by Steven Dunne
All the male victims were killed almost immediately. For the female victims, standing in for the late Mrs Ashwell no doubt, the nightmare had just begun.
Brook was disturbed by the slamming of a door and stood up to see Drexler walking out to his car. He nipped to the front door.
‘Morning.’
‘Good morning, Damen.’
‘Thanks again for last night. I had a good time.’
‘No problem.’
‘You’re away early?’
‘Work, I’m afraid. I’m not the best sleeper and books don’t write themselves. Am I right in thinking Ashbourne’s easy to find?’
‘Very easy. Turn right at the bottom of the hill. Up to the A515, turn right again and keep going until you hit it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you need a map?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I’m enjoying your book.’
Drexler turned from the car and fixed Brook in his sights. ‘Enjoying?’
‘You know what I mean. It’s very well written.’
Drexler gave an imperceptible nod and just stood there waiting, as though Brook had more to say. Then he turned back to the car and got in behind the wheel. ‘Any questions?’ he said enigmatically.
When Brook shook his head, Drexler started the car and drove away.
Dupree, Drexler and McQuarry stood by the glass partition trying not to stare too hard at the decomposing cadaver of little Sally Bailey on the stainless steel gurney. Her corpse had the tagged summation of a lifetime tied round her big toe. Name. Sex. Date of Birth. Date and Cause of Death. Case number. No intangibles, no memories, no laughter, no pain, no Little League, no prom nights, no nights of love. No future. Her mother, in a more advanced state of decomposition, was on the adjacent trolley.
Drexler stole a glance at the other two. Dupree the father had been locked in the deepest recesses and only Dupree the law officer had turned up. McQuarry too had eyes like flint. The medical examiner bent over the microphone for the last time then tossed the last of his instruments into a steel bowl for a steam clean. He picked up a small bowl with the remains of the bullet and held it up to the glass.
‘Same bullet as the others, seems like, Andy,’ he said, so the microphone could just about pick it up. He nodded at an assistant, who began bagging and labelling the various organs.
The examiner, whose nametag said John Taybor, walked through a small door at the end of the room. He held out his hand, which each shook in turn after an initial hesitation to check his latex gloves had been removed.
‘Andy. Special Agents.’ He nodded.
‘Well, John?’
‘We’re getting there, Andy. Gradually. We’ll have the little girl’s internals tomorrow. Promise. But I can give you one thing now. She was no longer a virgin and had been subjected to repeated sexual assault. The mother had engaged in sexual activity before she died too.’
‘We figured as much.’
‘As for Caleb and Billy, I’ll have the official report typed up for you tonight but you know the summary. Before his throat was cut Caleb was struck with a heavy instrument. Front of the skull too. There was no violence against the boy before he was hung because he was drugged. The coffee he had drunk contained the toxin hyoscine, sometimes called scopolamine. There are also traces of morphine which is interesting. A combination of the two, carefully applied can cause cerebral sedation.’
‘He was anaesthetised,’ said McQuarry.
‘Effectively,’ nodded Taybor. ‘The subject would have been completely unable to think or act. Even speech would have been almost impossible. Physically they might have basic motor functions, but the subject would be very easy to control. I’m told a variation of this stuff is used as a date rape drug so you get the idea. The interesting thing is I found traces of the same drug combination in George and Tania Bailey’s systems.’
‘That’s not a surprise, John.’
‘I can’t tell you about the girl yet.’
‘If we’re right, John, the drugs would be confined to the coffee drinkers. What about the other families? We’re thinking they were also drugged. At least the adults.’
‘I’m afraid our equipment isn’t sophisticated enough for samples that age. We’ve sent them off to Quantico for further analysis.’
Laura Grant looked at her watch, then round at the entrance to the breakfast room. Nearly ten o’clock. She’d finished her scrambled eggs some time ago and now the staff were clearing the tables. This wasn’t like her boss. He was old school. People of his generation never passed up a free meal. Whenever she and Hudson were away on work, he always made a point of eating a gargantuan breakfast. ‘If the taxpayer is footing the bill for this, we owe it to them to get VFM,’ he always said. Why men of a certain age associated lining their arteries with saturated fat and Value For Money was a complete mystery.
She drained her Earl Grey tea and marched to Hudson’s room, banging on the door.
‘Guv. You’ve missed breakfast,’ she said loudly. No answer. She banged again. ‘Guv!’ Still no answer. ‘It’s checkout in two hours. Are you okay?’ She rattled the handle and the door opened.
Grant pushed into the room. It was in darkness. The smell hit her first, then the faint noise from the bed. She walked over to the motionless form sprawled across the high mattress.
‘Guv,’ she said softly, reaching an arm out to rouse him.
Jason woke as usual, panting and clutching his throat. After an urgent inspection for gaping wounds his breathing began to slow and he slid his damp frame from under the moistened sheets. It was a cold morning and the sweat on Jason’s brow and chest was transformed into salty goose bumps within seconds. He pulled aside the heavy green curtain and peeked out at the winter morning. The sky was clear and blue and the ground covered in a light frost.
Jason checked his mobile. He had a text from Stinger.
My place 7 2nite got news be their
Wassup he texted back. A moment later the text was answered. Jason read it. Then he read it again. A puzzled smile creased his pale visage and he threw himself back on his bed. He took a deep breath and nodded.
‘I’m ready,’ he muttered, staring saucer-eyed at the ceiling.
Laura Grant walked quickly past the railway station back towards the Midland. The sun still shone and although it was lowering it still felt unseasonably warm.
She trotted up to the first-floor landing and opened the door to Hudson’s room.
The room was still in darkness. ‘Guv?’
This time the figure on the bed croaked out an answer. ‘That you, Laura?’
‘No, it’s Britney Spears.’
Hudson managed a chuckle before moaning long and low. ‘Oh, don’t make me laugh, darlin’. My stomach can’t cope.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like death would be a blessed release.’
‘But you managed to get some sleep?’
‘Between projectile vomits and having the shits, yeah.’
‘Good.’
‘You know, I think there’s a competition going on to see which of my orifices can expel the most stuff. I could sell tickets.’
‘As long as we don’t see it in the Olympics. Here,’ she said, drawing out a paper cup from a brown paper bag.
‘What’s that?’
‘Chicken soup.’
‘No, I couldn’t, honestly.’
‘You’ve got to eat something, guv. It’s good for you.’
‘Not yet. Not after that bloody curry. Just the smell…’
‘Maybe some Lucozade?’
‘I’ll try. Leave it by the bed. Everything sorted?’
Grant nodded. ‘We’ve got the rooms until tomorrow. And I rang Maddy’s office to tell him we needed an extra day to follow something up.’
Hudson nodded minutely. ‘Fingers crossed I’ll be okay by then.’
‘You’ll be fine — this isn’t like you.’
‘I know. What will you do with
yourself?’
‘I don’t know. Read a book. See a film. Maybe have an Indian.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘But we’re on exes, guv. We’ve got to fill our boots.’
Hudson sighed heavily. ‘Turn the lamp off on your way out.’
Sheriff Dupree stared at the frozen monitor then sat back so that McQuarry and Drexler could see the image of the shaven-headed man handing over money to Caleb Ashwell. ‘This is the last one. This is the only customer we can’t put a name to and the only one who left with a cup of coffee. Every other customer that day is a local I can vouch for, or paid by other means. Not this man. He paid cash.’
‘He fits. It’s 6.30 — just before Ashwell closed up for the night.’
‘And he was driving a motor home — a Dodge Ram 250.’
‘How do we know that?’ asked McQuarry.
‘Ashwell had some problem with thefts a while back,’ said Dupree. ‘That’s why they put a camera in. They also started logging all vehicle plates with a time.’
‘Did the DMV give us a name?’
‘No, because the vehicle was sold recently by a party in LA. The paperwork hasn’t caught up yet, but they’re tracing it.’
‘This guy looks the right height and build to be our hangman,’ nodded Drexler at the monitor.
‘It gets better. Watch this!’ said Dupree. He pressed the play button and the man began to move away from Ashwell. But before he turned to leave, he raised his dark eyes up to the camera and gave an imperceptible smile. Then he left, clutching a paper bag and his large Styrofoam cup of coffee.
‘What was in the bag? Rewind it,’ said McQuarry.
‘No need, I already seen. He bought one of these.’ Sheriff Dupree placed a sturdy penknife on the table. ‘Ain’t a fella in the county who don’t own one.’ Dupree smiled at them but only McQuarry understood why.
‘Am I missing something?’ asked Drexler.
Dupree picked up his penknife and pulled out the corkscrew attachment before placing the knife back on the table. ‘This is California. And in California we grow grapes.’
Drexler smiled. ‘Of course, the bottle of wine. We need to find this guy.’
‘And we need to ask him something. If he got a cup of coffee, how come he didn’t crash like the others?’
‘Only one answer, Andy,’ said McQuarry. ‘He didn’t drink it because he knew.’
Jason pulled in smoke and passed the spliff on to Grets, who pounced on it and went through the same ritual, looking round in the hope of seeing fear and disapproval from Drayfin residents peering out from their homes. But the light was fading fast and most curtains were drawn against the encroachment of the outside world. Finally exhaling, Grets pulled the bottle of Diamond White to his mouth and took another huge draw. ‘Gear, innit?’ he said.
‘Sick,’ drawled Banger, who took his turn on the dwindling joint. ‘Betcha din’t get no blow up at the fag farm, blood.’
‘Not this kinda blow,’ laughed Grets, coughing up smoke as the others screamed their approval and jostled each other to try and make a dent on the vat of hormones and cheap booze sluicing around their bloodstreams.
‘Get your hands off, you gay.’
‘Whatever, minger.’
‘You say you dun’t fancy me, pussy boy?’
‘Blatantly no way, man. If I was into rusty bullet, I’d give your spotty ass the swerve, you punk ass bitch.’
Reassured that gayness had been uniformly rejected, they all relaxed and continued tucking into Bargain Booze’s finest apple beverage as they ambled along the misshapen pavements of the estate, scraping their trainers to mark their passing as they went.
‘I’m starving, man. Let’s go chippy.’
‘No need, bredrin,’ said Stinger, checking his mobile. ‘My mum and Uncle Ryan are having a barby remember — to big up Jason’s release. If you’re okay about passing your folks’ old place?’
‘It’s just a building,’ replied Jason, resurrecting his toughest expression. ‘And if it’s like you say…’
‘Swear down, Jace. I told you. We teafed a brand new barby last week and fuck me, if we don’t go and win a load of meat and booze and stuff. They were bringing it all round tonight.’ He flicked through his texts until he found the right one. ‘Yeah, we’re on. ’Bout an hour.’
Jason looked at Stinger for a minute, unable to speak. Maybe it was the Diamond White, but for a second he was incapable of understanding why he had a lump in his throat. ‘And you definitely won it right?’
‘S’right.’
‘In a competition?’
‘Like I said.’
Jason stood frozen in time for a second, eyes like nuggets of coal. ‘They just rung you up out of the blue?’
‘S’up, Jace?’ asked Grets.
Jason failed to answer. A moment later a strange grimace deformed his face and he nodded at some private revelation. ‘Nuttin. I’m ready.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I … I love you, man,’ he said, adding a loudly blown kiss.
‘I thought you were mi mate, you fucking queer,’ laughed Stinger, and the rest of the Drayfin Dogs joined in, punctuating their shambolic walk with more mock brawls and bellowed insults.
Jason’s grin was a little more forced than the rest. Looking around as they jostled their way to Stinger’s house, he wasn’t skimming the floor looking for stones to throw at lampposts and parked cars. He was looking for The Reaper. The Reaper was near. Yeah, I’m ready.
Grets came to a halt and laid an arm across the others. ‘Who’s that?’ he said, peering into the gathering gloom and pointing at a figure walking towards them. A young Asian boy stopped and stared at the four of them.
Banger stepped forward, pulling a Stanley knife from his pocket. ‘These fucking terrorists think they can walk about in our block. We’re having ’im,’ he screamed, darting towards the figure, who’d already turned to sprint away. Banger, Grets and Stinger hurtled after him, Jason bringing up the rear.
Brook glared at the computer screen then lowered his eyes. At that moment, DS Noble walked into the office so Brook quickly minimised the internet window.
‘Bit late for you, John?’ Their shift had finished an hour ago.
‘I’m meeting some mates in town for a drink,’ he said.
‘The pub? At this hour?’
Noble smiled pityingly. ‘We’re off to Restoration.’ Brook gazed back at him, none the wiser. ‘It’s a new bar in town. Nobody under the age of thirty-five goes to pubs any more, unless they’re married.’
Brook found it difficult to digest this cultural insight. ‘If you say so.’
Noble made to leave then turned back. ‘If you’ve nowhere to go, sir, you’re welcome to join us.’
Brook looked up. He was almost touched. ‘Thanks, John, but I’ve been going nowhere for years and I know the way.’
‘Sure?’ Noble persevered, against his better judgement. Brook fixed him with a pointed stare. ‘Understood.’ He turned to mask his relief.
‘You’re a computer boffin, John.’
Noble turned back from the door. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘How easy is it to trace an email?’ asked Brook, ignoring Noble’s modesty.
‘Not too difficult if you’re an expert, which I’m not, and providing you’re not tracing another expert who doesn’t want to be found.’
‘I see.’
‘The first thing is to identify the server. If you’ve got it up, I can have a look and…’
‘Don’t worry, John. It’s not important,’ smiled Brook. ‘How are you getting on with Brian Burton’s book?’ he added to close the subject.
‘Put it this way. I don’t need sleeping pills. Night.’
‘Goodnight.’ Brook clicked on the toolbar to reopen the inbox of his Hotmail account. The second email from The Reaper had already been opened and read. But Brook stared at the subject line again. Tonight. He stood and went to look out across the low horizon, lighting up again as he gazed out thro
ugh the darkness at the twinkling lights of Derby. With a deep sigh he looked at his watch and returned to his desk to log out.
Drexler pulled the car across the highway and into the drive of an unseen house. He and McQuarry stepped from the car and peered through an imposing pair of iron gates, following the course of the drive as it wound its way towards the lake. They couldn’t see the house but the icy waters of Lake Tahoe were visible, lapping calmly against the shore in the pale sunshine — a waterfront property in one of the most expensive real estate zones in the US. It didn’t seem feasible that a resident here would have any connection to the late Caleb Ashwell and his son Billy.
McQuarry checked her notes. ‘879 Cascade Road. This is it, Mike.’
Drexler rattled the gates, but McQuarry took the trouble to find the intercom on the wall and pushed the button. There was a crackle.
‘Yes?’
‘Federal agents, sir. May we speak with you?’
No answer but the gates swung open noiselessly. The two words that struck fear and often loathing into everyone who crossed their path had barely registered. Not a moment’s hesitation. Normally, even the most righteous couldn’t help but take a second to review their ancient and recent past for forgotten transgressions. Reasons to be fearful, McQuarry and Drexler called it. But not today.
‘Somebody’s got a very clear conscience,’ observed Drexler. The agents jumped back into the Chevy and drove slowly up to the house, taking in the splendour of the surroundings — large grounds shaded by mature white fir, lodgepole pine and aspen trees interspersed with bark-covered flowerbeds. As the trees thinned they saw the huge cabin-style house facing the shore, built with natural wood and local stone. The house stood on a bank, maybe ten metres above the water level and about twenty metres back from the lake. A wooden pier, bleached by the seasons, stretched its arm into the heart of the lake, though no boat was moored.
‘Feel intimidated?’ smiled Drexler.
‘I’m quaking in my boots, Mike.’
They parked near a three-car garage at the side of the house, though there was only one car in residence — a small red Toyota.