Waking up to the static glare of the television, Vic rubbed his
eyes before finishing the half-glass of water on his bedside table.
He looked around the small room and shook his head – the floor
was a minefield of unwashed clothes and half-packed boxes. The only
thing in there that retained a semblance of order was his bedside
table, arranged with soldierly precision: phone charger; fiction by
Frank Herbert; black and white picture of a man in full military
regalia.
Pulling himself out of bed he ate, drank coffee, showered, and
then got in the car to go to work. The journey was slow, crawling
through the rush hour traffic. On the radio was a dialogue between
the prime minister and a journalist about how Remembrance Day is
still relevant in a society opposed to international conflict.
“Stark, you’re late.”
“Sorry John,” Vic replied, his head bowed. “Traffic
was a nightmare.”
“Right. Let’s walk through it. Got the call today at
4.04am. Local bloke, a vet from Afghanistan, seen some serious shit,
believe me. Been out at the Cenotaph and on his way back saw someone
- matches what the surveillance found. Saw a Caucasian male wearing a
black hoody and Adidas tracksuit bottoms. Height about 6’ 1”,
probably 160-180 pounds. Thoughts?”
“That’s half the population of London guv.”
“Right. There was surveillance which
you can have a look at in the van. Description of the perp seems
accurate. And here we are…”
In front of Vic was the famous Whitehall remembrance monument, the
Cenotaph, where tomorrow’s Remembrance Day service was due to
be held. It had been desecrated with crimson spray paint along its
four white stone faces. Where formerly ‘The Glorious Dead’
was inscribed, it now said ‘Dead for almost 100 years and still
dying.’
John gestured with his hand. “And there you have it. As you
can imagine, the chief is under a bit of pressure to get this cleaned
up quickly with the ceremony happening tomorrow. You want to make a
name for yourself Stark?”
Vic hesitated for a second before replying with a cautious nod.
“Listen, it’s probably just some hippies or students
trying to make a splash, but it needs cracking quickly. Go talk to
Natsu in the van once you’ve had a look around.”
Left in front of the Cenotaph, Vic walked slowly around,
struggling to disguise the disgust that he was feeling. Wreathes of
poppies lay trampled into the ground and there was a dark wet stain
at the base of the monument. Someone has defiled this, Vic
thought. What could cause such contempt for the people who
literally gave their lives to protect their country?
Continuing around the outside of the monument, Vic looked at the
immediate surroundings. It was on a busy street near the Thames,
walking distance from Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The
tourist traffic alone was a constant congested wave, washing over
Westminster during every hour of daylight. The lines of camera
touting opportunists were seven or eight deep, taking pictures of an
event to tell their families about. When London lost control.
Slightly further away, the outlines of St. James’ Park were
visible, during the day a haven for joggers, young couples and
tourists, however at night the seedier side came out. A possible
escape route, Vic noted.
After a final glance, Vic went to the police van to run through
the surveillance videos, which would be able to tell him more.
Natsu was in the van adhering to the police stereotype with a box
of Chinese food and a can of coke next to his monitor. His protruding
belly folded softly against the side of his desk and his round,
dark-framed glasses were steamed up from the heat of the technology
surrounding him.
“Vic. You alright? Look a bit white mate.”
“Fine. Show me what we’ve got.”
Natsu talked Vic through the surveillance video, starting around
three minutes before the incident. The video began rolling at 3.14am.
“Not much in the way of people, although there is a group of
kids that seem to have been loitering around the area for a while,
came from St. James’ Park, not sure where they were before that
though, it was pretty busy in the evening and we just don’t
have the man power to go through every camera and play Where’s
Wally.”
“Usually the police move them on don’t they?”
Vic remembered when he was a uniformed patrolman and three quarters
of his role seemed to be asking groups of teenagers to loiter in a
different area. “Move them to someone else’s beat and it
became someone else’s problem.”
“Usually. Lot of training going on last night though, get
the boys ready for the big procession. Lot of scary stuff in the
news, threats and the like.”
Vic had seen it. The world seemed to be losing its mind: bombings
in the Middle East; shootouts in Europe; kidnappings in Africa. It
was no surprise that security was being increased for Remembrance
Day.
“Now the guy in the hoody appears just here,” Natsu
said, tapping his monitor with a sausage-like finger. “He came
from the same direction as the group of kids.”
“How old would you say these kids are?”
“It can be difficult to tell with the quality of the images
but judging from build, demeanour and the way they’re smoking
like it’s going out of fashion, I’d say between sixteen
and eighteen.”
The next stage of the video showed the hooded man taking a spray
can out of his pocket and quickly writing on the monument. “Knows
exactly what to write, pre-planned,” Natsu commented. The man
then, with his back to the camera, started to urinate on the
monument. Finally, he stamped on the wreaths that had been placed
around the monument, in remembrance of the fallen soldiers of all the
conflicts since World War One.
“Boot prints?” Vic asked.
“Nothing, just partials which don’t tell us anything.
Doesn’t seem to have been much in the way of a sole to the
shoe, perhaps well-worn.”
“DNA in the urine? Can you guys do that?”
“Yeah we can if epithelial cells have been discharged, but
only if we’ve already got the offender’s DNA on file. If
we have, then case closed. It’s been sent off for processing
and we should know in the next 12 hours. My advice: don’t get
your hopes up.”
“I don’t suppose there’s anything else we can
get from this? All that money on surveillance and the images are so
grainy you can barely tell the sex of the person, let alone get a
positive identification.”
“Leave the technology alone man. If you knew the money
that’s been put onto this case, which is basically just a
vandalism case, you’d be shocked. You should take it that
there’s an angel up there that loves you man, second chance
after last time and a fat budget to go with it.”
Vic tried to ignore the rebuke, although he felt the colour flush
through his clean-shaven cheeks. “Anything else?”
“Look at the way the perp is walking – a slight
stagger every other step. Suggests a limp or perhaps he’d had
himself a bottle of cider in the park before he came over.”
Vic thanked Natsu, picked up the report and left to go talk to the
veteran who had discovered the scene. Leafing through the pages he
also noted that the paint was a common aerosol can, ‘stone
finish’ that could be easily ordered online and found in
hardware stores across London.
The drive to the station was another skulk through London traffic.
Vic had been in the upper offices for several months, having received
his detective recommendation after some fine, if routine, policework.
However, he was currently on probation; his supervisor believed that
he may have been promoted above his station. This case was a chance
to prove himself.
The veteran had been waiting for some time and was clearly
becoming impatient.
“Vic Stark, thanks for waiting.”
“Neville Hunt.” The veteran had a booming voice and a
surprisingly robust frame for someone of his age. There was a slight
rasp to his speech caused by the thick white beard. He wore a khaki
green shirt decorated with medals of service, which reminded Vic of
his own grandfather and the picture that he kept to remind him to
stay strong.
“Could you recount the events of last night?” Vic
clicked on his tape recorder.
“I’d been out to the Cenotaph to pay my respects to my
friends, the best people you could meet. Lost a lot of them out there
in Afghanistan and I know better than most what it is to give
everything in service of your country. Sat on a bench minding my own
business having a little drop to remember the boys by. I left about
3am and went through the park. There were a group of loud-mouths who
started shouting at me so I gave it them back and most of the little
buggers just laughed at me. Can you believe that? Things have
changed.”
Seeing that a digression was about to take place, Vic steered the
conversation back on track. “And the man with the black hoody?”
Neville’s mouth turned up and his brow furrowed perceptibly.
“Yeah, biggest bugger of them all. I wasn’t scared of him
but I’m not as strong as I was. He knocked me off my feet and
walked off laughing this big guffaw, like one of those twits in the
Beano.”
“This man in the black hoody, was he with the rest of the
group?”
“Yeah, the nasty bugger, pushing a veteran about. I’ve
fought to protect this country!”
“And then what happened?”
“It took me a while to get my breath back. When I left it
must have been half an hour later.”
Vic continued to ask routine questions until he exhausted all
possibilities. “Thank you Mr Hunt. You’re free to go.”
The report Vic had taken from Natsu confirmed Neville’s
whereabouts as he was spotted on the surveillance cameras coming out
of St. James’ Park just before 4am. At 4.03am he made the call
to the police from a payphone.
Sitting in his office reviewing the casefiles, Vic knew that he
was missing something. Nothing to be gleaned from the physical
evidence, Vic knew. Although the police response in securing the
area was excellent, the sheer volume of people that had visited the
Cenotaph during the day meant that the crime scene would contain
countless incidental items which would obscure any evidence.
Neville’s testimony corroborated the surveillance videos,
however they were still no closer to finding out who this group of
‘kids’ were. If they could track this group down, then
Neville could surely make an identification which would secure a
conviction. The question was, how could he find this mystery person
in the black hoody? Perhaps the urine test would lead them right to
him, and give Vic a little redemption after the farce of last month.
I’m getting nowhere, Vic thought and went to get a
coffee from the station canteen. Mounted in the corner of the room
was a large screen television displaying 24-hour news. The current
item of interest was, unsurprisingly, the vandalism of the Cenotaph.
The headline announced: ‘Heroes’ Legacy Desecrated.’
Vic walked to a table, noting the other officers deliberately
avoiding his eye and unsubtly spreading themselves across their
dining tables so there was no room.
Still don’t trust me.
The news anchor was interviewing local residents who were
aggressively spitting into the camera, blaming the police who had
failed to ‘protect and serve’ and should be held
accountable for this. Vic massaged his temples. This is my last
chance, he thought to himself.
Despite being tipped for a successful career, he had floundered on
his first case, forgetting to read a suspect his rights when
arresting him. From there he had lost control of the situation and,
worse, ended up losing the custody of the suspect because correct
procedures were not followed. He was removed from the case and given
traffic duty for a month as his penance. The whispers he could hear
in the canteen he knew were directed at him – the others
believed he had taken a bribe from the suspect to ensure the case
collapsed and he could walk free.
At eight in the evening Vic was still in his office. His eyes were
blurry but he didn’t want to go home, there was nothing for him
there. More than once, he had stopped to speak silently to his
grandfather to ask for advice and direction. It had been a month
since he last drank and he was craving a beer. When the phone rang it
jolted him out of contemplation in the way an alarm clock ends a
dream.
“Sorry Vic. We’ve not been able to get anything from
the urine.”
Vic slammed the phone into its cradle, sending it skidding over
the edge of the desk. A derisive swipe with the back of his hand sent
the report sliding into the wall, raining down sheets of loose paper
like a storm of failure.
Sorry grandad.
No useable physical evidence, grainy camera images, a single
witness statement from an aging veteran who had been physically
assaulted on the eve of Remembrance Day. Vic sank in his seat and let
his head roll back. The headache that he had been suppressing snapped
electrically through his temples. This was what failure felt like. If
he felt like this, what must Neville Hunt be feeling like?
Vic left the office as it was: tomorrow’s problem. Getting
in his car he drove the 35 minutes to Beckenham, where Neville would
hopefully be home.
Neville answered the door with a look of befuddlement. “Was
there something else?” he asked, bleary eyed.
“May I come in?” Vic asked. He was invited to sit in a
brown leather armchair in a small, untidy living room. Neville sat on
a threadbare sofa, sinking into it.
“Neville, I wanted to say that I’m sorry about what
happened to you in the park. It isn’t right for a man who has
served his country to have to put up with that,” Vic said.
“Things have changed. There’s no respect for the
forces anymore. We’re sending our boys off to die in wars that
don’t concern us,” Neville growled, his scraggy beard
blustering with each word like a jagged dandelion. “When I was
younger we were fighting to protect our families.”
“My grandfather fought in the last World War. He gave
everything for us,” Vic said.
“Yeah. It wasn’t about oil then. When will they
learn?” Neville said, pulling himself to his feet with a grunt
of effort and limping towards the kitchen. “I need a proper
drink.”
Looking around the room Vic knew that Neville was right. After the
First World War, there should have never been another. But there was.
Now veterans like Neville had to live in tiny homes, struggling to
afford London house prices. Vic would be willing to bet that this was
rented accommodation.
“Do you work Neville?” Vic called in to the kitchen.
“Can’t because of my bloody leg. Another little gift
from the war,” he said above clattering of glasses. “I
bet that big bastard in the hoody doesn’t work either, bloody
benefits going to the wrong people.”
“Can you tell me anything else about him? Anything that
might help us track him down? Age, any distinguishing marks, the way
he walked, accent, anything, no matter how irrelevant it may seem.”
Neville bowed his head in concentration for a moment to see if
any memories stirred. Vic looked around the squalid room again,
distressed by the poverty which an honourable man should have to live
in. In the corner was a radio, broken, with pieces scattered around
it as if it had suffered a sudden impact. Vic realised that he hadn’t
noticed it before because it had been in the shadow of the chair.
Said something you didn’t want to hear? he wondered.
“He sounded from West London. Probably a student. They’re
all arrogant buggers,” Neville spat, taking a large gulp of his
whisky, clearly not the first based on the thick slurred edge to his
words.
“4am is late for an old man to be out in the park Neville,”
Vic said carefully. “A little dangerous.”
“I told you, I was having a drink, maybe more ‘n one
drink.”
“It’s the wrong way to do things,” Vic said,
bracing himself.
Neville didn’t say anything, just stared down at his feet,
clenching his glass hard. He took a large gulp to finish the rest of
his drink then threw the glass across the room, watching it splinter
helplessly. When he looked up, to Vic’s surprise, his withered
eyes were wet. Suddenly he looked fragile, broken.
“My voice hasn’t been heard. It wasn’t those
kids that pushed me over last night, but a group just like them two
nights ago, no respect for someone who has given everything for them.
Little buggers! I’d had enough of not being listened to. Do you
know how hard it is to have part of your leg blown off and just
assimilate back into civilian life? Employers don’t want people
with ‘soldier skills’, we’re just the forgotten
generation.”
“But you’ve defaced the memorial that was put up to
celebrate what’s been done.”
“No. It was put up to stop it ever happening again. I’m
not ashamed, I’ve not done wrong. Maybe now they’ll
listen, maybe they won’t. Your grandfather, did he want you
joining up?” Neville asked, holding Vic’s gaze through
tear-welled eyes.
“He told me he fought so I didn’t have to.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Vic paused. Thought about his grandfather and the soldiers that he
admired so much. Thought about Neville and everything that had led
him to this point. He stood up. “I’m going to do the
right thing.”
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