Non-Suspicious

by Ed Church

  The lift pinged open on the ground floor and Brook began his rhythmical progress towards the police station’s back door. He focused on the physical process of using the crutches. It helped hold back any more difficult thoughts about events in the strip bar.

  One way or another he would find a way of rationalising it, of dealing with it, of moving on. It wasn’t the first time a well-intentioned act had gone wrong. Callous as it sounded, he would cope. Matters of life, death, regret – they all came with the warrant card. Let others judge who didn’t walk in his shoes (or shoe as it was right now).

  He had nearly reached the exit when he heard a familiar voice behind him. It was unaccented with a warm, friendly quality.

  ‘Hey! Brook without an ‘e’…’

  He turned to see a smiling Sandy Sanderson. She was looking well. Blonde hair in a loose ponytail, casual jeans and a dark blue hoodie with ‘FDNY’ in yellow on the front. Out of uniform, she looked even more Scandinavian. Brook found himself smiling back.

  ‘I thought it was you I saw sneaking out,’ said Sandy.

  ‘You got me,’ said Brook. ‘Thanks for the card by the way.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  She looked at his leg, the crutches, the healing facial injuries…

  ‘I’ve been hearing the craziest rumours about you since that night in the churchyard.’

  ‘It’s been interesting,’ said Brook. He nodded at the letters on her hoodie. ‘Fire Department of New York? Come on, Sandy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everyone knows God invented cops so firefighters could have heroes.’

  She rolled her eyes with a brand-new smile.

  ‘Then why are their calendars so much better?’

  Brook shook his head, secretly enjoying her quick wit.

  ‘You’re such a traitor,’ he said, playfully.

  ‘Listen, some of us are going for a few birthday drinks tomorrow if you’re free.’

  ‘Whose birthday is it?’

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘Twenty-one?’

  ‘Ha! I wish. Twenty-seven.’

  A couple of years older than Brook would have guessed. Maybe he didn’t have to feel like such a lecherous old man after all… Get a grip, he told himself. She’s only being friendly.

  He tapped the cast on his leg with a crutch.

  ‘Sorry. Having this off tomorrow afternoon. Moving on to an ‘air boot’. Should be a bit easier to get to the itches.’

  Sandy shrugged with her hands in the hoodie’s pouch. Brook told himself he was imagining it when he sensed a hint of deflation.

  ‘But happy birthday in advance,’ he added.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll have one for you,’ said Sandy.

  ‘Have more than one.’

  They turned to head in opposite directions with little nods and smiles. Brook shoved open the rear door while Sandy walked away down the corridor.

  ‘How about Saturday?’ she called back, half a second before the door closed behind him.

  He caught it.

  ‘A friend can’t make it to the Comedy Store so I’m going on my own as it stands… Unless you can make it to Covent Garden on your crutches?’

  Brook re-evaluated his overly defeatist assessment of things.

  ‘I’m sure I can,’ he said. ‘I like a challenge.’

  ‘Great. Me too,’ smiled Sandy. ‘See you at the Maple Leaf at seven?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  They went their separate ways, Sandy secretly hoping the Comedy Store wasn’t sold-out.

  Out in the street, Brook heard the door shut behind him and the faint whir of the electronic lock re-engaging. He took a deep breath and looked around. Nice day. The middle of May. He didn’t look back at the police station as he set off down the street – he wasn’t going to think about it for a long time. The slight element of tunnel vision that the crutches required meant he didn’t see a Daily Express sandwich board outside a newsagent:

  ‘Sheffield OAP Leaves £1.7m To Care Home Pals’

  When he reached his bus stop, Brook patted his pocket. Just to feel the crinkle of the printed A4 sheet inside. Flight details. Tickets all booked. His first proper holiday in years.

  In two weeks, he would be back in Botswana. Back in Maun. Sipping sundowners at the Okavango River Lodge, listening to the belly laughs of the hippos and watching the huge African sun kiss the horizon.

  Home.

  Epilogue

  Saturday, 28th April 1923

  Bloomsbury, London

  Her feet seemed to freeze as she reached the iron gates, suddenly unable to take another step towards the looming symmetry of the Foundling Hospital. She had put it off for as long as possible, praying for time to slow down. But days had turned into a week, one week had turned into two, and now here she was. Out of time.

  A fortnight was as long as she could possibly stay away from her job while pretending to be sick. Any longer and the family would simply get another local girl to carry out her menial tasks. God knows there were enough who needed the money.

  And then there was her sister, having to take on so much more since the arrival of the baby. It was a lot to ask of a fifteen-year-old to look after their four younger siblings – even if she had barely been any older herself when Spanish flu took their mother. The Great War had already claimed their father by then. Her wage was the final lifeline.

  She could see a group of children being led across the courtyard now. They walked silently, two by two, the Foundling Hospital their ark in a merciless world. She tried to read their faces. It was hard to tell. No laughter or smiles. But no tears either, she told herself.

  As for the origins of her predicament… She had always known it was wrong. He was the master of the house; his wife the lady she took her orders from. But she couldn’t deny she had been flattered by his attentions – especially as she considered herself the plainest of 19-year-olds. For just a moment, she had felt a faint connection to his world of luxury and lavish parties, even if she knew she could only ever be an embarrassing secret.

  It was why she absolutely had to hide it when she found out she was pregnant, just as his attentions cooled. There was no way he would have kept her on – the potential for embarrassment now including a child. Hiding her condition had been a task in itself, but she had managed.

  Her feet were still rooted to the spot as she became aware of laughter behind her… a group of daytime drinkers spilling out of The Lamb. One of them pointed at the baby in her arms.

  ‘Is he playing today, love?’

  Her dad’s old West Ham scarf made up the outermost layer of the bundle. He’d given it to her the day he went off to war, asking her to be brave and look after her brothers and sisters. It somehow seemed right to leave it with the baby now.

  But it still wasn’t a traditional keepsake. It might get mixed up with other clothing and lost. As a true keepsake, there was only one option – the only thing she had ever won. She looked at the school cross-country medal and read the words in the middle for a final time… ‘Ad Victoriam’. A teacher had explained it meant To Victory. She liked that. Maybe the baby would know that his mum wanted him to be a fighter. To overcome whatever life threw at him. To just keep going.

  Behind her, the drinkers from The Lamb were getting noisier and closer. It was the spur she needed to get her feet moving again. She tucked the medal into the bundle – it looked like the baby was holding it in his little hands – then she kissed him on the head and pushed open the iron gate.

  The two by two parade of children had disappeared as she hurried down the path to the courtyard, heart pounding at the enormity of what she was doing. Somewhere on her right, a door opened – a nursemaid emerging with a new group of children. The young mother made sure she’d been seen, then placed the baby down and turned, half stumbling in the swirl of emotions. She picked up the pace as a voice called after her.

  ‘Excuse me!’

  Don’t stop…

  ‘Hey!’


  Don’t stop…

  The tears began to sting as she hurried back through the gates and ploughed on, barging past people, charging across streets, attracting shouts and baffled stares. It was nearly a mile to the house where she worked. Only on rounding the final corner did she stop to compose herself, lungs working overtime to sift the poor London air. She smoothed her hair, straightened her pinafore and tried to force her thoughts forward… forward to the job she was returning to.

  The family had always had two little girls since she started, but – as if things weren’t bad enough – a son had arrived a few days before she feigned illness to give birth herself. She would be working in the same house as the little half-brother of the baby boy she had just said goodbye to.

  It felt strange to think of the two brothers, born just days apart into such different worlds. She wondered if their paths would ever cross. If they would ever know each other without either realising who the other was… the Foundling and the Aristocrat.

  A postman was standing at the end of the gravel driveway that led to the house in which she served. He had a sack of letters over his shoulder but was squinting at one in particular, moving it back and forth. He looked up as she approached.

  ‘Sorry, Miss. Maybe you can help. I’m having a bit of trouble with this one. I think I’m at the right place, but it’s that funny foreign writing.’

  Victor’s mum looked at the envelope.

  ‘Von Eberstein,’ she said… ‘I can take that.’

  THE END

  Acknowledgements

  The first person I would like to thank is you, the Reader. It is only in the reading that the worlds of Brook and Victor come alive. Without you, all I have created is a bunch of text, paper and pixels. So thank you for being the other half of the process. For lending me your imagination.

  To my family – the Midlands branch, Yorkshire branch, London, East Anglia, South-West and Wales branches – thank you for the shared genes and sense of humour. I’ll say more about you throughout the series if you don’t mind bearing with me and Brook.

  To Mike and Paul – thanks for the anecdotes and nights out (both memorable and half-forgotten).

  To Jo, Darren, Nicky and Nathan – thanks for all the rugby chat and job-related gallows humour.

  To Angela, Caroline, Leah (and Ludo) – thanks for all your sage advice and support.

  To Ed B and family (India’s biggest Southend United fans) – thanks for the steadfast encouragement.

  To Mark and Katie – thanks for showing the path from policing to writing.

  To Jo Y, Rosa, James, Fifi and Liliana – thanks for keeping my spirits up on many occasions.

  To my old journalist pals, Gav and Ste – thanks for all the beers, laughs and footie.

  To Carrie and Reed – Skol Vikings. Go Badgers. And thanks for having such a good surname!

  To everyone at Spiffing Covers – thanks for your artistic and technical wizardry.

  To Dagmar – thanks for your language abilities (any mistakes are my own).

  And to Jon(boy) – thanks for being the inspiration for, oh, I don’t know, some character or other.

  Finally, I would like to offer my humble appreciation to a WW2 veteran who recently passed away. New Zealander Tony Vercoe wrote “Survival at Stalag IVB” – an invaluable resource for me when it came to bringing Victor’s world to life.

  Thank you for your book and your service.