A Sailor's Honour by Chris Marnewick

‘Back there,’ he said. ‘Behind the pub.’
    â€˜Do you have any means of identification on you?’ the first bobby asked.
    â€˜It’s back there,’ De Villiers said. ‘In my room.’
    â€˜Show us,’ the bobbies said in unison.
    They escorted De Villiers to his room and followed him inside. His army jacket was draped over a rickety chair and he pulled his passport from its pocket. De Villiers studied the two policemen while they scrutinised his passport. They were young and, on the face of it, fit. Their uniforms fitted perfectly. Their shoes were police-issue but clean. They were clean-shaven and their hair was neatly trimmed. They looked professional.
    â€˜Sit down,’ one of the bobbies ordered.
    De Villiers sat down on his bed.
    â€˜I’m Police Constable Jones and my colleague here is PC Crosthwaite,’ the bobby holding the passport said. ‘Your passport is in order and you haven’t yet overstayed your welcome here. We’re investigating a series of burglaries and thefts from cars in this street.’
    â€˜When did you move in?’ PC Jones asked.
    â€˜Three months ago,’ De Villiers said.
    PC Jones flipped through the pages of a small notebook. ‘That’s when the burglaries started here. Empty your pockets,’ he said.
    De Villiers stood up and turned his pockets inside out. There was nothing in them. He wondered whether they would pat him down and find the Leatherman strapped to his left ankle. They could lock him up for that. And deport him.
    â€˜Now tell us why you were running,’ PC Crosthwaite said.
    â€˜For exercise,’ De Villiers said.
    PC Crosthwaite shook his head. ‘Wearing army boots, heavy cotton trousers and a button-down shirt? I don’t think so.’
    De Villiers didn’t know what to say and tried to make a joke of it. ‘Emil Zátopek used to train in army boots, and look what he achieved. Three gold medals at the same Olympics.’
    The bobbies were not amused. It struck De Villiers that they had probably never heard of Zátopek.
    PC Jones ran his finger along the wall and looked at his fingertips. ‘Clean,’ he said. ‘Most unusual.’
    PC Crosthwaite ran his fingers over the top of the ramshackle wardrobe. ‘Clean here too, even more extraordinary.’ He lifted De Villiers’s army jacket from the chair and sniffed at it. ‘Clean,’ he said. ‘Are you sure it’s yours?’
    â€˜Of course,’ De Villiers said.
    PC Crosthwaite threw the passport on the bed. ‘May we search your room?’
    De Villiers nodded. He had nothing to hide. PC Jones opened the wardrobe. De Villiers didn’t have to look to know what they would see. One pair of good shoes. Two shirts, neatly folded and stacked, military style, on top of one another. One pair of grey flannel trousers, on a hanger. One navy blue blazer, on a hanger. One red tie. A few pairs of socks. Three pairs of underpants. All neatly stacked. A thick woollen jersey. A blue beret. Flannel pyjamas.
    â€˜Do you have a job?’ PC Jones asked.
    â€˜No,’ De Villiers said.
    They finished their search. ‘Now tell us why you were running,’ PC Jones said. ‘And don’t give us that bullshit about exercising.’
    â€˜I was going to buy a razor and toothpaste,’ De Villiers said.
    â€˜I didn’t see any money,’ PC Crosthwaite said.
    De Villiers didn’t respond.
    â€˜We need to see some money,’ PC Jones said.
    De Villiers pulled the money belt from under his shirt. ‘See for yourself,’ he said. He handed the money belt to PC Crosthwaite.
    PC Crosthwaite opened the first compartment and whistled. ‘How much?’ he asked De Villiers.
    â€˜About three thousand in cash and ten thousand in American Express.’
    PC Crosthwaite unzipped the second compartment and made a show of counting the banknotes. De Villiers watched in