by Steven Dunne
‘Happy in your skin,’ quipped Brook.
‘Confident would be a better word,’ growled Gibson. ‘But that doesn’t mean we won’t stand up and make a statement if we have to.’
‘Not confident enough to make a statement about who you spent the weekend with,’ observed Noble.
‘My domestic arrangements are none of your business.’
‘But your alibi is,’ remarked Brook. Gibson was sulky. ‘You were with your partner, I take it.’
Gibson nodded. ‘And Sean. His son,’ he added as qualification. ‘We were working on the barn. You can ask them.’
‘We will.’
‘These parties,’ said Brook. ‘Were either of them at their house?’
‘No.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘The papers said they lived in Breadsall. I think I’d remember if we’d been to the house they were murdered in.’
‘And were these parties … ?’ began Brook.
Gibson’s mouth curled into a malicious grin. ‘Spit it out, as the bishop said to the rent boy.’ Brook looked at Noble for help. ‘Were they gay orgies? That what you mean, Inspector?’
‘I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ said Brook, his face flushing.
Gibson smirked, taking pleasure in Brook’s discomfort. ‘How would you put it?’
Brook sighed. ‘I’ve no idea. I’m out of my comfort zone, I admit it. So tell me. Is there an active gay community in Derby?’
Gibson laughed. ‘You mean a scene, daddy-o? Sure. Vaguely. Like attracts like. But these weren’t sex parties and we wouldn’t go if they were. They were simply gatherings of friends, gay and straight. The sort normal people like even you could go to.’
‘I don’t go to parties,’ said Brook.
‘That’s not a surprise.’
‘We’d like the names of any partygoers you remember seeing there,’ said Noble, extracting further pictures from the envelope and spreading them out on the kitchen surface. ‘These were taken at parties in their home on Stephen and Iain’s mobile phones. We’ve identified most people in the photographs except this man.’
Gibson followed Noble’s finger to a man hidden behind a pillar. ‘I wouldn’t know him even if I could see his face properly. At their house, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘I told you, I’ve never been there.’
‘But you’d know some of the people in these shots.’
‘Faces, maybe. Mutual friends of people with whom we attended a couple of parties – wedding receptions in fact. I can give you the names of the people getting hitched and you can get a guest list from them.’
‘We’re looking for a killer, Mr Gibson. Someone who may be responsible for the murder of your parents.’
‘Nobody at the receptions we attended killed my parents,’ replied Gibson coldly. ‘Or Stephen and Iain.’
‘If you’re worried about getting your friends into trouble …’
‘None of the friends I know by name are in these photographs,’ insisted Gibson.
‘Look …’ began Noble before Brook placed a pacifying hand on his arm.
‘No names then,’ said Brook quietly. ‘But answer a couple of questions and if the answer is no, we won’t press you further.’
Gibson considered. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Did anyone at these gatherings have an argument with Stephen and Iain about anything when you were there?’
‘No.’
‘And did anybody at all – gay or straight – seem wrong to you?’
‘Wrong?’
‘Perhaps someone who gave off a vibe of hostility,’ said Noble.
‘Or even just seemed out of place,’ added Brook.
Gibson mulled it over before shaking his head. ‘Not that I noticed. They were weddings. Everyone was happy.’
‘Were any of the guests at these parties acquainted with your parents?’
Gibson laughed. ‘No.’
‘As far as you know.’
‘Knowing my parents, my answer stands. No.’
‘What about anyone with shooting experience?’ said Brook. ‘Someone you knew from the gun club, perhaps.’
‘That’s more than two questions,’ said Gibson.
‘You don’t want to answer questions to help find your parents’ killer?’ asked Noble.
Gibson sighed. ‘I didn’t see anyone I knew from the gun club, okay?’
‘What time did your parents usually go to bed?’
‘Seriously?’
‘What do you think?’ said Brook, stern now.
Gibson sighed. ‘They were never up past ten.’
‘Never?’
‘Rarely. New Year’s Eve, maybe, to hear the chimes, but that was it. They were early birds. Why?’
‘Because they let the killer in, Mr Gibson,’ said Brook. ‘And we’re fairly certain it had to be dark but that they were still up when the killer knocked on their door.’
‘Assuming he didn’t have a key,’ said Noble, pointedly.
Gibson narrowed his eyes at him. ‘So you think Mum and Dad knew their killer. Somebody from the neighbourhood?’
‘Or maybe someone pretending to be officialdom of some kind,’ said Brook. ‘So if you know anyone who may have harboured a grudge …’
‘God, no,’ said Gibson with surprising venom. ‘With all their faults they were the most obliging people you could wish to meet. Too obliging, if you ask me. Some travelling benefit bum conned them out of two hundred quid a couple of years ago after supposedly cleaning out their gutters. He can’t have been up there more than ten minutes. I went ballistic at them.’
‘Did you now?’
‘You know what I mean. Old people are an easy target for scum like that.’
‘Did you get a name?’
‘No. He came back a month later looking for more work but they repeated the script I gave them and he never showed his face again.’
‘What about someone called David Fry?’ said Noble, consulting his notebook.
A brief hesitation from Gibson. ‘Who’s he?’
‘Ex-soldier who lives round the corner from your parents,’ said Brook.
Gibson shook his head. ‘Don’t know him. Should I?’
‘No reason at all,’ smiled Brook. ‘We’re just throwing names around, looking for an angle.’
‘Names of people who know how to handle a gun, you mean.’
‘Something like that. Did your parents ever mention him?’
Gibson shook his head. ‘Anything else?’
‘As we’re here,’ said Brook, ‘what do you know about male prostitution in Derby?’
Gibson grinned. ‘Are you serious?’
‘As I’m completely out of the loop on every scene in Derby, and you being an expert in the field …’
Gibson’s nostrils flared. ‘I don’t know a damn thing about male prostitution in Derby. There’s no meat rack that I know of, but then I’m a happily married fifty-four year old so I’m not really the man to ask.’
‘What do you think?’ said Noble, when they were on the road back into Derby.
‘What I’ve thought all along,’ answered Brook. ‘It’s not him.’
‘He was a bit shifty when we mentioned David Fry.’
‘I noticed that. But that could be anything. And his partner confirmed his alibi for the whole of the weekend.’
Noble laughed. ‘What else was he going to say?’
‘It’s not Gibson,’ said Brook.
‘You’re taking that alibi seriously.’
‘I’m taking it as evidence, until we have facts to the contrary.’
‘What about the fact that the man’s completely cold? He couldn’t have cared less about his parents.’
‘Coldness isn’t a crime,’ said Brook. ‘And he made no attempt to disguise his relationship with them.’
‘And Trimble?’
‘What about him?’
‘The tattoos. Prison ink, I shouldn’t wonder.’
> Brook considered. ‘So he’s been in prison. Plenty of people have.’ Noble arched a stern eyebrow at him. ‘But check him out, obviously.’
‘You’re sure you don’t mind?’ retorted Noble. ‘I could nip back and interview him now. If he says he wasn’t in prison, we could just take his word.’ Brook rolled his eyes. ‘Do we believe Gibson when he says he didn’t know Frazer and Nolan well?’
‘Their email account backs him up,’ said Brook. ‘And they didn’t invite Gibson and partner to any of their parties.’
‘But he recognised people in the photographs.’
‘Some.’
‘So why not give us names?’
‘He doesn’t trust us to be impartial, John, and with Gibson’s past, do you blame him? Besides, we have most of the names.’
‘Not all of them.’
‘Then get the next-door neighbour to take another look. She was there.’
‘She’s hardly part of the scene. Daddy-o.’
‘We don’t have many options left.’ Brook glanced at his watch. ‘Can I leave you to chase that up?’
‘As soon as I send Gibson’s gun off to ballistics and get Cooper to check out this Trimble character so I can start punching holes in Gibson’s alibi.’
Reardon Thorogood’s eyes opened and she stared sightlessly into the dark, feeling the clammy hand of fear quicken her breathing. A noise downstairs had disturbed her light sleep and suddenly she was wide awake, senses heightened.
Sargent, a four-year-old Beauceron, dark and powerful with pointed black ears and an intelligent face, sniffed at her face with a wet nose before seeking out her hand to run a coarse tongue over her knuckles. ‘You heard it too, boy.’ She blinked herself awake in the darkness, but with thick curtains drawn tightly against the world, she was effectively blind. Her ears took up the slack and the noise came again. Downstairs, definitely. Maybe it was morning and the guys in the ground-floor offices were in.
Beginning to stir, she felt the pain in her back from sleeping on the too-soft couch. The stab of a headache behind her eyes followed. Another late night drinking herself to sleep. Another hangover. Another failure to reach her bed.
She sat up and Sargent put his paws up on to her lap. ‘Hungry?’ She glanced in the direction of the digital clock showing eleven in the morning, and her heartbeat began to slow. Office hours. She swung her feet to the floor, pausing to gather her wits.
Last night’s full ashtray assaulted her nose, and she padded softly to the windows to haul back the curtains and welcome the dull grey light of a November morning into the flat, one of two on the top floor. The branches of large trees swayed gently in the wind beneath her, the thinning canopy of leaves partially shielding the park below from view, though from her vantage point, the rest of the city was laid out before her, the Trent flowing lazily in the distance.
Sargent set up a whine at the sight of greenery through the window. ‘Walkies later, boy. Mummy can only go out when it’s dark.’
The banging of the front door knocker made her heart leap, and she rushed to the security monitor to check who was at the door. She could see nobody on the screen.
She pressed the intercom button. ‘Who is it?’ No answer, and no one appeared in the camera’s lens. ‘I know there’s someone there. Show yourself.’
Another fucking journalist looking for a human interest piece. Tragic Victim’s Tears a Year On. What was that snake’s name from the local Derby rag? Brian something.
‘I know you’re down there, Brian. The answer’s no, so go away. And don’t expect me to leave the flat any time soon, so you can tell your photographer to fuck off too.’
She headed for the kitchen, plucking the empty wine bottle from the floor as she went, but the banging resumed. Again the monitor showed no one there, so this time she opened the door of her apartment and tiptoed across the landing to the top of the staircase to look out of the casement window. Sargent tried to follow, but she pushed him back inside, guilt pulling on her gut. This was no life for an energetic young dog, cooped up indoors during daylight hours, rarely venturing out more than ten minutes a day and then often just on to the patio round the back of the house.
‘One day soon we’ll be normal again, boy. Promise.’
From the landing window, Reardon couldn’t look directly down at the front of the house because of the flat roof of the bay, but it was her best view of the outside world. If there was a strange car in the street, she’d know it. And photographers were easy to spot, lugging all that gear around.
Today, however, she could only see people going about their normal business, walking by, on their way to work, taking dogs to the park, living life. Nothing out of place. She stood upright and caught her own reflection in the window – hair lank and lifeless, falling across her puffy pale face.
Another bang on the door. Maybe it was the postman. Feeling foolish, she took a few tentative steps down the stairs and unlocked the inner door, crouching to listen.
The next crash of the knocker made her jump out of her skin. She’d not heard it in such close proximity before. She tiptoed barefoot towards the peephole, leaned in to squint through the eyepiece at the front step, then, astonished, yanked open the door.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘You frightened me half to death. Come in before someone sees you.’
Twelve
The sun came out over the Peaks on the drive out to Hartington. Normally Brook would’ve been heartened at the prospect of a walk with his daughter in the chilly afternoon sun, followed by a late lunch. But after the emotional scenes of the previous day, he had to admit he wasn’t looking forward to it.
In addition, he was beset by guilt at leaving Noble to fend for himself. Not that Noble was incapable of running the inquiry. He was a fine detective, who knew all the moves, and should have been promoted to DI long ago. Indeed it pained Brook to take comfort that his friend was consistently overlooked, because a part of him knew that when Noble’s promotion eventually happened, his own career would be over.
He was already past the age when most murder squad detectives opted for early retirement, and to continue without his friend and confidant at his side seemed unthinkable. After a sticky start, Noble had become indispensable, and together they had brought to book several dangerous killers in some of the most gruelling and intricate cases Brook had ever worked.
And this was at the core of his guilt now. Most of the inquiries he’d worked with Noble had become tests of endurance as much as brainpower, with eighteen-hour days commonplace. Brook drove himself harder than anyone in the search for justice and wouldn’t let up until he had it, pushing himself and those around him to the limit. Thus far, Noble had stood with him, sharing his privations, his lack of sleep and his obsessive search for the truth. Now that exhausting legwork belonged solely to his DS, and Brook was troubled.
Approaching on the steep little back road out of Hartington, Brook noticed that Terri’s lime-green Volkswagen wasn’t standing on the small drive at the side of the cottage.
‘Must be getting low on wine,’ he mumbled unkindly, pulling the BMW to the front of the house to leave the drive free for his daughter. He ambled towards the front porch, pausing at the entrance to run a finger over the peeling white paint. ‘Farrow and Ball, eh?’
Pushing open the unlocked glass door, he glanced at the full ashtray on the shelf, pleased that his daughter was remembering to smoke outside. As he slid his latch key into the front door, his eye fell on his muddy walking boots. Terri’s boots, which should have nestled beside them, were gone.
Moving quickly into the kitchen, he headed straight for the note on the table.
Heard you go this morning. Sorry, Dad. Better if I don’t stay. I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment and I know all this drama makes you uncomfortable. And you’re right as usual. I don’t love Tony any more. Or even his memory. I realise now what he was and what he did to me and Mum and I hate him for it. Re your comments, I’m going to t
ry and drink less but it’s not easy. Love you. Will ring at Crimbo. x
Brook hung his head and screwed the note into a ball before flinging it through the open lounge door towards the unlit wood burner in Terri’s makeshift bedroom, now shorn of her sleeping bag and rucksack. ‘Well done, Damen. You’ve pushed her away. Again.’
After a few minutes’ brooding, he made a cup of tea and slumped at the kitchen table, drawing out his iPhone. Nothing from Terri. He keyed in a brief message to her, denying his discomfort. It was a lie, but one he felt he had to tell. He followed up with You know where I am if you need me. A moment’s thought and he deleted the second part of the message with its hectoring tone and replaced it with Always here for you, darling.
After sending the text, he roused himself and prepared to leave. With Terri gone, he had no excuse to stay away from the post-mortem, and the case could now have his undivided attention. Better than sitting at home for the rest of the afternoon brooding over his faults as a father.
After boiling the kettle again and renewing his flask, he hurried through the cottage to make sure Terri hadn’t left a window open. Picking up a strong whiff of cigarette smoke, he paused at the office door. Instantly he noticed that the light on the printer was green. He felt certain he’d switched off both printer and computer after photocopying Mullen’s letter. The absence of printer paper in the feed tray drew his eye. The night before, it had been full.
He flung off his coat and sat down, grimacing as the warped drawer of the desk bit into his hip. It had been pulled out, but hadn’t been pushed fully home again. Forcing it out further, Brook stared down at the tangle of pens and pencils that had been swept aside, revealing his passwords.
‘Terri, what have you done?’
He turned on the computer and keyed in his passwords to take him to the Police National Computer with its database of millions of British crimes old and new. With details of all serious crimes solved and unsolved, any obscure particulars could be entered to seek out a match with previous offences in any part of the country. It was a tremendous resource, first mooted in the early eighties after operational errors had allowed the Yorkshire Ripper to evade capture for so long.