Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And David Fry?’

  ‘We can’t rule him out officially,’ said Brook.

  ‘But his wife’s alive.’

  ‘You’re assuming Fry’s wife is his true love,’ said Banach. ‘Perhaps he has another object for his grief, a secret girlfriend.’

  ‘Or boyfriend,’ said Banach.

  ‘You think Fry could be gay?’ said Noble.

  ‘Why not?’ answered Banach. ‘It happens. Even in the army.’

  There was silence for a second while people absorbed the implication.

  ‘This beating that got Fry discharged,’ pondered Brook. ‘I had a case years ago in the Met. A soldier on leave stabbed another squaddie and we held on to him until the Red Caps arrived. I found out later that he got the same discharge as Fry.’

  ‘Instead of a custodial sentence?’ enquired Morton. ‘Sounds iffy.’

  ‘That’s just it. A month down the line, we heard there were mitigating circumstances. Apparently the wounded soldier had made a sexual advance.’

  ‘And so it was okay to stab him?’ enquired Banach. ‘I don’t call his sexuality a mitigating circumstance.’

  ‘Nor did we, but attitudes in the army were different, and we’re talking twenty years ago,’ said Brook. ‘The army back then took it into account. The interesting thing was, a couple of years later, the soldier who committed the stabbing got pulled for grooming a teenage boy.’

  ‘He was gay all along?’

  ‘So it would seem,’ said Brook.

  ‘It’s sad that there are still people so conflicted about their sexuality that they’ll resort to violence to avoid uncomfortable truths,’ said Banach.

  ‘Could you dig a little deeper, Dave?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Cooper. ‘But the army aren’t being overly co-operative.’

  ‘At the very least flag up any incident that might have Fry involved in a significant death or severe trauma.’

  ‘Fry would know plenty of soldiers killed in Afghanistan,’ said Noble. ‘Civilians, too.’

  ‘So what are my search parameters for our mystery man now?’ asked Cooper, with a heavy sigh.

  ‘Go with the stats, Dave,’ said Brook. ‘Assume a male killer with a dead wife for now. Cross-reference with likely weapons experience, age and height, and draw up a list of possibles.’

  ‘And expand the search as we clear each category,’ concluded Cooper softly.

  ‘I still say the killer could just as easily be a grieving woman,’ suggested Banach.

  ‘We have to start somewhere,’ said Noble.

  ‘I don’t buy it being a woman,’ said Smee.

  ‘Is that so?’ sneered Banach, with a sly wink at Caskey. ‘You don’t think women are capable of cold-blooded murder?’

  ‘Of course they are, but even with a gun, Frazer and Nolan would have taken a lot of handling.’

  ‘And only men have the required strength of character?’ continued Banach, turning to Caskey for support. Caskey’s return smile was weak.

  ‘Well, no …’ began Smee.

  ‘Would you like to see how easily a woman can handle a couple of men?’ demanded Banach.

  ‘I’ll get you a shovel, mate,’ said DC Read to Smee. ‘You can dig yourself a deeper hole.’

  ‘Let’s just say the statistics tell us it’s a man,’ declared Brook, nodding at the photo array. ‘To that end, I want every person at Frazer and Nolan’s party reinterviewed. Find out who spoke to our mystery man. What sort of things were talked about? Where did he meet his hosts? What was his accent? Did he bring anything to the party? Did his mood change? When did he arrive and leave and did anyone see his car? Note down any scraps of information, however insignificant they appear.’

  ‘We asked all these questions at the time,’ said Caskey. ‘Memories are unlikely to improve.’

  Brook acknowledged with a shrug. ‘What happened with the Telegraph?’

  ‘Both dead couples put a notice in the paper,’ said Morton. ‘Frazer and Nolan in mid-July, just before their wedding, and the Gibsons at the end of August for their anniversary.’

  ‘Together for ever?’ said Noble.

  ‘Something along those lines.’

  ‘Prophetic, at least,’ said Noble.

  ‘Maybe it’s more than that,’ suggested Brook.

  ‘You mean the killer’s looking for that phrase?’

  ‘Maybe not that exact phrase, but something that echoes the sentiment that’s driving him.’

  ‘The Gibson ad was paid for by their son, Matthew,’ said Cooper. ‘Don’t know if that’s significant.’

  ‘It’s a conversation-starter,’ said Brook.

  ‘Do the Telegraph do obituaries as well?’ said Banach softly. Everyone looked at her. ‘I mean, if the killer is picking victims from the personal columns …’

  ‘Then maybe he used the paper to announce his wife’s death.’

  ‘Or husband’s,’ pointed out Banach.

  ‘It’s a thought,’ said Brook. ‘Dave.’

  ‘How far back?’ sighed Cooper, starting to look put-upon.

  ‘This wound is still raw, so for now don’t go back more than two years.’

  ‘Try annual anniversary notices for the death as well,’ said Noble. ‘Still much missed. That sort of thing.’

  ‘And prioritise anything that feels incredibly heartfelt, maybe even to the point of sickly-sweet,’ said Brook. ‘Our killer really means it, so he won’t write anything perfunctory.’

  Noble raised an eyebrow at Cooper. ‘Nothing perfunctory, Dave. Got that?’

  ‘I will when I’ve looked it up.’

  ‘So if the killer’s using the personal ads to select his victims,’ said Morton slowly, ‘how does he get from the text of the ad to a name and address? I mean, it’s one thing to pick a victim from the paper, quite another to find out who and where they are. I can’t imagine the Telegraph gives out that sort of information.’

  ‘Easy enough with a wedding party,’ said Smee. ‘Check with the church and cross-reference with the time of the service and dig from there.’

  ‘And don’t forget our suspect may already have known Frazer and Nolan,’ said Banach.

  ‘But if we’re right about the profile, he wouldn’t have known the Gibsons,’ remarked Morton. ‘So how did he get their address without asking the paper?’

  Twenty

  ‘It’s me. I need money.’ A pause, Fry’s breath steaming in the cold air. ‘That’s not enough. The police have been on to me. The next-door neighbour saw me at the house … Never mind that now, what about the money? … Five hundred? Don’t take the piss. I know where you live now, so don’t make me come out there … A grand? It’ll have to do … No, of course I won’t ask for any more. When and where?’ He checked his watch. ‘I’ll be there.’

  He rang off, then took the brand-new mobile apart and shoved the parts into the same pocket as his dormant iPhone. Sitting on the tarpaulin, he glared up at the stars winking at him from the cotton-wool sky. There was no light pollution out in the sticks, and the lights above reminded him of the amazing starscape visible from the deserts of Helmand. Melancholy invaded his features, hardening his face.

  He drained his hot drink, wiped the mug round with a leaf and broke camp. The mini-stove had cooled sufficiently to be packed, so he shook the moisture from the tarp and rolled it into a side pocket of the rucksack, the stove wrapped inside. Finally, slinging the rucksack over his shoulders, he straddled his Norton and plotted his way through the gloom back to the road. The dark patch beneath the engine caught his eye and he knelt with some urgency to run a couple of fingers over the stain. The leak was getting worse.

  A second later the Norton coughed into life with a pungent belch. Without turning on his lights, Fry chugged along the path next to the river until he picked up the rudimentary lane that would take him back to the main road.

  Despite the late hour, the incident room was still a hive of activity, so Brook slipped away
and headed for the office he shared with Noble, pleased to find it dark and deserted. He turned on his iPhone and dialled a number from a small address book in his desk, hesitating before he flicked at the green call icon.

  ‘Hello?’

  Brook heard laughter in his ex-wife’s voice. ‘Amy? It’s me.’ There was silence at the other end of the line, though he could hear muffled conversation and conviviality in the background. ‘I’m sorry. I’m interrupting something.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s Terri.’

  Panic invaded Amy’s voice. ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘As far as I know. That’s why I’m ringing you. She came to stay for a few days, but since then when I’ve tried to get in touch she won’t return calls.’

  ‘What happened? What did you say to her?’

  ‘Nothing. But when she visited, she was … she seemed very unhappy, drinking herself to sleep every night.’

  ‘And you picked her up on it, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s not healthy, Amy. We’re talking about three bottles of wine a day.’

  ‘Ever thought that might be just when she sees you?’ Brook bit down on his instinctive reply. ‘Sorry. Out of order. I had noticed last time she was down.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Nothing. She’s having a tough time but she’ll work through it. You’ll see.’

  ‘You sound very sure.’

  ‘Terri’s an intelligent girl.’

  ‘That’s part of the problem,’ said Brook. ‘She thinks too much.’

  ‘Wonder where she gets that from.’

  ‘Did you also know she’d moved out of her flat?’

  A pause. ‘In Manchester. Yes, I did. She gave up her job, too.’

  ‘She told you?’ exclaimed Brook.

  ‘I’m her mother.’

  Brook bit his lip. ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘Bored, I expect. You always said she was overqualified for teaching.’

  ‘I’m not worrying about a career change, Amy. I’m just wondering where she’s living and why she can’t confide in me.’

  ‘Don’t take it personally, she doesn’t confide in me much either,’ said Amy.

  ‘At least you know where she’s staying.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Believe what you like.’

  ‘Then where is she, and what’s she doing for money?’

  ‘She’s fine for money, Damen, just leave her to it. Terri’s smart. She’ll work things out.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Relationships.’

  ‘With us?’ No answer. ‘Who, then?’

  ‘I don’t know. I told you, she doesn’t confide in me.’

  ‘But you think there’s another man in the picture.’

  ‘She’s in her twenties, Damen. There’s always someone in the picture, or have you completely forgotten the search for love and acceptance?’

  Brook sighed into the phone. ‘I suppose I have.’

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Brook heard a guffaw in the background. ‘Sounds like you’re having a good time.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘I can’t do this, Damen. Goodnight.’

  ‘Take care, Amy.’

  ‘You mean don’t fall in love with another manipulative abuser.’

  ‘That’s not what—’

  The line went dead. On an impulse Brook tried Terri’s mobile again but it was still turned off, so he left the office, hurried past the busy incident room to the car park and drove out of St Mary’s Wharf into the dark night.

  Banach sidled over to Caskey at the kettle. ‘They’re quite lovable when you get to know them, Sarge.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Smee and the other DCs.’

  ‘Are they?’ said Caskey.

  ‘How are you settling in?’

  ‘It’s only temporary,’ said Caskey.

  ‘Well if you want promotion, this is the squad to be in,’ replied Banach. ‘DI Brook is great to work for, although he can be a bit brusque if you don’t give your best.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  Banach laughed. ‘The upside is you get all the credit for your work and sometimes some of his. It’s a bit of a boys’ club at times, but there’s no backbiting and we’re all on an equal footing.’ Her grin found little response.

  ‘Heart-warming,’ said Caskey, unmoved.

  ‘Sarge?’

  ‘It may be all lovey-dovey in DI Brook’s squad, but don’t ever forget, Constable, that we’re living in a man’s world.’

  ‘You’re wrong …’

  ‘Your superiors are men, aren’t they? I’m pleased you’ve made friendships that have made you forget that harsh reality, but when the chips are down, men will stick together.’

  ‘You’re my superior and you’re a woman,’ said Banach, fixing Caskey in her gaze. ‘And with you on board, we can whip them into shape.’

  ‘Isn’t that DI Brook’s job?’

  ‘Ultimately,’ said Banach. ‘But we’re all adults here and the Inspector treats us as such.’

  Caskey considered a moment. ‘I’m used to fighting for elbow room.’

  ‘Well you made a good start.’ Caskey cocked her head. ‘The profile. I’ve been with him less than a year, but I could see he was impressed.’ Caskey nodded. ‘Must have been tough.’

  Caskey raised an eyebrow, a challenge in her expression. ‘What must?’

  Banach reddened. ‘What can I say? Station gossip. No escaping it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Go on.’ Banach hesitated, so Caskey softened her tone. ‘I mean it, Angie. I’d like to hear what’s being said.’

  ‘It’s all a bit vague.’

  ‘Good.’ Caskey’s laugh was short. ‘That was the intention.’

  ‘Mystery woman, eh?’ grinned Banach.

  ‘Not any more, obviously. What have you heard?’

  ‘Just bits and pieces.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Banach could feel the force of Caskey’s probing and picked her words carefully. ‘They say your … partner was killed in a home invasion – burglary gone wrong or something – while you were at work.’

  ‘Is that what they say?’ said Caskey, refusing to confirm or deny.

  ‘I’m sorry. It must have been terrible.’

  Caskey’s eyes glazed over. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s still raw, I can tell,’ said Banach. ‘Those things you said in the briefing about feeling cheated when a loved one dies …’

  ‘It never goes away.’ Caskey smiled faintly and rubbed Banach gently on the arm to forestall any further sympathy. ‘Let’s hope you never have to find out.’

  At the end of her shift, Caskey drove home to her compact terraced house in the small town of Ripley, half an hour’s drive to the north of Derby. The bare boards of the entrance hall were leavened only by a large carpet sample of indeterminate shape, and the door slammed behind her with the kind of echo reserved for an empty property.

  Running up the bare steps to her bedroom, she changed hurriedly into jeans and a sweater from the pile of unironed clothes on a chair, aware of hunger pulling on her insides – another day without a proper meal.

  Opening the fridge in her stark kitchen, she found no fresh food, and despite rummaging amongst the jars of preserves and pesto, she couldn’t rustle up any decent leftovers. A glance at the dirty Tupperware in the sink confirmed she’d eaten every scrap of cold pasta, dry pizza crust and hollowed-out baked potato in the house, and the pile of unwashed plates, dehydrated substances adhering to the glaze, spoke of a life lived on takeaways and frozen meals.

  Apart from tins of baked beans, the cupboards and shelves were bare. She grabbed the last bruised apple from a bowl, took a few bites, then threw the rotting fruit in the bin.

  ‘It’s no good, Georgie,’ she said with a sigh. �
�I need to see you.’

  She pulled a pair of cowboy boots from a cupboard and slipped them on, then left the house to drive the short distance to Butterley Hall, the headquarters of the Derbyshire Constabulary, the presence of a firing range at the complex the deciding factor in her move to the town.

  Ten minutes later, she trotted down the steps to the range, calling a greeting to the portly uniformed sergeant behind the Perspex screen of the booth.

  ‘Back again, Rachel?’

  ‘Evening, Freddie.’

  ‘A bit later than that, my love.’ Sergeant Freddie Preston glanced at a clock behind him. ‘I’ve just turned off the fans and was on my way.’

  ‘I only need twenty minutes,’ she smiled, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice. ‘Can’t afford to get rusty.’

  ‘I’m on my own,’ said Preston. ‘No RCO.’

  ‘Lucky it’s just me to control then,’ she said, trying to seal the deal.

  Preston frowned. ‘What are you after?’

  ‘Just targets.’

  Preston studied her before gathering his armoury keys. ‘Twenty minutes and not a minute more,’ he said. ‘Some of us have got a life, you know.’

  ‘I love you, Freddie.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ he chuckled. ‘And you’re not rusty, you’re the best marksman on the books. You should stop poncing about in CID and get back to the ARU.’

  ‘I will when I’ve caught all the bad guys.’

  ‘Oooh! What are you working on, love? Something juicy?’

  ‘I could tell you, Freddie, but then I’d have to kill you.’

  ‘Teach me to ask,’ he sighed, handing her the logbook to sign, then adding his own name. He filled in the time and date, then his hand disappeared beneath the desk to buzz her in and she trotted after him towards the armoury. ‘You should bring a sleeping bag, save on petrol.’

  She contorted her face into yet another grin, paying the price of admission gladly. ‘Not a bad idea at that.’

  ‘Fancy a quick brew while you get set up?’

  ‘Love one.’

  Preston studied her. ‘You all right, Rachel? You look tired.’

  ‘New diet,’ she beamed back.

  Preston sucked in a deep breath, pulling in his stomach. ‘The dreaded word,’ he sighed, exhaling heavily. He unlocked the metal munitions door to reveal the array of ordnance, kept separate from the weapons. ‘How many?’ he asked.