by Steven Dunne
‘You know what I mean, Inspector. The type to get falling-down drunk and end up in the river – the type worth a fourline paragraph on page eleven of the Derby Telegraph.’
‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ answered Brook.
‘Oh? How so?’
‘We’re still assessing that, sir,’ said Brook. ‘It’s not suicide and it could yet be murder.’
Noble looked sharply at Brook.
‘I see,’ said Charlton. He tried to sound authoritative. ‘Well, get your paperwork on my desk today and don’t waste any more time on it than necessary.’
Brook smiled his reply.
Charlton was on the verge of turning away before finding a riposte to Brook’s earlier gibe. ‘You know, you glamour boys in CID never really have day-to-day dealings with tramps or the homeless and alcoholic. It’s us in uniform that have always had to clean up their mess. The nurse punched and kicked in Casualty. The primary-school kids on their way home lured into a derelict house and sexually assaulted. If you’d seen what I’ve seen out in the field, you wouldn’t think some of these scumbags had mothers.’ He glared at Brook only to see that he’d already gone and was sprinting up the stairs.
Back in his office, Brook sipped on the over-sweetened vending-machine tea, aware that Noble was waiting for something.
‘Something you want to say, John?’ Noble shrugged so Brook asked it for him. ‘Why did I tell Charlton it might be murder?’
‘That would cover it,’ answered Noble.
Brook took a sip of tea. ‘Are we certain there was no coercion?’
‘Habib and Petty were. And they’ve seen a lot more of these . . .’
‘Tramps?’
Noble shrugged. ‘For want of a better word. And we know the path our corpse was on. He only had another year, according to Habib.’
Brook looked away. ‘You’re right. But I don’t like Brass pushing us to sign off on cases before they’re done and dusted.’
‘So we’re not ready to pass this down the food chain?’
‘Not a chance.’
‘Because of the planning that went into disposal . . .’
‘Not just the way the corpse was dumped, John. The way it was filleted, treated with such care then just discarded in the water seems perverse. Almost as though . . .’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know,’ Brook said. ‘But I’ve never seen anything like this. We should give it another couple of days at least.’
‘You don’t think it’s a mortuary mix-up then?’
‘You heard Habib. The body wouldn’t have been cut that way if it had been through the system.’
‘I also heard him say it wasn’t murder.’ Noble smiled at Brook. ‘But I suppose if the Chief Super thinks all bets are still on, we don’t get reassigned.’
Brook grinned back guiltily. ‘That never occurred to me.’
‘Course not.’
‘But you’re right. Charlton will have us back on fake IDs or, God forbid, break-ins if we sit around twiddling our thumbs.’
‘A valuable public service that,’ Noble suggested.
‘But not our skill-set, John – and the householders of Derby deserve better than to have their cases dumped into our inexperienced hands.’
Noble laughed then looked back at Brook.
‘Something else?’
Noble hesitated then said, ‘Never mind.’
‘No, spit it out. We don’t crack cases by suppressing ideas.’
‘It’s not about the case.’
Brook took a sip of his tea. ‘What is it? Come on, let’s hear it.’
Noble braced himself. ‘Okay. How come you go out of your way to wind up the Chief Super yet put up with all that crap from a nobody like Hendrickson?’
‘Hendrickson doesn’t like me?’ asked Brook innocently.
‘You know he doesn’t and he’s not shy about showing it. And he’s not the only one.’
Brook looked into his tea cup. ‘Like . . .’ He looked up to Noble for help.
‘Keith Pullin.’
‘To name but one.’ Brook nodded.
‘That’ll be the day.’
Brook grunted in brief amusement. ‘Some time ago, Charlton tried to get me to take early retirement and he wasn’t subtle about it.’
‘Well, you did undermine a case by going to the Telegraph behind his back.’
‘Two innocent people were being railroaded, John. I couldn’t let that happen.’
‘And Charlton hasn’t forgiven you.’
‘I obviously told you all this.’ And when Noble laughed without mirth: ‘Something funny?’
‘You could say,’ replied Noble.
‘Enlighten me. Come on, let me in on the joke.’
Noble took a sip of tea. ‘How long is it since your transfer to Derby, sir?’
Brook looked briefly at the ceiling then back at Noble. ‘Six years?’
Noble shook his head in disbelief. ‘Eight – it’s eight years since you moved up from the Met and eight years we’ve worked together.’
Brook shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do say so. And you ask me whether you told me about Charlton trying to get you off the payroll.’
‘And did I?’
‘No, you didn’t. And if you had, it would have been the first time in those eight years that you told me anything that didn’t relate to a case. Everything else, every bit of gossip, every personal detail, I have to drag out of you. Sir.’
There was silence for a moment before Brook cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. What do you want to know?’
‘We could begin with my question about Hendrickson.’ Brook sighed. ‘What should I do? Tear a strip off him?’
‘It’s a start.’
‘He never says anything that would look insubordinate on paper.’ Brook rubbed a hand on his forehead. ‘And frankly, I don’t care enough about what he thinks. Or Charlton. Or Pullin. As long as you’re okay with me, John, I can handle the rest. Or have I misread that situation too?’
‘No, you haven’t,’ said Noble. ‘It took a while, mind, and it’s only because I work with you day in, day out. I thought the same as everyone else when you first arrived. Toffee-nosed Londoner – you know what, lording it over us yokels.’
‘What changed your mind?’
Noble narrowed his eyes in thought. ‘Seriously – you have no ego, no agenda. You don’t care about the politics or furthering your career.’
‘I must care about my career if I resisted early retirement,’ reasoned Brook.
‘Oh, you care that you have a job to keep you busy, and you care that it’s done properly. But you’re not concerned about promotion or getting in the papers or a pat on the back from Brass. The only important thing to you is the case. That’s your strength.’
Brook smiled sadly. ‘I sense there’s a but coming.’
‘You sure you want to hear this?’
‘I’m a big boy, John.’
‘Okay. Your strength is also your weakness. You don’t care, full stop. You understand the work, the hunt, the detection – but you don’t care about the people you work with. That’s a weakness in their eyes and it makes your job harder because nobody is willing to put themselves out for you. So you’ve only got yourself to blame for the contempt people like Hendrickson show you.’
Brook looked up at Noble as though about to object, but he remained silent. Then: ‘That sounds like a terrible weakness,’ he answered softly.
‘It would be unforgivable except for one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The person you care about least is yourself.’
Brook nodded after a few moments of contemplation. ‘Thank you for your honesty. I can’t argue with any of that. You’re right, I tolerate the contempt. It’s the price I have to pay.’
‘To pay for what?’
Again Brook paused. ‘Keeping the blinkers on.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Y
ou’re not making this easy, are you?’ Brook took another sip of tea. ‘It means that I’m so clueless about all that stuff people do to maintain relationships that it’s simpler just to opt out.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Small talk. Conversations about nothing, feigning an interest where there is none.’
‘It’s what normal people do to get by, sir.’ Noble searched for the right words. ‘Is this something to do with your . . . thing?’
‘Mental breakdown, John. Never be afraid to use the correct vocabulary.’
‘Is it?’
‘It was a long time ago.’ Brook stood and walked across the room to look out of the window. ‘But, yes. Indirectly.’
‘How?’
Brook turned to face Noble. ‘Keeping control over the things that might threaten my state of mind means excluding distractions.’
‘Like remembering people’s names.’
‘It’s not deliberate, Jim.’ Brook apologised with a raised hand. ‘Not funny. Sorry. But – it’s hard to explain. Some days it’s like walking along a tiny ledge on a high cliff or across a tightrope strung between tall buildings. You need to concentrate. Always.’
‘On what?’
Brook uttered a half-laugh. ‘On not concentrating. On weeding out everything I don’t need to know.’
Noble nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you think if you have a conversation about the weather you might miss your next step on the ledge.’
Brook shrugged. ‘Something like that.’
‘Then why don’t you explain that to—’ Noble’s mobile phone broke the mood.
‘Saved by the Crazy Frog,’ said Brook under his breath.
Noble listened intently. ‘Where?’ He rang off to fix his eyes on Brook. ‘Shardlow Gravel Pit. We’ve got another body.’
‘I assume these are manmade,’ said Brook, gesturing at the flooded gravel pit.
‘So Keith Pullin says.’
‘How many are there?’
‘A lot,’ answered Noble. ‘There’s a labyrinth of other small roads criss-crossing the site under the A50. They dig out a pit, abandon it and then it floods.’
‘CCTV?’
‘Only at the main gate. Other access roads like the one behind us might have a barrier which is usually closed at night but they don’t lose sleep over gravel thieves. Even locals can get lost in here.’
‘Get what CCTV they have and a list of employees just the same. A body dump requires a vehicle.’
Noble nodded then pulled out his cigarettes and put one in his mouth. He held the packet out to Brook, who looked longingly at the contents.
‘I’ve given up, John,’ he said unconvincingly.
Noble held the pack steady. ‘Help you concentrate. It’s a long way down.’
‘That it is,’ Brook agreed. He took a cigarette and accepted the light from Noble’s cupped hand. He coughed up the first life-affirming lungful of smoke with a roll of his eyes to the heavens, oblivious to the late afternoon traffic screaming past on the sunbaked A50 a dozen yards away, hurtling towards Stoke in the west or the M1 and East Midlands Airport to the east.
Brook was broken from his tobacco reverie by the noise of a diver splashing to the surface of the flooded pit some sixty yards away. The diver thrust up a thumb at his partner in the dinghy who turned to start the small winch at the rear of the boat. The thin steel line tightened under its load but gradually began to wind up while the diver in the water put his head under to check progress.
At the water’s edge, Keith Pullin kept his eye on proceedings and Brook heard the indecipherable crackle of the radio attached to the breast pocket of his field vest. Pullin leaned into his shoulder to listen.
‘Copy that,’ said Pullin. For good measure, he raised an arm to his colleague in the boat before turning away from the opaque water to organise a body bag and PVC sheeting from the Support van. He squelched towards Brook and Noble, both standing on higher ground to keep their feet dry.
‘Any idea if it’s the same MO?’ asked Brook, as Pullin passed. ‘Keith.’
Pullin looked at Brook with restrained amusement. ‘Hard to tell, Inspector. Bob reckons this one’s been in a lot longer.’
‘Then why isn’t the body floating?’ asked Noble.
‘Maybe it’s weighed down.’
‘Or maybe it has no organs and intestines,’ offered Brook.
‘That would nullify a lot of the body gases, aye.’ Pullin was impressed, in spite of himself. ‘No flies on you, Inspector.’
‘There might be when we get the remains ashore,’ said Brook, taking another loving puff on his cigarette.
To Brook’s surprise, Pullin laughed briefly. ‘Good one.’ He regained his taciturn expression a second later. ‘Either way, we’re going to need a butter dish so you’d better suit and boot if you want a peek.’
Brook nodded and took a last pull on his cigarette, ambling back to his car to discard the butt in the ashtray. No sense throwing his DNA to the floor of a potential crime scene.
Noble walked with him. ‘This should be fun.’ A butter dish was Scene of Crime speak for the heavy-duty body bag, meaning the flesh of the deceased would be yellow and putrid, the fats in the flesh turning to pulp, like rancid butter. In that condition, the skin would peel off easily and any hair could be pulled out with little effort. If the recovery team weren’t very careful, vital pieces of evidence from the body could be lost.
Having donned protective coveralls and grim demeanours, Brook and Noble returned to the water’s edge. The police diver was back in the boat and his colleague was manoeuvring the large body rescue bag underneath the pale mass held tight against the boat by the winch. They wouldn’t risk manhandling the remains aboard if the body’s integrity was suspect, especially as shore was only yards away.
‘Who found him?’ asked Noble.
Pullin jerked a thumb at a car on the access road. In the back seat sat a man, ashen-faced with eyes like dinner plates. ‘Angler over there – Peter Fenton, lives in Ambaston. Says he hooked on to something big and when he pulled it up it was a body.’
‘He must’ve thought he’d landed Jaws,’ quipped Noble.
‘Male or female?’
‘He couldn’t tell. Says the body was naked except for some kind of loincloth.’
‘Loincloth?’ said Brook.
‘Like what Sumo wrestlers wear to cover their todgers.’
‘I know what a loincloth is,’ replied Brook, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.
‘Well, that’s what the hook caught on,’ explained Pullin.
‘So that stray piece of material from the Derwent actually could be part of our first MO,’ mused Brook.
‘Sounds reasonable,’ said Noble. ‘Where’s Fenton’s rod and tackle?’
‘He dropped it,’ answered Pullin. ‘Shock, I suppose. If it’s not still attached to the cloth it’ll be at the bottom of the pit.’
‘And there are fish in there?’ said Noble.
Pullin shrugged. ‘I guess. Doesn’t matter to fishermen. They’re all nuts.’
The boat’s engine noise deepened as the dinghy set off at a leisurely speed towards the bank. The sun was starting its descent towards the horizon and Brook looked at his watch and then at Noble. ‘Better get a statement from Mr Fenton.’
Noble turned to Brook with a quizzical glance. ‘Will you be okay?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Brook with a tight smile. One of the Scene of Crime Officers tapped Brook on the arm and handed him a small tub of Mentholatum ointment. Brook stared at the jar then dipped a finger and smeared some below each nostril. ‘Ask him for any names of other anglers he knows who like to fish here. Maybe someone saw the body being dumped or at least noticed someone suspicious who didn’t belong. Then get on to the station and see if an ID for our Derwent body has come through; also tell Forensics to make the cloth we found in the river a priority. Unless it’s a monogrammed towel, they probably won’t get much from it, but at least we now know
it could be significant.’ Noble nodded and turned to leave. ‘And John. Get on to DS Gadd, Morton and Cooper as well. Tell them to clear the decks. We meet in my office in two hours.’
Noble caught Brook’s eye briefly. They exchanged a nod. He could see his DI had that feeling again. It was the dread he got when something big and nasty fell into their lap.
While he waited for Noble, Gadd and the others, Brook sat at his desk with his hands cupped under his chin. He stared at his monitor showing the Google map of the terrain east of Derby, the dumping ground of both corpses. He would have booked one of the smaller Incident Rooms for the briefing with its large, detailed map of Derby, but didn’t want Chief Super-intendent Charlton to get wind that he was scaling up an inquiry into a pair of deaths that hadn’t yet been declared murders.
Noble entered the office and pinned a few grisly photographs to the display board before sitting down on the one available chair. Detective Sergeants Jane Gadd, Rob Morton and Detective Constable Dave Cooper followed, carrying their own chairs.
Brook looked at his watch and addressed his fellow officers. ‘We’re all here. Sorry we’re briefing on a Saturday night, but there it is.’ Gadd and Morton raised their eyebrows at Noble. Apologies from Brook were rare. Noble raised his eyebrows back at them as though it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘I want this inquiry up and running first thing tomorrow morning as we may only have a couple of days on this.’
‘Sunday morning!’ exclaimed Gadd, before she could stop herself. ‘No problem,’ she added quickly.
‘Good. John, how much does everyone know?’
‘Only that we found a body in the Derwent. And now another in Shardlow.’
‘They’re connected?’ said Rob Morton.
‘They are,’ Brook replied tersely. A vision flashed across his mind of soft wrinkled flesh parting like a dismembered jellyfish less than two hours ago. He would never forget the noise as the wound in the dead man’s side had been pulled open and the heart, though roughly attached to tissue in the cavity, had rolled out on to the plastic sheet. ‘It’s the same MO.’
‘So we have a serial killer on the loose,’ said Cooper, trying not to sound pleased.
‘Hold that thought, Constable,’ retorted Brook, before gesturing to Noble, who produced his notebook to begin the briefing.