by Steven Dunne
‘It says here that the man, Floyd Wrigley, had a deeper cut than the woman and the girl. The blade hit a bone and the cut didn’t run from ear to ear.’ She turned to Brook. ‘That’s different.’
‘Maybe.’ Brook was sombre now. Jones caught his mood and stopped herself, thinking she might be digging up unhappy memories. He, in turn, recognised the change in her and tried to lighten up. ‘He worked out in a gym. Had strong neck muscles which were difficult to cut.’
‘Wouldn’t he have been hard to overpower then?’
‘He was also a junkie. If you can believe the two go together. Heroin. He was high as a kite. They both were.’
‘Any hint that race was significant?’
‘I don’t think so. Just the criminal tendencies. Wrigley was a thief and a violent man. All round scumbag. Had a couple of ABHs on his CV, and a Wounding, some guy he knifed during an argument about paying for sex with Tamara. The things people do for their fix.’
‘He pimped his eleven-year-old daughter?’ Jones looked into the distance, her voice little more than a croak. Brook was annoyed with himself. He’d been carried away. Such embellishments were out of character. Unnecessary. It rarely happened with him, the adrenaline rush of the showman. Perhaps, unconsciously, he’d been trying to degrade her a little-all her sex. A little payback for, well, where to start?
He looked across to see the mark his words had left. Too often he forgot that even fellow officers hadn’t waded as deeply into the sewer as he had. They could all identify and acknowledge the stench of society’s entrails, but their clothes didn’t need a boil wash at the end of each day.
His inability to gauge the emotional threshold of others was a terrible weakness, and he was ashamed. Wendy Jones was still an innocent abroad, a provincial girl with an endearing ignorance of the world as dung heap. He tried to soften the blow.
‘Actually that was just a whisper. Probably not true, otherwise they’d have had him on toast, wouldn’t they?’
‘How did The Reaper gain entry?’ asked Jones.
‘Brixton? Same as Harlesden and the other night-bearing gifts. A VCR in Harlesden, though you won’t find that in the file, and an expensive new compact disc player for Mr Wrigley and family. Once inside he had the element of surprise. Not that he needed it with Wrigley and his girlfriend doped up to the eyeballs.’
‘He still tied them up?’
‘Sure. Adrenaline at the point of death can be a powerful ally.’
‘But he didn’t tie up Bobby Wallis and his wife.’
‘No. He’s had a long time to polish his act. He’d found a way to disable them without force.’
‘The last one was 1993 in Leeds. Although I couldn’t see any…’
‘Don’t bother. There’s nothing in there on Leeds. I could only photocopy Met documents. Besides, I’ve never been convinced about Leeds. It was a copycat and a pretty ropey one at that.’
‘Did the Leeds Force speak to you?’
‘Sure. They were taking no chances after the Yorkshire Ripper. It was just wrong. As far as I could see it was a gangland thing. Drugs. Professional job. But the Leeds boys wouldn’t have it, I don’t know why. They insisted on chalking it up to The Reaper. You’d think they’d have been pleased to know a serial killer hadn’t struck on their patch.’
‘Why so sure it was gangland?’
‘The victim was Roddy Telfer. He moved to Leeds from Glasgow in 1992. A real slime ball whichever way you look at it: junkie, pimp, thief, small-time, same as the others, but someone disliked him enough to put a sawn-off in his mouth and blow his head off.’
A shotgun? That’s not The Reaper’s MO.’
‘No. Far too messy.’
‘Then why think it was The Reaper?’
‘Because, using what was left of Telfer’s brains and a gloved finger, a leather glove I might add, he wrote ‘SAVED’ on the wall. Actually, he only got as far as the E when he was interrupted by Telfer’s girlfriend…’
‘Interrupted? Wasn’t she there from the start?’
‘No she wasn’t. She came home during, or straight after, Telfer’s murder. It doesn’t fit. That sort of chance occurrence wasn’t, isn’t, a feature of The Reaper’s method. He’s too careful. He would have had them both there at the start.’
‘So what happened to her?’
Brook hesitated but decided that he couldn’t avoid cast iron facts. ‘He strangled her, which wasn’t easy. His hands were covered in Telfer’s blood, so it was hard to get a grip. She wasn’t easy to manoeuvre. She was eight months pregnant and…’
‘Oh God!’
‘You didn’t know that?’
‘No, why would I?’ Jones put her own leather-gloved hand to her brow and then her mouth. She closed her eyes, composing herself the best she could.
‘I’m sorry…’
Brook said nothing. It would serve no purpose telling her the rest. Even the hardened Yorkshire CID officers who’d briefed him had blanched at the memory.
They were approaching a service station and he pulled into the inside lane. He was pleased in a way that she was so sickened by this detail. The death of an unborn child should sicken. Once Brook would have felt the same way. Now Brook’s distress could only ever be vicarious. After the Maples girl, all deaths could be squared away-even that of Roddy Telfer’s unborn child. The offspring of a criminal-rough justice certainly, but life goes on.
Moments later Brook pulled the car into the slip road of the service station and parked. ‘Open the window.’
Before he could soothe her further, she leapt out of the car and ran across to a clump of bushes. Brook listened to her retching. He picked up a packet of tissues and got out. ‘Here,’ he said offering a tissue as she emerged finally, brushing herself down. She wasn’t too ill to check her shoes for telltale splatters.
‘Thanks.’
‘Come on,’ said Brook, taking her by the elbow and leading her across to the restaurant.
Ten minutes later they sat over their coffees. Brook had drained his and was watching Jones for signs of returning nausea. But she simply stared into her untouched beverage, stirring superfluously at the sugarless black liquid. Brook knew what was coming. Ground that had been raked over many times by Amy.
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ She lifted her head to look at him. ‘The stuff you’ve seen.’
‘You sound like my ex…’
‘Doesn’t it?’
Brook was forced to appear to be addressing the question-another unlamented technique from his marriage. ‘Yes. But not in that way.’
‘Then how?’
‘Can we leave it, please?’
‘But…’
‘I don’t want to discuss it, Wendy.’
Her Christian name brought her up sharply. Brook smiled at her. Perhaps this frank exchange would destroy the barrier between them.
‘I’m sorry.’ She roused herself now. ‘I’ve got no right.’
‘Forget it.’
She smiled weakly at him. ‘I’m sorry about the delay.’
Brook smiled. ‘My fault. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.’ He looked into her eyes. On an impulse he put his hand on hers and was pleased to feel it yield in welcome. ‘Don’t ever lose that.’
‘What?’ She cocked her head to one side and quizzed him.
Brook found it very attractive. ‘The capacity to feel.’ She nodded, though she seemed uncertain of its value.
They had driven a few more miles in silence before she spoke. ‘Can I ask one more question, about the case?’ she said disarmingly ‘Then we’ll drop it, sir.’
Brook saw his chance to finally bury the harm he’d inflicted at the briefing. ‘Look. First, don’t call me sir when we’re on our own. Second, I brought you along for your intelligence and your deductive powers, Wendy. You don’t need to ask permission to get the information you require or to make an observation, no matter how trivial it may seem.’
She maintained her equilibrium well but Brook could see
she was pleased. She reached into the file and produced a glossy photograph of Professor Victor Sorenson leaving his desirable residence in Holland Park. It had been taken by Brook during what the division counsellor had called ‘a period of obsessive stalking as a result of guilt transference.’ Brook must have been the only officer who’d understood Dr Littlewood’s jargon because nobody else had ever pushed him over his couch.
‘Who’s this middle-aged bookworm?’
‘Him?’ replied Brook as blandly as he could. ‘Oh, that’s The Reaper.’ He fixed his gaze and his mind on overtaking the lorry in front.
Later that morning, Jones was surprised when Brook pulled the car into the entrance of the Kensington Hilton, though she tried not to let it show. It had been a surprising day. First the Reaper file. Then hearing the story of Brook’s first meeting with Sorenson and how he’d decided he was The Reaper-though she tended to side with Brook’s old boss, Charlie Rowlands. There was no evidence.
Then they’d listened to a tape of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony at close to full volume to see how many times and for how long the music became so quiet that anyone listening in Mr Singh’s house next door might have thought it had been switched off altogether. And certainly there were passages when Mahler’s crashing cymbals and thumping horns gave way to more reflective melody, particularly during the Adagio, but nothing substantial enough to encourage Mr Singh to believe the CD player had been turned off for up to ten minutes.
Next DI Brook had taken her on a detour to Harlesden to see the site of the first Reaper deaths-like a pair of ghoulish tourists. They hadn’t left the car. Brook simply pointed out the metal stairwell running up to Sammy Elphick’s old flat. According to Brook little had changed except the launderette was now a betting shop.
And now this final surprise, staying at the Hilton, no less. It seemed unbelievable to Jones. That McMaster would okay such an extravagance, and an unnecessary one at that. There must be half-decent hotels for a lot less.
She darted a glance at Brook who, it seemed to her, was aware of her confusion and was trying not to acknowledge it. For some reason she had the impression that he’d stayed here before. It was something about the ease with which he negotiated his way onto the hotel’s forecourt. It wasn’t possible to turn right into the Hilton’s drop-off zone but, with barely a second beat, Brook took a circuitous route round a one-way street and emerged back on Holland Park Avenue travelling in the opposite direction, pulling up outside the main entrance a few seconds later.
Then, without a glance at his companion, Brook had gathered the evidence folders from the back seat and popped the boot. He handed the cases to a spotty-faced, eager youth and dangled the car keys at the doorman before ushering Jones to the entrance.
‘Two adjacent en suite singles please,’ Brook mouthed at the attractive receptionist with just the right amount of superior boredom. Another day, another capital city. ‘Top floor if you have them.’
‘Certainly sir. How long will you be staying with us?’ ‘Just the one night.’ Brook handed her a credit card and yawned, this time with genuine fatigue. It’d been a long night and a stressful day. A part of him began to wish he hadn’t brought Jones. Relaxation would be impossible in her company. The awkwardness had receded but it was still there, and the effort he was required to make in front of her was draining his reserves. He turned round to squint at the Piano bar, which was busy, even at 11.30 in the morning, though most people were waiting rather than drinking. Killing time. That was a skill he envied.
Jones divided her attention between Brook and the board on the reception wall with its gilt letters picking out the room rates-?210 per night for a single room. No way. She couldn’t square that with the penny-pinching grind of justifying even the smallest amount of overtime back in Derby. Also, they were staying only one night but Inspector Brook had told her to pack for three. It didn’t make sense unless they were going to be camping out the other two nights.
A thought struck her. She’d heard rumours even before her night with him. Afterwards, when the gossip had started to spread, Sergeant Hendrickson had joked about it-she remembered going crimson-had said that if she could overlook all that was wrong with Brook, she’d be making a very good match. ‘He’s rolling in it, I’m telling yer. Up to a million, they reckon.’ She’d shrugged it off at the time. Anyone with that sort of money wouldn’t be working in the Job, and they certainly wouldn’t live in the dump Brook called home. She liked the car, the Sprite, it showed class, personality even, but…
‘There you are, sir.’ The receptionist handed Brook two card keys. She called out to the boy who was holding the lift and he nodded.
Jones followed Brook into the lift. She was bursting to say something but didn’t. She couldn’t predict his reaction in front of a stranger.
Brook continued to avoid Wendy’s look. He assumed she was on to him. Would she be insulted, think this was to impress her? With a sinking feeling he suddenly realised that staying at the Hilton might look like a tawdry effort to get her into bed. It was too late to explain now so he resolved not to think about it.
With the business of the porter out of the way and the tip dispensed to a look that implied the porter had been handed the contents of Brook’s nose, Jones marched back into Brook’s room to clear the air.
Brook was at the window, concentrating hard. His case was open on the bed and he had a pair of binoculars in his hands, gazing down at the gardens of Royal Crescent, across Holland Park Avenue, and beyond that to the chimneys of Queensdale Road.
‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on?’
Brook started. ‘Wendy. Problem with the room?’ He hoped that was all it was.
‘The room’s fine, sir, very fine. That’s the problem.’
Brook nodded. Things could get…No. He had to stop being negative. Things would be awkward forever if he didn’t buck up his ideas. ‘This is my old room, you know.’
‘What?’
Brook laughed and sat on the bed, which made Jones even more uncomfortable. The parallel escaped him. He handed her the binoculars and motioned her to the window to take in the view. If in doubt, concentrate on the case. ‘You can almost see his study from here.’
Jones stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
Brook waited, assembling his thoughts. ‘You asked me today if what I’ve seen affects me. I think you deserve a response. I can’t answer yes or no-I can only tell you what happened, what I did.’
‘You don’t have to.’
‘No. But I want to. One of the reasons I brought you.’ She didn’t argue. Her interest was aroused. She waited but Brook said nothing. For several minutes he stared at the wall, thinking. Jones began to think he’d forgotten her and was about to speak when Brook broke the silence. ‘I’ve told you how I met Sorenson. I haven’t told you what happened afterwards. To be honest, Wendy, I’m not that clear about it myself. Do you mind me calling you Wendy?’ Brook’s sudden piercing glance into her eyes raised the temperature between them. She shook her head, not wanting to staunch his momentum, though it was more a disinclination to hear how the tension, some of it sexual, affected her own voice. Fortunately he looked away again almost immediately.
‘For six months after my first encounter with Victor Sorenson, I hardly saw my wife and baby daughter. I admit I became obsessed. I’d found The Reaper, for a time the most wanted man in Britain. People hated him. People feared him, as they’d been taught. And people wanted to know who he was, wanted him caught so they could see him and understand him. Given a face, the monster could be removed from their nightmares.
‘But he wasn’t caught, couldn’t be caught. There was no evidence, there was nothing. Here was a monster that was invisible, a ghost who killed without pity, without emotion. Who was he? Where was he? Nobody knew. Only I knew and I couldn’t speak. Not legally. I had no proof. The only reason I knew Sorenson was The Reaper was because he wanted it that way.
‘Rewards were promised, by the paper
s, by the police, for information leading to a conviction. But, as with all these things, the real information, what people wanted more than his capture, was the gore, the visceral thrill of knowing what The Reaper had done and how he’d done it-you forget now the impact the first murders had in the tabloids-and for that they needed me.
‘It was my case. I had the inside track, the details they wanted. But, of course, they couldn’t have them. Not from a police officer. Charlie Rowlands, my old DI, and I couldn’t be touched, or pressured-the press knew that. Criticised, yes, but not hounded like ordinary civilians. We were trained. We could handle it. But we have families, Wendy. And what we know, what we’ve seen hurts them. He looked back at Jones with sadness. ‘One day you’ll understand.’
She smiled back at him, trying to radiate comfort. ‘I see it every day. It’s not news. Officers taking their moods home with them.’ She had an urge to put her hand on his arm but resisted.
‘My family, my wife and baby daughter. How can you share…?’
‘How can you share The Reaper’s work? No-one can describe what he did.’
Brook was puzzled for a moment then chuckled. ‘The Reaper? What he left for us to find was nothing…’
‘Nothing?’
‘I mean, not nothing, obviously, but not the worst by a long way.’
Jones waited, puzzled, not wanting to ask but not wanting to be denied. ‘What was the worst?’
Brook smiled and gazed out of the window and began the journey back. ‘A silver necklace with hearts,’ he breathed. He glanced at Jones. She looked confused but it couldn’t be helped. There were limits to be observed.