Trick or Treat

by Jackson Sharp

  With difficulty, Rose subdued the impulse to fly across the room at the smirking DI.

  ‘He’s violent,’ Hume said. ‘Has a hell of a record.’

  ‘Colourful one, too,’ Phillips put in. ‘You ought to read it, if you like horror stories. He’s not squeamish about hurting people.’

  ‘But that’s his business,’ Rose had said, knowing how weak it sounded.

  Phillips had laughed in her face.

  ‘Oh yeah, here we go. Proper Croatian Ronnie Kray, is he? Only hurts his own, loves his old mum.’ He’d smiled patronizingly. ‘He’s a scumbag, Rose. Plain and simple.’

  A scumbag, and a nutcase. The episode at All Souls had proved that.

  ‘Bursts in on your pet professor in broad daylight waving an illegal handgun,’ Phillips summed up, ‘and when uniform pick him up ten minutes later he’s sobbing his eyes out and goes along with them gentle as a lamb. Do those sound like the actions of a sane and well-balanced man?’

  ‘He’s grieving,’ Rose protested.

  ‘He may well be,’ Hume countered. ‘He may be very sorry Katerina is dead. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t kill her.’

  Rose had asked, if Rakić was such a nut, so out of control, how come he hadn’t let anything slip – not the least hint – in interrogation.

  ‘You’ve had him in there hour after hour, I know you have,’ she’d said. ‘Giving him the full works. His brief’s filed three complaints already. How come you haven’t got anything out of him, if he’s so flaky?’

  At this point Hume’s eyes had slid sideways to Phillips. The DI had shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his face reddening.

  ‘I will,’ he said, with a confidence it was obvious he didn’t feel. ‘Don’t worry about that. I will.’

  For all their cajoling and bullying, their distortion of the facts and their sixth-form debating-club tactics, they hadn’t changed Rose’s mind. But they’d made her worry. This case wasn’t going to be about convincing a jury. First she had to get Hume and Phillips to change their minds. She had a feeling this would be a much harder task. In the meantime resources and manpower would be tied up trying to implicate Rakić while the real Trick or Treat Killer was still on the loose.

  Rose knew that she and Brask were on their own for now.

  ‘Downstairs. Now. Move it.’

  She followed the DCI down the clattering stairwell with a feeling of dread growing in the pit of her stomach. What now? Hume could have a short fuse, but still, it must be something big, to push him over the edge like this. Must be something bad.

  The DCI barged through the swing doors into the MCU office. It was crowded: looked like the whole unit in there, plus a few from regular CID. What the hell?

  The crowd of coppers formed an untidy semicircle around a TV set. CCTV, she thought at once. Someone’s caught the bastard on camera.

  But that would hardly explain Hume’s temper tantrum.

  There was an image paused on the screen. Not what she’d expected: it was the face of a TV host, the presenter of a tabloid current-affairs show on one of the low-rent regional channels. Quentin something. Slick hair, whitened teeth, ferrety eyes. He was known for keeping a close eye on the force’s activities: more than once a lowlife booted out of the nick’s cells on Monday morning had found himself blinking in the studio lights of this guy’s show on Tuesday afternoon.

  ‘Guv, what’s going on?’

  Hume yanked out a spare chair, practically shoved Rose on to it.

  ‘Sit,’ he barked, ‘and watch.’ Snatched up a remote control. ‘This went out on local telly at half-one this afternoon.’ He hit ‘play’. The screen lurched into life.

  The host was introducing a panel discussion. The topic of the day scrolled across the bottom of the screen in sensational capitals: OXFORD’S TRICK OR TREAT KILLER: IS POLICE INCOMPETENCE PUTTING LIVES AT RISK?

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Rose muttered.

  Beside her, Hume gave a stiff nod.

  The camera cut to the panellists. First was a red-haired woman in black-framed glasses, around Rose’s age, maybe a little older. She was introduced as ‘a bestselling author and leading criminal psychologist’; Rose had never heard of her. No ‘Dr’ before her name, either. An opportunistic quack, then, jumping on the bandwagon to try and flog a few books. Nothing for Hume to get wound up about.

  Next in line was a face she knew. She’d been half expecting to see it since she realized what this was all about. Olly Stevenage.

  He was done up in a stiff collar and tie, trying and failing to suppress a shit-eating grin. This is his big moment, Rose thought sourly. His chance to crap all over us – no, me – in front of a live studio audience.

  As the audience applauded the student hack she leaned over to Hume.

  ‘This guy’s a nobody, guv,’ she hissed. ‘A troublemaker, a shit-stirrer. You’re not really going to take any notice of what he says, are you?’

  Hume didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

  ‘It’s not him,’ he said heavily, ‘you want to be worrying about.’

  A familiar voice broke from the TV speakers as Hume hit the volume: ‘Thank you for having me on your show, Quentin.’

  Rose looked back at the TV. Her jaw dropped open. Brask!

  Her mind raced. What the hell was he playing at? It made no sense, no sense at all. Apart from anything else, she’d thought Matt Brask at least had a little dignity. What was an All Souls theology fellow doing on a downmarket daytime TV show?

  She was aware that half the room was looking in her direction. Leland Phillips, standing by the wall on the other side of the office, treated her to a supercilious smirk.

  ‘Guv, I didn’t know anything about this,’ she whispered urgently to Hume. ‘I promise you. I had no idea.’

  Hume’s thunderous expression suggested that he couldn’t care less what she knew or didn’t know, and didn’t give a damn for her promises. He jerked the remote – whizzed through the ‘psychologist’s’ opening remarks.

  Hit ‘play’ to hear what Stevenage had to say. Rose breathed a silent prayer – not that she thought it’d do much good.

  ‘… absolute, unqualified, unforgivable dereliction of duty,’ Stevenage was saying. ‘As the viewers will know, I’ve been tracking this case very closely since day one, and in my dealings with Lauren Rose’ – here it comes – ‘I’ve found her to be aggressive, secretive, manipulative, obstructive, untrustworthy and – if I may be frank, Quentin – not really very bright.’

  A ripple of muted laughter stirred the room.

  But Rose wasn’t laughing.

  Neither was Hume. He whizzed the recording on. Matt Brask’s earnest face reappeared on the screen.

  ‘I know DI Rose pretty well,’ he said.

  More laughter. Rose felt herself reddening. Thanks, Matt, she thought fiercely. Thanks a bloody bunch.

  ‘I’ve never found her,’ the professor went on, ‘to be anything other than utterly professional and completely dedicated. She’s hugely competent and fiercely intelligent. I think people ought to know that.’

  ‘It’s gallant of you to say so,’ smarmed the host.

  ‘Not at all. It’s the simple truth.’ Brask shifted in his chair. ‘But Quentin, may I say something more? I believe there’s something else the viewers ought to know.’ He glanced uncertainly at the camera.

  Rose froze inside. Oh God. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

  Quentin the host was doing his serious face.

  ‘Go ahead, Professor Brask,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been doing some research,’ Brask said, ‘and I’ve – I’ve figured something out about how this man, this murderer, operates. There are – religious elements at play in these killings.’

  That information was strictly need-to-know.

  ‘Interesting,’ the host frowned. ‘Go on.’

  Rose felt frantic. She itched to grab the remote, make it stop, make Brask shut the hell up – to smash the TV, tear out the DVD from the player, someth
ing, anything –

  But it was too late for that. Always too late.

  ‘The victims are abducted approximately three days before they are killed,’ he said gravely. ‘That’s how the man the press calls The Trick or Treat Killer does it, that’s what he always does. For, as I say, religious reasons.’

  ‘Can you elaborate on these religious elements, Professor?’ the host put in.

  Brask nodded.

  ‘I can, to some extent. The details of the murders point to associations with certain martyrs of the early Catholic Church. Extrapolating from this, Inspector Rose and I have gained some insight into when and why these murders take place.’

  ‘And what’ – the focus of the shot tightened as the host spoke – ‘have you learned?’

  Brask turned his sincere gaze fully to the camera.

  ‘I have very good reason to believe that the next murder will happen very soon.’ He took a deep breath; Rose was holding hers. ‘I have very good reason to believe,’ Brask said, ‘that someone – and my gosh, I wish I knew who – will be abducted on Halloween. And that on All Souls’ Day, November second, that person will be killed.’

  Cue chaos in the TV studio.

  Cue fury in the MCU office. Rose heard Angler’s shout: ‘For fuck’s sake!’ Someone angrily booted over a chair. Doors banged, phones buzzed. The air was filled with expletives, strung-out, overworked coppers cursing Brask’s name, and hers, too.

  This was going to cause mayhem. It was going to throw Oxford into panic. It was going to cripple the investigation.

  Hume flicked off the recording. Turned to her with an ominously blank expression.

  ‘My office,’ he said. ‘Now.’

  It was a betrayal. There was no other word for it. Rose might not have had a theology PhD but she knew a Judas when she saw one.

  She understood, of course, that Brask had only done what he thought was right. She knew that he wouldn’t have done it lightly or without thinking carefully about the consequences.

  But in a way that only made it worse. He’d known, he had to have known, what his statement, live on TV, would mean for Rose – and he’d done it anyway.

  A betrayal.

  Rose sat silent in Hume’s cramped, clutter-strewn office as the DCI unloaded. A fucking disgrace. A fucking outrage. Turned the biggest fucking murder investigation in the city’s history into a fucking French farce. And so on.

  ‘If you were a bloke,’ Hume seethed, ‘I’d break your fucking nose and kick you the length of fucking St Giles’.’

  Rose lifted her chin.

  ‘Go ahead, sir,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t want people saying I got special treatment.’

  ‘You’d better do as she says, guv,’ Phillips put in, ‘or she’ll have you up for sex discrimination.’

  The smug DI had come along for the ride. He was perched on a desk in the corner, enjoying the fireworks.

  But Hume wasn’t in the mood.

  ‘I can do without any smart fucking remarks from you,’ he snarled, with a fiery look. Then to Rose: ‘What were you thinking?’ He shook his head. ‘I mean … I mean … I mean, what the fuck were you thinking?’

  He ticked off the charges on his stubby fingers. She’d been told to steer clear of Brask, to concentrate on police work – and here they were, seemingly thick as thieves. She’d let that little toerag student journo make a bloody fool of her, of Hume, of the whole fucking force. Worst of all, she’d obviously disclosed highly sensitive, highly confidential information to a man with no official connection to the case at all.

  ‘No, hang on.’ Hume corrected himself. ‘I mean to a man’ – he widened his eyes in mock wonder – ‘who two fucking weeks ago was your prime fucking suspect!’

  Rose looked at the floor. Christ, she felt stupid. She’d been stupid. What had she known about Brask, after all? That he was polite, and supportive, and sincere. That he was intelligent and knew things she didn’t.

  That he wasn’t a copper. Wasn’t Hume or Phillips or Angler.

  ‘I trusted him,’ she said helplessly. ‘He was – he was helpful, sir.’

  In the corner Phillips snickered like a schoolboy.

  ‘I bet he was,’ he said archly.

  Hume snorted, planted his hands on his hips.

  ‘It was amateurish, Rose,’ he said flatly. ‘I wouldn’t expect a fucking junior PC to behave like that. You let me down – let us all down.’

  ‘I know, sir,’ she said. Wondered where this was headed. She was hanging by a thread, she knew that much. She’d done more than fuck up the investigation; she might just have fucked up her entire career.

  She made herself meet Hume’s eye. ‘I’m sorry, sir. You know I am.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’ The DCI looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Worked with your old man a couple of times, Rose. He was at the Met, I was a DI in Watford. Liked him. Good copper.’ Sighed, turned away. Shuffled some papers on his desk. ‘I’m not going to say “we look after our own” or any of that bollocks,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Because that’s not true: if one of our own fucks up badly enough, he – or she – is out on his arse. We’re not the fucking Freemasons.’ Turned to face her again, hands propped against the desk edge. Still red-faced, still breathing hard. ‘The reason I’m not going to kick you off the force is nothing to do with that. It’s because of what I’ve seen in you before today. And it’s because I don’t believe any daughter of Keith Rose can be as much of a fucking moron as you’ve made yourself look this week.’

  Rose winced. That felt like a low blow.

  Hume moved behind his desk, sat down wearily. Put on a cheap pair of reading glasses and picked up a file of papers.

  ‘You’re off the case, of course,’ he added, looking at her over the lenses. ‘And on indefinite leave until I say otherwise.’ Flipped open the file.

  ‘Sir, if you’d just let –’

  ‘Now fuck off out of it, Rose.’

  He said it like it was an afterthought, Rose remembered later. He broke her life into pieces like it didn’t mean a thing.

  As he walked back to the village through the barren, stony scrub, something gnawed at Little Mouse like a parasite. A vacancy; something missing, something left undone.

  As he walked, weary in body and soul, he prayed – and his prayer was answered.

  He saw his beloved abbot up ahead, an indistinct, deep-glowing figure in the washy white sunlight.

  ‘It is not enough,’ Little Mouse shouted, and heard his words echo among the trees.

  ‘The order,’ the abbot told him, ‘needs more than blood. Think of our treasures – the lost treasures of St Quintus. You must restore them,’ the abbot said. ‘When they are restored, then shall we all be reborn.’

  Little Mouse threw up his hands.

  ‘I cannot paint pictures, Father Abbot,’ he cried. ‘I cannot work with gold and silver. I am no prophet, to write new sacred texts.’

  The abbot said nothing. And in the silence Little Mouse saw the truth.

  The relics.

  He turned and ran back to where he’d left the body of the priest, his father, dangling from the ash tree.

  As he ran, he heard the abbot’s voice. It chimed like a bell amid the boulders and gullies. It told him what he must take, what he must preserve, what he must keep safe so that the order might return to its former glory.

  When Little Mouse reached the priest’s body he drew from his pocket a small, keen-edged knife. Folded out the blade. Steadied the hanging body with a firm one-handed grip on the bare, damp ribs. Reached up with the knife and carefully pared away the priest’s right ear.

  The work done, Little Mouse held the ear in his hand. It was grubby, rough with dead skin. It was holy. A relic. Little Mouse’s soul sang.

  This would be the first. ‘There will be more,’ Little Mouse promised the abbot. ‘Wherever I must go, whatever I must do, there will be more.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  27 October

  Brask was in
the All Souls refectory, talking with a group of colleagues over cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits. He looked up at Rose’s approach. His face creased in anxiety, but he stood and gestured around the table.

  ‘Inspector Rose, please join us,’ he said. ‘This is Professor Kingston, visiting from Edinburgh, and this is Dr Lionel Jessop, who –’

  Rose let fly with a string of expletives that made Dr Lionel Jessop spill his milky coffee on to the tabletop.

  Into the stunned silence that followed she said: ‘We need to talk, Professor Brask. In private. Right now.’ Turned a bleak smile on Brask’s colleagues. ‘It won’t take long. I’ll let you have him back shortly.’

  Though I can’t guarantee he’ll be in one piece.

  She marched Brask wordlessly out of the refectory – he walked stiff-backed, as if being escorted at gunpoint – and turned sharply into the first vacant office they passed. She slammed the door behind them.

  Brask turned, lifted his hands.

  ‘Lauren, I –’

  ‘You can stick with “Inspector Rose”, Professor. And you can start by telling me why I shouldn’t run you in for obstructing a police investigation.’

  ‘There’s –’

  ‘Have you any idea how irresponsible you’ve been?’

  ‘I’ve –’

  ‘You’ve made our job impossible. You’ve made the killer’s job a damn sight easier. You’ve put God knows how many innocent lives at risk. All for the sake of your precious bloody conscience. Well done. I hope you’re happy, Professor Brask.’

  She threw down her coat, yanked out a chair, sat down.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Brask. ‘I called you. More than once. Left voicemails. The last thing I wanted to do was blindside you with this.’

  She had got his messages, but too late for it to do her any good. Besides, when he’d left them it was clear he’d already made up his mind to go public with everything. He’d been calling to ask for her forgiveness, not her permission.

  She couldn’t look at him. Checked her phone instead. Fourteen messages, nine voicemails. Every crime journo on every paper in Europe seemed to have her number. Time for yet another change – but that was the least of her worries.