Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

‘She’s sure,’ said Reardon.

  ‘You’ve both been horrifically betrayed by men,’ said Brook. ‘But I’m not sure that’s enough to make either of you certain of anything.’

  ‘Well it’ll have to do for now,’ said Reardon. ‘But if our relationships upsets you …’

  ‘It doesn’t upset me,’ said Brook, shaking his head. ‘Not in the least. If Terri’s happy, I’m happy, that’s all any parent wants for their child. But does she look happy to you?’

  ‘We’ll get there.’ Reardon prepared to close the door but hesitated. ‘Is this about the letter Terri showed me?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘Inspector, could that man be right? Is it possible Luke Coulson didn’t kill Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Edward Mullen is insane,’ said Brook, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘Terri should never have read that letter, and she certainly shouldn’t have shown it to you.’

  ‘I wish she hadn’t.’ She waited a beat. ‘So you think he’s wrong about Luke? Because Ray may be a cold-hearted bastard, but the way Mum and Dad—’

  ‘Anything Mullen says should be treated with extreme caution,’ said Brook. ‘Men like him – lifers – like to play games. It’s the only fun they get.’ Reardon nodded, satisfied. Brook looked round at his car. ‘I should go.’

  ‘You mustn’t blame Terri for stealing the files,’ said Reardon. ‘She thought she was helping me. Will she get into trouble?’

  ‘She used my name.’ Brook smiled faintly. ‘So no.’

  ‘But you will?’

  ‘My boss might think I’ve lost my marbles again, but that’s nothing new.’ Brook flashed a look at her to see if she understood the implication of what he’d said. It seemed she did. ‘You could get in trouble, though, just by having the files. You should destroy them.’

  Reardon licked her lips. ‘Wait here.’ She disappeared up the stairs and returned a moment later, handing Brook a plastic bag full of A4 papers. ‘Here. I don’t want the bloody things. They … remind me.’ Brook looked inside the bag. ‘It’s all there – reports, photographs, the lot.’

  He took the bag, but hesitated. ‘Terri mentioned a car crash six months ago.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The brakes failed and I crashed into a wall,’ replied Reardon. ‘Why?’

  ‘She thought …’

  Reardon nodded. ‘So did I. But you’re right. Ray can’t come back to Britain. It makes no sense.’ Brook turned away, but was drawn back by Reardon’s voice. ‘She’s quite a girl, your daughter.’

  Brook managed a smile. ‘No thanks to me.’

  ‘Don’t be fooled,’ said Reardon. ‘She’s very proud of you, talked about you all the time at uni. All the cases you worked on, all the killers you caught. She loves you very much.’

  Twenty-One

  Brook opened his cottage door just before midnight and dumped his flask and laptop on the table with the plastic bag full of photocopied files. He went to make tea but found he’d run out of milk so poured himself a small malt whisky topped up with a large splash of water instead. Taking a sip, he slumped at the table and drew out his iPhone to tap out a message.

  Every time we’re together we argue, Terri. I know it’s my fault but it’s because I love you, because I want what’s best for you and I hate to see you unhappy. When you’re ready to give me another chance, I’ll be here. x

  With a heavy heart, he sent the text into the ether, took another sip of whisky and composed a message to Cooper.

  Dave, can you find details of a car crash involving Reardon Thorogood about six months ago? Also find out if Ford requested East Mids car park film for Black Oak Farm dates. Either side if possible. Email immediately please.

  Cooper acknowledged almost instantly, then Brook turned his attention to the bag of Black Oak Farm papers Terri had copied. He emptied them on to the table and split them into two neat piles – photographs and reports, including the forensic team’s findings. As he’d seen the photographs before, he drew the larger stack of statements towards him and began to divide them up. After a few minutes he had three piles of documents in rough chronological order – statements from Reardon Thorogood and attending officers, post-mortem findings and forensic reports.

  He’d only read the PM reports once before, and then only fleetingly, as cause of death for all three victims was not in dispute. He read methodically but didn’t learn anything new. Core body temperature indicated that Mr and Mrs Thorogood had died between twelve and one o’clock on the afternoon in question. Both died from a combination of blood loss and organ failure. Arterial damage in the neck and heart for both victims was extensive.

  The sheet for Jonathan Jemson told a similar story. His fatal injury was the neck wound inflicted by Coulson, and Dr Petty had noted the frenzy in the attack. When Jemson assaulted Reardon in front of Coulson, he triggered an unexpected savagery in his former schoolmate that cost him his life. Jemson’s throat was cut from behind, his windpipe and carotid artery severed. Reardon Thorogood had been drenched in arterial spray as Jemson collapsed on top of her in his death throes.

  Moving down the page, Brook tried to compare descriptions of the wounds against the photographs, but Terri’s black-and-white printouts, taken from his cheap home printer, were inadequate, so he padded through to the office to retrieve the folder of identical full-colour crime-scene photographs given him by Cooper. He checked them against the black-and-white photographs to make sure they were all there, then proceeded to examine them against the written reports.

  He thumbed down to the colour pictures of Jemson, his trousers around his knees, slumped forward and lifeless. He’d struggled briefly against Coulson’s fatal attack but had been hampered by his state of undress and had died where he was attacked, bleeding out comprehensively as his brief, useless life had shuddered to a close, the shock on his face surviving his departure from the corporeal world.

  In the same set of colour photographs, Brook retraced Coulson’s steps to the murder of the Thorogoods and gazed briefly at the blood-drenched couple. Moving past the Jemson shots, he paused over a mundane-looking pair of photographs he hadn’t really registered before when riffling through the black-and-white copies. Perhaps the absence of vivid bloodstaining had caused him to overlook them amongst the surrounding gore. Both shots were of barely visible blood smears on the cream carpet of Reardon’s bedroom.

  One of the shots was a close-up next to a numbered yellow evidence marker, the other a longer shot to establish location within the room. The smears were about three feet from the bedroom window, some way from the bed and the rigid, blanched corpse of Jonathan Jemson.

  Brook put the pile of colour photographs to one side and picked up Terri’s black-and-white printouts, thumbing through them to make sure the same two images were there. He found them sandwiched between the images of Mr and Mrs Thorogood’s lifeless bodies and shots of Jemson’s bloodless remains. In black and white the two photographs hadn’t been especially striking, particularly as blood spatter in most of the other images was spectacular, to say the least.

  He placed the two photographs back into the pile and counted them. There were the same number of black-and-white shots as colour – all were accounted for. He did the same with the written reports. As promised, Reardon had given back everything Terri had stolen from the PNC database. His daughter was now beyond the reach of criminal charges.

  Relieved, he flicked through the papers to find the reports detailing with forensic examination of Reardon’s bedroom. He scanned down the page for the relevant number on the evidence marker. Don Crump had analysed the blood smear: The sample (Evidence Marker 7) was found to be the blood of Mrs P. Thorogood. Likely transference from kitchen via perpetrator’s (LC) footwear.

  Brook checked the close-up shot again. It didn’t look like a footprint. Then again, Coulson’s shoes had left clear footprints on the hall carpet on the way from the kitchen to the bedroom, so perhaps a less generou
s trace after such abundant transference was only to be expected. The real question thrown up was why, after attacking and killing Jemson, had Luke Coulson walked round his dying friend towards the window? Signalling to Ray?

  He put the pictures aside for a minute and thought about it before shaking his head. The same objections he’d raised before still applied. If Ray was there, he would’ve acted when things began to go wrong.

  Cross-checking Reardon’s lengthy statement about events in the bedroom, Brook could find no mention of Coulson being anywhere but the route from the bedroom door to Jemson, at the bottom of the bed, and back again. She made no reference to him crossing the room to go towards the window. He made a reluctant note to ask her about it if the opportunity presented itself, aware that vast experience had shown that looking for logical behaviour from someone who had just killed another human being was often the worst way to approach a puzzle.

  Next, he re-examined the PM findings on the Thorogoods, this time comparing them against the pictures of the devoted couple lying dead in their garish red kitchen, framed by a vast pool of drying blood.

  Dr Petty’s notes showed that Mrs Thorogood had been stabbed in the heart and neck – both major traumas that would have proved fatal on their own. She also had slash marks on her hands from where she had grabbed at the knife in self-defence. All the injuries were on the front of her body. She’d known she was under attack.

  Mr Thorogood had fewer wounds, only one of which would have proved fatal – a deep cut across his windpipe. Being the stronger, and the main threat to Coulson, it was only natural that he’d been attacked first, though he’d died after his wife. Coulson had been content to incapacitate Thorogood before turning his attention to a more prolonged attack on Mrs Thorogood.

  Then, with his wife dead or dying, and despite massive blood loss and physical trauma, Thorogood had summoned enough will and strength to crawl across the floor, through the expanding pool of blood, to die in his wife’s arms. Brook stared at the couple’s final resting place.

  ‘Together for ever,’ he said. ‘Just like the Gibsons. Just like Frazer and Nolan.’ He stared at the image of the two victims. ‘Different time frame, different weapon, different MO.’ He took another sip of whisky. ‘Different killer.’

  He thumbed through the rest of the kitchen photographs, comparing them against any forensic findings relevant to a particular shot. Most needed no explanation, such as the photograph of the dead landline dangling from its cradle, or Mrs Thorogood’s drained mobile lying inert on the floor.

  Brook pushed aside the papers and drank the final swig of watered-down whisky. He swilled it around his mouth before swallowing, revelling in the unfamiliar heat. For a few seconds he considered turning in, but memories of his spat with Terri came flooding back and he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. He glanced at the whisky bottle, then, turning his head against oblivion, dragged himself out to the car and set off back to St Mary’s.

  Twenty-Two

  Caskey turned the key in the lock and stepped softly into the dark kitchen. Given the lateness of the hour, she eased the door back to stop it creaking and lifted it on to the latch before securing the mortise.

  She flicked a hand to the light switch and fluorescent tubes blinked into life, flooding the kitchen with piercing light. After filling a glass of water at the sink, Caskey picked a crisp apple from the fruit bowl and devoured it. Work had got in the way of food again but it was far too late to eat anything substantial or she knew she’d never sleep.

  She drank the water, turned off the kitchen light and slid off her jacket and shoes while her eyes adjusted to the dark. She’d finally become accustomed to the house and was able to pad to the stairs without turning on more lights. Once there, she hung her jacket on the circular wooden newel cap, removed her phone and warrant card from a pocket and placed them on the bottom step. She unfastened her trousers, let them drop to the floor and stepped out of the moist warmth of the garment before picking them up and flinging them across a chair against the wall.

  She smiled, imagining Georgia’s oft-repeated complaints about the trail of discarded clothing throughout the house. Creeping upstairs, she unbuttoned her blouse, winding it into a ball to stuff into the laundry basket on the landing, then pushed through into the warmth of the bedroom. The bedside clock ticked over to one o’clock.

  She unhooked her bra, dropping it silently to the floor, and slid the cool T-shirt out from under her pillow to pull over her head and torso. She lifted the necklace over her head and laid it on the bedside table, adjusting the heavy G-shaped pendant on the chain so the letter was standing the right way up.

  She smiled at this. ‘OCD,’ she whispered, aping Georgia’s amused warning. Georgia’s own R-shaped pendant would invariably be dropped on the carpet by the bed, forgotten until the morning.

  Caskey slid between the soft sheets, pleasantly cold to the touch, and wriggled closer to the sleeping form on the other side of the bed.

  ‘It’s cold,’ she whispered suggestively, running a hand across her bedmate’s smooth waist. She stopped at her belly button. Her partner was icy to the touch. ‘Georgie?’ Sitting up, Caskey withdrew her hand and felt stickiness on her fingers and now along her own bare thigh.

  Leaping to the light switch by the door, she fumbled to turn it on and sprang back to the bed to yank the duvet away from Georgia’s unresponsive body. She recoiled in horror at the snapshot of blood and brains adhering to the congealing muss of blonde hair, now streaked with red. Georgia’s shattered teeth were barely discernible, distributed around the gore of the pulped crater where her lovely face had once been.

  Time seemed to stand still for Caskey as the image seared into her eyeballs. She couldn’t hear anything above the sound of her own blood pumping in her eardrums. She tried desperately to make sense of what she was seeing. And then suddenly she did. Her hearing returned and she began to hyperventilate, her mouth instantly arid, her pulse rate through the roof. Her beloved Georgia was dead.

  ‘Oh God. Oh God,’ she panted, scrambling to her feet, filling her lungs to scream, but nothing came out.

  ‘Happy now, you sick bitch?’ snarled a voice behind her, drooling lovingly over the last word.

  Caskey pivoted as the wardrobe door swung open and a man appeared, a face she recognised, angry and tearful, yet filled with hate, dotted with flecks of blood.

  ‘Why … ?’ began Caskey, but the words wouldn’t come.

  ‘Why?’ he seethed. ‘This is my fucking home.’ He nodded at the disfigured mass on the mattress. ‘Georgia’s my wife and you took her from me, you perverted cunt.’

  ‘Georgia,’ gulped Caskey, trying to think, to remember her training, but her head was swimming in a whirlpool that had already sucked her future into the void. She tried to get her bearings. A house that had begun to seem familiar was now alien to her.

  ‘You’re divorced,’ she managed to wrench out.

  ‘You think that was my idea, bitch?’ He moved slowly round the bed towards her and Caskey saw the baseball bat held tight to his leg. He noticed her looking and pointed the bloodied end at her. A shard of brain matter flapped as the bat hung in front of her eyes. ‘You turned my beautiful girl into a fucking dyke.’ Tears welled in his pale eyes as he looked at the bloodied corpse on the bed. ‘I loved her,’ he croaked, his face disfiguring with sudden anguish. A second later, his features hardened again and he took another step. ‘You turned her against me.’

  Caskey broke eye contact and made a dart for the door, but he kicked it closed and swung the bat at her head. She ducked and tried to retreat, but there was nowhere to go, the bedside table digging into the back of her thighs. Feeling behind her, she knocked over the lamp in a frantic search for some kind of weapon. The metal of her pendant was touching her right hand and she tightened her fingers around it.

  ‘Don’t look so worried,’ he leered. ‘You got a little time yet, bitch. After I knock you senseless, I’m gonna put one in you.’ He blew her a
kiss and, to make his meaning clear, leered at her sharp nipples through the T-shirt. ‘Figure you owe me that much. And when I’ve shot my wad, if you can say, “Thank you, Barry. That was great, Barry,” and make me believe you, I might just let you live.’

  Caskey looked for an escape route. There wasn’t one. She screwed up her courage. ‘You really think I’d want to live after you’ve had your dick inside me?’ she panted, trying her best to add a breathless laugh.

  The grin on Barry’s face evaporated and he swung the bat wildly at her head. With nowhere to go, she was forced to block the blow with her arm, taking a hit on the elbow and yelping in pain. She caught hold of the slim handle, though, and tried to wrench the weapon from his grip. But he was too strong, pulling the bat up to his chest, dragging her towards him and following up with a head butt to her forehead.

  Caskey groaned and fell back on to the bed, in danger of blacking out. In a trice, a rough hand seized the back of her neck, jerking her up off the bed before flipping her round and pushing her face down on to the mattress. She heard the bat clatter to the floor, then a knee pressed down on the small of her back as her flimsy knickers were ripped away.

  ‘No,’ she moaned into the duvet. She tried to wriggle free, but it was impossible with his full weight on her, arms pinned under her body. For good measure he slapped the back of her head to quieten her.

  A second later, the weight eased as he stood to grapple with his zipper, and Caskey managed to lift her head. Georgia’s bludgeoned body filled her vision. Beautiful, tender, loving Georgia, caked in blood and viscera.

  With a howl of rage, she pushed herself up to free an arm and slashed blindly behind her with the heavy pendant. Instinctively, Barry stepped back, more cautious with an erect penis to protect. She kicked out with her heel, then got to her feet, scratching at him like a cornered wildcat. With his trousers around his ankles, she was able to knock him off balance and he fell back against the wall.

  He fumbled to pull up his trousers, but there was no time as Caskey launched another barefoot kick at his head, landing a glancing blow, enough to put him back against the wall, where he slid to his haunches. She made a leap for the door and yanked it open, but he knocked her ankle as she passed and she stumbled clumsily on to the landing. Using the balustrade to pull herself up, she turned back to see him tearing towards her, baseball bat cocked in readiness.