Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  ‘And no one believed him?’

  ‘Of course no one believed him, Terri. He’s insane. Also he had a book about the Reaper case on his shelf with passages underlined – the passages mentioning Floyd Wrigley and his family.’

  ‘Okay. If he’s insane, why isn’t he in a psychiatric hospital?’

  ‘It’s complicated.’

  Terri pulled a face. ‘Lucky I’m a graduate, then.’

  Brook exhaled a long breath. ‘Sometimes it’s just easier to lock the door and throw away the key. And this man wasn’t about to complain. He’d been in self-imposed solitary confinement for most of his life.’

  ‘But while he’s in prison, he’s not getting the help he needs.’

  ‘He’s getting treatment,’ said Brook. ‘But you’ve got to understand, people like him are difficult to assess before they go to trial. They appear intelligent and articulate but their world view is that the rest of us are insane for not thinking as they do. It makes it difficult for them to contemplate that there might be something wrong with them and they invariably get their briefs to dispute the pre-trial diagnosis. In the end it’s simpler just to lock them up and never let them out.’

  ‘That’s medieval.’

  ‘It is what it is.’

  ‘What if there was a chance of a cure?’

  Brook smiled. ‘If it’s a choice between the misdiagnosis of an ambitious doctor armed with the latest psychobabble and locking people like Mullen away for ever, I know which option allows me to sleep at night.’

  ‘But you don’t sleep at night.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Terri shook her head. ‘I thought you were more progressive than that.’

  ‘Being at the sharp end, seeing what I’ve seen, has a way of eroding whatever liberal instincts I once espoused,’ answered Brook. He patted the letter in his pocket. ‘This is a man who buried young boys alive in a makeshift coffin until he was ready to kill them and have their ghosts keep him company for eternity.’

  ‘Shit. I had no idea.’

  ‘There’s no reason you should.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me these things?’

  ‘To protect you,’ said Brook. ‘These people, the crimes they commit … I can’t share that kind of ugliness. I’m trained to soak it up and deal with it the best I can so you don’t have to. It’s my job.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I know,’ said Brook. ‘Even with my training and experience, there was a time when I couldn’t handle what I was seeing and my mind was nearly destroyed.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now it’s easier,’ he said softly. ‘But I’ll never forget the sights I’ve seen. And it would be wrong if I did.’ He touched a finger to his head. ‘I have to carry those visions like scars. They’re a memorial every bit as much as Auschwitz. And in a way, that’s why people like Mullen and the Reaper do what they do. They want to make that mark on history. They want someone to remember them. People like me are the custodians of what they’ve done so ordinary people don’t have to see, don’t have to be exposed to the horror.’

  Terri leaned over to him, the blanket falling from her shoulders. She put her arm round his neck and kissed his cheek.

  Two hours later, Brook washed his hands and returned to the George’s stone-flagged dining room, its open log fire beginning to die down though still radiating a soporific heat. As he passed the bar area, he waggled a hand towards the waitress who’d served their lunch. Returning to the table, he saw that Terri had ordered a second glass of wine.

  ‘I thought we’d finished.’

  ‘I fancied a digestif.’

  Brook decided this was as good a time as any to broach the subject. ‘Terri, you’re drinking too much.’

  ‘What?’ She smiled pityingly at him. ‘It’s just a glass of wine, Dad.’

  ‘No, it’s a second large glass of wine at lunchtime, a couple of hours after you finished sleeping off the two and a half bottles you drank last night. And as far as I can tell, the only activity you’ve had this morning is making yourself a cup of coffee and opening two more bottles of wine for tonight.’

  ‘You left out poking my nose into your private correspondence,’ she added, her voice clipped, her eyes fierce.

  ‘Don’t change the subject.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said, reaching for the glass and downing a large gulp. ‘You’re right. I drink too much. It’s because I’m from a broken home.’

  The response Brook could never counter, only sidestep. ‘So are thousands of others who don’t have your gifts and advantages.’

  ‘Advantages? You mean the guilt money you and Mum showered me with?’

  ‘Guilt money? Is that what you think? Any guilt your mother and I carry about our relationship is between the two of us. We never let it affect how we behaved towards you after we separated. And because we had money, you wanted for nothing. What else should parents spend their money on, if not their kids?’

  ‘So I should be grateful, then?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Because I didn’t want money as a substitute for a stable childhood.’

  ‘And that’s why we didn’t shower you with it, we gave it with love when you needed it. We used it to put you through university not to assuage our guilt but because you’re intelligent and wanted to go. We gave you all the love we could, even if mine was from afar. That was a constant that never waned despite the divorce. And in spite of our differences, neither of us once used you to attack the other.’ He sighed and looked around the pub, glad they were the only diners left in the room. The waitress hurried over with the bill and, sensing the atmosphere, scuttled away just as quickly. ‘At least I know I didn’t. And your mother was the same until …’

  The tears started down Terri’s cheeks and her eyes narrowed to slits. When Brook declined to finish his sentence, she completed it for him. ‘Until I stole her husband.’

  Brook hung his head. ‘God. We don’t blame you for what that bastard did. Either of us. You were fifteen, Terri. Tony Harvey-Ellis was your stepfather and he abused you.’ He sought the words least likely to inflict pain. ‘Like all abusers he was cunning and self-absorbed. He betrayed your mother and made you a party to his deceit.’ He waited for the inevitable rebuttal, but to his surprise it didn’t arrive. Terri stared forlornly at the pine table. He moved his chair closer to take her hand. ‘That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s what?’ she sobbed.

  ‘Why you’re drinking so much, why you’re so unhappy. You’re confused. There was a time you would have insisted you were in love with him. Thrown it back at me like a rock.’ She peered up at him through the tears. ‘But now you realise what he was and you don’t love him any more. And you wonder why you ever did. That’s why it hurts.’

  ‘I know I hurt Mum. I ruined her life and she hates me.’

  ‘Your stepfather ruined her life and he would’ve ruined yours if he hadn’t drowned. And your mother doesn’t hate you. She hates herself for not seeing him for what he was. We both love you very much.’

  She wept some more and burrowed her head into his chest while Brook rubbed her back. After a while, he got her to her feet. ‘Come on. Let’s take you home.’

  Eight

  DS Noble’s heart sank as he spied Chief Superintendent Charlton pushing open the door to the darkened incident room. By the encroaching light of the corridor he noticed a rolled-up newspaper under Charlton’s arm like a cricket bat; the Chief Super looked like he’d been dismissed first ball. He seated himself at the back of the briefing and turned expectantly to listen to Noble.

  ‘Pretend I’m not here, Sergeant,’ he called from the restored gloom.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ acknowledged Noble. ‘We’re just finishing up.’

  ‘Then you can let me have the bullet points. Where’s Brook?’

  ‘On leave, sir, remember?’ Charlton’s acknowledging grunt betrayed disappointment. ‘He’ll be coming in every morning to co-ordina
te. That was the deal, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose,’ sighed Charlton.

  Noble nodded at Banach, who turned on the lights. He gestured to the assembled detectives, who dispersed to desks and phones to hunt down lines of enquiry, and moved across to Charlton.

  ‘So is it a series, Sergeant?’

  ‘We’re still getting to grips with the previous case, but the MOs look similar even if the victim profiles don’t.’

  ‘The first couple were gay.’

  ‘And the Gibsons were an elderly couple, married for years, two grown-up sons. Neighbours say they were quiet, kept to themselves and seemed devoted. No enemies. No form.’

  ‘But killed in similar fashion to the first victims.’

  ‘Sat together and shot execution-style, yes.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘Unknown.’

  ‘But Ford—’

  ‘There was no indication of a sexual motive, sir. Not so far at least.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Not without a thorough forensic look-see, but we’re pretty certain. And it seems unlikely to be a jilted lover in the Gibsons’ case.’

  ‘So Ford was barking up the wrong tree.’

  Noble hesitated, not wanting to disparage a senior officer. ‘I can’t speak to that, sir, but any attack by someone with a psychosexual disorder would almost certainly manifest itself in more obvious signs of molestation.’

  ‘And that’s missing at Boulton Moor?’

  ‘Completely. And, according to our information, at Breadsall too. No signs of disorganisation and disorder, which is the least we’d expect from the chaotic mindset of a jealous lover.’

  ‘And the most?’

  ‘Evidence of sexual violence on the victims, probably extensive.’

  ‘But the two cases are still linked. Just not in the way Frank thought.’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind until we get the ballistics report on the bullets, sir. That’ll give us a definitive connection if there is one.’

  ‘When will you be up to speed on Frazer and Nolan?’

  ‘We’re combing through the files and we’ve been watching the SOCO video. Looks similar, though Frazer and Nolan needed restraints. Handcuffs, then rope.’

  Charlton nodded. ‘Anything else I need to know before briefing the media?’

  ‘There was one point that came up in DI Ford’s inquiry, but for the moment it’s better kept in-house.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The ballistics report on the Frazer/Nolan killings showed the striations on the bullets were different. The bullets were from separate guns.’

  ‘Two killers?’ exclaimed Charlton.

  ‘Unknown but strongly indicated, and that would definitely knock the sex killer theory into touch.’

  ‘Why?’

  Noble cast around for the simplest reason. ‘Sex killers are almost always loners.’

  Charlton nodded as though Noble’s thinking chimed with his own. ‘Was Ford aware of the ballistics report?’

  ‘He mentioned it at the Gibson scene this morning, sir,’ said Noble pointedly.

  Charlton’s facial muscles tightened. ‘I’m sorry about that circus. I couldn’t get hold of him in time.’ He slapped the newspaper into Noble’s chest. ‘And tonight’s Telegraph has all the gory details.’

  Noble shook out the paper to read the headline. LOCAL HERO STOOD DOWN FROM INQUIRY. There were two photographs of the crime scene from beyond the tape, and quotes attributed to DI Ford bemoaning his fate at the hands of Brook.

  ‘Sir, DI Brook—’

  ‘Not his doing. I know, Sergeant. You’ll be glad to hear Ford cleared his desk thirty minutes ago. He’s on gardening leave until next month and I’ve threatened disciplinary action if he speaks out of turn again. And assuming it’s of any use, he’s to give you full co-operation on the first inquiry.’

  ‘Just the paperwork, sir. We’ll develop our own take on things from there.’

  ‘Understood,’ said Charlton. His expression soured. ‘As for Brook, what’s so important he can’t forgo his leave and immerse himself in the case with his usual unhealthy intensity? In this weather I would have thought he’d be happy to postpone his walks for a few weeks.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ said Noble. ‘His daughter’s paying him a visit.’

  ‘Daughter?’ queried Charlton.

  ‘Terri, sir,’ confirmed Noble. ‘He doesn’t see her very often.’

  ‘I see,’ said Charlton. ‘Why not?’

  Noble shrugged and held his tongue. He knew Brook wouldn’t appreciate Charlton being privy to details of his troubled relationship with his only child. Noble wasn’t supposed to know either, but he’d been able to read between the lines from past comments. Brook’s daughter was damaged.

  ‘Are you ready for the media, Sergeant?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Who else?’ retorted Charlton. ‘I’m briefing in half an hour, and if Brook’s keeping his head down, then you’re it.’

  Brook said very little that evening and didn’t comment on the two bottles of red wine that Terri gulped down during their meal. An air of unreality infected their occasional titbits of conversation. Chatting about the quality of the anchovies or the prospects for tomorrow’s weather seemed surreal after the emotional outpouring of that afternoon, and it was a relief to Brook that at ten o’clock Terri staggered off to the sofa and closed the living room door on him.

  Rather than follow his daughter into alcoholic stupor and brood about the crimes the late Tony Harvey-Ellis had inflicted on his ex-wife and daughter, Brook fired up the computer in the office. As always there was work to deflect him from the hard thoughts.

  He eased out the misshapen drawer of his desk to check his passwords on the scrap of paper buried under a mesh of pens, pencils, paper clips and drawing pins. Once it was visible, he logged on to the CID system before concealing it under the same detritus. With some difficulty, he forced the crooked drawer home.

  He started with his internal emails, clicking on the latest communication from Dr Higginbottom. He skimmed through the preliminary findings from that morning’s crime scene, learning nothing he hadn’t been told earlier.

  Next he opened Noble’s long update on the progress of enquiries. The canvass hadn’t turned up any witnesses from the estate, nor could they find a single neighbour who had a bad word to say about the Gibsons. Certainly no one knew of any enemies they might have had, and all said the elderly couple kept to themselves and lived quietly. Neither victim had a criminal record, and Noble’s suggestion that the Reaper had returned to Derby could be snuffed out in its infancy. The Reaper was a serial killer who only murdered dysfunctional families with petty criminal and antisocial tendencies – the Gibsons were the polar opposite of that victimology.

  The next-door neighbour, Heather Sampson, had finally been interviewed in her hospital bed but could also shed no light on the death of the couple next door. She hadn’t heard or seen anything suspicious and was unable to suggest a timeline for the killings.

  Brook’s iPhone vibrated and he opened a text from Noble.

  Long day. 2 things. Gibson couldn’t find his Glock, v. suspect. Plus Ford’s ballistics report says a Glock used on Frazer and Nolan. Something about shape of the rifling on bullets. Also Ford canned and on gardening leave. See me on telly? If you didn’t, don’t bother. Charlton did most of the talking. Burton complaining about Ford’s removal from case, then Charlton, bless him, gave him a kicking about the tone of his reporting re Frazer and Nolan.

  ‘Welcome to the circus, John.’

  Another text followed seconds later. PS Don’t read evening paper.

  ‘Thought we covered that,’ mumbled Brook.

  He texted back asking if Banach had identified the suspicious-looking man hanging around the crime scene that morning.

  David Fry, ex-soldier and neighbour. Some previous for violence. Still looking.

  After making tea, Brook printed out a large attachment t
o an email and began to read through DI Ford’s files on last month’s murder of two middle-aged white males in Breadsall, a well-to-do suburb on the north-eastern fringes of Derby.

  Stephen Frazer was a retired businessman and Iain Nolan a librarian at the central library. Frazer was fifty-seven years old, Nolan ten years younger, and the pair had lived together, according to statements from friends and colleagues, for nearly twenty years, though only twelve of those in Derby after relocating from Carlisle. The men were ‘self-confessed gays’ according to Ford’s sneering phrase.

  ‘Confessions are for criminals, Frank,’ muttered Brook, shaking his head.

  The pair were killed around 29 September, a month before the Gibsons, and left bound together on a sofa in their home. Bruising on the wrists of both victims was consistent with handcuffing, but when discovered they were tied with rope. They were also close enough to hold hands as they died. Whether they had undone the ropes sufficiently to achieve a final caress or their killer had bound them specifically to enable it, Brook couldn’t be certain.

  In another departure, Frazer and Nolan had had large sticking plasters stretched across their mouths, presumably to prevent them from contesting their fate verbally.

  After immobilisation, both men were shot through the heart. As Ford had implied that morning, the ballistics unit at East Midlands Special Operations Unit (EMSOU) had concluded the bullets were fired from different guns. Further, they had now identified the likely weapons as Austrian-made Glocks – the same make of handgun as Matthew Gibson’s missing firearm.

  In another parallel to the Gibson killings, the two men had lain undiscovered for days until found by the next-door neighbour, who had a key for emergencies. Not having seen them for a few days, she became suspicious at the drawn curtains and finally, after texts, phone calls and several knocks on the door had gone unanswered, let herself in to discover their bodies. Like the Gibson house, the door was unlocked. There was no mention of music or champagne in the report, so Brook made a note, then scrolled through the crime-scene photos.