bungee rope. His body arched back, opened the cash register with a ping, then slid down next to Brook. Spark out…

  The detective weakly elbowed his nemesis away from him.

  ‘Bloody hell, Brook. I don’t think your foot’s meant to look like that.’

  ‘I’m not looking,’ said Brook. The fact that Jonboy had called him by his first name rather than ‘Number One’ told him it must be bad.

  ‘The cavalry took their fucking time,’ he added.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ said Jonboy, taking in the devastation. ‘Partly my fault.’

  A boy of about twelve ducked under the roller shutter and pushed open the door. He stared wide-eyed at the ruined café and injured men, then caught the phone that Jonboy tossed back to him and ran off.

  ‘Had to catch that little shit first and figure out he hadn’t really nicked my phone. Used his Find My iPhone tracker thingy to see that mine was in here – just wish I’d remembered my password a bit quicker.’

  The black theatre curtains closed in a little more on Brook’s vision. He reached into his jacket and finally un-snagged the handcuffs, tossing them towards Jonboy as the Tourist began to stir.

  ‘You’ll have to help me out here.’

  The new last man standing picked up the handcuffs from the floor.

  ‘Have you nicked him then?’ he asked.

  ‘For everything.’

  ‘Right you are.’

  Brook’s senses shut down one more level as the adrenalin faded.

  ‘And I hate to be a nuisance…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘But you might want to get me an ambulance.’

  Then the curtains closed.

  Chapter 49

  Three days later

  University College Hospital, London

  Not for the first time Brook woke to find Jonboy in a bedside chair, stuffing his face with the grapes he had bought on his way to the hospital. The detective pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain caused by such a simple mo
vement.

  ‘You know I’m not a massive fan of grapes,’ he said, once he was settled.

  ‘That’s why I buy them,’ said Jonboy, throwing another five into his mouth.

  Before Brook could complain, his friend nodded at a separate collection of goodies he had placed on the bedside table.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ said the patient, the skin beneath his eyes a rainbow of bruise colours and nine stitches shared between forehead and cheek. ‘I take it they haven’t changed their beer policy then?’

  ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  The doctors had kept Brook in for observation on account of Big Dave’s unconventional use of a fire extinguisher. Given that the concussion checks allowed time for some of the swelling around his re-aligned ankle to go down, he was going to be passed straight from the head trauma experts to the brave surgeon who would try to rebuild the shattered joint. He had been told to expect pins, screws, wires and staples. It was best not to think about it too much.

  The Tourist… The Tourist was long gone. He had spent just under an hour in custody. Less than sixty minutes for Murder, Resisting Arrest and Grievous Bodily Harm to Brook’s ankle. He had never even been questioned – surely some kind of world record considering the offences involved. Barnes must have played an absolute blinder behind the scenes.

  Nearly as strange was the total silence surrounding the events. Just at the point that Brook and Jonboy might have expected to be bombarded by phone calls and visits from senior officers wanting to know what the hell had gone on… Tumbleweed. Not a single attempt to make contact in any way.

  A tiny ‘News in Brief’ in a local newspaper said that Big Dave’s had been damaged by a small number of Spurs fans, angry at the 1−1 draw with West Brom that scuppered their title chances. The common theme was clear – the events of Monday night were being airbrushed from history.

  The Tourist’s custody record had naturally been restricted, but Marie had used her resourcefulness to get hold of screenshots once again. Jonboy had brought them in for Brook to see for the first time… The battered officer scanned the pages of A4, the text ending abruptly with a few cut-and-paste lines about ‘No Further Action’ and the letters ‘DI’ in brackets.

  ‘So, what nameless DI has the authority to release a murder suspect?’ asked Brook.

  ‘That’s what I thought at first. Then I realised it probably doesn’t stand for Detective Inspector.’

  Brook thought for a moment. He still wasn’t firing on all cylinders.

  ‘Diplomatic Immunity,’ he said at last. ‘What a load of bullshit.’

  ‘Course it is. But authorised bullshit beats unauthorised truth every time. He was out of custody before I’d even finished writing my notes.’

  A nurse doing the rounds with hot drinks came past the end of the bed and was polite enough to smile at Jonboy’s request for an Irish coffee before both men accepted a cup of tea. They drank in silence for a moment, contemplating the documented proof that all their efforts had amounted to a big fat zero.

  ‘Look, maybe… maybe it’s for the best,’ said Brook, taking a sip.

  ‘The alcohol ban?’

  ‘The way things turned out.’

  ‘Seriously? Have they upped your morphine?’

  ‘Or, let’s just say, it’s not all bad. I didn’t exactly relish the prospect of Victor getting dragged through a murder trial. Besides, they know we won. We figured it out, gathered the evidence and got the suspect into custody. What more can you do?’

  ‘Bastard broke your ankle.’

  ‘Double break and dislocation,’ said Brook. ‘Yeah, don’t worry – that’s being filed under ‘Unforgiven’. Fucking cheap shot.’

  Even before he had finished talking, his attention was being drawn to the television above his neighbour’s bed. All patients had the option of one, on a big adjustable arm and activated once you had paid ten quid for a card. Brook’s neighbour was asleep while the local news ate up some of his credit. It was the strapline across the bottom that caught Brook’s eye:

  ‘Lonely Funeral Fears for WW2 Hero’

  He pointed over Jonboy’s shoulder to alert him, before the more mobile of the two cranked the TV their way and turned the volume up to Max in the headphones – the only way of listening in. With the earpieces at the full extension of their wire, the report was just about audible.

  It seemed that one little thing had, after all, slipped through the net that Barnes was trying to throw over events. The media had picked up on the next of kin appeal from the police press officer and were running with it. A young female reporter in a red jacket was nodding as the studio anchor finished his link to her. She was also standing outside 64 Duke Crescent. Brook and Jonboy knew it well. With a final nod, she began her piece to camera…

  ‘That’s right. Lance Corporal Victor Watson served with the Middlesex Regiment during World War Two, was captured in early 1944 and spent the rest of the war in the notorious Stalag IV-B prisoner of war camp. He lived here, on his own, without other residents knowing anything of their quiet neighbour’s past. Since his death last week, a police appeal to find a next of kin has failed to yield a single call. After learning of the case via the local police Twitter account, one neighbour has now started a Facebook appeal for Victor Watson to be given the send-off he deserves. In just 24 hours, it has been viewed and liked by over half a million people.’

  Jonboy immediately recognised the yummy mummy opposed to gender stereotyping who appeared next. They were able to hear her opening line of ‘I just felt I should do something…’ before someone pulled the alarm cord in the toilet and prevented them hearing any more. After thirty seconds, the camera went back to the young reporter who handed back to the studio with her best ‘sad and sincere’ face. Jonboy returned the TV to its sleeping owner (turning the volume down so as not to give him a brand new head injury).

  Neither man was quite sure what to make of what they had seen.

  ‘Well, that was weird,’ said Jonboy, eventually.

  ‘The law of unintended consequences,’ said Brook. ‘They’ve killed an old Nazi and turned him into a national hero.’

  Chapter 50

  Ten days later

  Otago Peninsula, New Zealand

  The young doctor brought his rattling 50cc scooter to a stop and tried to check the map on his phone. No reception. He dug out a paper version, unfolded it in the strong breeze, and looked up and down the coast road. Had he gone past it? There didn’t seem to be any more dwellings before the road disappeared into grassy dunes and the crashing surf of the South Pacific. He pulled his jacket collar tighter – winter came earlier near the bottom of the South Island. Medical school up in Auckland seemed positively tropical by comparison.

  He squinted harder towards the end of the road and made out one more dwelling. The grey wood of an 1860s settler cottage, almost totally invisible against an equally grey sky. A few hardy trees obscured the single-storey structure a little more. He stuffed the map away and set the scooter in motion once again – volcanic hills rising to his left, sandy scrub merging into a blustery beach on his right.

  Pulling up in front of the cottage, the newly qualified GP could see that the land around it had been reclaimed from the scrub. There was a small lawn, a couple of flower beds and the neat geometry of a well-tended vegetable patch. When he took off his helmet – unleashing a floppy-haired reminder of his student days – he could hear chickens round the back.

  Carrying a letter, he knocked on the door. It didn’t take long for it to be answered. An old man looked back at the young doctor – thinning white hair and a blue fisherman’s jumper.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I’m Dr Taylor. I just started at the surgery in Portobello. Is it Mr Ackerman?’ He extended a hand. The old man shook it.

  ‘That’s right… Unusual to have a personal visit.’

  ‘Well. It happened to be on my way, so…’

  The doctor was trying to play down his ‘new boy’ enthusiasm to visit
everyone in the community of his first posting. The old man looked down the coast road to the dunes.

  ‘What was it on your way to?’

  A little colour came into the doctor’s cheeks.

  ‘Well, not exactly on my way but… not too far out of it.’

  The old man smiled. He didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable.

  ‘Anyway…’ Dr Taylor started afresh. ‘Your latest test results arrived at the surgery and I thought I’d bring them over rather than ask you to come in.’

  ‘Very kind of you,’ said the old man, without any great anxiety.

  ‘I can give you the headlines to save you worrying. It’s good news. I know you had a couple of scares there, but the results are very positive. Remarkably so. It seems you just… keep on living.’

  The old man accepted the letter.

  ‘It’s a habit,’ he said.

  The pair stood in silence for a moment. The doctor intrigued by the old man. The old man aware that he intrigued the doctor. It was the younger of the two who spoke first.

  ‘Ackerman? Is that some German heritage you’ve got there?’

  ‘The name is German, but the heritage isn’t mine. I took my wife’s name.’

  The GP smiled a little distractedly, his focus on something else…

  ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Mr Ackerman – just from a medical perspective – how did you..?’ He nodded at the head injury that had captured his attention.

  ‘I was shot by an officer of the SS during World War Two.’

  Dr Taylor opened his mouth, but found he was incapable of forming an adequate response.

  ‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ said Victor. ‘These things happen.’

  The young doctor smiled and had another go at speaking, still not fully composed.