R3 Deity

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Mr Brook, you’re here,’ said Ray, helping Terri to a chair. He stood awkwardly, the baseball cap still glued back to front over his bleach-blond head.

  ‘Actually it’s Detective Inspector,’ Brook replied tersely.

  Terri squinted up in his direction ‘Dad. You’re here. Just in time for a drink.’

  ‘You’ve had enough,’ said Brook and Ray in unison.

  Terri’s head swayed between the pair of them, trying to focus. ‘Don’t be so mean,’ she said. ‘It’s a celebration,’ she smirked before hiccuping. ‘Oops.’

  ‘She needs to get to bed, sir – Detective Inspector, I mean.’

  ‘Give me a hand, will you?’

  Ray helped Brook hoist the mumbling Terri towards the sofa in the living room and place her down as gently as they could. She lost consciousness before they laid her out and Brook took off her shoes before ushering Ray back to the kitchen. Brook picked up Terri’s handbag and helped himself to a much-needed cigarette.

  ‘Is this your idea of a good time, Ray?’ he said, opening the front door to exhale. ‘Taking my daughter out and getting her drunk.’

  ‘Sir, honestly, we’ve had a great day out on the hills and I’m whipped. I tried to leave three hours ago but Terri wasn’t budging and. . . I couldn’t just leave her there.’

  After a moment, Brook nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Thanks for staying with her.’

  ‘No problem, sir. Where did your daughter learn to drink like that?’

  Brook stopped raising the glass of wine to his lips and returned it guiltily to the kitchen table. ‘She didn’t get it from me.’

  Ray smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’ve. . . er, had the full version at the Duke. And so has half the village, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘That bad,’ echoed Ray. ‘And don’t get me started on her swearing.’ He shook his head. ‘Terri’s a great girl, sir, but she’s certainly got. . . issues.’

  ‘Issues,’ repeated Brook, risking a Methodist’s sip at his wine. He scraped back a chair and sat down. ‘Take a seat, Ray.’

  Ray sat, rather reluctantly.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m driving.’ He looked hesitantly at Brook. ‘Who’s Tony?’

  Brook looked up from his glass, wondering if this was ground he wanted to cover. He decided to keep it simple. ‘Someone Terri got close to,’ he said after a moment. ‘He died.’

  ‘So I gather. Tel took it hard, didn’t she? It can’t have been easy.’

  Brook declined to comment but took a larger gulp of wine.

  ‘She’s lucky to have you though, sir. You’re her hero.’

  ‘Hero!’ exclaimed Brook. He looked into his wine glass. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her for five years.’

  Ray shrugged. ‘You’re her father, sir. You’ll always be her hero. That’s how it works.’ He scraped his chair back against the slate floor. ‘I must be off. Work tomorrow.’

  ‘I thought it was half-term.’

  ‘It is, but essays don’t write themselves.’

  Brook stood to see him out. ‘Got any tattoos, Ray?’

  ‘Tattoos? Not really my thing, I’m afraid. In my opinion, they’re for people who don’t have any personality. They get a tattoo so they’ll have something to talk about. Why?’

  Brook smiled and held out his hand to shake Ray’s. ‘No reason.’

  Twenty-Four

  Sunday, 29 May

  BROOK FIDDLED WITH THE STRAP of his laptop case as he looked up at Yvette’s bedroom window. The curtains were drawn. He checked his watch and knocked loudly on the glass door. After five minutes of rhythmic knocking, Brook heard footfalls and the door finally opened.

  Yvette tried to focus on her visitor in the piercing light. Her black hair was tousled and her eyes sleepy as she tied the belt of a silk robe tightly round her waist. The curve of her breasts and her shapely legs were, as usual, available for inspection. ‘Damen. It’s Sunday morning. Do you know what time it is?’

  ‘It’s six o’clock,’ said Brook helpfully. He removed his laptop from his shoulder.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ She kept the door open enough to converse but no more. ‘Have you found Rusty?’ she said with sudden hope.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then . . .’ She looked annoyed but in a trice her manner became flirtatious. ‘You should ring next time, Damen. I might have had company.’

  ‘Len!’ shouted Brook at the top of his voice. ‘You still in there?’

  ‘Stop that,’ she spat, looking round at neighbouring houses. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Just checking,’ explained Brook. ‘I think he’s gone now. He wouldn’t risk a sleepover with Alice three streets away.’

  She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What makes you think it would be Len Poole? I might have your Sergeant upstairs in my bed.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then you don’t know men like I do, Damen. The Sergeant was very taken with me, don’t you think?’

  Brook was sombre. He couldn’t lose sight of the fact that maybe Yvette was herself a kind of victim. ‘He’ll get over it.’

  Her lip curled. ‘So what do you want?’ she said, cocking her head.

  ‘I need to ask you about yesterday’s Deity broadcast. It’s important.’

  Yvette’s face hardened as she sought the excuse she needed but it wouldn’t come. Instead she walked away from the door and Brook, uninvited, followed her into the sun-dappled sitting room.

  ‘I haven’t seen it,’ she said, sitting demurely on the sofa.

  ‘What do you mean, you haven’t seen it?’

  ‘Just that.’

  ‘It was on the Deity website, it was on the news in the evening. Are you telling me that you haven’t seen a piece of film that might have a bearing on your son’s disappearance?’

  She didn’t reply. Instead she went to the kitchen. ‘I’m making coffee,’ she explained. ‘Want one?’

  ‘You’re making coffee?’

  She smiled sweetly at him. ‘Got to start the day with a cup of hot coffee.’

  ‘Is that what you did when you found your mother’s body?’

  Her eagerness to please vanished for a split second but resumed almost at once. ‘I was only nine. And it was a can of Lilt back then.’ Her eyes lowered in sadness. ‘She left me on my own.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Brook.

  Yvette found her smile a second later. ‘No use crying over spilled milk.’ She breezed back to the kitchen.

  ‘I brought Russell’s computer back yesterday,’ shouted Brook, looking around the living room. He spotted the laptop on a side-table still in the plastic bag he’d returned it in. He picked it up. ‘Why didn’t you watch the broadcast, Yvette? I want an answer.’

  She appeared at the doorway. ‘No sugar, right?’

  ‘You’re a mother. Your missing son could be on that film,’ insisted Brook. ‘The son you begged us to find.’

  She looked right at him now, her lips quivering. ‘Russell’s not coming back. He’s dead.’

  ‘Russell!’ exclaimed Brook. ‘Did you say Russell?’

  She hesitated. ‘My son, yes.’

  Brook smiled sadly. ‘Your son is dead? How do you know?’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘A mother always knows.’

  ‘Of course she does.’ Brook pulled Russell’s laptop from the plastic and turned it on.

  ‘Why are you turning that on? There’s nothing on there. You said yourself.’

  ‘The files on here were wiped but the software wasn’t touched,’ answered Brook.

  Yvette looked at him, processing the information. ‘I don’t understand.’ Her eyes suggested otherwise.

  ‘Don’t you?’ The software loaded and Brook flicked his eyes around the desktop. ‘Word, Recycle Bin, Help – and an old web browser. Is that all that’s on here?’ Yvette didn’t reply. Brook clicked on the browser icon.

  ‘It takes ages to load,’ she sai
d with a faint smile. ‘It’s really old.’

  Brook nodded. ‘I know,’ he said softly. He turned to face her. ‘But only yesterday you told us Russell was a film buff, that he spent hours filming and watching his films on a laptop.’

  ‘I. . . er, that’s right.’

  ‘On this?’

  No reply.

  ‘I don’t think he watched films on this piece of junk, did he?’ Yvette didn’t answer. ‘He had another laptop.’ Still no reply. ‘An expensive one capable of uploading and watching films.’

  Yvette stood up and smoothed down her robe. ‘No, he used that one,’ she said airily.

  ‘Then show me the software,’ said Brook.

  ‘I don’t know about that stuff.’

  ‘I think you do. Where’s the other laptop?’ said Brook. ‘And more importantly, where is Russell?’

  She glared at him briefly before returning to the kitchen to pour two coffees. She placed one next to Brook with a coquettish smile. ‘You did say no sugar.’

  Brook’s face was like stone. He swung his own laptop case from his shoulder and turned on his machine. He cued up the last Deity broadcast as Noble had shown him and swung the screen round to face her.

  She glanced at the screen but didn’t react. A moment later, Brook paused the broadcast on the picture of the hanged boy. Yvette’s eyes widened. ‘No, no, no!’ she screamed and threw her coffee cup at Brook, who just managed to duck in time, though hot coffee scalded his hand. ‘Leave us alone!’ she wept, and leaped towards the front door. Brook had anticipated her and blocked her way so she turned and headed for the back door. Brook declined to follow, instead pulling out a handkerchief to cover his burning hand.

  A few seconds later he heard more screaming, and a struggling Yvette was being restrained with some difficulty by Noble and PC Patel.

  ‘Yvette Thomson. You’re under arrest for the murder of Russell Thomson.’

  Brook plucked the nearly new toothbrush from the cup and dropped it in the evidence bag. He jogged back down the stairs where Don Crump was waxing lyrical about his antipathy to early mornings.

  ‘It’s Sunday, for Christ’s sake – middle of the night too, I mean, fuck me . . .’ He stopped when his colleagues’ eyes were drawn first to Brook on the stairs and then to their tasks. Crump turned to Brook, who handed him the evidence bag.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Yvette Thomson. DNA profile, please.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No. You can clear Russell’s room of all the artefacts. I want them bagged and tagged,’ said Brook, over his shoulder.

  ‘What about his DNA? SOCO already looked, remember.’

  Brook turned at the front door. ‘You may have to separate it from other samples,’ he said, ‘but I’d try Mrs Thomson’s bedroom.’

  Crump rolled a lascivious eye to colleagues and in his best Kenneth Williams accent, said, ‘Ooh, Matron!’

  Cooper scrolled through all the texts on Yvette Thomson’s phone as Brook and Noble looked on.

  ‘Since the students went missing, Yvette’s sent him fifteen texts. All asking where he is and when he’s coming back and all increasingly desperate. All unanswered as were the thirty calls she placed to his mobile number. If she’s faking it, it’s pretty impressive.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You want to see her snapshots?’

  ‘Why not?’ said Brook. ‘We might get a better likeness of Rusty.’

  Brook placed the evidence bags and photographs on the table and turned on the recorder to announce the time, date, his own name and those of Noble, PC Patel and the duty solicitor, Roger Sands. Yvette Thomson sat perfectly still and stared into space. She seemed to be in a state of shock. ‘State your name for the record, please.’ No reply. ‘Yvette.’

  The solicitor touched her arm and Yvette looked up. She roused herself to think. ‘Yvette Gail Thomson.’

  ‘Have the charges been properly explained to you?’ said Brook.

  A pained expression infected her features. ‘I did not kill my son,’ she answered.

  ‘But you accept that he is dead,’ said Brook.

  ‘Don’t answer that,’ said Sands.

  Brook shot him a malevolent glance and picked up a picture of the hanged boy taken from the Deity broadcast and pushed it towards her. ‘Is that your son?’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything, Miss Thomson,’ said Sands. ‘They have no evidence.’

  ‘Is that your son, Yvette?’ persisted Brook. ‘Look at it.’

  She darted a glance at the photograph then closed her eyes, forcing tears on to her cheeks. After several minutes of silence she finally answered. ‘Yes. That’s Russell.’

  ‘Not Rusty.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Every time you referred to your missing son before this morning, you called him Rusty.’

  ‘Well, I could hardly call him Russell, could I? Out of respect.’

  ‘So Rusty is not your son.’

  ‘Miss Thomson, I advise you . . .’ began Sands.

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s your lover.’

  ‘Miss Thomson . . .’

  She hesitated but then said proudly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Miss—’

  ‘Keep quiet,’ spat Yvette at Sands. ‘I’ll shout about our love from the rooftops if I want.’

  Brook smiled at Sands. ‘How long has Rusty been your lover?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘And Russell died three years ago, is that right?’

  ‘When we – I – lived in Wales, yes.’

  ‘Near Denbigh?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘So you met Rusty the year before your son died.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where?’

  Yvette smiled with remembrance. ‘On the beach at Rhyl. Me and Russell were having a day out in the holidays. Rusty, this beautiful young man, just walked up to me with a strange smile on his face and sat in the sand next to me. I’ll never forget what he said to me. He said, “I’ve found my soulmate.” And he had.’

  ‘Where was Russell when this was happening?’

  ‘He was having a ride on a donkey.’

  ‘This would be in 2007.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘When Russell died the year after, how old was he?’ The tears started again. ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘And how old is Rusty?’

  Yvette shook her head. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You don’t know?’ said Brook, surprised.

  ‘Older.’

  ‘Well, how old was he when you met him?’

  ‘Four years younger than he is now,’ she sneered.

  ‘You’re telling me you don’t know how old your lover of four years is?’

  ‘Twenty? Twenty-five? Maybe older.’

  Brook took a sip of water. ‘I find it incredible that you don’t know.’

  Yvette shrugged. ‘It never came up. We were in love. It wasn’t important.’

  ‘Never came up,’ Brook repeated. Then: ‘You’re an orphan, Yvette. It must’ve been tough so I’ll try not to judge.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ she growled at him.

  ‘It means that everything that happens is all about you, isn’t it? What you want. What you need.’

  Yvette looked down at the floor, searching for a rebuttal.

  ‘I . . .’ She shook her head.

  ‘What about Rusty’s real name? Did that come up?’

  Yvette took offence at Brook’s tone and replied icily, ‘He said it was Ian.’

  ‘Surname?’

  She shook her head, shamefaced. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did you ever see any ID – passport, birth certificate, driving licence?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How about credit cards?’

  ‘Rusty has no use for money. He says it imprisons those who have it.’

  ‘Does he? So you have no idea if his name is really Ian.’

  ‘No.’ She s
miled suddenly. ‘Rusty said he didn’t exist before he met me. He really loves me, you see.’

  ‘Why did you kill Russell?’ asked Brook.

  ‘I didn’t kill him,’ replied Yvette firmly. ‘He killed himself.’

  ‘But he was your son and you didn’t report him missing. Why?’

  ‘He wasn’t missing. He was dead.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you contact the police to identify his body?’

  ‘Because . . .’

  ‘. . . they would’ve asked why you didn’t report him missing,’ said Brook before Yvette could answer. ‘Your son has not had a decent burial. He has no grave to mark his passing. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Terrible,’ she replied. ‘What mother wouldn’t?’

  ‘Then why allow that to happen?’

  ‘I didn’t see the point of it,’ she snarled at Brook.

  ‘No use crying over spilled milk?’ suggested Brook. No reply. ‘Why did Rusty kill him?’

  ‘Russell committed suicide. He did it of his own accord. Ian – Rusty – told me.’ She began to cry. ‘Russell was depressed. He was being bullied. Rusty just . . .’ She closed her eyes, forcing more tears down her cheeks.

  ‘What? Encouraged him?’

  She nodded. ‘I didn’t know, I swear. Rusty told me later. He said it was for the best, that Russell would always be unhappy. He said he realised as soon as he met him that Russell was a soul in torment. Rusty – Ian – was just waiting for the right time to . . .’

  ‘. . . help your son end his life,’ said Brook.

  She hung her head. ‘Rusty’s very persuasive. He could charm the birds out of the trees. He was Russell’s friend, he supported him. He said it was for the best, best for Russell too. He was too sensitive to live; he’d always be in pain. That’s how he put it. He said I shouldn’t say anything. If the police got involved or found out who Russell was, then they’d make him a scapegoat and put him away, and . . .’

  ‘. . . you’d be alone again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why couldn’t they identify his body? There wasn’t even a dental record.’

  ‘I took him to the dentist when he was small. The first time, he screamed the place down, wouldn’t let the dentist near him. Nothing worked. I told you – he was sensitive, see?’ She shrugged. ‘I looked after his teeth best I could from then.’