by Ed Church
‘Huge Turn-out For Lonely WW2 Hero’
His brow furrowed as he stared at the screen.
‘Not many people get to see their own funeral, do they?’ said Victor.
The Tourist processed a lot of information very quickly and then relaxed a little. Seeing the results of his handiwork turned into television news was undeniably disconcerting. But the fact von Eberstein was being buried – and the story was about well-wishers rather than murder – suggested any suspicion had passed. After all that had gone wrong, that was worth a sigh of relief.
‘It’s not too bad,’ said Victor, as they both stared at the still image. ‘And the stuff about the early years is true at least. Funny to think he was Victor Watson for three times longer than me.’
‘I like the name Ackerman.’
‘Me too. Means ploughman. Had to be farmers, really, didn’t they? Talking of names… What was the name of the detective who got hurt?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’
Victor’s response was a little too slow to avoid a slightly awkward silence. The honest reply would have been ‘because a very anonymous donor might pay for any treatment he needs’. But he knew that sort of interference would not go down well.
‘Just… indulge me,’ he said.
The Tourist thought about it for a moment. Hadn’t he once used a similar line on Barnes?
‘DC Brook Deelman,’ he replied.
‘Interesting name.’
‘That’s almost what I said.’
Victor’s guest looked around the room a final time.
‘Well… Good luck.’
He didn’t offer a handshake as he saw himself out. He could sense Victor had mixed feelings about him – about what those hands had done. Not making him shake hands was his final gift. He was gone before the old man could reply.
Victor heard the deep growl of the Harley Davidson, followed by the fading drumbeat of its departure down the coast road. Then he turned off the television – he had seen his funeral enough times. Walking through to the kitchen, he put the kettle on (he was still an Englishman, after all). The cloud outside was really breaking up now. The chickens sounded happy.
He opened the drawer containing the medal and rested his hand on it for a moment, before reaching beyond it. To a pink bandana. He pulled on its near edge until it was covering the medal. Then he lifted the whole bundle.
Victor closed his eyes hard and held it tight as sunlight flooded the room.
Chapter 51
One week later
Grovebury Police Station, North London
Brook paused to look up at the Union Jack and Met Police flag fluttering above the municipal brick of his police station. Something felt different this time. Different from the thousands of times he had been here before. Nothing about the police station had changed, so something about him must have. The same surroundings that had felt so mundane a few short weeks ago now seemed strangely alien.
He balanced between one crutch and one good foot as he slid his warrant card through the electronic reader, punched in his code and swung the back door open. Inside, a couple of uniformed officers greeted him as they walked past.
‘Playing rugby?’ asked one, nodding at Brook’s left leg. The plaster cast rose from his foot to disappear into the three-quarter length khaki shorts he was wearing (the operation on his ankle had gone well, though airport metal detectors might be a bit of an issue from now on).
‘Doing a jigsaw,’ replied Brook.
Making his way to Marie’s office, his triceps strained against the black fabric of his t-shirt – arm muscles pumped up by the daily effort of getting about on crutches. The constant calorie burn had also tightened his belt a notch or two, assisted by the fact he hadn’t touched alcohol in three weeks. He knew it wouldn’t last, but he had decided to see how long he could stretch the enforced detox of his hospital stay. His liver was probably already composing a letter of thanks to the Tourist.
Marie wasn’t the official purpose of today’s visit – that was a meeting about some ‘return to work plan’ with DI Julian Self, the Direct Entry Scheme poster boy. But seeing Marie would definitely make such a tedious appointment more bearable. There had been a few phone calls and texts, but they hadn’t seen each other since Brook’s starring role in Fight Night at Big Dave’s. He had a suspicion their friendship might be the source of some tension between Marie and her fiancé.
All the same, his favourite forensics officer had sent a very nice Get Well Soon card. It arrived the same day as an unexpected one from PC ‘Sandy’ Sanderson. Yep, that was a good morning. The nurse had even asked Brook if he was looking so happy because the friend who ate all his chocolates was no longer around. Even Jonboy couldn’t avoid work forever.
As Brook approached Marie’s office, she came round the corner, zipping up her stab vest and clutching a police radio, an agitated voice at the other end. On her way out to an urgent job. Caught by surprise, she ignored the radio and took in the sight before her.
Brook’s clean shave and short haircut had definitely reduced the creeping hints of ‘silver fox’, but any chance of looking fresh faced was somewhat dented by the healing stitches in cheek and forehead and the dying embers of two black eyes.
‘Jesus, look at you,’ said Marie.
Brook gave a crinkly-eyed smile.
‘You should see the other guy.’
They stared at each other as the radio garbled away. Then a male forensics officer came bustling round the corner. Brook didn’t recognise him. A new guy. He was zipping up his own stab vest and swinging a set of van keys on a finger.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, passing Marie.
She grabbed the keys off him.
‘I’ll drive.’
Suddenly key-less, he stopped bustling.
‘I’ll see you in the yard,’ said Marie, sending him on his way. He took the hint. She turned to Brook and shrugged apologetically.
‘Aggravated Burglary. Some inspector’s having a hissy fit that we’re not there already.’
Brook nodded, then used a crutch as an oversized pointer.
‘It’s that way,’ he said.
Marie gave a sad smile and then began walking, squeezing his arm as she passed.
‘I’ll call you,’ she said, looking back.
‘I might answer,’ said Brook, teasing her.
Then he was alone.
After a few seconds, a different face appeared at the far end of the corridor – DI Self in one of his perfect Italian suits. Brook muttered ‘from the sublime to the ridiculous’ as he gave a fake smile.
‘I thought I heard your voice,’ said the DI. ‘Shall we get this out of the way?’
‘Let’s,’ agreed Brook.
The door to DI Self’s office was open. Brook followed him in and saw someone else was already there. He was looking very comfortable in a padded chair with curved wooden arms. DI Self took a chair with fancy suspension behind the desk, leaving only a plastic one in front of it.
Brook exchanged a look with the third man as he hopped over to the cheap seat and lowered himself onto it. This other guy was in his mid-50s, a cropped widow’s peak of grey hair and a neat grey beard, edging towards white. He was wearing a dark suit and some kind of private members’ club tie. The language of power.
But he looked pale and tired.
Brook recognised him from the police intranet and occasional television interviews. In an age where senior officers were all pressed from the same media-trained mould, he had always found him to be something of a throwback. Nevertheless, he waited for DI Self to do the introductions.
‘I’m sure you know our recently retired Deputy Commissioner Barnes. He’s on a bit of a farewell tour of a few stations.’ He gestured towards his guest. ‘He heard about your injury and said he would like to meet you.’
Brook wasn’t sure what account of his smashed ankle the young DI had decided to believe, but it was a fair guess he was ignorant of the truth. The injured
detective nodded in Barnes’ direction.
‘Thought I recognised you. What’s your first name again?’
DI Self interjected with a cough.
‘Err, I think Sir might be more appropriate, DC Deelman.’
‘I thought you said he’d just retired.’
‘I… Yes… But, out of courtesy…’
The sycophantic DI was floundering. Unlike the military, high ranking police officers didn’t get to keep their rank after retirement. They were just ex-coppers with first names. Unless their political manoeuvres had earned them a place in the House of Lords.
‘It’s Terry,’ replied Barnes, cutting through the bluster. He had the voice of a smoker.
‘Good to finally meet you, Terry,’ said Brook.
DI Self was aware of some kind of familiarity between the two men but didn’t quite understand why or how.
‘I wonder if you might give us a moment,’ said Barnes, directing the question to his host and then returning his eyes to Brook.
A part of Brook relished the DI’s awkwardness. Having just insisted that Barnes’ retired status be ignored, he was now being turfed out of his own office by a civilian. The Detective Inspector’s eyes darted between the two men, trying to find a way of saving face.
‘I’ll get us all a coffee,’ he said, looking relieved at hitting upon the perfect way out.
Barnes wasted no time in moving round to the DI’s side of the desk and sitting in his chair. He knew its owner didn’t have the balls to complain. He looked around the room from his new position. Then his eyes settled on Brook.
‘You really fucked things up for me,’ he said.
‘You really fucked things up for my ankle,’ said Brook.
Barnes leaned forward, jabbing a finger onto the desk to make his point.
‘Do you have ANY…’ his voice was too loud. He glanced at the closed office door and started again. ‘Do you have any idea how many favours I had to burn to clear up that fucking mess you created?’ He jabbed the desk one more time. ‘A fucking career’s worth.’ Then he leaned back.
So much for introductory pleasantries.
Brook let the post-rant silence do its ever-reliable job of holding up a mirror to anger. Then he provided the added emphasis of a raised eyebrow.
‘Finished?’ he asked, calmly.
Barnes’ eyes were firing lasers across the desk.
‘WELL?’ he asked, losing control of his volume once again.
‘Well what?’
‘Who are you running to with all of this? Press? Local MP? Commissioner? Or are you just going to put it all out on social fucking media for your fifteen minutes of fame?’
‘I’m not running anywhere,’ said Brook, stating the obvious, at least from a physical perspective. Even as he said the words, he was re-calibrating his understanding of the situation.
He had spent three weeks making his peace with the idea that the Tourist would walk free in exchange for Victor being left alone. Three weeks coming to terms with the fact that there were things he would probably never know. Like the true identities of the Tourist or the fake DS Beckford, or if there were any other clandestine players behind the scenes.
In Barnes he had identified the ‘director’ and understood his brutal, real-life morality play. Beyond that, murderous conspiracies tended not to come with a souvenir programme of cast and crew. All the time, Barnes had seemingly been waiting for him to blow the lid off the whole thing. As Brook wondered how to respond to the new situation, his thoughts were interrupted.
‘You’re a smart man, Brook. In some ways, at least. I’m sure you realised I’d have to take out some kind of insurance once you started threatening me like this.’
‘Insurance?’
Barnes scoffed.
‘You’re playing in the big leagues now, son. I thought I would have to go digging for something, but in the end it fell right into my lap.’
Brook could think of plenty of minor misdemeanours and rule bending he could be accused of, but nothing that would justify the smile spreading across Barnes’ face. The older man didn’t keep him in suspense.
‘There are some CCTV images kicking around of an unknown police officer in a Kings Cross strip bar. The old pound-in-a-pot place.’
Now it was Brook who smiled.
‘That’s it?’
‘Not exactly. He needs to be spoken to about how he dealt with a bouncer’s breach of bail conditions for a domestic assault on his girlfriend. She worked there as a stripper. It seems this officer just moved him off the premises when he clearly needed to be arrested for the breach.’
A little worse, but not calamitous. Although it did beg the question…
‘How does anyone know this?’ asked Brook.
‘Oh. Sorry. From the bouncer himself. When he was being questioned over killing that stripper girlfriend of his. About a week after you fobbed him off with some unofficial warning.’
Brook was about to say that he’d only ever been guessing about the bouncer’s bail conditions. Blagging it. But he realised how weak it sounded even before the words came out.
‘That’s right,’ continued Barnes. ‘Very tearful confession to the murder by all accounts. He blamed the bodybuilding. ‘Roid rage’. Said he wished the police officer in the bar had arrested him to stop it ever happening. Of course, he’s got a fair point. Chances are he would have been remanded in custody for the breach of bail and the poor girl would still be alive. Needless to say, I could hardly believe my luck when I saw the CCTV… It’s you, Brook. I even took the liberty of checking where your phone was that night. Suffice to say, you’re bang to rights.’
Insurance.
The dynamic in the office had shifted completely. Brook stayed quiet. Barnes was on a roll.
‘It’s not a massive issue for his trial. He’s going to plead at the first opportunity anyway. But the DPS would be licking their lips at something like this. I mean, let’s not be naïve – it’s a career-ender.’
The Directorate of Professional Standards. Barnes wasn’t lying. They would have a feeding frenzy over it. Brook still didn’t respond. He wasn’t thinking about his career. He was thinking about the excellent English the brunette had spoken; her old bruises just showing through the make-up as she talked to him at the bar. Somewhere, many miles away, her parents had probably had to learn she wasn’t working in a restaurant after all. What a fucking waste of a life.
‘Where was she from?’ he asked, blankly.
It wasn’t the combative response Barnes had expected.
‘Lithuania,’ he said, letting go of the smirk. ‘Look, it doesn’t have to be a career-ender. I still have just enough leverage to get this kicked into touch. If you do the same with… the other thing.’
The office door opened and DI Self came in with the coffees. Barnes got up from the fancy ergonomic chair and moved back to his previous spot.
‘Just reminding myself what it feels like on that side,’ he said. ‘I’ll miss it. You’re lucky.’
The DI smiled awkwardly and continued trying to tell himself that everything was normal as he handed out the drinks and sat down, a little irked that the seat felt a bit warm.
Brook downed his coffee in one, pushed himself up on his crutches and turned to leave.
‘Nothing to say then?’ asked Barnes, giving up on keeping their interaction secret from DI Self.
‘There’s no need,’ said Brook. ‘If you come for me, I’ll come for you. And vice versa.’
‘A stand-off?’
‘Call it what you like.’
The detective swung himself towards the door. Barnes didn’t like the lack of certainty in the answer – it still left him feeling wide open.
‘What if we went for friendlier terms?’ he offered. ‘There must be something on your wish list.’ He was thinking along the lines of a transfer to a specialist squad, a favourable promotion panel…
Brook paused at the door.
‘There’s a homeless guy,’ he said
. ‘A former Para who sleeps rough around St Mary Magdalene Church. I’m sure a man with your connections could help him get back on his feet. Properly back on his feet. Long hair and a big beard. Wears a lumberjack coat. You can’t miss him.’
Having used every trick in the book to monitor Brook’s investigation, Barnes was already well aware of the man being described.
‘And then we’re quits?’ he asked, betraying a little too much relief. The stakes were high for him. Brook had peeked behind the curtain at events that could earn him life in prison, however deserving he believed his targets were.
‘One more thing,’ said Brook. He took an item from his pocket and tossed it through the air to Barnes… ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way of getting that back to Victor.’
Then the detective pulled open the office door and left.
Barnes opened his right hand and looked at what he had caught. A thin chain was hanging from his palm – Victor’s POW dog tags attached to it.
A confused DI Self followed Brook into the corridor and called after him.
‘We still need to discuss your return to work plan!’
Brook replied without turning back.
‘Ages for the fracture. Ages for the rehab. A full quota of annual leave and twenty-five rest days in lieu… I’ll be in touch.’
The detective inspector didn’t bother chasing after him. When he got back to the office, Barnes was still looking at the dog tags. He was happy with how ‘negotiations’ had gone.
‘Smart kid,’ he said to the returning DI. It took DI Self a moment to realise he was talking about Brook, who was nearly ten years his senior.
‘Well… Not the easiest to deal with. But I could really do with getting him back to work as soon as possible. A combined end-of-year detection rate of thirty-seven percent is a challenging but achievable target if everyone is pulling in the same direction.’
Barnes stood up and straightened his suit…
‘Do you really fucking talk like that?’