R3 Deity

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Whisky? I was drinking whisky out mi ma’s teet.’ He cackled asthmatically, and followed this up with a prolonged hacking cough.

  The man chuckled back at him and looked in his case. He took out the pouch of surgical instruments and a bottle of methanol and looked regretfully at them. ‘Well, I was saving these for a special occasion but as you’re so set on an early death, I can hardly refuse a guest, can I?’

  ‘Can yer fuck?’ Jock scrambled to his feet like an Olympic athlete now and scuttled towards the man’s voice, holding out a filthy hand to be guided on to the bottle.

  The man unscrewed the lid, located Jock’s hand around the neck and watched as he took a mansize slug. ‘Drink hearty, my friend, and soon you can be reborn.’

  Fourteen

  Thursday, 26 May

  BROOK CHECKED THE ADDRESS AGAINST Noble’s scribble and stepped from the car. It was a bright morning with just a hint of a chilled breeze. Terri had been fast asleep when Brook crept out of the door at seven and, an hour later, he stood outside Russell Thomson’s Brisbane Estate home – a small, dog-eared semi-detached with large wooden-framed windows that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in a while.

  Brook had very little information on Yvette Thomson. She was a single mum, according to Alice Kennedy, and had been in Derby for only a few months. Alice hadn’t got to know her well and didn’t know what she did for a living, but she had heard that her son Russell had had problems with bullying, hence the move to a new college in the middle of the academic year.

  Brook knocked on the rickety glass door and stepped back to look for signs of life. All the curtains and blinds were drawn. He knocked again and this time fished in his jacket for his mobile. Noble would still be in bed, having left the surveillance on Leopold Street a couple of hours previously. Brook painstakingly tapped out a text for him to organise a briefing for four o’clock and a press conference for six. He made sure the punctuation was correct then sent it on his way with a hefty depression of the thumb.

  The noise of a window opening lifted Brook’s head.

  ‘That better not be you, Wilson,’ croaked a sleepy voice. ‘I’m on evenings this week.’

  ‘Mrs Thomson.’ Brook shielded his eyes and followed the voice to the upstairs window. He could make out only the shock of black hair hanging down over a face.

  ‘Oh, crap. Is this about the meter reading?’

  Brook flashed his warrant card even though she wouldn’t see it. ‘Detective Inspector Brook,’ he added for good measure. ‘I’d like a word with your son.’

  There was a shocked pause and some attempt to focus on Brook through the hair. ‘Rusty? Oh God, is he okay?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ began Brook.

  ‘What’s he been doing?’

  ‘He’s not in trouble, Mrs Thomson. I just need to speak to him.’

  She nodded. ‘Okay. Catch.’ She jerked her hand and a set of keys fell towards Brook, who caught them before they hit the drive. ‘Let yourself in.’ The black hair disappeared only to reappear immediately. ‘And put the kettle on.’

  Brook unlocked the front door which opened stiffly into a bare hall with a ubiquitous grey carpet that had seen better days. Unknown substances sucked at his shoes as he located and turned into the compact kitchen on the left and snapped on the kettle, which was full. A cafetière stood nearby. It already contained fresh coffee grounds and there was a small gift card still attached to the handle. It read, Pour Eve. Merci, Phil.

  Brook located the coffee jar and added another spoonful, then unearthed another mug from a cupboard. It contained four cups in total – all from different sets. Brook smiled. There was even a jam jar.

  When the kettle boiled, Brook filled the cafetière and opened the fridge. The only food was a half-full takeaway carton, a quarter of melon and a packet of butter. Brook plucked the milk from the door and made the coffee. He took a sip and opened another cupboard which was empty apart from three wine glasses.

  ‘Do you have a search warrant, Inspector?’

  Brook turned. Yvette Thomson stood at the door. She was about three inches shorter than his six feet, slender but with a full figure that strained against her snug white T-shirt. She was strikingly pretty and could’ve passed for late twenties but Brook knew, with an eighteen-year-old son, she had to be early thirties, at least.

  She grinned suddenly at Brook’s discomfort and her face lit up. ‘Sorry.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve been watching too much Law and Order. Coffee! You angel.’ She grabbed her mug, took a lingering mouthful and moaned with pleasure.

  ‘Sorry to get you up this early, Mrs Thomson,’ said Brook. ‘I thought I’d catch you and Russell before you went to work.’

  ‘It’s Miss, though I’d prefer Yvette. And you could have given it another six hours.’ She yawned. ‘I’m working behind the bar at the Mermaid at the moment. It helps pay the rent while I study.’

  She seemed in no hurry to enquire about his visit so Brook dredged up some more small talk. ‘What are you studying?’

  ‘I’m doing a course in Beauty Therapy at Derby College,’ she replied.

  ‘It seems to be working,’ said Brook, for something to say.

  She smiled at him and took another sip of coffee. ‘I’ve missed a lot of the course actually – didn’t start until November.’

  ‘Must be tough moving during the academic year, especially for your son.’

  Yvette considered Brook from behind her cup. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘I need to ask Russell a few questions. Is he here?’

  ‘Sorry. Rusty’s hardly ever at home.’

  ‘Pity. Who’s Wilson?’

  Yvette Thomson rolled her eyes. ‘Oh my God – one of Rusty’s mates at the college.’ She looked away briefly. ‘By mates, I mean fellow students. Rusty doesn’t make friends easily.’

  ‘And were you expecting him?’

  ‘Wilson? No, but he keeps popping round, asking if I need any jobs doing. Well, it’s a rented house so I’m not about to embark on home improvements, but that doesn’t stop him asking. It was sweet at first,’ she said, ‘but it can get on your nerves. Apparently, he thinks I’m a MILF.’

  Brook emitted a one-note laugh. ‘I hate to say it, but I know what that is.’

  ‘So do I,’ she answered. ‘A girl at college told Rusty it means Mums I Like Fine. Poor Rusty – so smart, yet so naive.’

  ‘He’s meeting girls at least.’

  ‘Adele? She’s waa-aaa-ay out of his league.’

  ‘You’re referring to Adele Watson, I assume,’ said Brook. ‘She was at a party with Russell at the weekend.’

  Yvette gulped back her coffee and narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that what this is about?’ She put a hand to her brow. ‘Shit, he’s not been filming people without permission again, has he? I should never have bought him that bloody camcorder.’

  Brook held up a hand. ‘He’s not in trouble. I just need to speak to him about who was at that party.’

  ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything?’

  She looked at the floor, thinking. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen him since.’

  ‘You haven’t seen him since?’ repeated Brook. ‘It’s Thursday today. We’re talking about last Friday.’

  Yvette Thomson held her palms up. ‘Inspector, I’m not a bad mother – but I work nights. Rusty’s old enough. He has a key. He comes and goes. Have you got kids?’

  ‘A daughter. She’s twenty.’

  ‘Then you’ll know. If they want money or feeding, you see them. If they don’t . . .’

  Brook nodded, though he was in uncharted waters. ‘Can I see his room?’

  ‘Tell me what’s wrong first. You’re starting to worry me.’

  ‘Kyle Kennedy was reported missing on Sunday. On Tuesday, Adele Watson and another girl, Becky Blake, were reported missing. No one’s seen any of them since the party.’

  ‘And you think . . .’ She turned and ra
n up the stairs. Brook followed. On the dark landing she hesitated as though getting her bearings, then burst through a door and stood frozen against the sunburst from the window. Brook pushed past her. The single bed was unruffled. In the middle of the duvet a mobile phone rested on a glossy leaflet.

  Yvette leaned over Brook’s shoulder to read the only word she could make out. ‘Deity.’

  ‘Miss Thomson, you have to calm down.’ Brook watched her rifle through a kitchen drawer.

  ‘It’s in here somewhere.’

  ‘What is?’

  She pulled out a sheet of paper and pored over it. ‘This.’ She looked at her watch and back at the paper. ‘It’s Rusty’s timetable. He’s got a Media Studies lecture in two hours. He never misses that; he’s a big film buff.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘He’ll be there, I’m telling you. He wouldn’t leave me on my own.’

  ‘Okay, okay. I’ll come with you, just settle down. We need to inform the college officially anyway. In the meantime, we need a picture of him.’

  Yvette shook her head. Tears were in her eyes. ‘I haven’t got one. We left a lot of stuff behind in the move.’ She started to sob.

  ‘All right. Before we go to the college, I want you to come back to Russell’s room, if you can face it, and tell me if anything is missing . . .’

  Yvette Thomson had finally calmed down enough for Brook to leave her on her own in the kitchen, writing out a list of contact numbers, as well as any places, apart from the college, Russell might hang out.

  Brook returned to Russell’s room to bag his mobile, as well as the leaflet. Russell’s laptop was closed on a table but Brook didn’t disturb it. He searched the bedroom quickly but found nothing of interest. There were only a handful of books, all connected to Russell’s love of films: actors’ biographies, memoirs and a book entitled 1000 Films to See Before You Die. Despite his apparent love of film, there was only one DVD in the room – Picnic at Hanging Rock. He skimmed through the books quickly but found no sign of handwritten notes of the kind left by Adele Watson.

  The walls though were covered with at least a dozen original movie posters, only some of which Brook had seen before. Blade Runner, 2001, Badlands, Belle de Jour, Vertigo, Psycho and The Godfather were the films Brook knew. Others unknown to him included Picnic at Hanging Rock and The Blair Witch Project. Four dots of Blu-tack indicated a missing poster, but Yvette had struggled to remember what it was.

  Brook looked around the room for something that might contain Russell’s DNA. There were no combs or grooming products of any kind. Even a cursory glance at the bed didn’t produce any strands of hair. Although shabby, the room appeared to be spotless.

  Brook moved into the bathroom. There was only one toothbrush in a pot and it appeared to be brand new. He left it there. A canister of shaving foam raised Brook’s hopes but there were no other shaving implements to accompany it.

  ‘John. I’m outside Derby College – the Roundhouse site. You sound a bit groggy.’ Brook looked at his watch. ‘Four hours’ sleep – that’s plenty. Listen. We’ve got a fourth student missing: Russell Thomson – same MO as the others. I’m here with the mother. She’s sure her son doesn’t have a passport, but check it out. She also told me there’s a course that Russell, Adele, Kyle and Becky take together – Media Studies. There’s a lecture in fifteen minutes so I’m dropping in to see if this is a hoax.

  ‘If they really are AWOL, I’ll talk to the other students taking the course, see if they know anything. On that subject, get on to Charlton. If these four are missing, we’re going to need a lot of bodies at the college tomorrow to interview as many people as we can – staff, students, lecturers, the works. It’ll be a big operation but it has to be done tomorrow before the college breaks for half-term and memories fade.’

  Brook listened for a moment. ‘No, it’s better if you talk to him. If he mentions budgets to me, well, I may not be diplomatic. Tell him I’ll be holding a press conference tonight. That should get his attention. How did the surveillance go? Nothing. As expected.’

  Brook rang off and walked back towards Yvette Thomson, standing outside the college’s entrance. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tears, and despite the warmth of the day, she appeared to be shivering. Nevertheless she still managed to smile weakly at him.

  As Brook crossed the car park towards her, he spotted a black Porsche parked in one of the reserved bays. He stopped briefly to jot down the licence-plate and bay number then continued on to the entrance.

  ‘You look cold. You should’ve waited inside.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Besides, I forgot my accreditation.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ replied Brook. Inside the entrance he flashed his warrant card at the attendant who buzzed them through the nearest turnstile.

  ‘We’ve got ten minutes yet. Let’s get you a hot drink.’ Brook guided her towards the refectory and sat her down at one of the tables. He beckoned over a man in a chef’s hat and ordered two cups of tea. ‘Put lots of sugar in – it’s good for shock.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I won’t be a minute, Miss Thomson. Just need to check something at the security desk.’

  ‘Eve.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  She covered his hand briefly and Brook resisted the urge to pull it away. ‘I hardly know you, Inspector, but you’ve been so kind. My name’s Yvette but please call me Eve. That’s what my special friends call me.’

  Brook looked down into her eyes. ‘Eve.’ He smiled at her. ‘That’ll save a lot of breath.’

  To Brook’s surprise, she laughed, her distress forgotten for a moment.

  Brook held the heavy wooden door for Yvette Thomson and followed her through into the Media Suite. A man in his early thirties with blond tinted hair, parted in the middle, was bent over a laptop, tapping attendance marks on to an online register. Meanwhile, half a dozen bored-looking teenagers stared vacantly or poked at their phones, their backs to Brook and Yvette. Only one student, a well-built and handsome young man feeding a DVD into a machine, stopped what he was doing and watched the pair walk to the front of the suite.

  Brook returned the boy’s unwavering gaze. It was the same young man who had stood under the streetlight looking up at Brook, as he and Noble had searched Kyle Kennedy’s bedroom.

  ‘Even for the day before half-term this is a poor turnout,’ said the man to the laptop. ‘Okay, start the film, Jake.’ The boy appeared not to hear him and continued to stare at the detective.

  ‘Adam Rifkind?’

  The man looked up at Brook, startled. ‘Can I help you?’

  Brook ran a swift eye over the salon tan, the weak chin, the faint line of the missing wedding ring and the casual attire. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brook, Derby CID.’

  ‘Eve,’ purred Rifkind, suddenly seeing Brook’s companion. He unveiled his most charming smile. ‘I’m sorry, Rusty hasn’t arrived yet.’ His beam disappeared as Yvette Thomson hurried from the room, her hand over her face to suffocate the whimpering. ‘Oh my God,’ said Rifkind, ‘so it’s true.’

  ‘True?’ enquired Brook.

  ‘These rumours circulating, that some of our students are missing.’

  ‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Other students.’ He turned to a young blonde girl in the front row. ‘Fern, did you tell me Becky was missing?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Sort of. I been calling Becks since I got back Sunday. She’s my best mate,’ she explained to Brook. ‘Her stepmum told me she disappeared. Kyle too.’

  ‘You don’t sound too worried,’ observed Brook.

  The girl’s expression turned to one of pity for someone as uninformed as Brook. ‘Becks can look after herself. She’s gone on holiday, her stepmum said. Her passport’s gone – and Kyle’s.’ She leered. ‘Reckon Becks is gonna shag him straight—’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Fern,’ interrupted Rifkind. ‘Very colourful.’

  ‘What about Russell Thomso
n?’ asked Brook, addressing the room. ‘Anyone know where he might have gone?’ Brook’s question was greeted by silence. ‘Has anyone seen him or Kyle or Becky Blake since last Friday?’ Again silence, accompanied by shaking of heads. Brook turned his gaze on to Rifkind. ‘What about Adele Watson? Same questions.’

  Rifkind’s eyes widened and he appeared to catch at a breath. ‘Adele? She’s missing too?’ Brook could detect surprise in Rifkind’s voice. It seemed genuine.

  ‘None of them have been seen since Kyle Kennedy’s eighteenth-birthday party, last Friday night.’ Brook looked around the small gathering. ‘Did anyone here attend the party?’ All heads were shaking again. All except the boy identified as Jake. ‘What about you, Jake?’

  Jake looked down at the wrapping paper torn open on a nearby chair. Brook followed his gaze. ‘I was invited. But I didn’t go.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jake appeared unable to answer. When he did speak, it was with venom. ‘Because Kyle’s a faggot and I didn’t want to catch AIDS.’ While the other students laughed, Jake’s face was like stone. Rifkind gave him a look of disgust but, to Brook’s surprise, said nothing.

  ‘It’s a wonder you were invited at all,’ replied Brook coldly. ‘And even stranger that you should buy him a present.’

  Jake looked at the DVD case and then at Brook. ‘I told you, I didn’t go.’

  ‘No. But you must be very worried about your friend to stand outside Kyle’s house, watching us conduct our inquiry.’ Jake bowed his head without reply. ‘Do you know who else was invited?’ This time he simply shrugged. ‘What’s your surname, Jake?’

  ‘McKenzie.’

  Brook turned to the lecturer. ‘Can I have a word in private, Mr Rifkind?’

  After a brief hesitation, Rifkind nodded and indicated the door. ‘Start watching the film, people. I won’t be long.’ He followed Brook to the door and turned off the lights as Brook held the door for him. In the darkness, a female voice boomed through the speakers.