by Steven Dunne
He’d examined the transcript thoroughly, but had found nothing that he hadn’t expected-a thorough account of Stefan Sorenson’s murder and less detailed confessions to the killings of Laura Maples and Annie Sewell.
What surprised Brook was the absence of a hidden message, something personal from Sorenson to Brook, something for his eyes only, that he alone could decipher. He didn’t know what he expected to find-a last goodbye maybe or a final plea for understanding. But there was nothing.
It was possible Sorenson had included a visual message on the tape but Brook thought it unlikely. Given their knowledge of each other’s thinking, it shouldn’t have been difficult for someone with Sorenson’s intellect to speak to Brook with a few well chosen buzzwords, a few coded references. But he hadn’t. The confession left in Sorenson’s study was for public consumption only. There had to be something more-something for Brook alone. It had bothered him for days until the morning post arrived.
Brook examined the padded envelope for the umpteenth time since it dropped onto his mat. It was postmarked London and had a return address. 12 Queensdale Road, addressee, Peter Hera. He squeezed the package trying to guess its contents. Finally he tore it open and pulled out a video cassette.
Brook checked his watch. He lit his first cigarette since leaving hospital and let the nausea wash through him. He fed the cassette into his shiny new VCR, pressed the play button and turned on the TV. All was white noise.
Sorenson’s face appeared and Brook exhaled nicotine relief. A grisly voice inside his head had warned him he might have to endure a filmed account of the Wallis family being torn open.
Instead Sorenson sat in a chair, at his desk in his study. The room was lit by lamps and Sorenson held his father’s cutthroat in his hand. He raised a glass to the camera.
‘Hello, my old friend. I’m dead. And you’re alive. I’m sorry to have let you down like that. I know how much you wanted to go.
It’s strange addressing you through the camera when you’re actually slumped in a chair on the other side of the room. I hope you understand my motives for makingyou think I was going to kill you. I had to make it real for you then you’d know how good the others felt when they went. I’d given them a gift. Life as it should be-every second precious. Don’t forget that.
‘I know you can forgive me for Laura. Floyd Wrigley has paid in full-we saw to that. I saw how she died in that terrible place. It was easy to convince the police I was her killer. Case closed.
‘And I’d have gotten away with it too,’ Sorenson smiled, ‘but you tracked me down, Damen, at great risk to yourself. Now you’re a hero. And so you should be. It doesn’t sit well, does it? But don’t fight it. It’s the credit you should have had for finding The Reaper. And it’ll make your work easier. There’ll be plenty of opportunities. You’ll see.
‘Look for fathers and daughters. Daughters are your speciality.’
Brook grunted. Even death didn’t stop Sorenson’s probing.
‘Remember, this is your time, Damen. Your time to be who you’ve always been. The person many would like to be but only you have the power and the knowledge. Use it wisely. I know you will. And if you still have doubts speak to your forensic people and then go to it. I hope you enjoy the painting. You always admired it. And, yes, it is genuine. It’s a long story and time, for me, has run out. So another occasion for that. Goodbye, old friend.’
He stood and raised his glass. ‘The Reaper is dead. Long live The Reaper.’ Then Sorenson walked out of shot. A couple of seconds later the screen was white again.
Brook rewound the tape and listened to the toast again. He froze the image with Sorenson facing the camera, arm raised. Then he paced around the room for a couple of minutes before disappearing into the cellar. ‘Something’s not right.’ He emerged with the sheaf of papers taken from Charlie’s kitchen, leafed through for a moment to find the section he needed, then read aloud.
‘And who says crime doesn’t pay? The little punk murders a stranger and it saves him from a date with The Reaper. Funny thing. Sorenson didn’t seem put out by that. In fact, he seemed pleased even though this Jason character deserves to have his throat cut worse than most. I even wondered if somehow that was all part of the plan but I don’t see how. What the fuck. I’ve wasted enough time thinking about it. You figure it out.’
‘Funny thing,’ Brook whispered. ‘Noble was right,’ he said to the screen. ‘Jason was at your mercy. Why didn’t you kill him? Why?’ He stubbed out his cigarette then re-read the transcript of Sorenson’s confession.
‘You always have a reason. Every action serves a purpose. One-you confess to killing your brother so Vicky can get on with her life. Two-you confess to killing Laura Maples so you can give me credit for tracking you down.
‘Three-you admit to arranging Annie Sewell’s murder. Reason:’-Brook hesitated then shrugged. ‘So you can put Jason and his low-life friends in the frame for her murder. So why haven’t you done that? Funny thing.’
‘What’s funny?’
Brook spun round. ‘Wendy!’
‘I knocked but there was no reply. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’ Brook turned off the TV and moved Charlie’s confession under the Sorenson transcript on the table.
‘What’s funny?’
‘Nothing’s funny.’
‘You do realise that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness?’
‘Yeah, but it’s the only decent conversation I can get since the cat stopped confiding in me.’
‘You’ve got a TV,’ she breezed. ‘It’s almost like a home.’
‘Keep pushing.’
Now she giggled. ‘Sorry.’
‘No need. I’ve given notice. I’m looking for another place.’
Jones tried to hide her blushes at the possible reason for the move. ‘Oh? Nice painting,’ she added quickly.
‘Yeah it’s an original Van Gogh.’
‘Lovely Shall we go?’
Brook sat on the hard wooden bench with his head lowered in the traditional manner. It was good manners to hide the boredom. The priest was droning on somewhere in the back of Brook’s head but no words got through his blanket of taciturn solitude.
He hated churches. To Brook they were monuments to futility. Weddings were the worst. And christenings. All that misplaced hope of future happiness. At least funerals offered release-a way out. And now Brook was looking for his way out. He was suffering from mourning sickness. He smiled at his joke then covered his mouth with his hand to hide it. No funerals for years then-like busses-three happen along at once and each one a keepsake of his former life. Funny thing.
Charlie’s funeral had been first, a happy occasion for Brook, knowing the release his old boss felt at the end. No more pain. No more guilt. No more tiny faces to haunt him.
And it was a pleasant surprise to be reminded what a legend Charlie was in the capital’s law enforcement annals. Anybody who was anybody in West London policing was there. They’d even managed to dig up a junior minister for the occasion.
DCI Fulbright and DS Ross were there and a few other faces from the past. No relations though. Charlie had outlived all the ones he’d ever bothered with. His ex-wife wasn’t there and Brook wondered if she was still in London but couldn’t think of anyone to ask.
Fulbright exchanged a polite nod with Brook but Ross wouldn’t even look at him, which was a disappointment as Brook had prepared a couple of visual taunts about his height.
After the service, in which he did a reading from John Donne, Charlie’s favourite poet, Brook swapped a few pleasantries with barely remembered colleagues and made his excuses. His main excuse being that he had another funeral to attend-Sorenson’s. Before he left, Brook lingered by Charlie’s newly dug grave, next to his Lizzie.
‘Goodbye, Charlie, and God bless.’ Then he bent over Lizzie’s unkempt grave and burrowed six inches into the soil. He pressed in the ring from which she’d been separated before her death, and fi
lled in the hole.
Sorenson’s funeral was a much more sombre affair. The piercing winter light had given way to gun-metal skies and the whole process was suddenly oppressive to Brook as only he and the family were attending.
Petr looked more strapping than Brook remembered. He was flanked on each arm by Vicky and Sonja, sobbing throughout. He was the man of the family now.
Again nods-the chief currency of funeral communication-were exchanged. Nothing was said. No readings were given. No stories were told. Sorenson left this life without ceremony and without sentiment and Brook felt it appropriate to the way he’d conducted himself in life. Few words were needed for someone who had so much to say for himself.
As the priest rattled through the service, Brook left the tiny chapel. He didn’t look back. If he had, he’d have seen Vicky turn to watch him go. He would never see her again.
Outside stood Laura Maples’ father. Brook didn’t know him at first. He was a defeated old man. He stared at Brook leaving and walked towards him. Brook halted in sudden recognition and held out his hand. Maples ignored it.
‘Did you know it was him, Inspector?’ Brook let his hand fall.
‘Why are you here, Mr Maples?’
‘I don’t know. Why are you here? To pay your respects?’ The venom from the old man wasn’t a surprise to Brook. He’d seen such bitterness fester in many victim’s families. It had no outlet over time and to store it was to nurture it, until the roots grew out of your soul.
‘Go home to your wife, Mr Maples.’
‘She’s dead.’ His eyes burned into Brook’s with a defiance borne of suffering. But suddenly a curtain fell over them and he lowered his head and cried. Brook took his elbow and guided him down the crisp drive towards the main road. Maples surrendered to his prompting and trudged in formation with Brook.
As they neared the gates, Maples pulled a hand from his pocket and offered it to Brook. ‘This is all we have left, Inspector. The only thing for all that love, all that work. The sleepless nights…’
Brook, long the custodian of the keepsake, gazed at Laura’s necklace wrapped around the withered claw, its little hearts reflecting the occasional peep of winter sun.
‘The man who killed your daughter is dead. Go home, sir. Keep Laura alive in your heart, as I do.’
Maples turned sharply to look at Brook’s face and saw the depth of feeling there. He was taken aback. For a moment he seemed nonplussed and Brook wondered if he’d said the wrong thing.
But suddenly Maples broke into a watery smile, tears trickling down his hollow cheeks. He wasn’t alone in his grief and it gave succour. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’
Now Brook stood with the rest of the congregation. All heads bowed so he let his eye wander around the crowd. He caught Brian Burton’s eye. Brook’s glare was greeted by a frosty smile and both looked away.
After the prayer, Brook-positioned at the end of a row for a quick getaway-excused himself and tip-toed out of the church. He grimaced as he went, holding his recently-pumped stomach in case anyone took exception to the speed of his escape. Once outside he pounced on a cigarette and inhaled deeply.
‘Inspector.’
Brook turned to see Habib smiling at him. ‘Doctor. You’ve slipped out for a quick one too?’
‘I’m sure I haven’t. Religious differences, so it is.’ Brook nodded. ‘And how are you, Inspector?’
‘Same as ever.’
‘Ah, still no improvement, eh?’ Habib chuckled.
‘None.’ Brook eyed the good doctor, thinking how to avoid causing offence. It wasn’t his strong suit. ‘Any developments in the Wallis case you haven’t told me about, doc?’
Habib looked at him shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Developments?’
Brook glared at him, wondering what nerve he’d struck.
‘This is hardly the place…’
‘Doctor.’ Brook continued his stare but Habib failed to meet it.
‘Inspector. I don’t think it’s right. It’s no longer your case.’
‘It was my case. And there’s something you didn’t tell me, isn’t there?’
‘Not exactly.’ Habib was embarrassed and continued to avoid Brook’s eyes.
‘Tell me.’
Again Habib cast around for suitable words. Brook let him sweat. It was coming. ‘We were short-staffed, Inspector. I wasn’t looking for it.’
‘Looking for what?’
‘Inspector. It’s not your case any…’
‘And Annie Sewell wasn’t my case. It didn’t stop you giving me a copy of the report.’
Now Habib looked into Brook’s eyes, clearly injured by the threat. ‘You wouldn’t?’
‘I won’t have to because you’re going to tell me.’
Habib was tight-lipped. Brook pressed him with his silence. Finally Habib said, ‘I begin to think you’re not a very nice person.’
‘Get used to it, doc.’
Habib sighed. ‘I should have spotted it sooner.’
‘What?’
‘There were four deaths in the Wallis family.’
Brook’s brow creased. ‘What are you talking about?’ Now it was Habib’s turn to be still and watch Brook thinking.
‘How do you kill two people and have one body, Inspector?’
Brook stared hard at Habib. ‘Mrs Wallis was pregnant?’ Habib shook his head. Light dawned and with no more than a croak Brook managed to wrench out one more word. ‘Kylie.’
Habib nodded.
‘God!’ said Brook. ‘How long?’
‘A month, five weeks. No more.’
‘At her age?’
Habib shrugged. ‘Girls these days…’ He let it hang.
‘And what’s being done about it?’
‘Done? Nothing. Kylie Wallis is dead. Inspector Greatorix and Chief Superintendent McMaster agreed that no purpose is served…’
‘No purpose. A young girl’s been raped. There must be tests…’
‘The victim is dead, Inspector. And most likely the culprit too.’
‘Most likely? You mean you’re not even sure it was Bobby Wallis?’
‘We know he didn’t kill her. No-one in her family did. And now I think I’ll bid you good day, Inspector.’
Habib walked away stony-faced. Brook felt the heat of the cigarette on his fingers and let it fall to the ground.
At that moment the doors opened and the coffins were carried out by the pallbearers. Brook stood aside to let them pass. As the coffin of Bobby Wallis passed him, Brook turned his back. One of the pallbearers noticed and narrowed his eyes at him.
Mrs Wallis followed and Brook turned to face the coffin. Kylie hadn’t yet cleared the doors so not one of the following cortege noticed Brook’s indictment.
A second later he was joined by Noble and Jones. McMaster was sticking close to Jason and his aunt to be sure she offered maximum comfort.
‘You didn’t miss much,’ said Noble, trying to keep levity out of his tone. ‘Feeling better?’
‘No.’ Brook was far away, thinking of Sorenson.
‘…the poor Wallis girl, her virginity torn from her at such an age. Of course I knew, Damen. Every sickening detail. More even than you.’
‘Every sickening detail.’ Brook stared without blinking.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Jones, concerned to see the expression he wore on Brighton Pier reappear. ‘Sir?’
Now Noble was curious and Brook became aware he was causing concern. He roused himself. ‘I’m fine, Wendy.’ He clenched his lips in an approximation of a smile to confirm his wellbeing. Jones and Noble mollified, Brook disappeared again into the comfort of the trance. Nothing much registered. Time passed without notice. When he needed to walk, he stumbled along with the herd. When he needed to stand still, he was kept upright by the proximity of others.
Senses returned. Brook knew he was still breathing because he saw the condensation leaving his mouth. He could feel the bite of the cold nipping his ears, hear the far-off cacophony
of crows, the click of the cameras and the low hum of the generators feeding the news teams at a discreet distance.
He was okay. He wasn’t beaten yet. Sorenson couldn’t get him that way. He fumbled for another cigarette and somehow worked out a way to light it. McMaster glanced over with a tic of disapproval but soon regained her mask of professional sympathy.
And then it was over and Brook was able to walk where he chose. He broke away from the pack of stern-faced mourners hugging and clucking and kissing, and headed for a bench away from the tumult.
The next second Brian Burton was in front of him. Brook looked beyond him, searching for a way past. Freedom was only a yard either side.
‘Inspector,’ he said.
Brook tried to plot a way round him but Burton moved across to block him.
‘Inspector. Or should I call you Chief Inspector after your heroics in London?’
‘Whatever you call me, Brian, I suggest you do it from a safe distance.’
‘Come on, Inspector. No hard feelings.’ He held out his hand.
Brook ignored it. ‘Get out of my way, you parasite.’
Now Burton lowered his voice. ‘Listen, Brook, I can be a useful ally. Why don’t you do us both some good and start playing ball?’
Chief Superintendent McMaster had spotted the two old enemies locking horns and made her way across to them. Others followed.
‘Get out of my way,’ Brook insisted.
Burton saw McMaster coming and adopted a much friendlier expression. ‘How about a shot of the hero of the hour for the local taxpayers, Inspector?’ he shouted.
Burton’s increased volume alerted Brook to the presence of others. He looked round and saw McMaster marching purposefully towards them. He turned to walk to his superior but Burton grabbed his arm. Brook stiffened and clenched his fist.