by Steven Dunne
‘Tired.’ Brook smiled back at her. ‘Hungry.’
‘I’m not surprised.’ She moved her bag onto the bed and sat down to rummage through it. ‘You’ve been out cold for days. It’s lunchtime in half an hour but I got some things in case you came round. I’ve got a cold bacon sandwich or an apple or a banana.’ Brook raised an eyebrow and she cracked into a grin. ‘Bacon sandwich it is.’
One bacon sandwich, banana, apple and packet of crisps scrounged from the duty nurse later, Brook lay back and took a sip of coffee. ‘I’m ready.’
‘What do you want to know?’
Brook was hesitant now, doubting his memory. ‘When you found me…’
‘You didn’t imagine it. Sorenson’s dead.’
‘I see. Does Amy know anything about what’s happened?’
‘She’s knows you’re in here…’
‘But she’s not been to visit?’
Jones looked at the floor. ‘That doesn’t mean…’
‘Don’t humour me, Wendy. I tried to wreck her marriage.’
‘You confronted her husband about your daughter. That’s all you did. Any father would have done the same. You can’t blame yourself for that.’
Brook smiled at her. ‘I don’t. And Sorenson?’
‘He cut his wrists with an old razor.’
Brook found it hard to accept. A part of him was dead. He’d lived with the thought of Sorenson for so many years. Now he was gone.
‘And is there a reason why you’re out of uniform and I’m not handcuffed?’
Jones was taken aback. ‘Handcuffed? Why?’
‘A prominent citizen commits suicide in the presence of a suspended police officer. Not enough? How about possession of an illegal weapon? It’s not hard to figure out a sequence of events…’
‘What weapon?’
‘I had a gun. It was Charlie’s…’
‘There was no gun.’
‘There wasn’t?’
‘Sir. Damen. Don’t you know? You’re a hero, or you will be when this all comes out. You’ve found a killer that nobody else could. From what McMaster has been saying you’re a guaranteed DCI. And your success is our success. We’re all…’
‘Stop, stop. What are you talking about?’
‘He confessed. Sorenson. He made a videotape.’
‘What?’ Brook remembered the camcorder on the tripod in Sorenson’s study.
‘It’s true.’
‘Confessed to what?’
‘To being a killer.’
‘The Reaper?’ Brook saw the hesitation in her manner.
‘Well, no. He said he killed his brother…’
Brook closed his eyes and nodded. Of course. Closure for Vicky-the dying act of a loving uncle. But not The Reaper. He would never admit to that. Sorenson can die but The Reaper must live.
‘…there was also a girl.’
Brook sat bolt upright despite the tubes restraining him. ‘Girl?’
‘Yes. One of your old cases, from your time at Hammersmith. He had her bracelet in his hands…’
‘Laura.’
‘That’s right. Laura Maples. He confessed everything. He knew all about it.’ Brook was sombre. ‘And that poor old woman in Derby, Annie Sewell. He said he arranged it.’
Brook was deep in thought. ‘Did he say why?’
‘He claimed she killed several babies when she was younger. She was a midwife…well? Who knows? It was a long time ago. They’re looking into it.’
‘Did he say who he got to kill her for him?’
‘No. When we get back to Derby…’
‘Derby? Where the hell am I?’
‘Still in London. Hammersmith Hospital. You were too ill to move.’
‘Terminal ward?’
‘That’s not funny, sir.’
He stroked her hand. ‘No it’s not. And please call me Damen.’
‘I can tell you something funny, Damen.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Sorenson thinks he killed you. On the tape he said he poisoned you. Said he was sorry because you were such a brilliant detective and nobody else could have caught up with him.’
Jones smiled with pleasure but Brook was sombre. ‘Then why am I alive?’
‘He must have got the dosage wrong.’
‘I don’t think so. If I’m alive it’s because Sorenson wanted it that way. He staged it.’
‘Staged it?’
‘To convince me he was going to kill me. Otherwise it would have been phoney. I wouldn’t have believed it, wouldn’t have gone through what the others went through. It had to be authentic.’
Jones was baffled. ‘Authentic?’
‘The same as the other victims. He needed to show me things, the despair and the hope and the beauty of dying. The joy of letting go. Of being saved.’ Brook could see he was losing her. ‘He wouldn’t kill me. I was his friend.’ Brook took a sip of water. ‘He said I was a brilliant detective?’
‘Words to that effect-what’s wrong with that?’
‘He’s trying to manipulate me, Wendy.’
‘He’s dead. How can he manipulate you?’
‘You didn’t know him. He never said or did anything without an ulterior motive. And now, being a hero, I get to stay in the Force. That’s what he wants.’
‘Sorenson. Why?’
Brook pondered how to say it. ‘Access.’
Jones was mystified but Brook showed little sign of enlightening her. ‘Access to what?’
Brook had closed his eyes and was drifting off to sleep. ‘Deserving cases.’ In a barely audible voice he added, ‘He came to Derby for me, Wendy. And dead or alive, he’s not going to give up until he gets me.’
Chapter Thirty-two
The next day Brook demanded his clothes and insisted on leaving his sick bed despite the protests of Wendy Jones and the doctor. The toxin pumped from his stomach had yet to be identified.
‘What’s the worst that could happen, doc?’
‘You could collapse and die, Inspector Brook,’ she replied.
‘Then you better get me an organ donor card.’
‘If you died we couldn’t use them.’
‘You could if I stepped under a bus.’
‘Then take a cab.’
Having discharged himself, his first task was to recover his car from the Hilton. His bag, containing Charlie’s confession, was in the boot and Brook couldn’t risk leaving it. Jones refused to let him go alone in case he became unwell.
After picking up the car, their first call was the local police station for Brook to make a statement about the events at Sorenson’s house. Jones assured him it would be routine as McMaster had already liaised with the Met over Brook’s presence in London. The fact that Sorenson had confessed to a murder in Derby was a plus, but Brook knew how sensitive locals were about jurisdiction and suspected the Hammersmith crew would be gearing up to give him a hard time.
Sonja Sorenson, Vicky, Petr and the nurse had already been questioned about Victor Sorenson’s state of mind. All were able to suppose that Sorenson was a potential suicide because of the nature of his illness. But nobody could shed any light on his videotaped confessions or his relationship with DI Brook.
Sonja had been questioned closely about her husband’s death but could offer up no useful leads and because of her history of mental fragility she wasn’t pushed too hard. After all, the murder was an old one and they had a confession. Case closed.
Brook believed the Laura Maples murder would be the fly in the ointment, and for that the local CID would need to speak to him. It was his case. It was unsolved. Unsolved murders spawned obsessive behaviour. And if by chance the obsessed detective found his killer but was unable to prove it…
Jones was directed to the canteen when they arrived and Brook was ushered towards an interview room once his refreshment order had been taken.
He sat down in a bare, windowless room. It was illuminated by cheerless strip lighting, had a battered table and three chairs-
two on one side, one on the other. A clean ashtray sat in the middle of the table. Bad sign-the room wasn’t left over from a previous interrogation, it had been chosen for a purpose and set up with forethought. Now he was alone with a chance to stew and coffee was being brought to maintain the pretence of routine friendliness. Brook knew what would come up-his breakdown.
The two detectives entered the room together and sat opposite Brook. One of them smiled a welcome. The senior man. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fulbright. This is Detective Sergeant Ross.’
‘Detective Inspector Damen Brook, Derbyshire CID.’
‘Feel free to smoke, Inspector,’ said Fulbright.
‘No thank you.’ Brook wanted a cigarette but still felt queasy. He decided against it. In Brook’s experience, the guilty smoked like chimneys during an interview.
‘Given up?’ Brook turned to look at Fulbright more closely. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Inspector?’
‘Should I?’ Brook knew he’d made a mistake as the words left his mouth.
‘No reason at all. I was just a lowly PC back then, on crowd control at the first Reaper killing. Harlesden. A family was butchered. Do you remember that case?’
‘It rings a bell. And no…’
‘No what?’
‘…I haven’t given up.’ Better. He smoked but didn’t need a cigarette because he had nothing to hide. Brook hoped that would cancel out the disrespect he’d shown.
‘Now…’ began Fulbright.
‘Before we start I think I need to see the video.’
‘So you can get your story straight?’ DS Ross had a thin wiry body and complementary mean features. He was quite small, close to minimum regulation, and Brook had never yet met a male officer of similar height who hadn’t overcompensated with an aggressive manner.
DCI Fulbright raised a lazy hand to intervene. ‘I think we’d like to hear your side of things first, DI Brook.’
Brook noted the emphasis on rank and studied Fulbright’s face. Yes. He remembered him. He’d transferred from uniform and had been an untalented DC ten years ago. He could recall Charlie once tearing a strip off him for some bumbling evidence gathering. Now it was payback time.
‘Is this the bit where I cross my legs so you can see I’m not wearing underpants?’ Ross half stood and was halted by a more urgent hand from Fulbright. Brook beamed to annoy them.
‘Funny.’ Fulbright held out a hand and Ross passed him a piece of paper. Brook knew what it was but continued to beam across the table at his two interrogators. ‘I’ve got a report here about your psychological condition. This report was compiled in 1992…’-Fulbright shot Brook a glance which aped a concern he didn’t feel-‘…and refers to a, and I quote, “period of obsessive stalking” by yourself, DS Brook as you then were.’
‘Can you tell us anything about this period, Inspector Brook?’
‘Is the report not clear?’
‘I’d like to hear about it in your own words.’
‘Can you remember who you were stalking, Inspector?’ put in Ross.
Brook continued to smile but it was wafer thin. He took a pause to think then decided he had nothing to hide. ‘It was a long time ago. Sorenson was a killer. Only I knew it.’
‘You admit you went off the deep end on this guy…’
‘It happens in this job. I did nothing illegal.’
‘As far as we’re aware.’
‘If you’ve got something to say, get it said.’
‘Okay. You’re a fucking fruitcake, mate,’ sneered Ross.
‘I’m not your mate.’
Ross stood over Brook, baring his teeth. A blue vein on his shaved scalp stood out and distracted Brook. As yet, his personal space hadn’t been violated but he felt it was a matter of time. ‘You’re finished as a copper by all accounts.’
‘So you decide to right a few wrongs from the past,’ chipped in Fulbright.
‘You went to Sorenson’s house, forced a confession out of him, cut his wrists and took just enough dope to make it look like you’d been poisoned.’ Ross stood with a leer and went to stand behind Brook. ‘And you thought we’d swallow it. What do you take us for?’
‘Let me guess,’ Brook said, pointing at Fulbright, ‘you’re the good cop and,’ slinging a thumb over his shoulder at Ross, ‘he’s the really bad cop.’
‘We’re just honest coppers like you used to be. Asking questions that have to be asked. And answered.’
‘Harassing an officer who’s clearing up your old cases?’
‘By killing the prime suspect,’ sneered Ross from the back wall.
‘He wasn’t a suspect in either of those killings,’ Brook observed.
‘No. But you had him down for The Reaper.’ Fulbright looked down as if to check the details. He looked back at Brook with an expression of great sympathy. ‘I mean, we’ve all been there Inspector. We’re just the same as you. Flesh and blood. I saw what he did at Harlesden. And Brixton was pretty grim by all accounts. All these years the bastard’s been free to go about his business. It rankles, doesn’t it?’
‘Pisses you off big time,’ Ross interjected, as though his superior’s vocabulary was too obscure.
‘And it all gets too much for you. So you decide to do something about it.’
‘Just like that,’ said Brook.
‘It can happen in this job.’
‘But with your history it looks iffy, you making him cough for The Reaper. So you tag him for something else.’
Brook laughed and turned to Ross. ‘You still watching Sweeney re-runs, sarge?’
Ross leapt over to Brook’s chair and put his mouth next to Brook’s ear. ‘You think you’re the dog’s bollocks, don’t you, you toffee-nosed, university cunt?’
Brook felt hot breath on his neck. ‘I’m bored with this. We all know I didn’t kill him. He was terminal, for Christ’s sake.’
‘How would you know that?’ enquired Fulbright.
‘Mrs Sorenson told me and she will testify to that. In fact, she probably has already. I didn’t kill Sorenson and if you could prove I did, you would have charged me by now. You’re just blowing smoke. Let me see the video. I’m willing to bet Sorenson mentioned things about Laura Maples and his brother’s death that only the killer could have known.’
Ross and Fulbright exchanged a look. ‘You were the investigating officer on the Maples murder,’ rejoined Ross, ‘you could have clued him up, given him a script.’
‘And Stefan Sorenson? I was nowhere near that investigation and you know it.’ Brook stood. ‘Unless you have any intention of charging me, I’ll be on my way.’
There was a pause before Fulbright shrugged his shoulders. He stood too and motioned Ross to the door. ‘You’re free to leave, Inspector. This was just a friendly chat. It’s been good to see you again after all these years. No hard feelings, I hope?’
‘Course not.’
‘When are you going back to Derby?’ asked Fulbright.
‘Now.’
Ross opened the door for Brook. ‘I like your bird. Just my type,’ he added with a leer. ‘Nice arse, big tits.’
‘Bit tall for you though,’ Brook observed, passing him. The leer evaporated and Ross took a half step towards Brook’s retreating frame.
‘Sergeant!’ snapped Fulbright. ‘I’ll see the Inspector out.’
Ross managed to wrench a ‘Yessir!’ through his gritted teeth and stalked away, his fists clenched.
‘I see you haven’t lost your ability to piss people off, Brook.’
‘It’s a gift. Sir.’
Fulbright gave him a smile of grudging respect. He studied him for a second. ‘You’ve changed.’
Brook fixed his eyes on Wendy Jones walking towards them. ‘Oh?’ he said.
‘I watched you in Harlesden, moving round the Elphick family like you were measuring them up for a new suit. You didn’t give a shit about what happened to them, did you? I saw it in your face. But now you’re worse. Then you didn’t really understa
nd what had been to done them. Now you know and still you don’t care. You’ve become hard.’ Brook turned to face him and their eyes locked. ‘Like a killer.’
Brook stared at Fulbright for a moment then smiled.
Fulbright held out his hand and Brook shook it. ‘Stay out of Dodge, Brook.’
‘How was it, sir?’ asked Jones on the way to the car.
‘Like you said. Just routine.’
Chapter Thirty-three
Brook buttoned his shirt and knotted his black tie. Immediately he loosened it. No sense being choked before getting to the church. He hated wearing a suit, he hated going to churches, but it was a funeral and McMaster had been very specific. The press would be there and the TV cameras. Nothing less than sartorial elegance would suffice-Greatorix was minding the shop while the division turned out to pay their respects to the Wallis family.
He checked his watch. Half an hour before Noble and Jones picked him up. He looked again at the Van Gogh propped on his sofa and shook his head. What on earth would he do with it? He knew he shouldn’t keep it. But getting rid of it could be trickier than hanging on to it.
He read again the accompanying letter from Sonja Sorenson which said that it was always her brother-in-law’s wish that it be given to Brook. ‘For being my friend and understanding the importance of my work,’ was how he’d expressed it to her. And she echoed her brother-in-law’s claims from his first encounter with Brook. The painting was unknown to the art world but was a genuine Van Gogh.
Brook stared at the picture. It was magnificent. And if the Sorensons were to be believed, an undiscovered treasure worth millions nestled on the plastic sofa in his grubby flat. He found it hard to take in-harder even than the two handlers from Fine Art Conveyors who had marched the bubble-wrapped masterpiece through Brook’s hovel to its nicotine-stained dungeon. Their jaws had hit the floor when they saw the living room and they departed in stunned silence, eyeing each other all the while, unaware even of Brook’s attempt to give them a tip.
Brook removed his jacket, hung it on a chair to avoid the cat hairs and sat down. Something else had arrived that morning through the regular post. Unlike the painting, Brook had been expecting it since reading the transcript of Sorenson’s taped confession several days before. DCI Fulbright had refused Derby CID’s request for a copy of the videotape, so Brook had been forced to rely on the written word.