Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  There was a pause at the other end of the line.

  ‘The thing is, Ford is four weeks from retirement.’

  ‘By my calculation, that still makes him a serving officer.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ said Noble. ‘If we’re looking at a series, Frank will have to hand it off, so the Chief Super is standing him down. He wants you on it from the get-go.’ Brook winced but didn’t react. Noble often teased him over his aversion to transatlantic vocabulary. ‘He says you’re his go-to guy.’

  Brook sighed. ‘And is Chief Superintendent Charlton American?’

  ‘Feel free to ask him.’

  ‘How sure are you about the MO?’

  A hesitation. ‘Certain.’

  ‘You don’t sound certain.’

  Noble hesitated again. ‘Method is close but there’s a difference in victimology. The latest couple had been married for over fifty years.’

  ‘Fifty years?’ exclaimed Brook. ‘Last month’s victims were gay men, John.’

  Noble sighed. ‘I know. Look, Read and Smee were added to Frank’s team while we were quiet. They think the method is almost identical.’

  ‘Think? Almost?’

  ‘Charlton wants you on board,’ said Noble decisively. ‘The thing is, Ford lost the plot last month and went overboard looking for a gay sex killer when a sexual motive wasn’t indicated. Caused a lot of bad feeling in some circles. Well, you can imagine.’ He fell silent, a tactic he’d learned from Brook, waiting out witnesses who would eventually start babbling to fill the awkward silence.

  Brook blew out a long breath. ‘Do you know how long it took to get my daughter to visit?’

  ‘Is there a prize for guessing?’ replied Noble.

  ‘John …’

  ‘Look, your leave is over in a few days. I’ve told the Chief Super I can run the day-to-day until then, but he wants you down as SIO and I knew you wouldn’t want your name on it without taking a look.’ While Brook searched for the excuse his daughter would need, Noble waited a beat before playing his final card. ‘I can call Ford. He could be here in four hours.’

  Brook emitted his one-note laugh. Ford’s reluctance to drag himself to a crime scene outside office hours was legendary in Derby CID. ‘Address?’

  Four

  The rain began to fall as Brook turned off the ring road on to the A6 towards Boulton Moor, a small outpost at the south-eastern extremity of Derby. Beyond the clump of houses clinging to the city boundary were green fields, cleaved only by the A6, heading to the A50 out to the airport and the M1 in the east and Stoke in the west.

  Brook turned on to Shardlow Lane, with its small estate of tidy modern houses and bungalows. His creaky BMW didn’t have satnav so he held the directions in his left hand but crumpled them on to the passenger seat when he saw the first squad car blocking the approach to a short cul-de-sac. Swathes of police tape were still being unravelled, cordoning off the whole street to allow room for police vehicles, scientific support cars and an ambulance.

  As Brook pulled up, he saw DS Rachel Caskey on her way back to her car, face like thunder. Spotting Brook, she glared in his direction, appearing to mutter something before angling her walk towards the BMW. Brook pretended not to notice and pressed his ID to the driver’s window. Fortunately the uniformed constable was already lifting the tape so Brook drove on and manoeuvred his battered car next to Dr Higginbottom’s sleek Mercedes.

  He glanced across at the murder house. A middle-aged man was leaning against a chunky SUV, his face ashen, eyes locked into a thousand-yard stare. DS Rob Morton stood next to him, prompting him with questions, jotting down mumbled answers into a notebook, trying to load sympathy into his probing expression. A second later, Morton snapped his notebook closed and touched the man on the arm, guiding him towards DC Smee and a nearby patrol car.

  Another citizen’s thoughts forever scarred by sudden and inexplicable violence.

  Brook stepped from his car and headed for the small semi-detached redbrick. Scene-of-crime officers in protective suits and blue gloves walked back and forth along the front path of a tiny garden through an open door, carrying equipment in and bagged exhibits out.

  ‘I hope you’re happy, Inspector.’

  Brook turned to see Caskey advancing towards him. She was medium height, a little younger than Noble, wearing an expensive suit and cream gabardine. Brook stared impassively into her brown eyes. ‘Sergeant?’ he said, enunciating clearly. He wasn’t a great believer in hierarchy, but when confrontation reared its head, he found it a useful ally.

  Caskey hesitated, appearing to sense that a confrontation with a senior detective wasn’t the best career move. When she spoke, her voice was controlled, making the point, no more. ‘I wondered if you were happy about taking over DI Ford’s case.’ Brook prompted her with an eyebrow. ‘Sir.’

  ‘Two people are dead, Sergeant. How happy should I be?’

  She hesitated. ‘This’ll finish him, you know.’

  Brook held Caskey’s gaze. He’d heard good things since her transfer from Kent a couple of years before. ‘Lucky him.’

  Caskey considered another remark but apparently thought better of it, turning without further ado and trudging silently back to her car. On the way she glanced at the small knot of onlookers gathering at the edge of the tape and was held for a second. Brook followed her gaze to a burly, well-built man in his late thirties dressed in tatty, paint-stained fatigues and combat jacket. The man noticed Caskey looking, lowered his head and began to move away. Caskey hesitated, then apparently came to a decision. She glanced back at the murder house before ducking into her car and driving away.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brook watched the man in the fatigues pause before returning to the tape, shoulders hunched over against the drizzle, hands buried deep in pockets. He made a mental note, then turned to run a practised eye over the crime scene, the front yard gravelled for low maintenance, the modern front door made of generic uPVC for the same reason. A grey plastic wheelie bin sat on the pavement outside the property.

  ‘Sir.’ DC Anka Banach held out a protective suit and overshoes.

  ‘Angie,’ replied Brook, taking off his jacket to toss in the car and pulling on the oversized suit with difficulty. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘Victims are Albert and Edith Gibson, married pensioners, both late seventies, both shot to death.’

  Brook sensed something unsaid. ‘That it?’

  ‘DS Noble said not to give impressions before you’d clocked the scene.’

  ‘You’re on probation. Call it on-the-job training.’

  Banach sighed. ‘It’s a strange one. They’re just sitting there like they’re watching TV, two frail pensioners in a Derby suburb shot through the heart, execution-style. It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Any sign of a struggle?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Robbery?’

  ‘Nothing obvious. The whole thing seems excessive.’

  Brook pulled on the overshoes and stood, panting from the effort. ‘You’d be happier if they’d been beaten with a crowbar and their house ransacked.’

  ‘No, but at least we’d know we’re looking for a local addict or a burglar with a short fuse.’ She shrugged. ‘It jars, that’s all.’

  ‘How much violent death have you seen?’ said Brook.

  ‘Apart from Animal Farm last year, not a lot. My share of stiffs on the beat, obviously, especially the elderly, sealed in their homes until a neighbour realises the curtains have been closed for weeks.’

  ‘I used to hate those,’ said Brook, staring sightlessly at his own past and all too plausible future. ‘My first year in west London, there was an old couple. The husband had died but his wife wouldn’t leave him. She just sat with him holding his hand – not eating or drinking, literally willing herself to death rather than face life without him.’ He nodded at the house. ‘They smartly dressed?’

  ‘They are,’ nodded Banach, impressed. ‘Clutching photographs of loved ones
on their laps.’

  ‘Then they made some kind of peace with the world. Maybe they had health problems.’

  ‘It’s not a murder-suicide.’

  ‘Pity. At least that way they’d be making their own choices.’

  ‘That’s very harsh,’ replied Banach.

  ‘Is it? You see as many bodies as I have, Angie, you realise that any kind of choice about how your life ends is like winning the lottery.’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely murder. For one thing, the weapon’s gone, and—’

  ‘That’s plenty, Angie,’ smiled Brook. ‘Leave me some work to do.’ Looking beyond her, he scoured the throng of local bystanders watching from beyond the tape. The young chatted excitedly, filming and taking pictures; the old were sombre and uneasy – their natural state. The man Caskey had spotted stood out, staring hard at the house, concentration unwavering. ‘How’s the canvass going?’

  ‘See no evil, hear no evil,’ replied Banach.

  ‘Keep at it. See if anyone gives off the vibe. And keep an eye on those hanging off the perimeter, particularly the guy with the zombie stare at two o’clock.’

  She glanced briefly at the onlooker, then back at Brook. ‘Fatigues? Got him.’

  ‘If this is part of a series …’

  Banach nodded. ‘Serials like to inflate their sense of superiority by watching us chasing our tails.’

  ‘You’ve been reading books,’ teased Brook.

  ‘Can’t support your goddaughter on a DC’s salary.’

  ‘And how is the lovely Katja?’ beamed Brook.

  ‘I’ve got pictures, if you’d like.’

  ‘You know me so well,’ he replied, marching quickly towards the house.

  Brook stood with Noble at the edge of the brightly decorated room, applying a eucalyptus gel under his nostrils. He stared unblinking at the elderly couple, seated in adjacent armchairs, torsos stiffened by death, hands and arms linked as much as pain had allowed, heads almost touching in an unintended declaration of affection. Their necks and faces were starting to bloat from decomposition, mouths slackened and eyes milky from the post-mortem breakdown of potassium in the red blood cells. What skin Brook could see was white from blood loss but with a tinge of yellow and green. This, and the ripening smell, suggested the Gibsons had lain undiscovered for at least a couple of days, probably longer.

  And Banach was right. The pair had dressed smartly, Mr Gibson wearing shirt and tie, his wife a bright floral dress, their ensemble ruined only by the blood, now bone dry on their clothes.

  Scene-of-crime officers drifted in and out of his vision, oblivious to spectators as they did their work without fuss, ticking off their allotted tasks until Dr Higginbottom, the police surgeon, had finished his examination and they could swarm back round the victims, filming and photographing the corpses before bagging hands and heads.

  ‘Restraints?’ asked Brook softly.

  ‘Not when we got here, and there are no marks or bruises to suggest any,’ said Noble. ‘They wouldn’t have needed much restraining.’

  ‘Any clue on make of gun?’

  Noble shook his head. ‘None. The entry wounds don’t look exotic, though, and if it’s the same as Breadsall, we’re looking at a standard semi-automatic. Maybe a Sig or a Glock,’ he added, before Brook could ask.

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. Entry?’

  ‘No signs of a breakin. We’re assuming front door access for now. It was unlocked, the key still in the lock.’

  ‘So they let the killer in,’ nodded Brook.

  ‘Unless they kept their door unlocked and he just marched in, but the son says they were security-conscious.’

  ‘Someone they knew, then, or a neighbour with a grudge and access to a gun,’ said Brook. ‘Easy enough to check. Any known villains or ex-military in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘Cooper’s doing background. But they wouldn’t let in a neighbour they didn’t get on with, would they?’

  ‘Easy enough to insist with a weapon,’ said Brook. He looked at the Gibsons, dressed in their cheap finery, and frowned. ‘But this is no grudge killing. Too clinical. Whoever did this didn’t hate them, and if I had to decide right now, I’d say he probably didn’t even know them.’

  ‘Which makes access more problematic,’ nodded Noble. ‘Unless he’s faking officialdom. Some random con artist holding a cereal-packet sheriff’s badge. Or maybe council, utilities, postman.’

  ‘I doubt the killer called during daylight hours.’

  ‘And a con artist would be robbing the place,’ nodded Noble.

  ‘No sign of that?’

  ‘Nope. There’s even an envelope full of cash in the bedroom.’ He hesitated.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I had a quick scan of the main points from the Breadsall killing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The post-mortem found the killer used handcuffs. Once the victims were secured, they were tied with rope and the cuffs removed,’ said Noble.

  ‘It’s not hard to get access to police kit these days,’ concluded Brook. Noble shrugged. ‘Any similar bruising on Mr and Mrs Gibson’s wrists?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Noble. ‘It would be showing by now.’

  ‘Remind me about the Breadsall vics,’ said Brook.

  ‘They were younger. Both male. Not spring chickens, but a lot fitter. The Gibsons would have been easier to handle.’

  ‘Any hints from Higginbottom on time of death?’ asked Brook.

  ‘No, but it smells like three days to me.’

  ‘Which would put it at the weekend,’ said Brook. ‘What about relatives?’

  ‘Just their son,’ said Noble. ‘He owns the property, found the bodies first thing this morning.’

  ‘I saw him outside. He looked convincingly shocked. Anything in the rest of the house?’

  ‘No sign of forced doors or windows, no drawers and wardrobes tipped out – the place is untouched.’

  ‘You mentioned cash.’

  ‘Four hundred pounds in twenties.’

  ‘Nice round figure.’

  ‘There’s some jewellery in the bedroom, watches too, though it’s mostly tinsel.’ He looked at Brook. ‘There is one weird thing, in the kitchen.’

  Brook stood at the Belfast sink and stared at the tray on the work surface. Two empty champagne flutes stood next to a half-finished bottle. He leaned in to sniff at the dregs. ‘Vintage champagne.’

  ‘You’re a champagne expert now.’

  ‘It says so on the bottle,’ replied Brook, before catching Noble’s grin. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘So what do you think – a celebration of some kind?’

  ‘Looks like it. But was it for the victims?’ Brook noticed the third flute, washed and upturned on the drainer. ‘Or the killer?’

  ‘Could have been opened before the attack.’

  ‘Three glasses, two Gibsons,’ said Brook.

  ‘So maybe all three raised a glass before the deed.’

  Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘Last month?’

  ‘Nothing about champagne in the reports I read,’ replied Noble.

  ‘Bag the glasses for the labs in Hucknall, John. Maybe the killer didn’t wash his flute as thoroughly as he should.’

  Noble gestured to one of the SOCOs. ‘Okay, Col.’

  While Col bagged the washed glass and labelled the bag, Brook moved to a calendar on the back of the kitchen door. With a gloved hand, he examined the sparse entries for October beneath a wide-eyed tabby kitten, before checking September and August in turn. He read each handwritten entry then leafed forward to November. ‘Nothing here except doctor’s appointments. Wedding anniversary end of August, no birthdays.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be. The dates are months away,’ said Noble. ‘Their birth certificates are upstairs in a drawer. Marriage, too.’

  ‘No cause for champagne on there. They might have been celebrating absent friends or relatives.’

  ‘Or something unofficial, something not on the calendar, like
the anniversary of their first meeting.’

  ‘Possible,’ said Brook. ‘But that’s expensive fizz.’

  ‘And apart from half a bottle of sherry, not another drop of alcohol in the house,’ said Noble. ‘I’m betting the killer brought it. Maybe the glasses as well.’

  Brook’s eye was caught by a small board sporting four cup hooks, one of which held a padlock key. The back door was locked, with the key in the lock. ‘This key was in the lock when we arrived?’

  ‘Same as the front,’ said Noble. ‘But the front door was unlocked when the son arrived.’

  ‘According to him.’ Noble shrugged his agreement. ‘He has his own key?’

  ‘He owns the property, so yes,’ said Noble. ‘Didn’t need to use it, though.’

  ‘And he walked in on his parents shot to death,’ said Brook.

  ‘Right. He had the stare on him, but he held up well enough,’ answered Noble. ‘He was able to answer questions, and at some length.’ Brook shot him an enquiring glance. ‘Just saying.’

  ‘It’s not the son,’ declared Brook. They returned to the lounge and Brook noticed a SOCO dropping a remote control into an evidence bag. He turned to Noble for an explanation.

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Noble gravely. ‘Gibson Junior said music was playing when he walked in.’

  ‘He turned it off?’ asked Brook.

  ‘So he says. Natural enough.’

  Brook’s mouth tightened. ‘What kind of music?’

  ‘Classical.’ Noble was tentative with his next utterance. ‘Reminded me of the Reaper. The music, the element of celebration at the kill.’

  Brook nodded at the Gibsons. ‘The Reaper only killed petty criminals and their offspring, and he preferred a scalpel to a gun.’

  ‘Prefers a scalpel,’ said Noble, trying to catch Brook’s eye. ‘He’s still out there, remember.’

  ‘As you say,’ replied Brook, turning away. ‘But it’s not the Reaper. He left messages for us. In blood.’

  Noble shrugged. ‘His last recorded kill was in Derby.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Brook. ‘Check with the neighbours, see if the Gibsons were a public nuisance and get Cooper to check if they have form.’