The Reaper didb-1

by Steven Dunne

  The SOCO boys turned round at the noise.

  ‘Atmosphere, lads.’

  Rowlands examined a crime scene photograph and moved closer to the gas fire. He could still see the glint of broken glass on the boards. ‘This is where the picture frame was smashed, Brooky.’ He peered at the trickle of blood on the wall above the hearth.

  ‘Maybe it was in the way of his message,’ offered Brook.

  ‘Yeah but why not just move it? Why would he smash the glass and remove the actual picture? He didn’t take souvenirs in Harlesden.’ Rowlands moved over to the sofa. ‘Floyd sat here, the woman, Natalie, this side.’ Rowlands’ tone conveyed his raised eyebrow. ‘Interesting. Look.’ He pointed to the photograph of Floyd Wrigley’s body. ‘There’s more than one cut here. It was a struggle. Like the killer had trouble. Or maybe there was a smaller, weaker accomplice.’

  ‘Look at his neck though, guv. There are some weights in the bedroom. He worked out. A real vain bastard.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, in a condition of heightened adrenaline, combined with the effect of the heroin, there’s no telling how his neck muscles would react. They could have seized, making them difficult to cut.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m not complaining, laddie. One less piece of shit on the streets.’ Rowlands pulled out a glossy print and handed it to Brook. ‘This is interesting.’

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘The back of his neck. See that mark.’ Rowlands indicated the long thin weal on Floyd Wrigley’s skin.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What do you think caused that?’

  ‘No idea, guv.’ Brook became self-conscious under his superior’s gaze.

  Rowlands wasn’t used to his sergeant not having the answers. ‘Maybe the killer helped himself to a trophy. Maybe Floyd wore a chain and the killer yanked it off as a keepsake.’ Brook said nothing. Rowlands turned to the SOCO boys still groping around on their knees. ‘Are there any family photographs in the flat, fellas? There’s no mention in the inventory.’

  They both looked blank and shrugged back at Rowlands. Then one said, ‘You’ll have to ask DS Croft, sir.’

  ‘Do you mind if we look around for any?’

  Another shrug. ‘Go ahead. We’ve finished in the other rooms, sir.’

  Brook and Rowlands set to work. It didn’t take long. Wrigley had clearly sold everything that wasn’t required for sleeping or sitting. No camera, no photographs.

  ‘What are we looking for, guv?’

  ‘Snaps of the flat, family portraits, anything that might give us a clue about what was in that picture frame or what was round Floyd’s neck.’

  Brook shook his head and looked at his boss. ‘It must be a souvenir. Like you said.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Rowlands nodded. ‘Which gives us a different MO.’

  ‘Perhaps he had no choice, guv. Perhaps, when he moved the frame, he cut himself.’

  ‘On the picture and not the glass? There were no traces of anything on the glass. No prints, blood, nothing.’

  ‘It’s a puzzle, guv.’

  Rowlands suddenly looked at Brook, his face animated. ‘Maybe it’s not a different MO. Maybe he took something from Harlesden that we don’t know about.’

  Brook laughed. ‘You’re on top form today, guv.’

  ‘One of us has got to be,’ Rowlands snapped back. There was an awkward silence. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t mean that. I know what you’ve put into this case. I’m glad you’re not getting too involved.’

  The awkwardness returned. Rowlands turned away and laid a consoling arm on Brook’s shoulder for a few seconds.

  ‘Forget it, guv. If Wrigley’s got any relatives that aren’t in hell with him, Croft should find out what was in that frame.’

  Rowlands nodded. ‘Good thinking, lad.’

  Brook broke away and went behind the sofa to check the last view of the parents, as he had in Harlesden. As with the Elphicks, they would have watched as their daughter died, and afterwards, seen the word SAVED written on the chimney wall, in the blood of their child.

  ‘Why SAVED and not SALVATION?’ mused Brook to himself.

  ‘There could be a pattern. Something biblical.’

  Brook couldn’t suppress a curt laugh. ‘You’d know, guv.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘It’s more likely lack of space or time, if not blood.’

  ‘One thing puzzles me. If the killer brings this CD player as some phoney prize, like you say, why let the killer in? With Floyd’s habit, I would think he’d just take the box at the door and keep it to exchange for drugs. Why let him in to set the thing up?’

  ‘Our guy wouldn’t hand it over unless he was allowedin to set it up. Part of the prize. Or maybe the parents didn’t let him in. If they were tripping the light fantastic, maybe they were bombed out on the sofa.’

  ‘The girl.’ Rowlands nodded, his eyes and lips clenched.

  ‘Yeah. How easy could it be? He comes in, sees the parents in the state they’re in. He puts the girl under with the chloroform then ties and gags her then binds mum and dad. Just in case. Then the injection…’

  ‘Enough to kill her?’

  ‘Sure, but not before he gets to cut her throat.’

  ‘Then why give her the injection, lad? He didn’t do that with the Elphick boy.’

  ‘No, guv. But he didn’t have to. He’d smothered the boy before he hung him. Maybe Sammy and his missus weren’t as upset as they should’ve been, as they would’ve been if they’d actually seen him die. He cut off the fingers to show the Elphicks he was dead. But it wasn’t enough. So now The Reaper feels the need to slaughter the girl while her parents watch.’

  ‘So he gives her a lethal dose of barbiturates because he doesn’t want her to suffer. What a prince.’ Rowlands looked away deep in thought. Both men considered the scene. Mozart’s portentous choir flowed over them.

  ‘What makes someone with a life that shit cling on to it with such force? In her shoes…’ Rowlands stopped himself in time. He snaked a look at Brook who pretended to be absorbed in something else. ‘So then what, lad?’

  Brook took a heavy sigh and found his bookmark in the drama. ‘My guess is that he’s already set up the CD player. He’s brought Mozart’s Requiem. He wants to hear it as he works. Or he wants the Wrigleys to hear it.

  ‘There was a wet towel in the bathroom sink. My guess is he’s revived mum and dad to make them watch. Then he cuts the girl’s throat and stands back to watch Floyd and Natalie’s reaction.

  ‘It should be a good show. The girl’s struggling for all she’s worth. She knocks over the chair, fighting with as much strength as she can muster.

  ‘But maybe Floyd and Natalie are on Cloud Nine and don’t know what’s going on. It’s worse for the child than it was in Harlesden, but it doesn’t make the parents suffer. They’re too far gone.’ Brook’s voice began to soften and he looked away as though watching a re-enactment unfolding in the middle distance. ‘He wants them to see. He wants him to see. He hates Floyd Wrigley. He’s scum-the lowest form of life on earth. What he’s done with his life demands punishment. He’s wasted it and ruined others. Even watching his daughter choke on her own blood won’t settle the debt.’ The other officers exchanged a look and stopped to listen. ‘Because you don’t care, do you? You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You fear your own death, not your daughter’s, not your wo-man’s.’ Brook spat out the word in the loud Jamaican patois he’d heard so many times from bejewelled Yardies. There was silence for a moment. Nobody moved. Only Mozart.

  ‘Why no art to look at while they die?’ Rowlands asked.

  ‘Maybe he brought something but they were in no state to appreciate it so he didn’t put it up.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s changing his MO every time to try and fool the profilers.’

  ‘Could be.’

  Rowlands studied his friend. ‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s go. Be quick if you want that serial number.’

  Brook stop
ped the music and pocketed the disc. He knelt down behind the CD player with a small pad and pencil.

  Rowlands was already on his way back down the steps. Brook watched him go and jumped up to follow. He put the pad and pencil away then paused and turned to one of the officers still toiling away.

  ‘Have you found anything useful?’

  ‘It’s not looking good apart from that footprint. No fingerprints, no weapon, no DNA, no fibres. This guy knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘If you do find something, anything from the killer, I want you to get it DNA tested.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘I mean anything. And if you don’t think the sample is usable, make sure you still store it carefully. It may be usable in the future. Clear?’ With that triumphant demonstration of his interpersonal skills, Brook followed his boss out into the crisp, winter afternoon.

  ‘And you can blow it out your arse, you fucking nutter,’ mumbled the officer to his retreating back.

  ‘Wanker,’ agreed his colleague with venom.

  Brook took the cigarette thrown in his direction and placed it in his mouth. The lighter followed. Rowlands sat opposite refilling his flask from a half bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. It was unavailable in Britain, but he had a friend in Customs and Excise who sent him seized contraband from time to time. When he’d finished he took a swig first from the bottle, then the flask. Finally he looked back over at Brook. ‘Well?’

  ‘Guv?’ Brook looked back at his boss.

  ‘Does the serial number match?’

  Brook fished for his notebook and flipped it open. He stared at the blank page. Then rummaged around his drawer and drew out the delivery note he’d taken from the boxed CD player in Sorenson’s house. It still had the brown tape clinging to it. Brook located the serial number and held it next to the blank page away from his boss.

  Brook smiled. It was a bittersweet smile. A smile of loss. A smile that wished things could have been different.

  ‘Are they the same, lad?’

  Brook picked up the lighter from his lap and ignited his cigarette. Then he held the flame to the edge of the delivery note. The tape crinkled and smouldered before the paper took light. Brook held it up for a moment to ensure the conflagration then dropped it into the metal bin at his feet. ‘No.’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  ‘Well?’ McMaster sat with her back straight and her hands interwoven on the desk. Her stony gaze was supposed to penetrate him, her silence pierce him.

  But Brook stood impassive, staring at a fixed point above her blonde bob. He understood Sorenson’s story about the terminal ward now. Brook was the same. Finished with life. Nothing anyone did could affect him, nothing anyone said could bring him back.

  But he had a job to finish and a lack of concern, a refusal to play out this scene along its scripted course would lose him the support he needed for a little longer. So Brook fought his instincts and concentrated hard to remember the next line.

  ‘I screwed up, ma’am. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? Sorry is the pause you should’ve taken between thought and deed. I’ve had the DCC of West Yorkshire barking down the phone at me for half an hour…’

  ‘I can explain…’

  ‘Can you? I wish you would.’ She broke her gaze and unclasped her hands. She picked up Brook’s warrant card from the blotter and began to fiddle with it. Brook shot a look at her spider plant. It was brown and withered.

  McMaster waited but Brook said nothing.

  ‘For God’s sake, stand easy and speak to me, Damen. Don’t give me this strong, silent number. I’ve seen it a million times from coppers who aren’t fit to lick your shoes. I thought I knew you. But I don’t, do I? It’s always the same. Whenever you bloody men are in trouble you clam up and play the hard nut…’

  Her volume subsided and she put her head in her hands, before looking back at him. ‘And, no, I’m not going to cry.’ Brook’s face softened into a half smile.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Not you.’ He relaxed his shoulders into the break of tension.

  ‘Well, thanks. I think.’ Her voice was soft and measured once more. ‘They could have your job for this, Damen. Do you care?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. Well, what now?’

  ‘Now? I’m going to Glasgow, ma’am. I’m going to do what I should’ve done years ago. It’s in the past. Something they’ve done that’s got them killed. Bobby Wallis abusing Kylie, Floyd Wrigley selling his daughter for sex. It’s The Reaper, ma’am. I’m sure of it now. He’s back and he wants me to know it. So I need to go to Glasgow and find out about Roddy Telfer’s past. That’s why I went to Leeds.’

  ‘Did he have a daughter too?’

  ‘What?’ Brook looked at her as though he hadn’t understood.

  ‘Did Roddy Telfer have a daughter? I assume that’s the connection you’re talking about.’

  Brook stood there like a fish in a bowl staring out at a world misshapen by glass. He was rooted for several seconds while his superior looked on. ‘Are you all right, Inspector?’

  Brook’s mind was in turmoil at this sudden spark. It was difficult not to show it. ‘Yes. I mean no. He didn’t have a daughter, at least, none that I know.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ve got to go, ma’am. I need your help.’

  ‘Oh, now you need my help. Well you…’

  ‘Look, ma’am. Evelyn.’ McMaster blinked in surprise. ‘They can have my job after I’ve been to London. But do you really think that will satisfy them?’

  ‘I thought you were going to Glasgow…’

  ‘No. Maybe. It may not be necessary. Look, ma’am. You must see. They don’t want my job. I’m a harmless washout. But you, you’re a woman in a man’s world. And they’re waiting and watching, every second of every day. Waiting and hoping for you to screw up. It’s you they want, you must know that…’

  ‘Inspector Brook…’

  ‘I’m close. I’m close to The Reaper. After all these years. What better thing to give them? What better way to make yourself fireproof than to give them The Reaper?’

  ‘And for yourself, of course?’

  ‘I don’t care about that.’

  McMaster looked down at her desk in apology. ‘No.’

  ‘There’s my warrant card. Take it now if you think it will help your career, but I’m following this up to the end. I’m going to finish this, with or without your help.’

  There was a long silence in which McMaster clasped and unclasped her hands. She stood and turned away from Brook, then stepped across to her spider plant and rustled the dead fronds. Her mind made up, she turned back to her desk and picked up Brook’s warrant card and tossed it at him. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Speak to whoever you need to, and get them to cooperate. I need to look at Telfer’s record…’

  ‘You can get that from the PNC.’

  ‘True, but Floyd Wrigley pimping his daughter wasn’t on record. It was a whisper. So I need to look at all the scraps that may not be on his record and if I go up to Glasgow, I’ll need to talk to any coppers, ex-coppers who had any dealings with him.’

  ‘If?’

  ‘There may not be time. But meanwhile, get everything you can on Telfer faxed down.’

  McMaster sighed. ‘I’ll make the calls now.’

  ‘Thank you. I know what this is costing you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Damen. I can always go to the tribunal. There’s big money in sex discrimination these days,’ she added with a laugh.

  ‘It’s never been about money for either of us, ma’am.’

  ‘Thank you for that. Now get out. And good luck.’

  Brook unlocked his office and stepped through the door. He walked over to his desk, bent down then stopped dead. ‘Hello, Bob!’ he said, without turning round.

  Greatorix stood in the doorway. He was taken aback for a second. ‘Hello, Damen. Come to clear your de
sk?’ Brook turned to catch a yellow grin of satisfaction, which Greatorix made no attempt to hide.

  Brook sniffed the air without being too obvious. There was an unsanitary current wafting over from his dank colleague. Greatorix had clearly worked himself into a special lather of anticipation at Brook’s impending unemployment. Noble stood behind him, but not too close.

  ‘Something like that, Bob’

  ‘I can’t say I blame them.’ He stepped into the office, sizing it up for his own use. ‘A maverick like you on a case this important…’

  ‘Did you want something? I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘I don’t want to hold you up but you have some video tapes which belong to the Wallis investigation. I’d like them.’

  Brook looked blandly at Noble who shrugged his apology. ‘From the station’s CCTV? Yeah, I took them home to watch. I forgot all about them.’

  ‘Did you? Well I want them.’

  ‘There’s nothing on them for you.’

  ‘Are you refusing to hand them over, Inspector?’

  ‘Don’t be crass. They’re at home. I’ll drop them off in the morning…’

  ‘I want them now!’

  ‘I don’t work for you, Bob’

  ‘You don’t work for anyone, Damen’.

  Brook laughed. ‘Tell you what. Lend me DS Noble for an hour and I’ll give them to him. That suit?’

  ‘It’ll have to.’

  ‘Oh and Bob, speaking of mavericks, don’t you know it’s an offence to search the office of a serving colleague without some kind of permission?’ Brook exhumed a malicious grin of his own, to crank up Greatorix’s temperature. Greatorix turned to Noble with a malevolent expression. ‘No, DS Noble didn’t tell me, Bob, it was the smell.’

  ‘Smell?’ Greatorix narrowed his eyes. Noble stifled a laugh. ‘What smell?’

  Brook took a pause to give his portly colleague time to stew. ‘Ambition, Bob. Unfettered ambition.’

  ‘Unfett…?’

  ‘It’s in the dictionary.’

  Greatorix was on the wrong foot for a second before retrieving his own spiteful grin. ‘But you’re not a serving colleague. In the words of the great Norman Tebbit, you’re semi-detached.’