by Steven Dunne
‘Then you saw Jason in the kitchen?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I called the police.’
‘You didn’t check Jason’s pulse.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I assumed he was dead.’
‘Then you went outside to wait.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you saw no-one and heard no vehicles?’
‘That is correct.’
Brook nodded and pocketed his notebook. ‘May I use your phone, Mr Singh?’
‘Please.’
Brook drew out a piece of crumpled paper from a pocket and proceeded to dial. ‘Constable Feaver, it’s me. Okay. Half way.’ He put his hand over the receiver and smiled at Mr Singh.
From the Wallis house a barely audible noise could be discerned. Brook listened, watching Mr Singh closely. Singh nodded. ‘That’s how it started out.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘Twenty minutes to midnight.’
‘Why so exact?’
‘When you’re disturbed by neighbours you look at the time. In case…’ He hesitated, then looked away, unwilling to finish.
‘…in case you want to charge round there and have it out with them.’ Brook smiled politely.
‘I suppose so. I wouldn’t have. My wife…’ Again he left the sentence hanging.
Brook spoke into the phone. ‘All the way up, Constable.’ The music was no longer muffled. It pounded through the wall and crashed onto Mr Singh’s floor which vibrated in tune. Then it died somewhat but that was more down to Mahler’s composition. Before long the horns were hammering on the floorboards again.
‘And it was midnight when it became that loud?’ Singh nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks Constable,’ said Brook into the phone. ‘Turn it off.’ Brook replaced the receiver and turned to Mr Singh. ‘I admire your patience. I would have gone straight round and hammered on the door.’
‘I was going to but they turned it off a couple of minutes later.’
‘Sorry. I thought you told DC Noble you put up with it until half past twelve before going round?’
‘I did. I mean I got my slippers on to go round but it stopped completely. So I went upstairs to get ready for bed then it started up again. Really loud. As you said, I stood it for as long as I could then I went to complain.’
‘And that would have been at half past.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’
‘I’ve only just remembered with you playing the music.’
‘And how long was the music off?’
‘A few minutes, Inspector. Maybe five, no more than ten.’
‘I see.’
‘Is it important?’
Brook shrugged. ‘It could be.’
‘Is there anything else, Inspector? I’m very tired.’
‘Me too. Thanks for answering my questions at this hour, Mr Singh.’
Singh took the hint and set off for the front door. As Brook passed through the entrance Singh smiled at him. It was a bleak expression which Brook recognised as that of a fellow insomniac.
‘When will my clothes be returned to me, Inspector?’
‘As soon as we’ve finished with them. Assuming you still want them. There’ll be blood on the shoes and probably the garments too.’
Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t think.’
Brook left and returned to the Wallis house to retrieve his tape then set off for home.
After a hot shower, Brook lay on his bed to rest his eyes for a few moments. He nodded off but woke a few minutes later. Nonetheless he felt refreshed and rang Noble for a progress report.
There was news on the van. They hadn’t found it but they’d had a hit from the partial plate. It had been hired locally. Brook had expected this. He made a mental note of the van hire company and told Noble to save the rest for the briefing.
Also, the bottle of wine hadn’t been bought in a Derby supermarket, Noble confirmed. They were checking French suppliers and off-licences the next morning.
Brook told Noble about the discovery of the drugs and cash on Jason. He also mentioned Jason’s involvement in the near rape of a teacher at the local school to see if it seemed equally significant to Noble.
‘Pity we can’t leave him unguarded so the killer can finish the job then,’ said Noble.
‘Maybe,’ replied Brook. ‘You know, his family are dead and all he could think about was getting on TV for his fifteen minutes of fame.’ Mr Singh was right. The Wallis family were trash. Only poor Kylie had ever held a thought for the sensibilities of others. Her death was the real tragedy. Suddenly Brook had a brainwave.
‘John, have you set up the ID with the aunt?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon. Why?’
‘Good. They’re releasing Jason from hospital tomorrow. Have him brought there so we can hand him over to his aunt for safe keeping. His reaction might tell us something.’
‘We’re not charging him with possession?’
‘No. His family are dead, John. Let’s give the kid a break.’
Their conversation meandered on for a few more minutes then eventually there was silence and Brook could think of nothing else to say. He noticed the puzzled tone creeping into Noble’s voice. Brook rarely spoke to him on the phone and had even chided him for it once. ‘Always better in our job to talk face to face, John,’ he’d said. ‘You get the full picture that way.’
All possible distractions exhausted, Brook rang off, then, with a deep breath, dialled his ex-wife’s number. He had to look up the number for Brighton and felt a pinprick of shame-it had been months since he last spoke to Amy and Terri. He told himself it was pressure of work but knew that was no excuse. Nor was it a lingering sense of awkwardness-he enjoyed talking to Amy, better than when they were married, in fact. Even Tony, Number Two Dad, was okay. For a PR man.
‘Hello stranger,’ said Amy smoothly. ‘It’s late.’
‘Is it?’ Brook was struck by the self-confidence his ex-wife had acquired since the divorce. Certainly her new husband was bland enough to make anyone feel worthy but there had to be something more to her new-found contentment.
Perhaps Tony was one of those weirdos who refused to spend his waking hours telling his wife that the world was a sewer and that death was their constant companion and, ultimately, their friend. It was also possible that he was a better lover than Brook-unlikely but just possible.
His favoured theory was that Tony Harvey-Ellis had that most compelling attraction to divorced women of a certain age: the outward appearance of sanity.
Now, Brook could see the funny side. That time in London, he had been losing it. His obsession with a girl had wrecked his marriage. And, if anything, the fact that the girl was already a corpse when Brook met her made matters worse.
‘How are you, Amy?’
‘Never better.’
A pause. ‘Is Terri there?’
‘She certainly is. Would you like to speak to her?’ she said with the suggestion of a tease.
‘That would be nice.’
‘Ther-es-a! It’s your dad. Can you hear me? Your dad. So Damen, on the telly, ’eh?’
‘Was I?’
‘Yeah. A small bit on BBC and ITV. Very exciting. Just like the old days.’
‘Yeah. I’m getting an agent.’
‘Good to see you haven’t lost your old detachment,’ she giggled.
‘Ha ha,’ said Brook without rancour.
‘Okay Mum. I’m on the other line.’
‘Bye Sherlock. And happy birthday.’
‘Bye, darling. How are you, Terri?’
‘I’m fine, dad. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Brook was a little taken aback at this smokescreen. He was suddenly uneasy, sensing that she was under strain. Brook decided to play ball.
‘Can’t a father ring his daughter, whom he loves, without opening a public inquiry?’ he breezed. Brook alway
s managed to shunt declarations of affection into a subordinate clause. They were safer there. ‘I just wanted to see how you were.’ There was a click as an extension was hung up. Either his ex-wife or her husband had wanted to know why he was ringing. Brook didn’t like it. ‘What’s wrong, petal?’ he asked with more urgency.
‘Dad…I…’ Brook heard a noise in the background that might have been a door. ‘My mocks aren’t ’til June.’ The guard was around her voice again.
‘Can’t you speak, Terri?’
‘I’m afraid not, Dad.’
‘Can you ring me later?’
‘I don’t see how but I’ll try.’ The strain was audible in her voice.
‘Is it something to do with Mum?’ he asked.
‘Oh no, no,’ she answered back with a feigned jocularity.
‘Tony?’ he ventured.
‘Mmm, yes. That’s right.’ Brook’s veins turned to ice and he found himself catching at a breath.
‘What time does he go to work in the morning?’
‘Seven.’
‘Ring me here, as soon as he leaves. I’ll be waiting. Any problems, you just bluff him. Tell him I know everything, whatever it is, and I’m coming down to sort things out. Okay. Got that, darling?’
‘I understand. Bye then, Dad. Nice to hear from you. And happy birthday.’ The line went dead but Brook was unable to replace the receiver for a few seconds. Problems with Tony. He didn’t dare think. It was pointless jumping to conclusions. Terri was at a difficult age. It could be anything, he decided. Personality clash-he knew about those-or maybe she just needed some attention, needed to play the two dads off against each other for a while. That was the rational explanation.
He gleaned some surface comfort but a few fathoms down the fish were nibbling at his peace of mind. Tony Harvey-Ellis was a man. With men, at one level or another, everything could be reduced to sexual gratification. If that bastard had…
Brook sought solace with a familiar ally and made a conscious effort to return to the case so he trudged down the rickety steps to the dank and dingy cellar and from a rusty metal trunk recovered a large beige folder. He removed an antiquated rubber band, wiped off some of the dust, and what looked like mould, and returned to the discomfort of his living room.
The furniture in the room was sparse to say the least. Minimalism was the fashion but that implied design and expense. Most of Brook’s objets could have been recycled from the council tip or unearthed in the furthest backroom of a teeming, hand-me-down warehouse.
There was a squeaky plastic sofa nestling along the wall next to the never-opened front door. Just to ensure that the door was never used, Brook had placed a peeling formica-topped occasional table in front of it. In another corner, stood an old-fashioned standard lamp which vomited its dingy flower-studded light onto a sturdier table, on which had been placed the phone and an ashtray.
The overall colour scheme, if scheme it could be called, for that again implied planning, was a grimy light brown, save for the once-white ceiling which had been gradually stained tobacco yellow.
Brook unwrapped the cellophane from the next pack, lit up with a sigh more relaxed than he felt, and sat down to inspect the folder. He tipped out a silver necklace and gazed at the heart-shaped links, remembering the dead girl, Laura Maples.
Eventually he dropped it back into the folder and pulled out various documents. A tightly wrapped plastic bag fell out with them. Brook held the plastic bag for a moment then took the small package back to the cellar and dropped it into the trunk then returned to examine the pile of documents.
He skimmed quickly through the chronological landmarks of his descent into hell and extracted the relevant photocopied reports, newspaper cuttings and the photographs Brook had taken with his own camera while on stakeout. Technically he shouldn’t have taken photocopies of official documents, but the Met was fairly relaxed about procedure in those days. Now they would have had his warrant card on the fire before he’d have time to call the Police Federation.
There was a number, scribbled on the back of a report. He picked up the phone and pondered. It was a long time ago. He shrugged and dialled. Coppers rarely moved house unless they were transferring. They needed a familiar haven around them, like a favoured tatty shirt-a place to hide in safety and comfort from the hell of other people’s society. The other end picked up on the first ring.
‘Hello.’
Brook discerned more than a suspicion of alcohol in the voice. ‘Charlie, is that you?’
‘Fuckin’ ‘ell. Brooky. I’ve been hoping you’d call. Wasn’t sure you’d still have the number.’
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fucking shit-faced, mate. How are you?’
‘Considering it.’
‘You lying bastard,’ ex-DCI Charlie Rowlands laughed. ‘That’ll be the day that I die. You might lose a bit of that famous iron control of yours.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time, sir.’
‘Well. I saw the press conference. Tell me, Brooky. Does that dyke with the brush handle up her arse have any idea what you’re dealing with?’
‘The Chief Super? I don’t know, sir.’
‘Call me guv, not sir. And another thing. Don’t call me guv. I’ve been retired since the last ice age.’
‘What should I call you, guv?’
‘Call me Charlie, you daft sod.’
‘Charlie.’ It didn’t sit right with Brook, even though he’d always hated calling him “guv”-too much of the professional cockney about it. ‘I need to see you.’
‘Is it true? Is it another?’ An audible strain of foreboding suddenly surfaced in Charlie Rowlands’ voice.
‘I think so. Yes.’ Brook waited. He knew the effect his call was having.
‘Same MO?’
‘Similar.’
‘Who was the target?’
‘The son. He got himself in the news a few weeks ago. He was chucked out of school for assaulting and threatening to rape a teacher.’ Brook spoke softly so as not to excite Rowlands. He had a bad heart and had taken early retirement in 1994 at the age of 56. That was fairly late for today’s career-minded desk jockeys, but Charlie Rowlands was one of the old school. He’d always said he’d never retire, that they’d have to drag him out kicking and screaming. The job was his life and that was very nearly the cost.
Given that, it was a surprise to Brook that he’d managed to hang onto life for more than a decade since. He’d been expected to keel over within six months. He wasn’t exactly a health nut. He smoked and drank heavily off-duty-and on, for that matter.
‘Good riddance. And he did all of ’em, did he?’
‘All he could lay his hands on but the son got lucky and didn’t turn up and he left the baby.’
‘Okay. Dad had form, did he?’
‘Minor stuff but he was a thug.’
‘That’s a comfort then.’ Rowlands sounded sober now. He was moving into the stage of melancholy clear thinking. ‘Signatures?’
‘Music. A picture. And expensive wine.’ Brook knew what was coming, though Rowlands was putting it off.
Eventually he said, ‘Was there a message?’
‘SAVED.’
‘In blood?’
‘In blood.’ Brook was now scarcely audible so keenly did he feel the need to monitor Rowlands for signs of strain.
For what seemed an eternity the two men listened to each other breathing before Rowlands, with a huge sigh, said, ‘Come when you like. I’m never out.’ Brook confirmed the address and prepared to hang up. ‘Damen,’ said Rowlands. He rarely called him that. ‘Sorenson’s a goner.’
The line clicked and Brook was left with the receiver in his hand, lost in thought until the whirring from the ear-piece brought him back. He replaced the receiver and went into the kitchen. He needed a drink. Actually he needed a drink in a public place to satisfy himself that a normal world still existed but he decided against it in case Terri tried to ring.
He rooted around
in the kitchen. He knew he had booze somewhere. Eventually he pulled a dusty bottle of sweet Martini-won in a raffle a couple of years before-from the highest cupboard. The cupboard had sixties sliding glass doors caked in grease and Brook kept everything he never wanted to see again in there. He glanced at the photograph albums but resisted.
He cracked the seal on the bottle and examined the rust-coloured liquid. He’d only kept it in case of female visitors. Fat chance. There’d only been the one night with Wendy…WPC Jones, and she’d asked for a beer. Nobody but winos drank this garbage any more. Brook poured a large measure and drank it down with a grimace. He poured another and sat back down at the table to nurse it. He turned back to the yellowing file. Like it or not it was time to think.
He put his hand in the folder and pulled out the necklace again and draped it around his fingers. The silver hearts glistened in the half-light and Brook stared at them, seeing the face of the girl who’d worn it all those years before-what was left of it, after the rats had eaten their fill.
He returned the necklace to the folder and began to organise reports and photographs from The Reaper killings into one chronological pile.
Chapter Six
It was cold. Very cold. The air above the duvet was crisp enough to blue the two noses peeping out from the cocoon like a pair of stunted periscopes.
Amy Brook flinched at the intrusion of the phone and uncoupled herself from her groaning husband. She didn’t need waking in the middle of the night in her condition; she woke plenty with no disturbance.
Delicately, trying not to take the full weight of the mass in her womb onto her stomach, she swivelled towards the offending noise.
‘Sorry to wake you, love. Can I speak to him?’ Detective Inspector Rowlands, soon to be a DCI, spoke with unusual gentleness, as though a lowered voice was less irritating. To hear him, Amy Brook was forced to concentrate even harder, pushing sleep further away.
‘It’s for you,’ she droned, jabbing the phone into her bleary husband’s huddled form. She swung her legs onto the floor without breaking the crust around her eyes. ‘Tea?’
‘Don’t bother, gorgeous,’ Damen Brook replied, hand over the mouthpiece, his eyes resolutely closed.