Non-Suspicious Read online
Copyright © 2020 by Ed Church
Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-9163246-0-2
.mobi ISBN-13: 978-1-9163246-2-6
www.edchurch.co.uk
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved in all media. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author and/or publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
Produced in United Kingdom
Cover Design and Layout by SpiffingCovers
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Thursday, 21st April 2016
North London
There was something compelling about the scarred old man drinking on his own. At least, there was to the young Australian barman, watching him between pulling pints. The rest of the north London pub was more interested in Arsenal’s Premier League game – shunted to a Thursday night due to fixture congestion. Sixty thousand fans may have been watching it live half a mile away, but big screens and beer meant few in the pub felt hard done by. At a small table at the edge of it all, the old man sat impassively.
The table’s position against a side wall offered the double advantage of a decent view up to an overhead screen and a clear path to the end of the bar – a fact not lost on the venue’s oldest customer. It was as he returned for a third time that the young Aussie finally got a chance to serve him.
Around 5’8” tall in his tweed suit (maybe touching 5’10” back in his prime), what remained of his white hair was neatly parted at the side of a sun-spotted scalp, while rheumy blue eyes looked out from a deeply lined face. The barman’s colloquial inner voice was already calling him ‘Gramps’… but it was the injuries that had really caught his attention.
The top third of Gramps’ left ear was no longer there and his nose had suffered multiple untreated fractures. Most striking of all, his neck displayed the sort of cartoonish scar – horizontal with clumsy vertical stitches – that made one think of Hallowe’en. It looked like the guy had been guillotined then knitted his own head back on.
With a degree of embarrassment, the barman realised he’d been staring at the neck for too long. The ancient blue eyes were now looking straight at him, patiently waiting for service.
‘Sorry, mate. Miles away. What can I get you?’
Gramps was standing close enough to his draught of choice to touch the top of the pump, then raise a single finger.
‘Sure thing.’
The barman selected a dimpled pint glass and began pouring, now wondering whether the man in front of him could speak at all. Although still vivid, the scar looked like it had happened a long time ago, somehow now at home in the creases and folds of the ageing skin.
‘You’re getting through a few of these tonight.’
He gave a nod towards the pump, still not sure if Gramps was capable of answering.
‘It’s my birthday,’ came the reply, causing sufficient surprise to send beer spilling down the sides of the glass. Far from being non-existent, the voice was still clear. It had a clipped, old-fashioned quality that reminded the barman of black-and-white movies.
‘Well good on yer, Sir,’ he said, swapping his usual mate for a slightly clunky attempt at deference. He wiped the concave dimples with a paper napkin and placed the pint in front of his intriguing customer, noticing a neat pile of correct change already stacked on the bar.
‘Can I ask how old you are?’ he added, genuinely curious (Gramps could have been anything from ninety to a hundred). The old man raised both hands, palms facing forward, fingers splayed, like a magician showing the crowd he wasn’t hiding anything.
‘I lost count,’ he replied, wiggling the stump that was all that remained of his left little finger.
The barman winced. ‘Ouch! How’d that happen?’
It seemed faintly ridiculous to be asking about the finger before any of the more obvious injuries, but the opportunity had presented itself. He had read a book about London’s gangsters of the 1960s and was starting to wonder if this guy had been one. Or at least on the receiving end of one.
Gramps placed his hands flat on the bar and leaned in a little closer.
‘Mousetrap.’
He maintained a poker face just long enough to see a moment of confusion in the barman’s eyes – not sure if it was meant to be a joke. Then the old man threw his head back and laughed. For one absurd moment it was possible to imagine the neck tearing open and his head toppling off altogether.
A Glaswegian accent interrupted the strange thought: ‘Oi! Danny! Fuck’s sake. You still serving here or what?’
The junior employee acknowledged his bar manager and scooped up the pile of coins.
‘Well, I hope you got some nice birthday cards,’ he said, trying to sign off breezily but instantly cringing at how patronising it sounded.
‘Cards?’ replied Gramps, carefully ferrying his pint. ‘I don’t like cards.’
It was five minutes after the final whistle when Danny saw his strange new friend readying himself to leave. He was holding a walking stick and patting the pockets of his tweed jacket, as if confirming the contents. The barman watched as ‘Gramps’ made his way to the exit, glad to see an outstretched arm holding the door open for him. He was already pouring his next pint by the time a tanned man in a navy sports jacket took the same route.
Just like Danny, he was interested in the old man.
He was interested in killing him.
Chapter 2
Stick in hand, the scarred old man clacked his way through the pub’s courtyard and headed out into some of the nine million randomly colliding souls with whom he shared the city. He began making his way up Holloway Road. There were a couple of routes home he could have taken, but something he had seen in the pub made him choose this option. He hoped he was wrong.
The rumbling, horn-filled traffic was even denser on match days, while those leaving th
e stadium on foot provided flashes of colour among the pedestrians – their red Arsenal shirts weaving hurried paths to favourite post-match drinking holes. After a few minutes’ slow progress, the old man joined a group waiting at a pedestrian crossing, taking the chance to look around under the pretence of checking the traffic… No sign of the man who had caught his eye in the pub. Perhaps he had been mistaken.
Just in case, he would stick to his plan. After all, if his gut feeling was correct, then making it home safely would only delay the inevitable – he would merely be picked off at some later date. No, the only way to stay alive… if it came to it… was to strike first. And make it count.
He had first noticed him while eating breakfast in a café the previous day. It wasn’t so much that he looked out of place – people often do – it was a quiet determination to not look out of place through some observe-and-mimic approach. That, and a few surreptitious glances the old man had caught in the café’s vintage wall mirrors. Adverts for Oxo, Marmite and Cocoa. Easy for someone to think they could hide their eyes among the elaborate fonts and rosy-cheeked characters that adorned the silvered glass.
In any case, his sixth sense had pinged loudly enough for him to make a rare phone call of warning to the only other person who might be on the same ‘list’. The only other person who knew the truth. He doubted he would have to do so again. The man on the other end of the line had sounded weak. Nature would surely take him before any human killer.
The café incident had still been playing on the old man’s mind when he spotted the same face in the pub. Something told him he was there even before he saw him. Nothing magical, just peripheral vision relaying a perceived threat straight to the subconscious (he believed in the raw survival instincts of evolution over the mystical guidance of the cosmos).
Either way, there he was. Keeping his target in sight while trying to make himself look like one of the locals again. The old man’s instincts refused to bow to age, even if his body had to. Yes, he understood. Both what was happening and what needed to be done. He had killed before, of course – on many occasions. But not for a long time. And certainly not in his tenth decade. He hoped the pints of Dutch courage would settle nerves and loosen arthritic limbs…
Accompanied by high-pitched beeping, the dozen or so waiting pedestrians began to pour across to the opposite footpath. A boy racer in a souped-up hatchback was forced to stop and showed his disapproval by revving his engine. He was met with a volley of abuse and hand gestures from fans still pumped up by the match.
On reaching the far side, the walkers had a choice of sticking to the main road or cutting through Madras Place – past the grounds of St Mary Magdalene Church. The old man took a different option. He headed straight into the shadows of the churchyard.
A paved area was illuminated well enough by nearby streetlights but, beyond this, mature trees and the imposing church itself cut any ambient glow to a minimum. The smattering of lights within the church grounds were mainly broken or missing. He stuck to a cinder path down the side of the 200-year-old structure – the black perimeter railings and undecorated windows creating an institutional feel better suited to fire-and-brimstone preachers than smiley vicars with guitars.
On he clacked. The church to his left. To his right, among the ancient trees, a grassy area dotted with 19th century family tombs (stone and coffin-like – the sort that scrape open in bad horror movies). Straining to listen for footsteps behind him, the traffic noise and his naturally diminished hearing made it hard to tell. Still, if he could just make it to the other side without incident, he would write the whole thing off as a false alarm. Hell, he might even reward himself with an extra large nightcap for still being so alert after all this time.
It was as he neared the front of the church that he heard the footsteps. Faint, but real. He stopped thinking about that extra large nightcap. Of course, there was still a chance that the footsteps weren’t for him, even if in his heart of hearts he knew otherwise.
Just to be sure, as the path reached the corner of the church and turned 90 degrees to the left – towards the pillars and steps of the front elevation – the old man continued going straight. Onto the grass. The footsteps behind him stayed regular for a few seconds then, as expected, they disappeared. His follower had stepped off the path too. There could be no doubt now. He didn’t have to wait long…
‘Victor Watson.’
A voice filled the void left by the muted footsteps. The old man stopped and leaned heavily on his cane but didn’t turn round. There was no surprise. Just the grim sense of inevitability that comes with a long-awaited and unpleasant appointment.
‘It’s a nice name,’ the voice went on.
Victor sensed his follower move closer. Their shoulders brushed as he passed. Then the man in the navy sports jacket was standing in front of him.
‘Victor… The winner… But not today.’
The accent was not native British, but nor was it one you could place. That kind of pan-European English with an American twang. Victor stared at his younger adversary. He stood close. In the dim light, he was still able to see tanned skin and dark hair, cut short and sensible. With pale chinos and a light blue shirt under the sports jacket, he had the air of a well-dressed tourist. Yes, that was it. A tourist. But something about the squareness of jaw and shoulders, and the well-worked muscles of the neck, hinted at less leisurely pursuits.
‘I know what you are,’ said Victor.
‘Then you know what happens next,’ said the Tourist.
Victor broke off the staring contest and gave a shrug to signal his acceptance.
‘Well, if this is it, old chap, then at least let me have a cigarette.’
He patted an outer pocket of the tweed jacket with his left hand, frowned, and repeated the action on the other side – hooking the walking stick over his thumb as he patted the right pocket. A short ‘Ah’ and confirmatory nod indicated he had found what he was looking for. All of it a little piece of theatre.
Awkwardly trying to dip his hand into the pocket, the cane still hooked over his thumb, he soon gave up. Instead, he stood the stick back on the ground and leaned the handle a little towards the younger man, gesturing for him to hold it.
‘Would you mind?’ he asked.
With no offer of help forthcoming, Victor simply let go of the handle and put the now free hand in the jacket pocket. The cane stayed upright for a second then began to topple forward…
Resisting the urge to catch it, some deep-rooted suspicion still made the Tourist glance down at the object moving towards him.
As soon as he did, something felt wrong.
Without even waiting to look back up, he thrust out his left hand to where memory told him Victor’s right wrist would be. He caught it, just as the hand was emerging from the jacket pocket. With a mixture of relief and annoyance at himself, the Tourist raised his eyes.
‘You don’t smoke,’ he said.
Maintaining a vice-like grip of the wrist, he lifted the hand fully out of the pocket. The blade in Victor’s grasp was so well maintained that it glinted even in the half-light. A flick knife, neatly disguised as a fountain pen when not in use. A nice bit of kit, in fact. He had to hand it to the old guy. Nearly a century on Earth and still prepared to fight, stab and kill for just a little bit longer.
‘You were meant to catch the walking stick,’ said Victor.
‘I see that now.’
The Tourist squeezed hard on the slender wrist to make Victor loosen his grip on the weapon. It had little or no effect. He was strong. Not as strong as the younger man, of course, but far stronger than expected. At last there was a crack as an old bone gave way and the knife fell to the ground. Victor blinked once, slowly, but otherwise gave no reaction.
‘Good,’ said the Tourist. ‘Now, I think you have something else for me.’
Keeping hold of the broken wrist, he snaked his free hand into the inner pocket of Victor’s tweed jacket. It emerged holding a gold medal. The
Tourist briefly examined it, keeping the four-and-a-half fingers of Victor’s left hand in view in case he tried anything else.
‘Why do you still carry this?’ he asked.
‘It reminds me of the second chance I was given,’ said Victor.
The Tourist allowed his gaze to flicker over the old man’s injuries. The missing top section of his left ear, the pummelled nose, the gruesome patchwork of his neck. Then he looked into those rheumy, blue eyes… For a moment, it felt like he was looking straight through them, back into the depths of violence and brutality that had brought them both to this point.
‘Well,’ said the Tourist at last. ‘I have a message for you.’
He spoke briefly. Fewer than half a dozen words. Apart from a distant police siren, and the fatal thud of his head against a tomb, it was the last thing Victor Watson ever heard.
Chapter 3
Friday, 22nd April 2016
The radio message brought a swift halt to the good mood that had been threatening to creep over DC Brook Deelman. There were two hours left of his final night shift and he had breakfast beers on his mind. Now there was a body in the way. One in a churchyard, no less. Talk about cutting out the middleman.
A dozen years ago, nearer the start of his career, Brook would probably have put his selfish thoughts on hold and offered some cliché about how ‘that puts things in perspective’. After a while, he had stopped really feeling it, but carried on saying it. Now he did neither. He was just annoyed about the beer situation.
The silence coming off him filled the unmarked police car to the extent that his senior colleague in the passenger seat felt the need to try and lighten the atmosphere.
‘Fucking hell, Brook. Chin up, son,’ said DS Kev Padmore. ‘A dead drunk in a churchyard? This’ll be squared up in world record time. Guaranteed.’
The CID attitude towards rank did away with many formalities of the uniform approach, though it could still be found in certain quirks. Like a 36-year-old Detective Constable being called son by a Detective Sergeant just a few years his senior.
‘I hope you’re right.’
The audible traces of Brook’s childhood in Botswana had faded a little over the past couple of decades. But not nearly as fast as his current enthusiasm levels.