by Steven Dunne
‘Same question.’
‘I don’t know, Jane. Money?’
‘No chance,’ replied Gadd. ‘Besides, these tramps usually die in public, in a hostel, on the streets, in shop doorways, so we’d know about them first. Or they die in the back room of some squat and don’t get found for weeks, maybe even months. The Embalmer’s taking them alive. McTiernan was fresh.’
Cooper nodded. ‘I suppose just picking them up and offering them a bed and a meal would be the easiest thing in the world.’
‘And when he’s got them where he wants them, he feeds them as much drink as they want and waits for the inevitable,’ said Gadd.
‘Patient man.’
‘Maybe he’s helping things along,’ replied Brook. ‘It’s hard to say. But if he has all this privacy, once he’s got them, he can do what he likes and he can take his time. Who would miss Tommy — a homeless man with no family? And even if McTiernan has friends on the street, his disappearance wouldn’t be unusual. He’s invisible, even to them.’ Brook paused, deep in thought. ‘That’s the life.’
‘He’d need an awful lot of privacy — and space.’
‘Somewhere remote,’ said Brook, moving back to the map.
‘So how do we catch him, sir? And what do we charge him with? Littering?’
Brook smiled, then looked down at his misshapen sweater and shabby trousers. He turned to each member of his team in turn and looked at their smart casual clothes. ‘Maybe we need a presence on the streets.’
Noble finished speaking on his mobile but continued writing in his notebook. ‘That was Don Crump from the lab. The Forensics paperwork won’t be done until tomorrow but he’s given me the heads-up. The traffic cones are clean — no prints at all, not even legitimate workmen. Also, Tommy had been drinking whisky in industrial quantities.’
‘Blended or malt?’ asked Rob Morton.
‘I didn’t ask,’ replied Noble.
At that moment, the door to the Incident Room opened and Chief Superintendent Charlton walked in holding a polystyrene coffee cup. He was dressed in a light grey suit with a white shirt and dark blue tie. There was silence. Charlton was rarely to be seen on a Sunday. Like a naughty schoolboy, Rob Morton removed a cigarette from behind his ear and put it in his pocket.
‘Morning, everyone. Didn’t mean to interrupt. I was on my way to church but as I didn’t get my paperwork I thought I’d better come and see what was going on. Pretend I’m not here.’ He shuffled towards the back of the room and on his way, the man who wasn’t there caught Brook’s eye for a few seconds. ‘Carry on,’ he beamed at Noble, sitting on a table to listen.
‘Yes, sir. I was just going through some forensics about our floaters,’ he explained to Charlton.
‘I heard the second body wasn’t exactly floating,’ retorted Charlton without expression.
‘No, sir.’ Noble looked back at his notes. ‘The cloth recovered from the Derwent looks like it was worn by McTiernan, probably as some kind of loincloth because the second body wore an identical piece of material. They’re running tests on the Shardlow cloth now. The Derwent cloth is made of Egyptian cotton, nothing unusual about it though it did carry traces of the same make-up used on Tommy’s face, as well as disinfectant, and we know the body was washed before being dumped. There were also minute traces of arsenic. No suggestion that McTiernan was poisoned though. It’s probably from some cream applied to the. . er, deceased.’
Noble looked at Brook then Charlton before continuing. ‘The stitching in the wound was a shoelace. Also Egyptian cotton. .’
‘Maybe the killer works at Dunelm Mill,’ said Charlton drily.
‘Sir?’ enquired Noble.
‘It’s a fabric warehouse,’ muttered Gadd, tight-lipped, aware that Charlton’s presence wasn’t a good sign.
‘Every time my wife goes to Dunelm she comes back with more cushions and another bloody duvet cover,’ added Morton, smiling. Gadd elbowed him discreetly in the side.
‘Any news on the murder weapon, Detective Sergeant?’ asked Charlton. Noble didn’t reply. Brook managed a private smile but also kept his eyes on the floor. ‘Oh, hang on. There isn’t one, is there? Because this isn’t a murder inquiry.’ Nobody spoke or looked in Charlton’s direction and the Chief Superintendent let the silence fester for a few moments. ‘Can you all leave the Incident Room for a moment, please? I’d like a word with DI Brook.’
Brook remained motionless as the rest of his team slowly gathered themselves and left in silence. Noble fired an enquiring glance at Brook as he closed the door, but Brook motioned him to leave.
‘What are you doing, Brook?’
‘Conducting an inquiry, sir.’
‘I see. You’ve tied up five detectives on a Sunday just to investigate the death of an indigent who drank himself to death, according to Dr Habib.’ Brook looked up at Charlton finally. ‘Yes, that’s right, Inspector — the post mortem results have come in. In fact, you knew the results when you spoke to me before.’ Charlton glared at Brook, certain of his ground. ‘Didn’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Did you see my email about the budget cuts?’
Brook paused. ‘I saw it.’
‘Then I’ll ask you again. What are you doing committing so many resources to this? God alone knows what the overtime bill will be.’
Brook looked Charlton in the eye. Why don’t you ask Him when you get to church? ‘But now we have a second body, sir.’
‘Murdered?’ Brook said nothing. Charlton nodded. ‘You don’t know yet.’ The Chief Superintendent paused, hoping to increase the pressure. ‘I like to run a tight ship, Inspector, but with these swingeing cuts, I need people who are team players, people who play with a straight bat. What I don’t need are cowboys.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ said Brook quickly. ‘I’ve been working too hard. It’s affected my judgement. I’m sorry.’
Charlton was wrong-footed, the wind taken from his sails. His facial expression softened with vindication but inside, the disappointment of an opportunity lost was palpable. ‘Well, I dare say you made the call as you saw fit.’ His features darkened again. ‘But I won’t tolerate being lied to, especially in front of subordinates,’ he continued, with a nod to Noble outside the door.
‘Of course not,’ said Brook, now the model of contrition. ‘That was unforgivable.’ Charlton examined Brook’s face long and hard for any sign of insincerity. ‘Perhaps I should take a few days off, sir. I’ve got plenty of leave owing.’
Charlton continued to stare Brook down, not wanting to be rushed. He couldn’t escape the feeling that in some way he was being outflanked, but he didn’t know how. Eventually he sat back and looked at the table. ‘You don’t like me very much, do you, Brook?’
Brook couldn’t hide his surprise. ‘Sir?’
‘No, don’t bother. I already know. I’m a bean counter, aren’t I? And you’re a force of pure detection, a seeker of justice.’
‘Sir, I don’t-’
Charlton held up a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter, Inspector. That’s my job. I expect to be disliked. If I wasn’t disliked, I wouldn’t be doing my job properly. And if I wasn’t doing it properly, you couldn’t do yours. But you probably don’t accept that, do you?’
Brook remained silent.
‘And though we had a few problems a couple of years ago, I had hoped that we could have moved forward.’
Brook looked down into Charlton’s face, this time with the feeling that he was being outflanked.
‘You see, Brook, I’ll be honest. I can’t do what you do. I can’t find the bad guy who doesn’t want to be found. I don’t have your skills. But by the same token, you can’t do what I do. Clear the decks and sign the cheques, as my old Chief Constable used to say. Someone has to do it.’ He paused. ‘Look, you don’t need to go on leave — and I no longer want you to resign. I made a mistake suggesting it. And one thing I learned from our. . difference of opinion was — well, I know you have integrity. Briefing t
he press behind my back. . you did the wrong thing but for reasons you believed were valid, and I should’ve acknowledged that.’
‘Sir, I-’
‘Forget it. Get your team back in here and finish the briefing. If you think this incident has mileage, I’ll back you. But I want to be kept in the loop. If you withhold information from me again, I’ll bury you.’
Charlton stood with his untouched coffee and stalked away.
‘Chief Superintendent.’ Charlton turned at the door. ‘Thank you,’ said Brook. ‘But I do have something I need to do. Three days’ leave should cover it.’
Charlton nodded and walked out.
Ten
Wednesday 25 May
DI Damen Brook stood in the gutter looking up at the heavens. If he’d been at home, in his cottage garden, he could have picked out odd stars and constellations, but in the neon glare of the city his vision was impaired. He straightened his stiff neck with some discomfort and massaged it with his grubby hand. He’d never take his soft pillow for granted again.
Scratching at his three-day beard, he resumed his weary trudge through the centre of Derby, feeling the earlier rain still squelching in his shoes. As he shuffled through the darkened shopping precincts, he closed his eyes for long periods to relieve the sting of broken sleep on his pupils — broken by the cold, broken by the noise of others snoring or swearing or just gibbering senselessly, broken by a rat on that one occasion he’d tried to spend a night in a squat.
His mobile phone vibrated in a pocket and he fumbled through his different layers to open it, looking around furtively to see he wasn’t being observed. Cheap though the phone was, a tramp talking on a mobile was an incongruous sight as well as an easy target for muggers.
Brook didn’t look at the display. Only Noble had the number. ‘You’re up late. Where were you tonight? You missed our meeting and I missed my burger.’
‘Sorry, sir. I’ve been busy on another case. I’ve also spoken to Dr Habib.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘We got prints from the second body and we’ve got a name. Barry Kirk — originally from Carlisle. He disappeared off the radar ten years ago when his business and marriage failed. There were all the signs that he was living rough since dropping out of sight — various minor convictions around the country, D and D, vagrancy, you know the routine.’
‘And what about cause of death?’
‘Same. Habib says alcohol poisoning but they’ll need to run more tests. Parts of the brain were missing again as well as the organs.’
Brook saw a figure stir to look at him from a nearby doorway and moved further away.
‘And there’s been a development in another of your cases. I need to go over. .’
Brook saw the man in the doorway looking at him and switched the phone to his other ear. ‘John, I can’t talk for long. But I’m not coming in for a few hours yet. I got a tip from a new face at Millstone House. Somebody at check-in this afternoon knew McTiernan and it seems Tommy was raving about some squat on Leopold Street.’
‘Official?’
‘No, it’s just a derelict but this guy at the refuge, Mitch, says he can’t wait to get back there tomorrow. It seems there’s someone pretending to be from some agency calling round to drop off bottles of whisky.’
‘Whisky? No agency does that.’
‘Exactly. I’m going to check it out now.’
‘Want some back-up?’
‘That won’t help. Speak soon. Wait, John. What did you have to eat tonight?’
‘Er. . Chicken Madras, why?’
Brook ran his lower lip under his teeth. ‘Just wanted to know.’
He ended the call and put the phone on silent then squelched up St Peter’s Street, past Waterstone’s and the small clock-tower which showed two o’clock in the morning. The temperature had dropped and the cold hand of night was beginning to grip. Brook pulled his flimsy overcoat up round his neck, burrowed his hands deeper into his too-thin pockets then quickened his walk to get the blood moving. First order of business after he took a bath — get some decent boots, assuming his feet hadn’t already rotted away to stumps. He pulled out a damp handkerchief and sneezed mightily into the cloth. An inquisitive dog popped its head out of a shapeless pile of blankets in a shop doorway and monitored Brook’s laboured progress with a smooth turn of the head.
‘Good dog,’ breathed Brook as he walked on. The dog, placated, yawned and burrowed back down towards the heat of its owner.
Brook ran the back of his hand across his nose. All he needed — living rough with a cold. He came to a decision. He was exhausted. He couldn’t take another night. This would be his last. The previous two had been fruitless — fruitless, that is, if you excluded the insights he’d gained into a life without a home. Three days and two nights on the streets, and so much about the behaviour and condition of the dispossessed had begun to make sense to Brook. The adoption of a flea-bitten abandoned dog, like the one he’d just seen, was more than a play for sympathy from punters with spare change. The animal offered warmth and the kind of unswerving love and loyalty that acted as antidote to the vitriol unleashed by the well-heeled walking by. He’d heard it all.
Get a job, you fucking tramp.
You stink.
Why don’t you top yourself and do the world a favour?
And it wasn’t just verbal. He’d seen people sleeping in doorways, urinated on by drunken teenagers, kicked awake by shopkeepers and threatened with worse if they came back. And despite being a DI, Brook had not intervened. He told himself it was because he didn’t want to break cover, but a small part of him knew that it was more than that. In just three days of homelessness, Brook had become submissive and, in many ways, helpless. Now he actively avoided eye-contact with others, didn’t want to be noticed, to be the target of abuse or engage with people whose first reaction towards him would be contempt. Brook had assumed the position.
For a second he paused and pulled off a damp glove to scratch his beard again — something had bitten him, he was sure. Living without the basic freedoms and comforts bestowed by an income had quickly reordered his priorities. Food, warm shelter and clean clothes were no longer taken for granted but had become the fundamental pillars of his existence. Brook had never been the sort of person to spend more time than necessary over basic functions, but after the first twelve hours padding around Derby, in the oldest clothes he could muster, he not only longed for a hot bath but had a hunger gnawing at his belly that he’d never experienced before.
After one full day, Brook stank to high heaven and had spent the emergency?20 note in his back pocket on the Sub of the Day, his first packet of cigarettes in a month and a small bottle of whisky, being careful to get the cheapest brands of both to allay suspicion amongst his new acquaintances.
He plodded on, taking the walk of the damned — head sagging forward, shoulders rounded, feet barely clearing the ground, like a prisoner in the Gulag. He reached the top of Osmaston Road and crossed the new link road, Lara Croft Way, which, like most road improvements in the city, had reduced traffic-flow to a virtual standstill during rush-hour. At two in the morning, however, it was deserted and Brook ambled across the four lanes, past the boarded-up bar, long since closed after a stabbing, and turned on to Leopold Street.
Just before reaching Normanton Road, Brook stopped and pulled out a grubby piece of paper given to him by Mitch, his new friend from the Millstone House Shelter. It didn’t have an address on it; the homeless didn’t use addresses — the consequence of being homeless, Brook supposed. Instead they preferred more traditional methods of navigation — a vague description of the location, the description of the house and how to get in.
Brook looked around and was held for a moment. On the other side of the road was a funeral parlour — Duxbury amp; Duxbury. He made a mental note to check they’d been contacted.
He turned back to the darkened, boarded house. He checked Mitch’s note again and approached the steel security gril
le fastened over one of the windows. This was the place. He pulled aside the grille so he could see inside. It moved easily but it was far too dark to see anything. However, the smell of body odour hit his nostrils, as did a sickly-sweet smell which Brook associated with crack cocaine abuse. He listened for the scurrying of rats but heard nothing but the now familiar harsh rasp of sleeping vagrants mumbling and snoring in their fitful slumber.
Brook took a final breath of fresh air and lifted a leg through the window space, but his foot was suddenly held by a strong hand.
‘Fuck a ye doin’, pal?’ said a voice of pure Scottish tar. Despite the many things Brook had learned about sleeping rough, one thing remained a mystery. Why so many vagrants seemed to be Scottish.
‘Looking for Mitch and a place to kip,’ Brook replied in as gruff a voice as he could manage. He hadn’t yet slipped into the parlance as easily as he would’ve liked.
‘We’re full, pal. Fuck off.’ The hand holding Brook’s foot shoved it roughly back out of the window.
Brook didn’t move away. He knew from his days on the street that the only way to get a result now was to fructify his vocabulary and employ an unfamiliar aggression. ‘Who the fuck says?’ he snarled back.
‘You mouthin’ off, Jimmy? Jock says, so fuck off afore ye get a busted mouth.’
Brook tried not to smile, his default reaction to any form of verbal threat. He was a Detective Inspector and had been threatened many times. Almost always such belligerence was for show, an attempt to gain control over a situation that was overwhelming the aggressor. And when a DI smiled back at hostility, the violent facade often crumbled and Brook knew he had control. But not this time. He needed an alternative strategy.
‘I’ve got fags,’ he said, producing a pack and holding them up to Jock’s face.
Jock squinted at the pack and grinned. ‘Giz un.’ He reached for the pack but Brook lowered his hand.
‘When you let me in.’
Jock eyed Brook then nodded. ‘Aye. Well, one more won’t di any harm, Jimmy.’ He stood back from the window and Brook clambered in. ‘What’s yer name, Jimmy?’