The Reaper didb-1

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Don’t be too sure. I need more exercise.’ When she realised the implications of what she’d said, she flushed. Brook pretended not to notice. He ordered two large cognacs and the conversation dried.

  Finally Jones broke the silence. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Please call me Damen.’

  ‘It wouldn’t feel right…’

  ‘Just for tonight.’ Again she went red so Brook followed up hastily. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Wendy?’

  ‘I prefer it.’

  ‘There you are then. What were you going to say?’

  ‘I was wondering how strong a connection there is in London with the Wallis killings.’

  ‘Only the MO.’

  ‘Then why are we here for three nights? There must be more valuable leads to follow in Derby.’

  Brook shrugged. She was probing in that clear-thinking way she had. She was right. Unless they unearthed a concrete link soon, they might as well go back tomorrow. He wondered whether to mention Brighton but decided against it.

  Two large cognacs arrived. Brook drained his glass and called for the bill. Jones went for her purse but Brook insisted on paying.

  ‘One thing puzzles me. It’s a bit personal…’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Well. If you’re so well off…’

  Brook opened his mouth to raise an objection.

  ‘…relatively speaking,’ she added. Brook smiled his agreement. ‘Then…I don’t know how to put this.’

  ‘Just say it.’

  Finally she found the words. ‘Why don’t you live properly?’

  Brook stared at her, wondering if she was serious, then realised it was a good question, with no easy response. In the end he could dredge up only one answer.

  ‘I don’t know how.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Brook slept as well as he had in years that night-his mind clear and clean. No guilt. No pain. It was the best therapy having someone to speak to, someone he could trust, someone he knew now he could spend time with.

  When he slept that night his dreams didn’t drift into visions of feeding rats, or porcelain corpses, but to Wendy and his longing for her. Hope invaded him. He’d seen his desire reciprocated and it had taken an effort of supreme will to decline the offer of a night-cap. Such an effort that Wendy could see his refusal was not another snub but the gesture of a man thinking of her sensibilities, in case the morning awakened forgotten embarrassment.

  Brook woke refreshed, infused with a rare energy. He jumped out of bed to busy himself. He wanted to be at Charlie’s house before noon. The sure way to get sense from him before the booze took hold.

  After making tea and knocking gently on Wendy’s door, he packed with the efficiency of the single man and went down to stow his bag in the car.

  Two hours later, Brook and Jones swung into the drive of a medium-sized detached house in the leafy suburb of Caterham.

  There was no immediate answer to Brook’s pounding on the door and just when Brook had begun to think his old boss had gone out, the door opened.

  ‘Brooky! How the bloody hell are you?’ growled a voice laden with tar. There was also the tell tale aroma of mints. Charlie Rowlands stepped into the pale light and grasped Brook by the hand.

  He felt the warmth of the greeting with a lump in his throat, swiftly gulped away. Brook was unused to the affection of a friend. ‘Not too bad,’ he replied after a second’s thought. He never mouthed platitudes when asked even that simple question. ‘You?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’ Rowlands grinned at Brook. It was an obvious lie. His old boss had shrunk in the years since he’d known him. He had once seemed so tall, dominating the space in a room. To the young DCs of Hammersmith he was an intimidating figure-authority as well as physical presence. It was a potent brew. Charlie Rowlands had been a God.

  But now he was diminished. Once he’d looked down into Brook’s eyes. Now they were level. His back was no longer straight as a ramrod but curved and compressed. He’d lost weight as well as the last of his hair, and he was painfully thin. His face was bright and robust, however, as the faces of drunks often are. The red tinge around the high cheekbones and nose mimicked a rosy sheen of health.

  But the eyes had it, as always. That look of sunken pain, which repelled slumber, the look Brook had seen staring back from the shaving mirror many times.

  Rowlands continued to smile unsure how to continue. He snaked a glance at Jones.

  ‘This is WPC Wendy Jones, sir.’

  ‘I can see she’s a W, Brooky I’ve still got some of me marbles. How are you, Wendy?’

  Jones stepped forward to shake his outstretched hand, blushing with pleasure at a remark she might have admonished from a junior rank. ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘Please. I’ve been retired a long time, luv. Call me Charlie. Got that, Brooky?’

  ‘Yes guv.’

  Rowlands began to cough. His breath came in rasping bursts now and he held up his hand in apology.

  ‘Where are my manners? Come in out of the cold.’

  ‘That’d be a first,’ smiled Brook.

  Rowlands laughed without getting the joke and led them into a bright, modern kitchen.

  ‘Still with the smart remarks, eh, Brooky. And it’s Charlie, remember.’

  ‘Right.’ Brook had only been to the house twice before-once for dinner, with Amy, to celebrate Charlie’s daughter Elizabeth’s eighteenth birthday. Then again a year later, alone, to put his boss to bed after her funeral had driven him to the brink.

  That was a night not to be repeated. The two of them sat up together the whole night, Brook waiting for his boss to pass out into the safety of coma, Rowlands waiting for Brook’s vigilance to wane so he could destroy himself.

  That night they drank and sobbed and drank and howled and drank and sometimes even laughed, before drinking some more. It was the laughter that signalled ultimate surrender, the laughter that kept the world at arm’s length-for a short time.

  Near dawn, Brook, way over his limit, had passed out on the sofa, his arm clamped round his quietly shaking host. When he woke, his first blurred vision was the sight of his boss, his friend, sitting at the dinner table, drink in hand, staring saucer-eyed at Elizabeth’s doomed smile in the picture frame. His old Webley service revolver lay on the table but there were no bullets for it. By default, Charlie Rowlands had chosen life.

  And now, perhaps, Charlie hadn’t lied. ‘Couldn’t be better’ was the truth because now he was nearer death. Nearer his Elizabeth.

  It was the first time Brook had been back since that terrible night and as he glanced through the house, he realised he hadn’t expected the place to be in such good order. He’d assumed it would be more of a time capsule. Everything the same since Mrs Rowlands had given up on Charlie and left him to it. The pictures of Elizabeth still took pride of place but the parts of the house he knew were different. The kitchen was new and expensive. The lounge had also had a makeover. It was sparsely but tastefully furnished with none of the clutter wives felt obliged to scatter everywhere-objects accrued that told not of a life lived but an ambition to be someone else, someone better.

  No flying ducks, barometers, carriage clocks. Give Charlie credit. Not everyone stopped trying. Not everyone gave up on creature comforts once their spirit was extinguished.

  ‘Breakfast anyone?’ asked Rowlands, plonking down two mugs of steaming hot tea.

  ‘Yes please, Charlie, if it’s no trouble. We didn’t have a chance first thing.’ Jones sounded a little tentative and searched out Brook’s face for signs of disapproval. Charlie turned to him.

  ‘I could eat,’ nodded Brook.

  ‘But only because it keeps the body going, eh, Brooky? Nothing changes.’

  ‘Some things do,’ replied Brook, rolling his eyes around the decor.

  ‘This? Yeah.’ Charlie suddenly seemed uneasy and busied himself laying rashers of bacon onto a grill pan. ‘My new hobby. I say new. I started the DIY when I retired. It
keeps my mind off…things. I’m sure you understand, lad.’

  ‘You took a while answering the door. Did we get you up, sir? Charlie.’

  ‘No, lass. I was sitting in the garden reading the paper.’ His tone didn’t convince. ‘Where did you stay last night?’

  Brook hesitated. ‘The Kensington Hilton,’ he finally said, looking intently at the bacon spitting under the grill.

  Rowlands laughed. ‘Jesus, Brooky. Not the Hilton again. What the fuck for?’

  ‘Just to get the old scent back.’

  ‘I hope you were paying, lad.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can I use your toilet, Charlie?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Course, love. It’s the first on the left,’ Rowlands called after her, running a surreptitious glance over her retreating frame. ‘You’ve got a beaut there, Brooky.’

  ‘She’s a fine officer,’ Brook nodded, resisting the temptation for man talk.

  Rowlands chuckled into a cough. ‘ A fine officer. Yeah. Full house an’ all.’ Brook nodded to condone Rowlands mocking. He’d earned it.

  After breakfast, Jones got her case from the car to have a shower and change her clothes. While Charlie washed up, Brook stood on the patio and looked around the large sloping garden. It was slightly overgrown but generally in good shape. Charlie had been busy. But then he had a lot of memories to deaden.

  The pine trees at the rear were mature and took most of the pallid sun out of the equation, even near noon. Most of the lawn was still covered in frost and emitted a satisfying crunch under Brook’s foot. It was cold out of the sun so he returned to the patio. He took out Jones’s mobile and dialled. While he waited, he checked that Charlie was still washing up then ferreted around the patio furniture.

  He found the whisky bottle under the blanket draped over the sun lounger. It was a quarter empty. The mints were there too. Charlie’s full English breakfast.

  ‘John.’

  ‘Sir. Where are you? The Chief Super wants to know.’

  ‘Still in London, John. What’s happening there? Any developments?’

  ‘We’ve got a list of about forty single men who stayed in Derby hotels the night before the killings. We’re checking reasons for visit, which ones left the morning after, nothing so far.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll be back tonight. And for my sake, don’t say anything about my calling. I’ll brief McMaster when I get back. Got it?’

  ‘But the boss wants to know where she can reach…?’

  Brook turned off the phone and returned to the house. Rowlands was in the kitchen drinking coffee. A half finished brandy bottle stood on the table.

  ‘Any news?’

  ‘Not really. The Chief Superintendent wants to hear about progress so I didn’t speak to her.’

  ‘How do you get on with that dyke?’

  Brook gave Rowlands a look which he pretended not to see. ‘She likes me, as much as anyone in her position can afford to.’

  ‘It’s all about image these days, Brooky The top brass won’t stand for egg on their faces. Being a copper is all about politics. I’d barely get above DC if I had my time again.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Of?

  ‘Something to keep the cold out. Don’t worry. It’s after twelve. You used to be able to fake drinking strong liquor pretty well, as far as I can recall.’

  ‘Was it that obvious?’

  ‘Blinding, laddie. I didn’t mind. You kept me company, in more ways than just that.’

  ‘Just doing my job, Charlie.’

  ‘Fuck off, Brooky. It was far more than that. You were doing both our jobs.’ Rowlands tipped a little more brandy into his coffee and looked at the floor. ‘I never had the chance to thank you. Not properly. Please let me finish,’ he insisted. ‘You saw me through that time. If it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have made it, I wouldn’t have wanted to make it. You gave me the strength…’

  With a cute sense of irony, Rowlands’ rasping cough returned and Brook stood to clap him on the back. He poured himself a small measure of brandy and raised his cup to Rowlands. ‘Cheers, Charlie.’

  ‘Cheers, Damen. Here’s to you and that lovely girl. I hope you make a go of it, I really do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come off it, lad. You deserve a chance at happiness.’ Rowlands was beginning to well up. ‘I blame myself, you know, for Amy…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If I’d been able to look after myself at work…’

  ‘Forget that now, Charlie. Don’t even think it. There was nothing you could have done to save my marriage.’ Brook took a drink and winced at the unfamiliar heat. If he was to drive in the afternoon, he could drink no more so he put the cup back on the table. He looked at the floor. He didn’t know how to say what he wanted. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to say it. He decided, as usual, to keep it simple. ‘How long have you got?’

  Rowlands looked up and smiled. He shook his head in wonder. ‘The best damn detective I’ve ever seen, Brooky, I swear to God. How did you know?’

  ‘You haven’t had a fag since we arrived. Not by choice I assume.’

  ‘You’re right. Physically I can’t handle them. One puff will have me on the floor, bringing me guts up. Lung cancer. Both barrels. Six months. More likely three.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’

  Jones walked into the kitchen. Her hair was still wet from the shower. She wore a pair of dark trousers, baggy at the ankles but figure-hugging at the high waistband. She placed an empty cup and plate in the sink. ‘That was great. Thanks.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, love.’

  ‘Constable, we’re hitting the road again. You’d better dry your hair.’

  ‘Sir?’ She looked round at the two of them but their eyes were glued together, waiting to be left alone. ‘Right.’ She took the hint and went back upstairs. The blast of the hair dryer followed moments later.

  ‘Tell me about Sorenson, Charlie.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘When did he die?’

  Rowlands grinned. ‘Around the same time as me.’

  Driving or not, Brook needed another pull on the brandy. ‘You said he was dead.’

  ‘I said he was a goner.’

  ‘So he’s alive.’

  ‘Not really. Like me. Cancer. Getting in line.’

  ‘And how did you find this out?’

  ‘He was in hospital, same time as me. He came over to speak to me.’

  Brook stared at the floor, eyes like flint. ‘Did he?’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t know you knew him.’

  Charlie hesitated. ‘I didn’t know him. He knew me though. Knew I was your boss from the old days. He wanted…’

  ‘I know what he wanted.’

  ‘Do you?’ Rowlands smiled. There was pleasure in his expression but it was buried under a mask of pain. ‘Do you really?’

  ‘He wanted to know where I was.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you told him.’

  Rowlands paused, examining Brook’s face. ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A few months ago.’

  Brook nodded. ‘And a family in Derby dies.’

  ‘You don’t know there’s a connection,’ said Rowlands.

  ‘Don’t I? So why speak to him at all, Charlie?’

  ‘Because he’s dying, Brooky. He said…’ Rowlands halted, unsure how to continue. His eyes began to water and Brook was eaten by guilt. He was giving his old boss a hard time but he had to know.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said he had a bond with you-a friendship almost. He said he wanted to speak to you one last time. I understood.’ Rowlands darted him a look. ‘He said he had something to give you.’

  Brook nodded. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Purpose. He said you needed purpose.’

  Brook laughed bitterly. ‘And that’s what he’s given me, Charlie. Problem is he�
�s had to kill an innocent young girl to do it.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Come off it, Charlie. Don’t tell me about Sorenson. You don’t know the way he operates, the games he plays. Christ, I spent a year breathing the same air as him.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so.’

  ‘So you don’t want to see him then?’

  ‘No, I damn well…’ The venom in Brook’s retort took Rowlands aback. Brook took a breath and softened his features. ‘No I don’t. But what choice do I have?’

  Rowlands smiled in sympathy. ‘None. Not if you want to be sure, son.’

  ‘I’m sure. He did it. He did the London killings and now he’s killed in Derby.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  Brook locked his gaze onto Rowlands. Odd. For a second there was something…something in his old boss’s voice that suggested he was probing. Probing not for impartial clarification, but for information he needed. Brook wondered whether to give it then answered softly.

  ‘Peter Hera.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Peter Hera.’ Brook nodded. Back on the case he could put his baggage down and revel in the gratification of detection. ‘It didn’t take long. You see Sorenson thinks I do crosswords. I was doing one the night he first invited me into his house for a drink.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s an anagram. Not difficult. Peter Hera. The Reaper. It was the name on the fake licence given to the van hire company in Derby. In case I was in any doubt.’

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘No, but that was the clincher.’

  Rowlands nodded. ‘So The Reaper is back.’

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘So will you see Sorenson?’ Jones looked up from the map book to study Brook’s face. It was fixed on the road ahead.

  He sighed, showed some signs of having heard her. A few minutes later, he said, ‘I can’t avoid it. When Victor Sorenson wants something he usually gets it.’ Brook pulled over to the kerb and killed the engine. ‘We’re here.’

  ‘What time does she get out?’