by Steven Dunne
Brook was uneasy, unsure what to do. If he made tea, they’d be delayed. But if he hurried her out, Wendy might suspect something.
At least it gave him a problem to solve-take his mind off what had happened, stop him wondering if he’d done or said anything to cause Vicky to come to his bed. Maybe she’d seen him peeping at her. She would think he was a pervert. The sewer he’d been trying to flee for nearly twenty years had taken root inside him. He was its prisoner. There was no way out. He could see that now. Pointless trying. In an odd kind of way, the knowledge was quietly liberating. But that was what worried him, what was causing the dull thud in his head.
He tightened the tatty towelling robe around his diminishing waist still further. He must eat more. He could see the clench of his genitalia through the material and turned back to the corridor to avoid exposure.
‘I won’t be a minute. Help yourself to…something.’ Brook darted to the bathroom, showered in one minute and dressed in three. The note to Vicky could take twice as long but he didn’t dare permit himself the time. He had to get Wendy away before Vicky woke. He couldn’t heap public humiliation onto private suffering.
Jones looked in the fridge, expecting to amuse herself at its desolation but was mildly surprised to see food and wine, albeit sparse, on one shelf. She then noticed that the sink contained no piled plates and the drainer was empty, unlike her last visit.
She had just about decided that Brook had tidied up for her benefit when she saw the two glasses on the side, red dregs still at the bottom. Lipstick clung to the rim of one of the glasses. To her surprise, she felt a rush of something approaching jealousy and was ashamed. She knew she had no right. After all she’d spent nearly a year trying to ignore both him and the jibes from her colleagues. Until the murder of the Wallis family and her involvement with the case, she’d almost persuaded herself that nothing had happened between them. And then he’d walked through the screen at the hospital and her heart had lurched in a way she hadn’t experienced since her childhood sweetheart had first brushed her breast with the back of his hand. And now she’d missed her chance, assuming she still wanted one.
Brook emerged from the hall in a plain grey jacket and trousers. He had suits, but he’d forgotten to keep them together and often wore different combinations of the same two suits on consecutive days, causing much hilarity behind his back.
As he walked in, he noticed the wine glasses before Jones looked up. There was nothing to be done. Perhaps she hadn’t spotted them. He smiled at her in a businesslike fashion and she returned it with something approaching warmth.
‘Shall we go?’ he said, indicating the door.
‘Have you said goodbye to your guest?’ said Jones, with what she hoped was a playful smile.
Brook couldn’t hold her look. ‘I left a note,’ he muttered to the linoleum, in a voice that declared the matter closed.
Jones stood, feeling very foolish, and brushed herself down. She hadn’t wanted to wound him but she had. Then again, he’d humiliated her at the briefing and she was able to take a measure of comfort from a debt paid. However, the way things had started wasn’t good. They had a long journey in front of them and things were already awkward.
Brook glanced up at her as she stood up. She looked very good in a flowing, rain-flecked gabardine covering a dark pin-striped trouser suit and a white silk blouse, open at the neck. She opened the door and prepared to step out into the dark morning.
‘Hello.’
Brook looked at Jones. He tried to smile but could only manage a weak grimace which he felt sure was about to tip over into hysteria. It was still a good effort given that his world was crumbling around him. What would Wendy think? What would she say? Any moment a young, naked blonde would come stumbling into the kitchen wiping the sleep from her eyes.
Brook handed Jones the two folders from Dr Habib and bolted towards the bedroom. Vicky stood at the door wrapped in a sheet. She smiled and seized him into a hug. Brook pushed her away, gripping her elbows in his hands.
‘Stop! Vicky. Stop! I’ve got to go, I told you. I’m working. I won’t be back for a few days.’
‘I see. Yes I remember.’ She seemed confused for a moment.
‘Vicky. About last night…’ Brook didn’t know what to say. ‘I…you’d been drinking…’
‘Don’t worry.’ She gave him a caring peck on the cheek. ‘You were very gallant.’
Brook looked at her, a warmth burning inside him. The anvil had been lifted from his heart. ‘You said things.’
She looked away from him. ‘I always do.’ Vicky turned back to him with doleful eyes and gently covered his hand with hers. ‘Thank you for last night, for thinking of me.’ Then she smiled and the little girl was gone again. In her place, the mature student said, ‘I’ll feed the cat and put the key through the letter box.’
Brook nodded and held her eyes for a second. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, then turned to leave.
Brook walked Jones to the Mondeo in something of a daze. He didn’t notice her stare, her wish to apologise with a look. He removed the case from her car and put it in his boot. He put all the files and folders on the back seat for ease of access and backed the car out so Jones could park her car in his space.
Eventually she climbed in beside him, still trying to engage him. She removed a long blonde hair from his shoulder and tried to catch his eye with a smile. When she could stand the silence no more, she said, ‘So your daughter’s staying with you. How old is she?’
Brook emitted a tiny, mirthless laugh. ‘Daddy’s special girl?’ He paused and looked into the distance. ‘She’s fifteen.’
Chapter Fourteen
‘Forget it, Brooky, you’ve got nothing. No prints, no fibres, no DNA and no witnesses. Nothing. Just a purple tart sitting in a field full of purple flowers.’
‘Fleur de Lis by Robert Lewis Reid. Oil on canvas.’
‘I thought it was a poster.’
‘I mean the original, guv.’
‘So this Professor is into art in a big way. Big deal. It won’t get you a warrant, Brooky, so put it out of your head.’
Rowlands removed his feet from his desk and inhaled deeply on his cigarette. Tobacco smoke was oxygen to him now, the essential lenitive to deaden nerves and allow him to function. A few seconds later, having spread its soothing balm, the smoke began its return journey from lungs through mouth and nose, into the flask being raised to lips. Rowlands took an urgent draught before holding it out to his subordinate. He hated drinking alone, particularly in the morning and Brook felt compelled to offer all the support he could, until his boss could put his daughter’s death behind him.
So DS Brook accepted the flask and tilted it, making sure his tongue was covering the neck. The whisky burned the tip and fell back.
Brook stared out of the window at the rooftops sprawling across West London and popped a sly mint into his mouth. He could see the snake of sighing cars on the elevated M4, sidling impatiently towards their destination, and it held him for no particular reason. So many people going nowhere.
He turned to Rowlands, summoning all the gravity he could muster. ‘He did it, guv. I know it. He knows I know it. And what’s more,’ he said, raising an impressive finger, ‘he made sure I know it.’
‘You’re talking in riddles, Brooky.’
‘He knew I was coming, guv. He played me some music. Opera. It was another calling card. He’s sending messages with art.’ Brook flinched as he said it. That which seemed so certain sounded absurd when voiced.
Rowlands shook his head. ‘People like Victor Sorenson don’t go around murdering lowlifes like Sammy Elphick no matter what they may have nicked from him. They’ve got too much to lose.’
‘But Sammy didn’t nick anything don’t you get it, guv? Sorenson took the VCR with him and left it there. Just so there’d be something to connect him to the Elphick murders. He doesn’t even have a telly.’
‘Irrelevant, old son. He might have been about to buy one.’
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‘You don’t need to tell me the legal objections. I know it makes no sense and I know it’d be laughed out of court. But I know he did it. And we’ve got to stop him.’
‘Brooky.’ Rowlands paused. He didn’t want to offend. ‘Putting aside the complete absence of physical evidence, if we accept that this man…’
‘Sorenson.’
‘If we accept that this Sorenson did take his own VCR to Sammy’s as a way in, you lose the only motive you’ve got.’
Brook laughed. ‘I know.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah. There is no motive-at least not one that you can recognise.’
‘But you would?’
‘When I hear it. Look, guv, I’m not sure there even is one. That could be the point. I know it sounds flimsy. But you’ll see.’
‘I see a wealthy retired businessman with no reason to commit multiple murder…’
‘And the burglary at his house?’ argued Brook, clutching at a straw.
‘A burglary which you say never took place. According to you, this Sorenson buys a video for a TV he doesn’t have, notes the serial number, claims he’s had a break-in so he can report the thing stolen, then months later takes it to a flat in Harlesden to gain entry, kills Sammy Elphick and his family, and leaves it for us to find and return to him so he can give us a hint that he’s the killer. Flimsy ain’t the fucking word, Brooky The word is non-existent and don’t tell me that’s two fucking words, you toffee-nosed, fast-track twat.’ Brook laughed.
‘And tell me this,’ Rowlands continued. ‘Why the fuck would this guy go to all the trouble of leaving absolutely no trace at the scene of the murder and then confess to the first copper who turns up on his doorstep?’
‘He didn’t confess. He wanted me to know. There’s adifference. He doesn’t want us to prove it, guv, he wants to keep doing it. He’s laughing at us.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘It’s a classic case of super-ego. This is the first of a series, guv. He knows we wouldn’t finger him for The Reaper in a million years, unless he gives us a nudge. He’s killed three people and we can’t touch him for it. But he can’t have his fun unless he can watch us running around like headless chickens trying to pin it on him.’
‘But we’re not trying to pin it on him, Brooky.’
‘I am.’
Rowlands began to pant. His breath came quickly these days. Even the mildest difficulty enervated him. ‘Give it up, son. You’ll get nowhere with it. Our best, our only chance to catch this bastard is when he does it again. If he does it again.’ Rowlands spoke softly, deliberately. Brook saw the sign. His superior had nothing more to say on the matter, even if he could summon the necessary breath.
‘He will, guv. And when he does, I’ll be ready.’
There was an awkward silence between them and Brook wasn’t sure why. There hadn’t been many. They were friends as well as colleagues since Elizabeth’s death. Brook had nursed Rowlands through that dark time. He was still nursing him. There had been some difficult moments. These matters were usually suppressed, emotions weren’t easy-their job had no use for them. They were a hindrance, an encumbrance to efficient function. Extreme events were often turned into humour to make them easier to deal with. Even Rowlands’ de rigueur divorce had been a source of thin amusement to Brook and his boss. But the death of a child…
Rowlands pushed a piece of paper towards Brook. ‘Here, take your mind off things. Go for a drive in the sunshine.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An address near Ravenscourt Park. Uniform have found us a body to check out. It’s probably just a derelict with an exploded liver…’
‘I’ll take a look.’
‘And stop worrying so much about Sammy Elphick and things you can’t change. It’s not good for your health.’
Brook glanced at the cigarette and the flask, then at Rowlands and raised his eyebrows. They grinned in unison.
‘Point taken.’ Rowlands broke into a tarry chuckle. ‘I’m serious though. It’ll cost you if you make it personal, Damen. That way lies madness. Take it from me. Besides,’ Rowlands searched for a justification and came up with one that guilt would only allow him to mutter under what passed for his breath, ‘it’s only Sammy Elphick. When all’s said and done, who’s bothered?’
Brook paused, mulling over something, then nodded. ‘You’re right, guv. It’s only Sammy Elphick. He won’t be missed.’ Then quieter, ‘You’re right.’
A sudden cloud glided over them, as though both men were confronted by something they’d rather not face. Save for the distant ringing of telephones there was nothing to disturb the moment.
Brook was the one to break it. ‘Do you remember that night, on the stairwell? When I asked you if it was a bad one and you said you didn’t know. I think I understand what you were saying.’
‘Do you? I hope not.’
Brook ignored the warning and stared at the wall, conjuring the scene. ‘I saw what you saw. I saw Sammy. I saw his wife. I saw the boy. This is a bad one, I thought. This is a brutal, heartless killing of man, woman and child, and every right-thinking person in this world should be appalled. And do you know what, guv? I didn’t care. I didn’t give a damn about those people. I looked into that boy’s face and all I saw was a case-a problem to solve. I didn’t see a family. I didn’t see a history-work, play, life, death. I saw three corpses and a challenge. I didn’t see a brutal killing and I wasn’t appalled.’ Brook looked hard at his boss. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Rowlands raised a bloodshot eye to Brook and nodded.
Brook missed the attempt at closure. ‘I thought it would hit me later. I’d have nightmares. But it hasn’t. And I know it won’t.’
‘No,’ agreed Rowlands. He took another pull on the flask and thought for a second. ‘How old are you, Brooky?’
‘Twenty-seven. Why?’
Rowlands nodded, a bemused look spreading across his countenance. ‘Christ. I was twenty-seven,’ he glanced up at Brook as though to reassure him of the relevance of this information, ‘when I stopped.’
‘Stopped what?’
‘Giving a shit.’
Chapter Fifteen
Wendy Jones closed the folder and turned to Brook. ‘I see your point. Bobby Wallis and Sammy Elphick could have been brothers.’
Brook looked straight ahead, focusing on the motorway. ‘They were both small-time villains, though there was never any evidence of child abuse in the Elphick case. That doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.’
Jones pondered for a moment. ‘You know, if it weren’t for the children being killed as well, I could almost imagine it was a policeman or somebody striking back…’
‘A vigilante?’
‘Right. I mean, who’s going to miss Bobby Wallis? Or Sammy Elphick?’
‘We went down the same road. If it weren’t for the children…’
Time gathered around them and Brook waited. He could sense Jones thinking hard, forming her ideas, identifying questions. He was pleased she didn’t feel the need to fill silence.
‘Why the name?’
‘What?’
‘The name. Why was he ever called The Reaper?’
‘That was my fault. I’d seen a lot of violent crime before Harlesden. Bad things. Killings, gangland executions, domestics, overdoses. You’ve seen corpses?’
‘Not many. My mother. In the hospital.’
‘Sorry.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘Any violent deaths?’
‘I was first to that tramp a couple of years back. In Markeaton Park.’
‘Beaten to death?’ Brook remembered. Jones nodded. ‘What did you notice?’
‘Sir?’
‘When you stared at him longer than was necessary, hoping that no-one would think you were being ghoulish, what did you notice?’
Jones pondered for a moment. ‘Everything.’
‘In particular?’
‘The face, his face,’ she
corrected herself, ‘it was all out of shape, his mouth was open but not like people open their mouths. It was like…a caricature of what the human face should look like.’
‘Anything else?’
‘The body. Every muscle, every joint seemed to be in the wrong position. It put me in mind of that game Twister people used to play at parties years ago.’
‘At Christmas,’ Brook smiled and looked away.
‘It was like a grotesque game of that, only worse. Think of the most difficult position to hold the human body and then freeze it. That’s what I noticed.’
‘Violent death does that-throws up all sorts of weird and wonderful positions. That’s what spawned The Reaper. When I looked at the Elphick family that first night, the violence was missing. The boy was hanging from the ceiling but he didn’t seem unduly troubled. The parents were tied and killed quickly. They’d suffered more from seeing their son die, they’d cried, same as Wallis and his wife. But in the end they were just sitting there, dead, their throats cut. They looked quite normal-apart from a look of surprise.
‘And talking about it later with Charlie Rowlands, I said it seemed less like a murder, and more like the Grim Reaper had just breezed in and removed their lives. No fuss, no bother, no struggle. Three less people in the world. Who’s next?’
‘And Brixton?’
Brook hesitated before saying, ‘Same.’ There was nothing to gain from elaborating further.
Jones nodded. ‘Brixton. December 1991. Dark evenings again. That’s why he does it round the turn of the year, isn’t it?’
‘And in bad weather, to discourage witnesses.’
‘Floyd Wrigley, West Indian origin,’ she read from the file, ‘his common law wife, Natalie, and their daughter, Tamara. Aged eleven.’ Her verbal tremor was not lost on Brook. She leafed through the file for the pictures and stumbled through them. ‘Did you see the scene?’
‘No. Yes. I mean, not really. It wasn’t my case but they asked me in on a consult. It was the same as Harlesden. Parents tied up, throats cut, watching their daughter die-all to the accompaniment of Mozart’s Requiem. This time the girl’s throat was cut, unlike the Elphick boy. And she’d been drugged like young Kylie, I assume to limit her suffering.’ Brook turned towards Jones to ensure she saw his approval. ‘She was innocent you see-as you spotted the other day.’ Her colour darkened.