by Steven Dunne
Brook sat down with another drink of whisky to gaze at the email purporting to be from the late Victor Sorenson. Everything about it was right, the laconic, gently probing style, the over-familiar yet stiff formality of the language.
But Sorenson was dead…
A banging on the door made Brook’s heart lurch and, after clicking the message onto his toolbar, he padded to the porch. For the first time since his move to the crime-free peace of Hartington, Brook hesitated before opening the door.
‘Mr Brook. I saw the light was on so I thought I’d take a chance.’
‘Tom.’
Tom Hutcheson hesitated on the step, waiting for an enquiry. When Brook remained mute he pressed on. ‘Aye, it’s the cottage, Mr Brook. I thought I’d let you know … Are you all right?’
Realising that his manner was causing concern, Brook stirred himself to remember the social conventions. ‘Tom. Sorry. I’m tired. I’ve been away. Do you want to come in?’
‘No, that’s all right. I thought I’d pop round about next door. I saw you were up and thought you’d like to know that it’s let for the next six months.’
‘Oh, okay. I saw the sign was down.’
‘And no need to worry. No kids this time.’ Brook allowed himself a thin smile. ‘Some writer or researcher, or some such thing. I forget. He flew in from Boston this morning. Picked him up at the airport.’
‘That was good of you.’
‘Was it, buggery. He’s paying through the nose in advance till next May.’
‘That’s great news, Tom.’
‘Aye. And he seems like an okay bloke. About your age.’ Brook merely nodded, taking nothing in. When Tom saw he was drifting out of the conversation, he paid his respects and left.
Brook returned to his whisky bottle for a refill and took a pack of unopened cigarettes from the desk drawer. He cracked open the cellophane and lit up his first cigarette in six weeks or more, grimacing at the harshness of the smoke.
An hour later, Brook was still on his garden bench with a blanket, sucking in the country air. He’d stared at the email until his vision had blurred, but eventually had to give it up to let his overheating brain cool.
He shivered and looked at his watch. Gone one in the morning. Work tomorrow. Today. It was cold now, in spite of the blanket he’d brought out to swaddle him, and even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep, it was time to go to bed. He took a last pull on his cigarette, drained his glass and left the bench. As he prepared to go indoors, a noise made him spin round.
A darkened figure emerged from the gloom of next door’s garden and stepped towards the dividing wall between their properties.
‘Can’t sleep either?’ the figure queried in a mild American accent.
Brook hesitated for a moment then turned fully towards his new neighbour. ‘Same as yourself.’
‘But I’ve got an excuse,’ he chuckled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re jetlagged as well?’
Brook smiled on a reflex, though his new neighbour would be unable to see it. ‘No. I’ve been on holiday and I’m reluctant to let it end. Work tomorrow.’
The man nodded. ‘Holiday,’ he repeated in a low voice, as though the word was a complete mystery to him. ‘Must be nice. Go anywhere special?’
‘Just around the Peak District. Camping,’ Brook added, as though further explanation were needed.
‘Sounds good. This is a beautiful area.’
‘You’ve been before … ?’
‘Mike. Mike Drexler. No, never. Only what I’ve read and seen from the car on the way from the airport.’
Brook waited, wanting to be away. He had already exhausted his quota of small talk. He realised the reason for the pause and stepped forward into the moonlight. ‘Damen Brook. Nice to meet you.’ Drexler also stepped forward. He seemed to be around the same age as Brook, perhaps a little older, with thinning brown hair, greying at the temples and sideburns. Brook’s garden was below the level of next door’s, so a handshake was problematic, and so they both settled for an upraised arm.
‘Damen,’ Drexler nodded. ‘Good to meet you. Interesting name. Perhaps we have a German ancestry in common?’
‘I’m from Barnsley.’ Brook smiled under cover of night.
Drexler hesitated, ‘I’m not that familiar with the homeland, Damen. Is that in Bavaria?’
‘It’s in Yorkshire, Mike. The nearest any of my ancestors came to Germany was a holiday in the Norfolk Broads.’
Drexler chuckled finally. ‘I see. And what about that cute black cat I saw earlier?’
‘That would be Basil and the guaranteed path into his affections is cooked chicken.’ Again Drexler chuckled. Brook had reached politeness overload and wondered how to withdraw.
Fortunately Drexler seemed to have reached the end of his own small talk. ‘Well, thanks for chatting, Damen. I’d better let you hit the sack. See you later.’
‘Good night. And welcome to Derbyshire.’
A few minutes later Brook was in his bedroom. As he opened his bedroom window, he noticed the orange glow of a cigarette in next door’s back garden.
Chapter Six
The next day, Brook drove to the Drayfin Estate. He bolted up the path to the house of John and Denise Ottoman. The middle-aged couple had been interviewed two years previously in connection with the Reaper murders at the Wallis family home.
On that occasion, Brook and Noble had remarked on their ordered existence, everything in house and garden spick and span. Now Brook looked around at how much things had changed. Their manicured front lawn was full of weeds and animal faeces. Their fence and front gate were rotted and the windows of the house sported curls of peeling paint that testified to neglect.
Brook knocked on the door, wondering if they’d moved. Eventually there was movement and the front door opened just a crack. He saw a haggard face and long straggly grey locks.
‘Mrs Ottoman. Inspector Brook. Do you remember me?’ The woman didn’t reply but lowered her eyes in pained recognition. ‘I’ve called as a courtesy to let you know, if you didn’t already, that Jason Wallis has been released.’ No reply, just a baleful red-rimmed eye lifted towards his own briefly. Brook could discern the formation of a tear, so brought matters to a close. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about and no reason to suppose that he’d be any threat to you or your husband, but don’t hesitate to contact—’
The door closed and Brook heard the figure shuffling back into her tomb.
* * *
Brook walked through the main door of the modern St Mary’s Wharf police headquarters, his mind churning from the contents of ‘The Reaper’ email from the night before.
As Brook walked through the reception area, Duty Sergeant Hendrickson lifted a brand new copy of In Search of The Reaper in front of his nose. Pretending to read intently, he grinned maliciously as Brook passed. His grin faded only slightly when Brook barely gave him a glance. Hendrickson turned to one of the PCs and nodded.
‘He knows about it all right. Fucking nailed him, the useless toffee-nosed twat.’
‘Sarge?’ inquired the unsuspecting constable.
‘DI Brook!’ urged Hendrickson. ‘Fucking nailed him to a tree. This book,’ he continued, nodding at it to underscore his point. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know about it …’
Dupree, Drexler and McQuarry stood huddled around the monitor in the back office of the gas station. The picture was nearly black and at first Drexler and McQuarry thought the monitor wasn’t working. Then they realised they were looking at the customer service area of the gas station. They couldn’t make out any detail because the building was cloaked in darkness. A second later the screen was flooded with light as the fluorescent strip sputtered into life. A slight figure, dressed head to toe in black overalls and black ski mask, carried a chair into shot and placed it down. The figure left the screen briefly, returned with a brightly coloured nylon rope, threw it over a beam and left the shot again, evidently to secure the other end, because they could see
the rope moving.
A few seconds later, the figure returned, leading the boy to the chair.
‘He’s nearly a foot taller. Why doesn’t he resist?’ asked McQuarry.
‘Drugs.’ The two agents nodded in unison. ‘We figure. Though we ain’t found any on the premises,’ said Dupree.
They watched the rest of the show like automatons until the moment the figure in black kicked the chair away from the helpless Billy. Drexler stood up from the monitor as Billy fell. ‘I’ve seen enough. He’s just a kid, for God’s sake.’
‘Give it a minute, Special Agent.’ Dupree put the tape on fast forward. When the tape returned to normal speed, the body was dangling lifelessly in space. The figure in black returned to the middle of the shot and, in a gesture that chilled the two FBI agents to the bone, turned his covered face towards the camera and affected a slight but noticeable bow. Then he walked off camera.
DS Noble was sitting at Brook’s desk, reading his copy of Burton’s book, when Brook walked into his office. He closed it sheepishly and stood up as Brook entered.
‘Sir. Welcome back. You look well. Good holiday?’
‘Fine. Don’t get up, John.’ Noble sat back down. ‘Well?’
‘Sir?’ replied Noble.
Brook gazed at Noble, calm but unrelenting, waiting for Noble to crack. In the end Brook took pity on him. ‘Is it any good, John?’
Noble smiled into the break of tension. ‘Oh, this? Total crap. Burton doesn’t have a clue. He can’t even write that well.’
‘You don’t have to put him down just for me, John. But thanks.’
‘I’m not. It’s sh … rubbish and nobody in this station will believe a word of it.’
‘No, John. Everybody in this station and probably this city, apart from me and hopefully you, will believe every word of it. By the way, my chair suits you, John. So does my office.’
Noble pushed the chair back and swivelled violently round, stopping to give Brook a sly grin. ‘Maybe. But if they keep eking out the budget the way they are, we’ll both retire as DCs.’
‘Patience, John. These things move in cycles. Any news?’
‘Nothing that can’t wait – Greatorix is still on the sick.’
‘Anorexia?’
Noble laughed. ‘You really shouldn’t, sir. His weight problem is glandular.’
‘I should have paid more attention in biology lessons, John. I had no idea the mouth was a gland.’ Noble shook his head in mock censure. ‘Any messages?’
‘Only the DPP. They’re putting back the Andrews trial. And Charlton wants you as soon as you get in.’
‘Really?’
‘I think he wants to check you’re on side about the Burton book. Don’t worry. I told him you wouldn’t piss on Burton if he were on fire.’
Brook looked at Noble with a thin smile, dismayed by Noble’s imagery but amused that Brook’s inability to get on with virtually anybody might be news to the Chief Superintendent. ‘Thanks. I hope you made it clear that wasn’t a direct quote.’
‘I’m not sure,’ mocked Noble. ‘By the way, there were a couple of new faces in his office this morning. Rumour is they’re reinforcements to fill in for Greatorix. And one of them is a bit of a looker.’
Brook repeated ‘A looker!’, lingering over the phrase with distaste. He knew he was being teased and though he actively encouraged such mocking, he still felt obliged to reproach Noble for damage done to the English language. ‘Well, we can’t say we don’t need some new blood in CID. I just hope he doesn’t want me to play nursemaid like I had to with you.’ He turned to march out of the office, ignoring Noble’s offended expression, then turned back. ‘Mark the worst pages for me, John. I’ll need to take a look.’
‘You sure?’
‘Well, unless he says something really mean. I don’t want to start wetting the bed again.’
Noble laughed. ‘Sorry. Did I tell you? Jason Wallis got out of White Oaks yesterday. Good behaviour.’
Brook nodded. ‘So they do learn new skills there. Did anyone inform the Ottomans?’
Noble returned a blank look. Brook smiled sadly. ‘Denise Ottoman.’ No response. ‘The teacher Jason sexually assaulted during a lesson.’
‘Right – they already know. Someone said the husband was interviewed about it on the telly. Want me to send someone round for tea and sympathy?’
‘No need. I took care of it.’
‘Sheriff, it looks like you’ve got a real interesting case here. Real interesting,’ nodded McQuarry. ‘The Tahoe Satellite Office told the Sacramento Field Office this was a Federal case, but all you got is two dead locals. Now I know it’s the Ghost Road but I’ve got to say it’s a stretch. We’ll try and help you the best way we can. Our resources are available to any PD that wants to use them. But the only way we can take this from local state police is if it involves terrorism, or we know for sure the perpetrator or victims have crossed a state line…’
Sheriff Dupree smiled at Drexler. ‘What was it you said, son? Clearing up the ground. Follow me.’
Brook knocked on the door and entered. ‘Morning, sir,’ said Brook.
Chief Superintendent Mark Charlton declined to stand up behind his desk. He rarely did when Brook entered, the contrast between their heights causing a shift in the balance of their relationship with which Charlton wasn’t comfortable.
‘Morning.’ Charlton’s grey eyes bored into Brook in that well-practised show of openness that the lecturer on his senior management courses had tried to instil in him. ‘I trust you had a restful holiday, Inspector?’ offered the Chief Super with so little attempt at inquiry that Brook made no effort to answer, distracted as he was by Charlton’s guests who had both made the effort to stand. A man, a couple of inches shorter than Brook with a craggy, experienced face, and a woman in her late twenties/early thirties, with hazel eyes and a pretty, well-proportioned face, turned to acknowledge him. The man held out a hand which Brook, after a brief hesitation, gripped and shook quickly.
‘Hello, Joshua. How are you?’
‘I’m fine, Damen.’ Hudson smiled back at Brook and turned to give Grant a private look.
‘I didn’t realise you knew each other?’ said Charlton.
‘I saw you at Charlie Rowlands’s funeral,’ Hudson continued, as though Charlton didn’t exist, ‘though we didn’t get much of a chance to talk.’
‘I remember.’
‘A sad day.’
‘A sad day,’ answered Brook, turning to DS Grant.
‘This is my DS, Laura Grant.’
Grant, already reseated, nodded curtly at Brook, her head bowed as if trying to avoid his searching stare.
Brook sensed the antipathy in her but had grown so accustomed to the reaction from others, that it barely registered. ‘Laura – beautiful name.’
Grant blushed, with an unexpected tremor of pleasure that teetered on the brink of annoyance. ‘Thank you.’
‘Please sit,’ said Charlton. Brook noticed the extra chairs and made for one. Clearly this meeting had been planned. ‘Now DCI Hudson and DS Grant have come all this way to see you, Inspector Brook and, as I have a liaison committee to chair, feel free to use my office.’
‘Thank you, Chief Superintendent,’ said Hudson, already turning his sights on Brook.
Brook held his gaze, staring back without emotion or apparent curiosity. Brook knew why they’d come.
‘Inspector Brook. I will need to speak to you about this Brian Burton book this afternoon. I’ll be back in the office at three p.m.,’ continued the Chief Super. ‘In the meantime I’ll leave you to it.’ Charlton was now forced to stand. To his discomfort, everyone else stood too and he became flustered, keen to flee this land of the giants. As soon as he could manoeuvre himself to the door, he scuttled out.
‘Shall we sit down, Inspector?’ suggested Hudson.
Brook fell back onto the padded chair and crossed his legs. ‘Call me Damen.’
‘Damen.’
‘Thanks f
or agreeing to talk to us.’
‘I haven’t agreed to talk to you.’
Hudson and Grant looked sharply at Brook. Hudson broke into a quick smile. ‘Would you agree to talk to us, Damen? Strictly informal at this stage.’
‘No problem. What’s going on in Bromley that you need to come all this way to see me?’ asked Brook, without a semblance of interest. ‘We’ve had telephones here in Derby for months.’
Hudson couldn’t suppress a chuckle, but Grant smiled coldly. ‘I transferred out of Bromley eight years ago, Damen. I moved to Brighton for a quieter life. Fat chance, eh?’ Hudson and Grant locked eyes on him for a reaction, but Brook was completely impassive. There was silence for a moment before Hudson spoke again. ‘Your ex-wife and daughter live there. Aren’t you worried that something may have happened to them?’
‘You wouldn’t have driven two hundred miles just to break it to me,’ said Brook softly.
‘I suppose not.’
‘In fact, we saw them recently. They’re in good health,’ added Grant. ‘Emotionally they’re not too good.’
‘Really,’ said Brook.
‘You see, your ex-wife’s husband, Tony Harvey-Ellis, is dead. He drowned in the Channel.’
Grant and Hudson were mildly shocked to see Brook’s thin smile.
‘What a pity. Drowned, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘However, it wasn’t an accident.’
Brook’s smile faded. ‘He was murdered?’
‘It looks that way,’ nodded Hudson.
‘Drownings are almost always suicides when they’re not accidents, Inspector,’ added Grant. She glared intently at Brook.
Brook smiled and nodded, pleased that they’d tried to wrong-foot him. ‘You clearly didn’t know him, Laura. Someone as smug and self-absorbed as Harvey-Ellis could never kill himself.’
‘You still haven’t asked about your ex-wife and daughter,’ observed Hudson.
‘You don’t think Amy and Terri were responsible, I hope?’