by Steven Dunne
Grant gave Hudson one of her looks then turned on her heel to pass the instruction to a PC.
‘They didn’t waste much time hitting the road,’ said Hudson.
‘What kind of car?’ shouted Brook.
Grant turned round. ‘What?’
‘Ask the neighbour what kind of car they were driving, Laura.’ Grant nodded and turned to leave. ‘And … Laura!’ She turned round expectantly at Brook’s call. ‘No sugar.’
She grinned at the two senior officers, mouthed a mute obscenity and walked away.
‘I don’t see them driving something black and powerful.’
‘Cars can be hired, Damen.’
‘They’re just not up to it, Joshua. They’re teachers, for God’s sake. The nearest they come to homicide is slapping an unruly pupil on the spur of the moment.’
‘They’re educated, Damen. You said yourself they had the intelligence.’
‘Really? Joshua, they didn’t even wipe the blood off the bike.’
Hudson shrugged. ‘Blind panic. You do what they did and try not to let it affect you.’
Brook looked up at him, but could discern no ulterior meaning. ‘When I visited last week, Denise couldn’t even open the door properly. You heard what the neighbour said. I doubt Denise ever leaves the house, especially at night.’
‘Well she’s left it now,’ replied Hudson. ‘Look, Damen. Stress does funny things to people. Then again, maybe she’s not involved. Maybe it’s just her husband looking for some payback…’
‘And leaving Jason Wallis alive again?’ Hudson shrugged at this. ‘Then who’s the woman watching in the bedroom?’
‘All good questions, Damen. Want some good facts to go with them? The Ottomans have motive. John Ottoman is the right age, build and height. He’s on the estate the night of the murders. He’s wearing black clothing. A bloodstained mountain bike with the same tyre tread found at the scene is in his home. The next morning the Ottomans pack their bags and make a run for it. Want another fact? DS Noble has been listening to the 999 call and thinks it’s Ottoman’s voice.’
Brook was quiet for a moment, trying to get past the accumulated evidence. For a second he was prepared to accept it, then he thought of Sorenson. ‘It’s not them,’ he muttered.
A Scene of Crime Officer walked down the path carrying several items in plastic bags. Cups, a telephone, a remote control — all items likely to carry fingerprints.
‘Where’s the other bike?’ asked Brook.
The SOCO shook his head. ‘Only one bike on the property.’
Brook looked at Hudson who shrugged again. ‘They can explain it when we catch them.’ Hudson grinned again and nodded towards the house. Brook turned to see an officer holding up a bloodstained black balaclava from the top of a bin bag.
Brook and Hudson waited with Charlton for the assembled journalists to be ready. Charlton and Hudson were in high spirits at the prospect of the press conference. They were determined to avoid triumphalism, but were finding it hard not to smile. This would be a huge feather in their caps once John and Denise Ottoman were in custody. Brook was less thrilled at the prospect. He could see Brian Burton in the second row preparing his questions; no doubt some would be fired in his direction. With the lights not yet on, Noble entered from the side door and passed a piece of paper to Charlton, who read it with satisfaction before passing it on to Hudson. Brook read it with a sinking heart. The thumbprint from Jason’s mobile phone belonged to one of the Ottomans. As Jason had heard a male voice at the crime scene, it was fair to assume the print was John’s. In addition, blood from the mountain bike had been matched to one of the victims — Stephen Ingham. DNA samples from various artefacts recovered from the Ottoman home were still being tested against the DNA taken from the fence panel.
‘Excellent,’ said Charlton, under his breath. ‘Now we all know what we’re going to say. The key thing is not to get ahead of ourselves, keep it simple and state clearly that our suspects are wanted only in connection with The Reaper killings in Derby. We make it clear that we have no evidence for the murders in London and Leeds until we interview…’
‘Wait a minute. I didn’t agree to that. We can’t connect them to the Wallis murders as well…’ began Brook.
‘Why can’t we?’
‘There was no evidence; they were never suspects. And there are still loose ends in the Ingham deaths.’
‘The Chief Inspector and I are agreed. As far as we’re concerned, the Ottomans are connected to Jason Wallis and have tried twice to kill him in revenge attacks for the assault on his wife.’
‘Then why is he still alive? Jason himself heard John Ottoman talk to the emergency services. If he was there for Jason, why didn’t he kill him first?’
Charlton noticed several journalists, including Brian Burton, start to take an interest in their conversation. ‘Keep your voice down, Inspector. I don’t need to tell you how criminal plans can go wrong…’
‘And I don’t need to tell you, sir, that both you and DCI Hudson were nowhere near the Wallis Inquiry. Trying to tie the Ottomans to that crime is not supported by any evidence…’
‘But fortunately we have a surfeit of evidence from the Ingham murders which provides circumstantial … Where are you going? Inspector, sit back down,’ Charlton hissed. But Brook was gone. Charlton turned around with a smile glued to his face, hoping nobody had noticed the disagreement. The lights came up and Charlton’s smile disappeared.
Brook arrived back at his office to collect the folder on Mike Drexler. He slumped in his chair and stared out of the window at Derby’s low horizon, across the flyover and on past the cathedral. The daylight was almost gone and people would be sitting in their homes watching Chief Superintendent Charlton and DCI Hudson giving their press conference. By the next morning John and Denise Ottoman would be on the front pages of every newspaper in the country and, in spite of the delicate policespeak employed by Charlton, presumed guilty by every editorial and reader. He wondered what such publicity would do to Denise Ottoman’s fragile mental state.
He opened a window and sat down to read the file on Drexler. There were only three pages so it didn’t take long. He tossed it onto his desk then lit a cigarette. His thoughts returned to the Ottomans and the media jackals preparing to tear their lives apart. How to save them?
Brook stubbed out his cigarette and dropped the filter out of the window, before closing it.
He stood to leave, picking up the Drexler folder. The Ottomans hadn’t been convicted yet. There was still time.
Brook passed through the Incident Room on his way to the car park. Grant and Noble were talking over a coffee.
‘You missed the press conference,’ said Noble. ‘We’re just going out to celebrate. The rest of the team are already in the pub. If you care to join us.’
Brook paused. ‘Two dangerous teachers have escaped and could be roaming the streets of Derby issuing detentions even as we speak. And you want to celebrate?’
Noble darted a smile at Grant. ‘We’re safe for now, sir. They’re out of the country. They caught a ferry from Dover to France, Sunday lunchtime. We just heard.’
‘So it’s a plain old hide and seek now,’ put in Grant.
‘They got away. Then maybe a celebration is in order, John. Do we know what car they were in?’
‘Volkswagen Polo.’
‘Is that black and powerful, Laura?’
She smiled. ‘No, it’s green and small, but the car Tommy Blake saw might have been a legitimate taxi. We just haven’t found it yet.’
‘And has he been shown a picture of Denise Ottoman?’
Grant sighed. ‘He has actually. No joy though. We also showed him the cleaned-up picture from the North bedroom to compare. It’s not come out much clearer.’ She handed him the printout, which Brook examined. ‘Tell me, Inspector, do you always take a good result so badly?’
‘There are no good results in our game, Laura.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Joshua tells me you�
��re driving back to Brighton tomorrow.’
Grant turned to Noble. ‘Can I have a minute, John?’
Noble hesitated, then said to Grant, ‘I’ll meet you downstairs.’
When he’d left the room, Grant turned to Brook. ‘Yes, sir, we’re going home. We’ll be back when the Ottomans are caught. But I thought I might take an extra day in Derby.’
‘Oh?’
‘I prefer to take the train. Besides,’ she said, a smile playing around her lips, ‘I’ve got a standing invitation to go walking in the Peaks.’
Drexler sank back in the sofa and accepted the hot chocolate from Sorenson’s wrinkled hand. He took an immediate sip of the dark sweetness.
‘It was a righteous shooting, Professor. Agent McQuarry supported me. The Board of Inquiry supported me. The Reverend was a secret drunk and an abusive bully.’
‘How did you know that, Mike? Did he have a T-shirt to that effect?’
Drexler glared at him. ‘I knew his type. He also had a knife. He’d already beaten his wife and threatened her with it. Drunks do that. When we got there we could see hesitation cuts on her neck. But I knew from experience he wasn’t hesitating out of reluctance. He was putting the knife against his wife’s neck again and again to let her feel its unforgiving steel, to amplify her terror.’
Sorenson drifted over to the hearth and turned on a gas tap. He lit the jet with a taper and flames began to crackle around the dry logs placed above. With a sharp breath, he turned to face Drexler, his black eyes boring through the smoke to his core.
When Sorenson said nothing, Drexler felt compelled, he didn’t know why, to fill the silence. ‘For a while she’d gotten away from him. She was wailing in the corner. Her face was all beat up and the man of God was three-quarters through a litre of vodka. Ed tried to talk him down, but she must’ve got too close, I don’t know. He went for her. Then it all turned to shit.’
‘So it was your partner’s fault.’
‘No! It was my fault. The thing is … I should’ve been talking to Hunseth not Ed. The profile of a wife-beater is never wrong. A strong woman trying to reason with him, talk him down — that was always gonna rile him and we knew it. It’s just that I … I guess I just froze. So when Hunseth lunged at her, she cut her hand pretty bad and damaged her tendons. She had to have rehab. She tried to get away but when he went for her again, I fired.’
Sorenson smiled and sat opposite Drexler. ‘And after that, there wasn’t enough rehab in the world to save the Reverend Hunseth.’
‘No.’
‘Not with four bullets in him.’
Drexler managed to hide his surprise. How did Sorenson know? How could he zero in on all his weak spots so unerringly? It was probably in the transcript but even so, only a professional would raise an eyebrow at that. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a very fine shot, Mike. Two in the heart and two in the head. The Reverend took some stopping. Is that why the Board took so long to clear you?’
Drexler’s heart began to beat a little faster. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Did they ask you off the record, because it doesn’t say in the file?’
‘Ask me what?’
‘At whom you fired the third and fourth bullets.’
‘They were fired at Hunseth.’
‘Physically, yes. I know that, Mike. Forget who you were firing at and just tell me one thing. Why fire the third and fourth bullets at all? If your first didn’t stop him, the second must have done. One in the heart, one in the head. But you fired two more.’ Sorenson cocked his head to one side, to deliver his payload. ‘Who else were you killing that night?’
Drexler smiled now. Of course. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. The end was in sight. But then what? What purpose was this serving? What did he want from him? ‘Don’t stop, Professor. It’s just getting interesting.’
Sorenson stood. He seemed satisfied with Drexler’s reply. ‘I’m glad you’re not taking this personally, Mike. I think we can be friends.’ Drexler raised an eyebrow at that. Sorenson caught it. ‘In time.’
He moved over to a large walnut cabinet and opened a door. ‘First some Beethoven … and a glass of malt whisky.’ Sorenson pressed a button and music began to play — beautiful and lingering piano notes swaying dramatically against the worsening weather gathering on the lake. He poured two generous measures into heavy tumblers and handed one to his guest. Drexler prepared to refuse. He hadn’t touched alcohol for nearly three months and hadn’t missed it.
‘Don’t worry, Mike. It’s not drugged.’
Drexler smiled and took the glass. This had to be part of the game. He accepted his whisky and sniffed at it without drinking. It didn’t smell like ordinary whisky and he was tempted to take a sip but needed his wits about him if he were ever going to get a crack at his agenda. He felt the need to occupy himself and stood to stroll as nonchalantly as he could manage across to the large glass doors which were being pounded by wind and snow now driving across the water.
He turned to look around. Everything about the place was expensive and tasteful. The room was sparsely furnished as befitted the single man, indicated by all the information they held on Sorenson. The space was large and open and smelled of pine, though there was a slight chemical edge in the air that reminded him of hospitals.
A mezzanine balcony, serviced by a generous wooden staircase, ran along one wall and seemed to lead off to other enclosed rooms. The fire, framed in wood and stone, dominated another wall and arranged to face it were a polished oak coffee table and the two comfortable dark leather sofas on which Drexler and Sorenson had been sitting.
There was no TV but across an end wall stood a large walnut chest holding a few weighty books. There was a music centre that fed the speakers, which were placed discreetly under beams at the four corners of the room. The chest also housed the drinks cabinet from which Sorenson had produced the two glasses of whisky. The darkness was gathering and Sorenson switched on a pair of lamps.
‘Cheers.’ Sorenson raised his glass to drink and Drexler decided to follow suit with a minute sip which burned his tongue with its smoky fire.
Drexler returned to his seat, leaving the toast unanswered. ‘What do you want, Professor?’
Sorenson seemed a little surprised. ‘What do I want? I want to know who you are and I want you to know who I am. I’d like you to think of me as a friend.’ Drexler pulled a face. ‘Or at least as someone who can help you.’
‘Help me? How?’
‘Make you realise you’re not alone in your pain, Mike.’
‘Pain?’
‘With me it was my twin brother — with you a drunken, abusive father. Families cause such pain. I don’t know why.’
Drexler glared at Sorenson, determined not to react to the constant probing, though each pick at the wound made it harder. ‘Makes you just want to wipe them out, doesn’t it, Professor?’
Sorenson smiled faintly. ‘Yes, it does. For instance your father, James Drexler, was also a religious zealot, Mike. A drunk too. And as you saw with the Reverend Hunseth, religion and alcohol can be a dangerous combination. Did he quote the scriptures at you as he beat you? Did he beat your mother and call her the devil’s harlot? Did he call damnation on your sister after her suicide?’
Drexler dropped his glass and lunged towards Sorenson but froze a few yards away. The 9mm M9 automatic had appeared in Sorenson’s hand as if from nowhere. ‘Sorry, Mike.’ He gestured the gasping Drexler back to the sofa and sat down on the other. ‘Truly I am. I push too hard sometimes. But I had to be sure.’
‘Fuck you. Kerry would never do that. It was a traffic accident,’ panted Drexler, still breathing harshly.
‘There were no skid marks, Mike. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She drove herself into that ravine to end the torture of life with your father. Her love for you couldn’t conquer the pain he caused, so she snuffed out her life and left you and your mother to pick up the pieces.’ He paused to assess Drexle
r’s willingness to lunge at him again before lowering the gun. ‘Now that is information I did have to pay for. I’m very sorry. But I have to know why you’re still coming at me so hard. It’s the same reason you put four bullets into Reverend Hunseth, isn’t it? Am I really the same as him?’
‘An authority figure with power over life and death. And not afraid to use it. What do you think, Professor?’
‘I think whoever killed Caleb and Billy is more like you than you know. An avenging angel, removing those who abuse their position, those who torment and kill the innocent to satisfy their basest urges. With your father and the departed Reverend, it was a twisted religious mania and a love of the bottle; with Caleb Ashwell, carnal pleasure and financial gain. Face it. You didn’t have to kill Hunseth. You could’ve disabled him. The Board knew that but gave you the benefit of the doubt. But you get more than that from me and Hunseth’s tortured family. You get their gratitude. You ended the tyranny of his life and saved those close to him.’
‘Saved?’
‘As surely as the killer you seek saved other families from the tyranny of Caleb Ashwell.’
‘And Billy?’
Sorenson put down the gun and took a sip of his whisky, eyeing his guest. Drexler wondered briefly whether to make a grab for it but decided against it. ‘Of course. Stupid of me. You see me as Caleb and yourself as Billy — as much a victim as George Bailey and his family. And do you know something? You’re right, Mike. Billy was a victim. But it was too late for rehab. Billy could never be that child again. The clay had hardened.’
‘Clay?’
‘That’s right. He was moulded by his father. You see, Billy didn’t have your strength.’
‘My strength?’
‘Mike, when will you embrace what you’ve become? Those four bullets have bestowed a power on you that you weren’t aware of before. You were moulded just as Billy was, but did you become Billy? Did you help your father beat your mother? Did you help drive your sister to despair? No. You conquered the urge to find safety under his cloak. And to do so kept you a victim. You chose the hard path. But not Billy. He took the hand that led him to oblivion. He would’ve become Caleb. No power on earth could’ve stopped that.’ Sorenson got up with his glass and picked up the gun by the nozzle. ‘Terrible things, guns.’ He threw it to Drexler who caught it.