by Steven Dunne
Sorenson was sitting in the driver’s seat, staring directly at Drexler and McQuarry’s car. Despite the poor visibility, they could clearly see Sorenson smiling at them, his dead eyes creased in chilly amusement. A shiver ran down Drexler’s back. Finally the Toyota turned left towards Tahoe and continued as sedately as it had the last time.
‘How sure of himself is this guy?’ smiled McQuarry over at Drexler. The smile faded when she saw the vacant expression on Drexler’s face. He fired up the engine and, as though in a trance, manoeuvred the Audi onto the highway in pursuit.
They didn’t speak again until they rolled up to the Golden Nugget Motel an hour later, coming to a halt in a darkened corner of the deserted parking lot. Sorenson’s car had pulled up outside the reception office.
Brook walked out of the station and back to his car. As the Ingham case was largely on hold until the Ottomans could be run to ground, most of the officers involved were taking a couple of days to recharge while Forensics continued compiling the evidence against the couple. Hudson was back in Brighton now and Grant was on her way. He thought of Terri and resolved then and there to visit her as soon as the case was over. Really over.
He lit a cigarette. It was a strange feeling to be at the end of something that hadn’t ended. But for Brook the case could never end, not until he knew, so he set off for Drayfin, pulling up outside the Ottomans’ house about twenty minutes later.
He nodded to the constable at the gate and bounded up the steps to the house. Two SOCOs were still at work even at that hour and Brook exchanged a few strained pleasantries before wandering in and out of the rooms. He went to the master bedroom and pulled several pairs of shoes from the Ottomans’ wardrobe and examined them. John Ottoman was a size ten and his wife Denise a size six. Close, but not the shoe sizes of the bloody footprints found in the Ingham house. That was one thing going for them at least.
He headed down to the pitch-black garden and pulled open the shed door, although it had already been searched for the second mountain bike. He shone a small torch on the floor, looking for signs of oil. He couldn’t find any. He returned to his car and looked back at the house, which was of similar design to the Ingham and Wallis houses. A thought occurred to him and he jogged back up to the front door.
‘I suppose the loft has been searched, hasn’t it?’ he inquired of the officer standing in the hall.
‘You suppose right, sir,’ he replied through his mask. ‘Nothing. DCI Hudson even worked out they had an allotment, but there’s nothing there either.’
Brook nodded, wondering if there was a slight dig somewhere in the last sentence. Hudson seemed to achieve that easy rapport with people, especially subordinates, that Brook found impossible to master, and it was plain, outsider or not, that Hudson was already popular with Derby officers. He trudged back to his car and drove in to the station, stopping to get a coffee on the way.
At the entrance Brook spied Sergeant Hendrickson at the duty desk. With Charlton on the warpath, Brook paused until the portly sergeant was distracted by something at the rear of the duty office then walked quickly and quietly to the stairs.
The Incident Room was empty when Brook arrived. He sat at a desk and remembered the implied promise of Laura’s parting words. He took a sip of coffee and roused himself to look through the latest paperwork. It made for depressing reading. The DNA found on the fence panel in the Ingham yard had been positively matched to that from a hair found in a comb removed from the Ottomans’ bathroom.
Brook shook his head. With the couple away from home, bloodstained bikes and clothing could have been planted in their house. DNA at the crime scene was another matter.
Brook located the 999 tape and played it several times. He was forced to admit it did sound like John Ottoman.
He reread the interview notes with the butcher from Normanton who’d provided the meat for the barbecue at the Ingham house. A few card purchases for similar amounts had been followed up but no suspects identified. Not surprising. Brook was sure that The Reaper would have used cash. There was a footnote about the plastic bags used for packaging some of the meat having been discontinued three months previously. He closed the report and lifted himself to leave.
He paused, then sat back down and reopened the report. Three months? No wonder the butcher hadn’t noticed any new customers the week before the killings. Brook pulled out another cigarette but didn’t light it. There was something about the Ottomans and Mrs North that seemed significant all of a sudden, but he couldn’t bring it to mind. Then it came and, like a solved crossword clue, all the knowledge fell in a heap in his conscious mind. He leapt up and marched over to the exhibits officer’s desk and rummaged through a drawer, extracting a set of keys before quickstepping back to his car, ignoring Hendrickson’s parting sneer.
He roared through the centre of town. Ten minutes later he crossed the ring road and five minutes after that screeched to a halt outside the Ottoman house once more. He bolted back up the garden steps and into the kitchen, almost colliding with the SOCO who was finishing up.
A thought struck Brook. ‘That allotment the Ottomans have. Did they have a shed?’
‘Apparently,’ replied the officer, pulling down his mask.
‘Was there a freezer in it?’
‘A freezer? No. Just gardening equipment and a kettle.’ Brook smiled and turned towards the fridge freezer in the kitchen.
‘So this is the only freezer they’ve got.’
‘We’re just about to lock up, sir, if…’
‘One second … Bernard,’ replied Brook, having another stab at being a people person.
‘Martin,’ replied the officer tersely. ‘And like I said…’
But Brook had already yanked open the freezer and was slinging the contents onto the table. Tupperware containers with labels in a neat hand and the occasional ready meal were strewn across the kitchen table until it was emptied. ‘Vegetable lasagne, mushroom risotto, pumpkin soup, vegetable curry, vegetable chilli, ratatouille…’ Brook read. When he finished he nodded with satisfaction and started to refill the cabinet. There was no meat from the butcher’s shop in Normanton. There was no meat at all — the Ottomans were vegetarians.
Brook was encouraged. It was only circumstantial and not enough to clear them, but this was a big red flag against the Ottomans buying and handling meat to set a trap for the Inghams. The Ottomans would be unlikely to countenance the idea of storing flesh in their freezer for three months and upwards while they prepared to murder the Inghams. Being local, and assuming they could even think in those terms, the couple would more than likely purchase meats no more than a day or two ahead of time.
‘Was beginning to think you were a no-show, Mr Hera,’ said Carlson, the night manager, dropping the key into Sorenson’s spidery claw. ‘Number 7 as requested — the bridal suite. Nice and secluded,’ he added with a chuckle.
‘And all the other cabins are empty?’
‘Just like you asked,’ he grinned.
Sorenson’s black eyes burned into him and the coolness of his Siberian smile wiped the leer from Carlson’s face. Carlson plucked a sopping cigar butt from his mouth and rubbed a chubby hand around his whiskers. ‘Well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sorenson softly. ‘Do you have a rest-room I can use?’
‘Right there,’ said the man, nodding at a door in the corner of the office. Sorenson smiled his thanks and disappeared, counting out change in his hand.
Carlson loped over to the office door and, shielding his eyes from the neon above the entrance, squinted out at Sorenson’s car. A yellow-toothed grin slowly deformed his features and he returned to his reception desk, scratching his belly through his too thin T-shirt.
When Sorenson returned so did Carlson’s lascivious grin. ‘You get ever’ thin ‘you need in there, Mr Hera?’
This time Sorenson patted his breast pocket and returned his grin with a wink. ‘All set.’
Mrs Petras opened her door on the second knock and wip
ed her hands with her apron.
‘I’m sorry to call at this hour.’
‘Inspector Brook,’ she beamed. ‘Come in. I make coffee.’
‘I can’t, Mrs Petras.’ She looked crestfallen. ‘Urgent police business.’ Her face hardened. She understood duty. Brook offered her a cigarette which she accepted gratefully, taking a long pull when Brook lit it for her.
‘Do you remember seeing this woman, Mrs Petras?’ Brook brandished the photograph of Denise Ottoman.
Mrs Petras looked at it briefly. ‘Only from papers. She never see Dottie. Not see her before papers.’ Brook showed her a picture of John Ottoman for good measure but got the same result.
Brook paused, unsure of the right words. ‘Does Mrs North eat ready meals?’
‘No understand,’ she said.
‘Er, ready meals. Frozen food.’
‘Frozed. Never.’ She looked like she wanted to spit, so Brook smiled to disarm the unintended insult. ‘We proper cook. Go three times a week Eagle Centre. On free bus. We buy fresh. Young girls cook Iceland. Not me, not Dottie.’
Brook rushed back to his car. As he expected: pensioners bought fresh and cheap produce and cooked proper food. Meat and two veg. His late parents had been the same. It wasn’t just the desire to eat healthily that drove them to the corner shop or the greengrocer’s. It was also the daily balm of human companionship that drew them out of the house.
Five minutes later Brook removed keys from his pocket and opened the side door of Mrs North’s house. It opened directly into the kitchen in which Brook had previously stood, trying to turn a nagging feeling into a solid fact. Brook opened her fridge. It was empty and spotlessly clean.
This time Brook opened the small freezer compartment. It took some doing as it was frozen solid. When he finally did manage to prise open the flap, the tiny space contained what could have been a tray of ice cubes. There was no room for anything else. There could be no doubt. Nothing had been stored in that compartment for months, if not years.
Whoever had committed murder at the Ingham house had prepared long in advance, had bought meat long before it was needed and stored it, then defrosted it before offering it up to the Inghams. To do so they’d need access to a freezer. But where?
Drexler’s eyes had not left the office door all the time that Sorenson had been inside the office. McQuarry had readied her night-vision field glasses and was scanning the surrounding area for any activity. There was none.
When Sorenson re-emerged he returned to the Toyota and drove it across the lot to the farthest darkest corner, parking outside the end cabin. When the vehicle’s lights went out, Drexler found it hard to see what Sorenson was doing and nudged McQuarry for a look through the field glasses, an instruction that she ignored. Eventually the driver’s door opened and Sorenson stepped out of the vehicle, framed by the safety light, and opened the rear door.
‘There’s somebody else with him,’ said McQuarry.
‘There can’t be. We’d have seen.’ Drexler squinted across the ground. He saw a figure emerge from the rear of the car and close the door behind, extinguishing all light again. ‘You’re right. There are two of them.’
‘There must have been someone hiding in the back seat,’ said McQuarry.
‘Could it be a hostage or another victim? Drugged maybe.’
‘Can’t see any signs of it, Mike.’
‘Then maybe it’s an accomplice.’ Drexler thought for a second. ‘Maybe there are two Reapers.’
McQuarry lowered the glasses and looked over at him. ‘ You might be right.’
There was silence apart from intermittent gusts of wind. The car park was empty. Even the highway was near deserted. ‘What can you see?’ asked Drexler, laying his hand on McQuarry’s shoulder. The tension had pitched his voice a semitone higher.
‘See for yourself,’ she said, nodding towards the cabin.
At that moment the door opened and Drexler was able to see Sorenson illuminated against the bright room. The other person was already inside, carrying something in either hand. Maybe a small case. Drexler didn’t get a look as Sorenson closed the door behind him.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Drexler, a wave of frustration washing over him. He looked across at McQuarry’s arched eyebrow as she removed her binoculars.
‘We wait.’
Drexler opened the door. ‘I’m going in. He could be slaughtering someone as we speak…’
‘Mike! We wait,’ insisted McQuarry.
After a few seconds’ hesitation, Drexler pulled the door closed.
As Brook switched on the computer back in the Incident Room, a sense of dread began to overtake him. Two years ago The Reaper had murdered the Wallis family. The preparations were thorough and Brook had concluded that Sorenson must have spent time in the area. But, try as they might, they’d never discovered where the killer might have stayed. They’d scoured the local hotels and B amp;Bs but found no trace.
Eventually Brook had concluded that Sorenson had probably stayed somewhere out of town. After Brook was suspended from the inquiry, the question hadn’t been pursued and certainly had never been answered. But now the knot in Brook’s stomach was telling him that Sorenson had property in Derby. Rented or otherwise, it would explain so much about the preparations for both Reaper killings in the city.
He started with estate agents, listing then emailing all those he could find on the internet. He asked about rentals and purchases pertaining to the name Sorenson. Then he noted down as many telephone numbers as he could find for follow-up in the morning.
But two years ago Sorenson had been using a false identity. He’d shown a driver’s licence in the name of Peter Hera when hiring a van to deliver pizzas to the Wallis home. So Brook emailed the estate agents, again asking the same question but with the new name.
Brook had an idea. If a property had been purchased before the Wallis murders, the name might have found its way onto the voters’ register. He searched for the electoral roll and fed the same two names into the search bar. Nothing. As usual, Sorenson wasn’t making things easy for him.
He tried again, this time using Drexler’s name. Still nothing. Disheartened, he turned the computer off. He got up to go but found Chief Superintendent Charlton blocking the doorway.
‘Sergeant Hendrickson said you were here.’
‘Yes, sir. I was just on my way to see you, sir.’
‘I’ll bet you were — despite being too busy to answer your phone.’
‘Have you been ringing me, sir? It’s been out of order for some time.’
Charlton eyed him with studied contempt. ‘Modern policing is all about communication, Brook, but I can see I’m not getting through to you.’
Brook noted the absence of his title and tried not to smile. ‘Sir?’
Charlton looked up at Brook, trying to inject some swagger into his voice. ‘I suppose you’ve heard by now.’ Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘The Ottomans were arrested in France this evening. They’ll be on a flight to East Midlands Airport tomorrow afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass that titbit on to Brian Burton, no matter how many drinks he offers you.’
Brook stiffened. He could hold his hand up to mistakes, but corruption was a different matter and for a second he wondered whether to put Charlton on the floor. It passed swiftly but Charlton must have detected the change in Brook’s demeanour because his manner became hesitant.
‘Well. Suffice to say you’re not going to be involved with the case any further. Take a week off. Don’t come to the Incident Room again. Don’t talk to other officers on the inquiry. Clear?’
Brook nodded, declining to speak. His placid response stirred Charlton’s superiority complex once more and his lip curled. ‘You know, I was warned about you, Brook. There’s no future for your kind in the Force, certainly not in a division I’m running. Think on that.’ He turned smartly on his heel.
‘Where were the Ottomans arrested, sir?’
Charlton half turned. ‘In P
aris — they were spotted in an Irish pub by some ex-pats.’ Brook couldn’t suppress his amusement this time. ‘Something funny?’
‘An Irish pub,’ Brook nodded. ‘Right. If I was a hunted serial killer, that’s where I’d go.’
Twenty minutes later, the door to the cabin opened. Drexler nudged McQuarry who sat up and opened her eyes. They watched intently. This time Drexler had the night-vision glasses. Sorenson emerged from the cabin alone. He still had on the overcoat and gloves he had been wearing when he’d arrived. There didn’t seem to be any sign of blood. He looked around before flicking off the light and pulling the door closed. As far as the agents could discern, he did not say anything to whoever remained inside.
Sorenson returned to the Toyota and started the ignition. Drexler reached for the keys but found McQuarry’s hand on his.
‘Let’s wait a while.’
Drexler looked at her, saw the sense in her suggestion and sank back onto his seat, breathing deeply.
‘You gotta take it easy, Mike. It’ll happen. You can’t force these things.’
Sorenson drove to the reception office and pulled up. He stepped out and strolled into the building.
Chapter Twenty
Brook got home late again that night. For once he’d stopped at the Coach and Horses and just managed to catch last orders. He sat in the snug there, nursing a pint, thinking about the Ottomans. He remembered Laura Grant asking him why Ottoman had spared Jason. An even more difficult question, he thought to himself, was why had he, Brook, spared him? The little thug had killed his cat. Smashed its head to a pulp and left the little mite for Brook to find. And there he was in the Inghams’ yard, helpless before him. Why hadn’t he done it? He didn’t know. The Reaper had slaughtered everyone else. There was no one to stop him.