by Steven Dunne
Brook eyed his host for a moment, trying to organise his thoughts. The gloves had been peeled off and he would finally get some answers. Time to throw his first punch.
‘Well, on this side of the pond, Mike, we have something called the rules of evidence. We’re not allowed to execute suspects just because they have a knife in their hand.’
Drexler smiled back. ‘I see you’ve been doing your own background reading. You’re referring to the Reverend Hunseth. Seems like a long time ago.’ He looked off into the fire, as Sorenson had all those years before. Then he looked back at Brook. ‘I got some grey hairs over it, sure, but I’m fine with it now. Nobody missed him. Nobody mourned him — ’cept maybe the local liquor mart. But you’re wrong, Damen. Even on my side of the pond they don’t like unexplained shootings. Questions were asked. People were interviewed. But I was a federal agent and my partner was in danger. I was able to answer them and that was enough. See, back home, the good guys have guns too.’ He laughed at a private joke. ‘I suppose that makes me The Reaper, Damen.’
‘You were for the Reverend.’
‘Hunseth got what he deserved.’
‘Did your father?’ Brook was pleased to see the icy expression infect Drexler’s face, his knuckles whitening for a few seconds.
Finally Drexler smiled and affected a slight nod, to acknowledge a blow well aimed. ‘Always go too far, because that’s where you’ll find the truth.’
Brook nodded. ‘Albert Camus.’
Drexler eyed him. ‘You know Camus. Why am I not surprised?’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘So tell me, Damen. Is this teacher, Ottoman, getting what he deserves? Is he The Reaper’s disciple?’
‘He didn’t do it, Mike.’
‘You amaze me,’ said Drexler in a monotone. He cocked his head and considered Brook as though anew. ‘What happened? Were they getting too close? Was it too obvious to your superiors? Did you have to throw them a bone? The professor wouldn’t be pleased. He’s not keen on civilians getting hurt in the crossfire.’
‘Sorenson’s dead.’
Drexler nodded. ‘That’s the rumour.’
‘That’s a fact,’ said Brook. ‘I was there.’
Drexler took another sip of his drink. He walked over to a small stereo and switched it on. He checked the disc then pressed play. ‘But he lives on through others, Damen. His will be done.’ A deep sonorous note sounded from the speakers and a choir took up the opening verse.
‘And what’s that exactly?’
Drexler swivelled to face Brook. ‘Cutting out the dead wood, Damen. So the tree can grow stronger.’
‘Is that what you’re doing here, Mike — strengthening the tree?’
‘I’m writing a book, my friend, for the good guys who already died. That’s why I’m here.’ He reached into the drawer of a nearby chest. He pulled a gun from it and placed it on the arm of the chair then looked away, remembering, a sudden sadness invading his features. He closed his eyes, but Brook resisted the urge to make a lunge for the gun. ‘Faure’s Requiem. Imagine heading for the next world with this rolling around in your head.’
Brook’s eyes burned into Drexler’s death mask. ‘There isn’t a next world.’
Drexler grinned, his eyes still closed. ‘No, there isn’t.’
‘But I’d prefer the Debussy if I have a choice.’
Drexler opened his eyes. ‘I don’t have any.’
Brook nodded. ‘No, of course.’ He looked at the weapon and then at Drexler. ‘If this is my reward for breach of contract,’ Brook paused for effect, ‘then I’m ready.’
‘Ready?’
‘But first I’ll tell you what I told Sorenson. The Laura Maples case … I was young and in a bad place. I made a mistake. Floyd Wrigley was a mistake and one that I am never going to repeat. No matter what Jason Wallis has done to me I’m not going to kill him, nor am I going to join your little network. I’m not like Sorenson and I never was.’ Drexler stared at him and Brook fancied he could detect uncertainty for the first time tonight. His hesitancy pleased Brook, so he continued. ‘So if it’s all right with you, I’d like a last cigarette and then you can do what you’ve got to do.’
‘Last request — just like in the movies.’ Drexler looked down at his gun, then smiled. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea, Damen. I’m no tough guy. Just careful. I don’t know how far off the reservation you’ve strayed. But one thing about Sorenson, you of all people should know, is that when the good guys get in the way, that’s when you get out. Those are the rules. No civilians. No John Ottomans. No matter what the cost. You’ve served. I’ve served. We’re the thin blue, my friend. We’ve got rights.’
Brook’s eyes narrowed. Answers. Fat chance. All he was getting here were more questions. Why had Drexler killed Harvey-Ellis? And why was he still in Derbyshire? The Inghams were dead. His work was done. Was he hanging on for Brook to deliver on his contract with Sorenson? Or was he planning another atrocity?
‘You can forget about me, Mike. I won’t kill Jason Wallis.’ Brook stared hard at Drexler who wouldn’t look back. Instead he put his hands together, immersed in the music. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘Soon. A week.’
‘You paid six months’ rent in advance.’
Drexler smiled. ‘I won’t starve. My research is nearly done. I just need to speak to one last person and I’ll be on my way.’ ‘And who’s that?’
Drexler fixed him with a twisted smile. ‘Don’t you know?’
Brook rose to leave, declining to finish his drink. ‘Thanks for all your hospitality, Mike.’ Drexler accepted with a nod of the head. ‘I won’t bother you again. But don’t contact me and don’t send me any more emails. And, rules or no rules, if you come back to Derby…’ Brook turned to be sure he locked onto Drexler’s eyes ‘…I’ll kill you.’
Drexler picked up the gun and followed Brook to the door, pulling a cigarette from a pocket and throwing it into his mouth. Brook walked into the blackness without looking round. ‘Goodbye, Damen.’ Drexler aimed the gun at Brook’s retreating back. He squeezed the trigger briefly then relaxed and let the gun fall to his side. He went back inside and lit his cigarette, removing the clip from the M9.
He sat down to finish his drink, examining the weapon. Sorenson’s gun. It had never been fired in anger since the professor had given it to him. Maybe it never would be. Maybe Sorenson really was dead. Maybe he really was chasing ghosts.
When Brook woke the next day, it was to the sound of knocking on his door. He jumped out of bed and glanced at the clock. To his surprise it was ten past nine. He padded to the window overlooking the lane and saw a taxi in the road. A second later, Grant stepped back from the door and looked up. She was dressed for walking. She saw him at the window and waved.
Brook acknowledged her and pulled his trousers on, fastening them up as he skittered down the stairs to open the front door. On the way, he picked up the folder on Mike Drexler and put it in a desk drawer. For the first time since moving to Hartington, Brook had bolted his door and he slid it open as she turned away from the departing taxi.
‘Laura? What are you doing here?’
‘I’m here to go walking, remember?’
Shivering in his T-shirt, Brook looked at her. He hadn’t thought she was serious, but he beckoned her in and returned to the semi-warmth of the kitchen to turn on the kettle.
‘We said nine o’clock,’ he threw over his shoulder in mock admonishment.
‘Yeah, sorry to keep you waiting,’ she smiled back. ‘I had trouble finding a cab to come all this way.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Brought you the local paper.’
Brook looked across at the headline: CHIEF SUSPECT INNOCENT, SAYS REAPER DETECTIVE He smiled faintly and continued to make tea. ‘I suppose I’m back in the doghouse,’ he muttered, handing Grant a mug.
‘Not with us. Joshua doesn’t care. But I haven’t spoken to Charlton. There’s more,’ she said, turning to page three. ‘We got a DNA match from Step
hen Ingham and Benjamin Anderson to the two samples taken from Annie Sewell’s sheltered accommodation the night she was murdered. Jason Wallis was telling the truth…’
‘…but not the whole truth,’ added Brook. Grant raised an eyebrow. ‘Never mind.’
Brook read the first few paragraphs then took his tea upstairs to get fully dressed. After a quick glance across at his neighbour’s house for signs of life, he returned to the kitchen to make a flask for his rucksack. ‘I didn’t have time to make sandwiches,’ he said.
Grant grinned at him. ‘I noticed. Didn’t you think I’d come?’
‘Honestly … no.’
‘I couldn’t sleep so I figured why not. I need a day to wash the case out of my brain.’ Brook smiled at her. ‘A day?’
‘All right. A month would be better, but it’s a start. I know Josh would’ve been talking it through all day in the car…’
‘About how and why I killed Harvey-Ellis?’
She smiled as they stepped out into the cold. ‘Day off, remember.’
‘We’ll see.’
They struck out down the lane into Hartington, past the Devonshire Arms and the post office and were almost through the village when Brook led them onto a path beside a municipal toilet building. Through the gate and following the path across fields, they eventually came to a small copse and stepped through another gate. Within a few minutes they were walking next to the River Dove, following the heavy winter waters through the steep-sided valley. They met few other walkers and were content to walk in silence for the first hour.
At a small footbridge over a tributary, Brook swung off his rucksack and poured two cups of tea from his flask. ‘I didn’t bring sugar.’
‘That’s fine.’
They sat against a large rock, sipping their tea. It was ten minutes before Grant spoke again. ‘You know, there’s one thing I’ve begun to understand about the Reaper murders, Damen.’
‘What?’
‘That one of the reasons he chooses who his victims are going to be is to make us question whether we care about what he’s done. And, whether we like it or not, because we realise that the dead aren’t going to be missed, we don’t do our job properly…’
‘I hope-’
‘No, I don’t mean we don’t do everything we’re supposed to do to catch him. We’re professionals after all. It’s just that … it doesn’t matter as much. When we see crowds cheering The Reaper outside the Ingham house, we’re not disgusted — surprised maybe, even a little amused, but we’re never going to go that extra mile as we would for a murdered toddler or a beaten pensioner. Do you know what I mean?’
Brook nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I can see Harvey-Ellis died for a legitimate reason. It’s hard to care that he’s dead. Whoever killed him, if it’s because of the way he behaved in life … then, I guess that doesn’t mean his killer is necessarily a bad person.’
Brook smiled. ‘Is this where I say “gee thanks” and you throw the cuffs on me?’
Grant smiled. ‘It wasn’t meant as a trap.’ She looked at him. ‘Besides, you didn’t kill Harvey-Ellis, did you?’
Brook looked back at her, once again feeling a surge of admiration for her abilities. Day off or not, he knew he’d have to be on his guard. ‘When’s your train?’
‘Six o’clock tonight.’
Brook checked his watch. ‘If we walk to Alstonefield we can have lunch at the George. Taxi back to my place and I’ll run you into town for six.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Where’s your luggage?’
‘At the hotel.’
Brook packed the flask into his rucksack and they set off again. The sky had darkened and a light rain began to fleck their clothing. A half-hour later they approached a wooden footbridge across the river and Grant crossed as Brook removed his boot to shake out a stone. With his boot retied, Brook climbed over the bridge and followed Grant steadily up the steep path. She skipped up the gradient but Brook caught her at the top of the slope where they both sat panting. Brook made his three thousandth resolution to give up smoking for good.
Once rested, they followed the footpath past a YMCA and onto the road, into the pretty village of Alstonefield. The George sat on a small triangular green and, after kicking off their boots and ordering a couple of pints, they were soon sitting in front of a roaring log fire to contemplate the menu.
‘So why did you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Brief that journalist. Not a great career move.’
‘I’ve not had a great career, Laura.’ He took a sip of his beer.
‘I did it because they’re innocent.’
‘In the face of all the evidence.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is this just a feeling or something more concrete? I’d like to know. For the interview.’
‘It’s not them, Laura. They’re…’ Brook remembered his conversation with Drexler the previous night ‘…civilians.’
‘Civilians.’
‘Yes. The Reaper is fighting a war against ugliness and there’s no room for civilians. They get in the way.’
‘But Ottoman was at the scene. The DNA doesn’t lie.’
‘I can’t help that, Laura. But when we get them back to Derby we’ll ask him.’
‘Think Charlton will want you on the interview, Damen?’
‘He may not want me on the case. I have a bad habit of getting myself removed from investigations. That’s why you need to know. So you can ask him.’
‘What should I ask him?’
‘Keep it simple. Ask him why he was there, why he got his prints on the scalpel and his DNA on the fence. Ask him why on earth he would kill everybody present except Jason, the one person he and his wife must hate above all others. Ask him why he made the call to the emergency services. Ask where the second mountain bike is.’
‘We don’t know for certain that there ever was a second bike.’
‘Two killers. Two bikes. Ask him.’
Their sandwiches and chips arrived and they waited for the waitress to leave but the conversation had dried up and they ate in silence apart from the cracking and spitting of the logs. When the food was finished, Brook stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.
‘So why didn’t he kill Jason Wallis?’ asked Grant finally.
‘Wrong question, Laura. Ottoman didn’t kill anyone.’
Grant smiled and shook her head. ‘Why not?’ Brook flicked a glance at her. ‘Flip it over, Damen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Okay. Assume he’s there by accident. Assume he didn’t kill the Inghams. Assume what you like, but Ottoman was there. And the person he hates most in the world was there, helpless before him. He had the scalpel in his hand — we know he did. So even if he didn’t kill the Inghams, it’s all set up. Why not just do it? It’s the right question. You were on the scene alone at one point. If Wallis had hurt you in some way, could you have killed him?’
Brook opened his eyes and looked into the distance, remembering his dead cat, head smashed in by young Wallis two years ago. Then he remembered the sensation, the frisson of power as he picked up the scalpel in his gloved hand and moved it from under Jason’s hand and held it against his throat. He took a sip of beer. It was the right question.
After lunch Brook and Grant took a taxi back to Hartington. They were both damp after their exercise and Brook insisted on Grant taking a shower. He gave her an old T-shirt and sweatshirt to wear so she had dry clothes for the journey. After making coffee he checked his answering machine. There were six messages. He listened to them all. Two were from Noble warning that Chief Superintendent Charlton was after Brook’s blood. The other four were from Charlton, his tone clipped and increasingly angry at each renewed attempt to get through to Brook without success.
‘Aren’t you going to answer those?’ asked Grant from the doorway, rubbing a towel through her hair.
Brook shrugged. ‘May
be tomorrow.’
He took his own shower and dressed in his bedroom. Again he looked briefly across at Rose Cottage but, although a light was burning somewhere in the back, he saw no sign of his neighbour.
When they set off for Derby it was already dark, but traffic into town was light and they reached the Midland Hotel forty minutes later. Grant disappeared into the hotel and re-emerged with her small case and Brook walked her on to the platform.
‘Thanks for a lovely day, Damen,’ she smiled. ‘You don’t need to see me onto the train.’
‘I don’t mind. It’s only twenty minutes.’
She looked into his eyes and leaned forward to give him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Go. I’ll see you in a few days.’ Brook handed over her bag and turned to leave. ‘And the next walk we do, we can go a lot further.’
Brook smiled at her. ‘I look forward to it.’
‘He’s leaving it late.’ McQuarry blew out smoke through the window and flicked the butt into the middle of the road. She looked for the spray of orange but the lashing sleet extinguished the smouldering cigarette before it hit the ground. She closed the window to block out the buffeting wind and horizontal rain howling around their car.
Drexler looked over at her, his hands superfluously gripping the steering wheel of the stationary vehicle. ‘It’s tonight, Ed. Tuesday.’
‘There’s only three hours left before Wednesday, Mike.’
‘Trust me.’ Drexler watched McQuarry put the pack in her pocket, resisting the urge to ask her for a cigarette. ‘He’s laid the ground too carefully. And how perfect is this weather for discouraging stray witnesses?’
‘You shoulda let me call out the cavalry.’
‘He won’t move unless it’s just us.’
‘He said that?’
Drexler pursed his lips. ‘I just know.’
McQuarry shrugged and took out her weapon. She checked the magazine before returning it to her belt, then lay back and closed her eyes.
Ten minutes later the glint of a headlight heading away from the lake alerted the agents to Sorenson’s approach. They both slid down further in their seats. The gates opened smoothly and the red Toyota stopped at the highway. It took an age to turn onto the deserted road so the two agents lifted their heads to identify the problem.