by Steven Dunne
‘Was there anything else? Did you get him cabs?’
‘No. He walked the night I saw him.’
‘Did you see how he arrived?’
Mac’s face widened. ‘That’s right. That was odd.’
‘What?’
‘Well, when he arrived he was dropped off down the road.’
‘By a cab?’
‘No. A cab wouldn’t have gone past the front entrance.’
‘And that was odd?’
‘There were no cars parked outside the hotel. Why not just drop him off there? And the car was on the hotel side of the road, so it must have driven past deliberately. It was almost as though…’
‘As though the driver didn’t want to be seen,’ concluded Brook. Sammy Elphick had been a dummy, a distraction. Sorenson had been driving not staying at the hotel. But why bring somebody else to Derby? To flag up a name so Brook would realise The Reaper had been to town? Why, when there were so many other pointers at the crime scene? It made no sense.
There had to be another reason. There had to be a purpose, a need for Sorenson to have company. Perhaps he was too ill for the ‘job’ and needed stronger hands to do the deed while he supervised-Brook had a momentary flash of Sorenson ticking off chores on a clipboard, with his assistant.
1) Deliver pizzas
2) Bring down baby
3) Cut throats.
But all the evidence pointed to a single killer, someone of Sorenson’s height and stature, entering the Wallis house that night. But then again, he’d only been seen delivering the pizzas-even a sick old man could do that. Nobody had seen who returned later to kill the victims.
Brook showed Mac the picture of Sorenson but without success.
‘Well thanks, Mac,’ said Brook standing. ‘You’ve been a big help.’
‘My pleasure. What’s he done by the way?’
Brook walked to the door and glanced again at the door of the empty fridge.
‘I can’t discuss it.’
‘Ere, he’s not the one that did that family, is he?’ Brook’s silence confirmed it. ‘The bastard. That poor little girl. What had she done to deserve that?’
Interesting how everyone zeroed in on the only aspect of the killings that was truly tragic, thought Brook.
‘We don’t know for definite. Listen. If this man comes back, I’d like you to ring me on this number.’ Brook wrote his home number on a piece of scrap paper knowing it wouldn’t be needed for anything other than the smokescreen he was about to throw up. He handed it to Mac with a twenty-pound note.
‘You don’t need to pay me for doing my duty, Inspector Brook. I’m glad to do it.’ The wound in the old man was stark.
‘Oh I know, I just thought…I need a good man on the job…’
‘You’ve no call to insult me like that. I don’t do the right thing for profit…’
‘Please take it. Treat it as a tip. Get some toys for the cat.’
Mac eyed the money with a mixture of longing and deep bitterness. Brook was appalled at the effect of his actions.
The old man stood before him, bereft even of the dignity he so scrupulously nurtured, unable to lift his dampening eyes from the money, the life-giving money. Every instinct told him to refuse it. He’d invited another person, as a guest, into his home. He’d assisted the police with their enquiries. They’d had a nice cup of tea and a nice chat and the old man had felt useful again. What could be more normal than that?
Being treated as an equal by a police Inspector, an important man who sought his opinion, his help. Suddenly he was a member of society again and could make a contribution to a community from which he’d felt ever more alienated. For a short, wonderful moment he was a human being not a shuffling relic, not a lonely, desperately sad old man who would have opened his arms to death every day, had not a tiny kitten given him the unquestioning love and companionship he needed to keep him going.
Mac closed his eyes and his hands around the money. Twenty pounds for self-respect. Bargain.
Brook turned to leave. He turned back at the sound of the old man’s voice.
‘We have a saying in the army.’ Mac stared at the floor, gazing at his own headstone. ‘Life’s like a gunshot wound. When it stops hurting is the time to worry.’
Brook hurried to his car. What was he doing? Out of nowhere he was taking an interest in other people’s lives, other people’s pain. Years of living behind the barricade of his thoughts had been replaced by pity for the plight of others. Why?
He was throwing cash around like Scrooge on Christmas Day. He could afford it but it was the kind of scattergun palliative of which he’d always disapproved and which, as he’d just witnessed, could do as much harm as good.
Then suddenly he knew and it hit him hard. An old man in a hovel, clinging to the illusion of life and companionship, only a cat to care whether he lived or died. Mac was The Ghost of Christmas Future. Brook had dropped in on his own barren existence, twenty years on.
The next morning, New Year’s Eve, Brook staggered to his door under the weight of two heavy boxes. He fumbled with his keys, balancing both boxes on his left thigh and let himself in. He stepped into the kitchen and snapped on the harsh strip light. He placed the boxes on the kitchen table and trotted back out to the Sprite for his shopping bags.
When he returned he opened the fridge. It was empty save for a carton of milk. A moment later it was full of comestibles, most of which he wouldn’t eat but that didn’t matter. For the first time in a long time, appearances were important. Appearances mattered. Not to Brook maybe but to everyone else, and it was stupid pigheadedness to put himself at such a disadvantage where human relationships were concerned. If his life were to be retrieved, he had to start where other people started-first impressions.
God forbid that anyone should walk into his flat again and see it as defeated and empty as old Mac’s. Small wonder he hadn’t seen Wendy for dust after that first night. What must she have thought?
Later that evening, Brook had set up his brand new TV and VCR-not without difficulty-and was able to put in the first of the tapes from the station CCTV. He settled down with the remote control and a ready meal chilli, briefly amused to have stumbled upon the nation’s twin pillars of obesity, after a lifetime of emaciation.
It was dull going, so after the first half hour, he put it on fast-forward but this made it too difficult to pick things out, so he abandoned the experiment and decided just to leave it running. If he missed something, so what? Unless Sorenson danced across the footbridge in a bloodstained boiler suit waving a scalpel around, Brook knew this was a waste of time. They still had nothing.
He decided to ring Amy again, see how she was getting on. He’d rung her the day after getting back to Derby on some pretext or other and it was obvious she’d been crying. After he’d pressed her to confide in him she’d told Brook of Tony’s departure.
‘I haven’t told Terri yet. She thinks he’s away on business.’
She’d seemed composed. But when she read Brook the note, the tears had begun to fall.
Dear Amy
I have to go away for a long time. Maybe forever. I can’t tell you why because you wouldn’t understand. Please realise that it’s nothing to do with you and that I love you. I can’t face telling you or Terri but please try not to think ill of me.
All my love, your darling Tony
Brook had kept her talking until she cheered up. He didn’t usually have that effect but then he rarely made the effort. They’d had a few laughs about the early years, making sure to skirt difficult areas. Maybe she just needed someone, anyone, to talk to, but Brook was still pleased to detect a note of affection in her voice he’d not heard for many years.
This time Amy picked up on the first ring.
‘It’s me again, darling. How are you today?’
‘I’m O.K.’
‘And Terri?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Have you told her about Tony yet?’ There was a l
ong pause at the other end. ‘Anything wrong, Amy?’
Brook heard her take a deep breath. ‘Damen. I don’t want you to ring again.’
‘What is it?’
‘I don’t want you to ring again. I want you to leave us alone.’
‘Tell me what’s wrong…’
The line went dead. Brook replaced the receiver.
At that moment Vicky hopped from the bottom step of the footbridge. The same flash of blue denim that Brook had first seen standing across the road in the cold a couple of weeks before, the same quilted coat, the same flash of blonde hair.
He checked the date on the display. It was the day before Brook had met her outside his flat.
He watched her progress across the concourse. It was difficult to make her out, the cameras in the main station were high in the vaulted roof, but she seemed to be waving at someone off-camera, someone waiting by the entrance. She quickened her step.
Then a hand reached out from beyond the fixed camera position and Vicky swung her carpet bag into it as she walked off-screen. Brook surmised that a girl wouldn’t offer to carry another girl’s luggage. Vicky must have been met by a man.
Chapter Twenty-four
Brook sauntered down the corridor, grinning inanely at the tide of revellers washing the other way. ‘Happy New Year,’ he mouthed for the thousandth time, doing his best impression of a bon viveur. He was tired and would have preferred to slink off to his room, but there was work to do. He’d left Derby after sifting through all the CCTV tapes, searching in vain for a better view of Vicky’s rendezvous, and had set off for London later than was wise, catching all the traffic rushing round to New Year party venues.
‘You’re going the wrong way, darling.’ A plump woman, mid-forties, in a French maid’s outfit barred his way with a generous show of bosom. ‘The party’s this way,’ she slurred, fixing Brook with her swaying proposition. ‘Come with me.’ She locked a flabby arm onto his and gripped him with her profiterole fingers. ‘I won’t see you all po-faced on the best night of the year. Molly’ll show you a good time, handsome.’
‘Well thanks, Molly. But I’m not allowed to drink…’ ‘Nor me, darling. But what’s one little drinkie on New Year’s Eve?’
Brook smiled. Belle Vue certainly wasn’t severe on its patients. Their wishes, or rather their money, seemed to override any consideration of clinical need. The place was little more than an expensive hotel, dressed up as a clinic to justify the kind of charges that hoodwinked guests into believing they were being treated. And at this time of year, peak time for self-loathing, the sky was the limit for fools and their money.
Brook himself had been relieved of?3,000 for a three-night stay. This included the fancy dress costume of his choice and a seven-course New Year dinner, with copious champagne. Carrot juice was available for those with a ‘problem’. Not that anyone was checking.
For?1,000 a night, medical rigour could be overlooked. It was a critical time of year for the ailments of those whose money couldn’t fill every demand they placed upon it, and at such a time of low self-esteem they required-at premium rates naturally-an uncommon amount of attention to see them through.
Perhaps the place had changed in the years since Sonja Sorenson had been a ‘guest’. Perhaps she’d been more than the pampered wife of a rich businessman. She’d been at the Retreat for four years, after all.
Assuming he could prise the flabby knuckles of the determined Molly from his arm, Brook was about to find out.
‘You can’t get away that easy, you naughty boy. I can see you need a good time.’
Brook decided to take the initiative and planted a huge kiss on her sloppy lips. ‘You said it, gorgeous. I’ll meet you in the bar in twenty minutes. I’m just going to get my Tarzan costume on.’
Molly stared, open-mouthed, then broke into a sly grin. ‘Me Jane. Me come. Help put costume on.’
‘No, wo-man. That spoil surprise. You go now. Tarzan change. Ungowa! Ungowa!’ Molly giggled as he shooed her along, stampeding the tottering beast towards the watering hole, tacking from wall to wall as she went.
When she was out of sight, Brook pulled a hand-drawn map from his pocket and studied it.
A few moments later he stood outside a solid panelled door in a deserted corridor. There was no light under the door and this part of the building was quiet. Only the faintest noise of celebration penetrated here.
Brook went to the far end of the corridor to see where it led. Whatever Thalassic Therapy was, it took place in the rooms leading off there. The rooms were in darkness so Brook returned to the first door and took out a small bunch of keys.
The attendant who’d drawn the map and given him his keys, for a large consideration, had told Brook that all patient records were secured in the computer and he couldn’t get access. However, any records over ten years old would be on paper in this rarely-used office.
Brook tried the keys. The first key turned the lock and he pushed back the door, closing it quickly behind him before snapping on the light.
He locked the door behind him, moved to the filing cabinet and produced a different instrument from his pocket, a thin metal probe like the blade of a hacksaw that he’d removed from a housebreaker a few years back.
After a few seconds probing at the lock, Brook heard a loud click then pulled open a drawer. He looked around. Footsteps outside. He scurried to the door to extinguish the light. The footsteps paused outside the office. Brook could see the shadow of two legs craning under the door.
A few seconds later the footsteps receded. Brook waited a moment longer to be on the safe side. Finally he returned to the cabinet and flicked on a small desk lamp nearby. He pulled open the S-Z drawer and found what he was looking for. There wasn’t much for four years of a life, just a few sheets.
He made a cursory inspection and slid the most relevant papers under his shirt, returning the folder to its drawer. He locked the cabinet, with more difficulty than he’d opened it, leaving heavy scratching around the lock. But it was unlikely to be noticed any time soon, if at all, given Belle Vue’s general lack of stringency.
He paused at the door to listen for human traffic, then locked up quickly and returned to his room by a circuitous route, to avoid bumping into Molly or anyone else trying too hard to enjoy the evening.
Back in his room Brook opened a complimentary bottle of champagne and sipped at a glass while he read Mrs Sorenson’s case notes.
12/11/88. The patient harbours deep feelings of worthlessness for herself. Her husband, Mr Stefan Sorenson, fears that she might harm herself or her children. These fears appear well-founded. She speaks in violent language to denounce her husband andchildren and has shown every indication of violent intent towards them.
Given her depleted self-esteem, I feel it necessary to admit Mrs Sorenson for an initial examination period of six weeks. Minimal medication is required at this point, though it may be worthwhile prescribing anti-depressants. The patient herself is in full agreement with her husband and has agreed to attend on a full-time basis on the grounds that she is allowed a visit by her children on a weekly basis. This visit will be subject to full supervision.
The entry was signed by Dr David Porcetti, as were the others.
15/12/88. Patient making excellent progress. Is able to talk extensively about her childhood without trauma. Her trouble appears to lie closer to home. She is calm, rational and more aware of her own value away from her own home. She is loving and attentive towards her children, who are always escorted by their uncle, Victor Sorenson. Mrs Sorensons husband does visit but thinks it best not to see his wife and upset her treatment.
3/1/89. Mrs Sorensons condition worsened on the day before her release. She flew into a rage at breakfast and smashed several plates and bowls and threw missiles at staff attempting to calm her. Patient had to be forcibly restrained and sedated to prevent threatened self-harm.
Mr Sorenson has asked Belle Vue to continue her treatment and has sent appropriate remun
eration.
PS Must reiterate my suggestion of last year that all kitchenware should be plastic.
After the initial attempts at diagnosis, entries became more routine dealing with medication, dosage, occupational therapy and so on. It was as though the clinic had forgotten she was there for a purpose and just wrapped her into their inviolable daily routine. She became a paying guest, not a patient with needs.
Brook was puzzled. Surely someone as successful as Stefan Sorenson would know what kind of place Belle Vue was. Surely he’d have done his homework, found a place where his wife’s mental problems could have been properly addressed. It didn’t make sense, unless her problems were so bad they couldn’t be resolved. Could it be that Sonja Sorenson was being confined, hidden away for a reason? What had she done? Why was she such a threat that she needed to be removed from decent society, from her family?
Brook continued to skim until he came to Stefan Sorenson’s murder, what should have been a seismic event in Mrs Sorenson’s treatment.
The patient seems to be in shock. Minimal medication required, however. Shows no emotion at all. Her husband’s death leaves her numb. Questionable whether she understands the fact. Has become almost catatonic and refuses, or is unable, to speak. Patient’sbrother-in-law, Victor Sorenson, has requested that she no longer be medicated with a view to her release but we have advised strongly against this.
3/6/89. Prof Sorenson has continued to insist on no medication for his sister-in-law and has retained his own psychiatrist, Dr Lilley, who has endorsed his view. Dr Lilley has also agreed with his client that Mrs Sorenson should be on selective home release to which we strongly object. He believes that regular exposure to home life and her children will have a beneficial effect. We feel that the patient still represents a small, but active threat to her family and should be confined.
Unfortunately Mrs Sorenson is effectively a voluntary patient and our hands are tied.
We have put on record our objections.