by Steven Dunne
‘Yes, that’s Sally Bailey. George Bailey’s younger daughter,’ he added in a formal tone, as though familiar with the routine.
Drexler and McQuarry said nothing in reply and waited for the inevitable questions, but they didn’t arrive. Instead Sorenson continued to stare at the picture. Drexler raised an eyebrow at his partner.
‘You don’t seem too interested in who did this, Professor,’ said McQuarry evenly. ‘I find myself wondering why.’
Sorenson looked up at her. ‘Death is the only detail. The rest is window dressing. She’s beyond hurting now.’
‘In a better place?’ offered Drexler, with a hint of a sneer as payback.
Sorenson smiled bleakly and Drexler wished he’d said nothing.
‘Where were you last Thursday evening, Professor?’ ‘Returning from a trip.’ Sorenson didn’t even blink or try to pretend to remember his movements.
‘Where?’
‘I drove down to Yosemite for a few days.’
‘Looking for George Bailey?’
‘Not exactly,’ smiled Sorenson. ‘Though I suppose, taking a similar route to the one George would’ve taken to Tahoe, I was more than a little interested in the terrain.’
‘And what route was that?’
‘You don’t expect me to remember tedious road names, do you?’
‘What about California 89?’ asked McQuarry. Sorenson’s face brightened in childlike recognition. ‘Actually, I do remember being on 89. The Ghost Road they call it.’
‘Make any stops?’
‘Certainly. At my age I need the toilet more often than I’d prefer.’
‘And gas?’
‘Of course.’
‘On 89?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘What time would that have been, sir?’
This time Sorenson did make a bit more of an effort to play the game and stroked his chin, looking into the distance. ‘Let me see. It’s a bit hazy. I was tired.’
‘So it was late.’
Sorenson pointed a bony talon at Drexler. ‘Yes, you’re right. I stopped just as it was getting dark. Some rundown fleapit on 89.’
‘And what did you buy?’
‘Just petrol. Gas.’
McQuarry pulled another picture from her small case and placed it in front of Sorenson. It was in black and white but he was clearly recognisable. He was looking at the camera and carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag in the other.
‘That’s me,’ said Sorenson with a chuckle. ‘So the camera did work. He said it did though I didn’t believe him. You should’ve seen the place.’
‘We have,’ said Drexler.
‘You remember what else you bought now?’ asked McQuarry.
‘That’s right, I bought a knife. It had a can opener attachment. I lost mine at the camp…’
‘It also had a corkscrew.’
Sorenson grinned at Drexler. ‘I believe it did.’
‘And the coffee?’
‘Oh, I didn’t buy that. Mr Ashwell was kind enough to let me have it for free.’
‘You remember his name now?’
Sorenson smiled his assent.
‘Where did you buy the roses?’ asked Drexler.
‘Roses? I didn’t buy roses.’
‘The forecourt camera clearly shows red roses in your car,’ said McQuarry.
Sorenson smiled warmly but his eyes were cold. ‘Forecourt camera? I don’t think so. But show me a picture. It might jog my memory.’
Sorenson was sure of his ground.
‘And how was the coffee?’ asked Drexler.
Sorenson turned to him and grinned. ‘Surprisingly good.’
‘Do you still have the cup in your trash, sir?’
‘I’m afraid not. I left it in the Dodge so you’d need to ask the thief about its whereabouts. Tell me. Why all these questions about where I stopped on the road? Why don’t you speak to Mr Ashwell and his son?’
McQuarry allowed herself a soundless half-laugh this time. She wanted to punch him playfully on the arm and say, Cut it out, willya? We know you killed ’em. You know you killed ’em and you know we know you killed ’em but she settled for, ‘Mr Ashwell and his son are dead.’
Sorenson didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Indeed?’
Twenty minutes later, as the Chevy snaked its way back to the highway, Drexler ran his eye over the beautiful grounds again to confirm what he already knew. Victor Sorenson was a wealthy and successful man. He had a lot to lose. The game had begun.
Chapter Ten
Brook jumped into the BMW, fumbling for the ignition key. Finally he jammed it into the ignition and started the car. He froze for a few seconds, gazing off into the murk, seeing only his past. He slapped the lacquered wood of his steering wheel with the flat of his palm and turned off the engine.
‘Two years in the ground and still no peace.’
He took a huge breath and stepped out of the car. As though in a trance, he walked back along the road through the billows of mist. Instead of making his way to the Wallis house again, Brook stopped a few doors away, getting his bearings. He looked at the house on his right. Windows were closed but there was faint light coming from inside. He set off for the path at the side of the house, which might once have supported a garage but which was now a scrubby weed-infested driveway, along which two lines of paving slabs had been dropped rather than laid, to enable access to a car.
Brook approached the corner of the house and peered around it. He saw the smouldering glow of the brazier against the blackness. The music was clearer now, beautiful and gentle. He could see dark shapes ahead, barely outlined by the dying radiance of the coals. He took another huge breath and stepped towards the abyss.
Brook didn’t know how long he stood in that yard before brain function returned. Later, in the peace of his office, he would calculate it at two or three minutes. Looking back, he would try to remember what he’d been thinking as he stared at a scene that wouldn’t have been out of place in an abattoir.
In the aftermath, he could only liken the experience to some kind of seizure or maybe the deepest stupor of a heroin rush, inducing a paralysis so deep that he was powerless to move or prevent the flow of images from his past. The Reaper had returned and Brook stood in the gallery of the dead admiring the brush-work but feeling the detachment of the critic. The Reaper was outside looking in at humanity and Brook stood with him.
What brought him back was not a noise or a stray light, but a sensation in his nervous system so real, that he felt as though someone was rubbing a snowball up and down his bare spine. He wasn’t alone. Brook could feel eyes burning into his back. He turned slowly, panning round a pixel at a time, until he faced a newer section of the yard’s boundary, a single section of shiplap fencing that bridged the gap between two crumbling walls. The top of the fence was smeared and stained with what looked like blood and Brook took a step towards it. As he did so, another noise behind him made him turn again. For a moment he listened, but except for the music there was nothing. Brook gazed back at the shiplap panel but the sensation had passed, and some kind of thought process had returned.
He walked back to the front of the house, fishing in his pocket for his new mobile phone. A second later an arm folded around Brook’s neck while another arm pulled his hand down by his side, forcing him to drop the phone onto the ground. Brook began to struggle and instinctively put his free hand up to protect his throat from a blade.
‘Take it easy, mate. You’re going nowhere, so relax,’ said a voice into his ear.
‘Don’t struggle,’ said another voice, ‘and you won’t get hurt.’ ‘We just need to know what you’re doing here…’ said the first voice.
‘…and see some ID,’ continued the second.
Brook held his body limp to signal acceptance of the terms and conditions and the arm around his throat spun him around to push him back against a wall.
‘I’m DI Brook, CID.’
Suddenly the pressure on his torso ev
aporated and the voices lost their well-grooved tone and became tense and clipped. ‘Sir! Sorry, sir. We had no idea.’ Brook fumbled for his warrant card but a gloved hand touched his breast pocket. ‘No need, sir. I recognise you now.’
‘You could have asked for ID straightaway.’
‘Sorry, sir. But we’re responding to a 999 call.’
Brook was bending down to pick up his phone but looked up sharply. He hesitated for a second then said, ‘I know. I heard the message from Dispatch and I wasn’t too far away. Did you catch who called it in?’
‘We’re not sure exactly. Emergency services got a suspicious call from a mobile. Bit garbled but the caller left their mobile on so they located the signal and asked us to have a look.’
‘Right,’ nodded Brook.
‘We’d have been here sooner but were on another call.’
‘So sorry if we…’
‘PC Duffy, isn’t it?’ asked Brook.
‘That’s right, sir. And PC Parker.’
‘Well, we’ve no time to waste. Stay here and get back onto Dispatch. I’ve only been here a few minutes myself but we seem to have several bodies and one survivor…’
‘Bodies?’ repeated Duffy as though the word was unfamiliar to him.
‘Bodies, Duffy. Murdered. It looks like The Reaper,’ he added. It had the desired effect.
‘The Reaper!’ replied Duffy and Parker in unison.
‘We’re going to need ambulances. Also, very important, get onto Dispatch and get Forensics here urgently – as well as the duty police surgeon. Third – maybe you’d better write this down – we need to start the hunt now. I think the killer may still be close. We need patrol cars blocking all roads off the estate as soon as possible. We need to get the helicopter and the thermal-imaging cameras up in case he’s hiding in someone’s garden. Also Traffic. We need to keep an eye on all suspicious movement on the roads linking Drayfin to all major routes, especially the Ml southbound …’
‘What about northbound?’ asked Parker, scribbling furiously.
‘Why not? And investigate any vehicle driving erratically or speeding away from Derby, particularly vans with anyone in overalls or protective clothing. There won’t be many this time of night.’
‘Anything else, guv?’ asked PC Duffy.
‘Apart from not calling me guv, no. Wait … yes. Tell Dispatch to get DS Noble down here now.’
Noble arrived twenty minutes later and parked beside the flashing ambulance. For once, his customary poise, so studiously nurtured and encouraged by Brook, was under pressure. He approached Brook, who was standing alone at the front gate of the house pulling on a cigarette.
‘Sir,’ he said with admirable brevity. The two officers exchanged no more than a glance.
Brook was about to speak when two ambulance men wheeled out a body on a trolley. The detectives both turned to look at the face, disfigured by spatters of blood, an oxygen mask covering his mouth.
‘That’s Jason Wallis,’ Noble shrieked in bewilderment. ‘It can’t be.’ He turned to Brook who returned only an enigmatic smile. ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he said, forgetting Brook’s disapproval of swearing. ‘Jason Wallis again?’
‘Easy, John. How’s the patient?’ asked Brook.
The paramedic at the front of the trolley paused to address Brook. Despite years of experience, the man seemed shaken. ‘He hasn’t got a scratch on him – far as we can tell. He’s well out of it, had a lot to drink. But none of the blood on him seems to be his.’
Brook looked at the bloodstained latex glove on the man’s hand. ‘Did you touch the scalpel?’
‘I don’t think so. We left it on the arm of the sofa, next to the mobile.’
‘Good.’
The man paused and sought Brook’s eye with an expression Brook had seen many times before. ‘I’ve seen car wrecks…’ He shook his head and continued toting the trolley to the back of the ambulance with his partner. Noble’s eyes followed the flashing light down the street as the ambulance drove away, then turned to Brook. ‘So it’s The Reaper again.’
Brook decided not to challenge him. ‘It looks like it.’
‘And Wallis too. It doesn’t make sense. Unless DI Greatorix was right. Maybe Jason did kill his own family and got a taste for it.’
‘And managed to leave himself unconscious at the scene again? I don’t think so, John.’
‘Then what have we got?’
‘We’ve got a sophisticated and ruthless executioner who seems to be staking out this estate like a great white shark. That’s not Jason. But you’re right in one sense. I think someone would like us to think it was Jason.’
‘How do you know?’
‘They left the murder weapon in his hand.’
Noble nodded, without showing much sign of understanding. ‘How many? Bodies, I mean.’
Brook took a deep breath. ‘Six.’
‘Jesus.’
* * *
An hour later the house and garden was a hive of activity. The first of the arc lights had been hooked up to a portable generator and were illuminating the Scene of Crime Officers as they worked. One officer was directing the erection of two large marquees to shield the evidence from the elements, as well as from the enterprising journalists who would soon be mobilising to cover the story.
At Brook’s prompting they also removed the piece of shiplap fencing in the backyard. As they took it away, Brook held his hand up to stop them. He peered intently at it and could clearly see the blood on the top panel where the killer – he refused to use the word Reaper – had brushed his bloodstained clothing as he made his escape.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Brook waved on the lead Scene of Crime Officer, who winked in acknowledgement.
The neighbour’s house beyond could now be accessed. It was in darkness and though officers banged on the door to explain to the occupant what they were doing in the garden, there was no reply.
Brook returned to the front of the Ingham house. A small but vocal crowd was gathering at the edge of the hastily erected police tape, some drinking cans of beer, most just trying to stay warm, but all taking an interest. Mobile phones were glued to ears, grins were glued to faces as they basked in the glow of their newfound worth. They had news that friends and family would want to hear, news that people would listen to without interruption. This was their chance to make their mark, maybe even get on the telly. For years to come, the untalented would regale the barely conscious down the pub with stories of their involvement.
‘Our Billy used to knock around with the Inghams!’
‘Mrs Ingham used to do my hair!’
‘You can see their garden from our roof.’
‘Them fuckers nicked me hubcaps.’
‘I reckon it was their Stephen done our house over that Christmas. Thieving little cunt.’
‘The mum was a right slag. Good riddance to the fat cow and her brats!’
‘I wonder who’s having their telly? It’s forty-two inch.’
‘They’ve even got fucking helicopter out. Wave, we might be on the box tonight.’
Just after five in the morning, Brook stepped carefully along the roped path, even though the Scene of Crime Officers had already checked the ground. Behind him came Noble. As they rounded the side of the house, both men’s eyes darted around greedily for the details recently illuminated by the large arc lights.
‘That’s a lot of claret,’ remarked Noble, glancing at the three corpses on the sofas.
Brook nodded; his eye was a little more measured, as he’d already observed the scene, albeit by the glow of a spent fire. He glanced across the fences to the window of the Wallis house a few doors away, from where he’d stood looking down at the Ingham garden just three hours before. The protective board was missing, as he’d left it. He knew at some point he might have to direct Forensics to it, if he could come up with a justification that wouldn’t incriminate him. For now, to Noble’s mild bemusement, he’d merely stationed an officer at the front o
f the house. ‘In case people decide it’s a good place to sneak a look at what’s going on,’ was how he explained it to Noble.
‘Where are the other three bodies?’ asked Noble, his breath steaming in the cold.
‘Upstairs bedroom. Two adults, one male, one female, and one male child, about ten years old,’ replied Brook, turning his attention back to the scene before him.
Two sofas sat at right angles to one another, facing towards the heat of a fire, as they might in any living room. In this case the near-dormant fire was a brazier made from a discarded oil drum in the bare backyard of the Ingham household. The closest sofa supported two bodies next to each other, stretched out, feet towards the fire. The second sofa held just one corpse, similarly positioned. The seat where Jason Wallis had been unconscious was now vacant and, as promised, the bloodied scalpel and mobile phone were on its arm, waiting to be photographed and bagged. On the ground were discarded plates, some with dirty cutlery, and some with remnants of the condemned boys’ last meal. Burgers and hot dogs in half-chewed buns, stained by blood and ketchup. There were also a dozen or so discarded Special Brew and other assorted beer cans, some crushed and thrown at a bin some ten yards away, others upright, probably unfinished, by the side of the sofas. In addition Brook could see at least four empty two-litre bottles of Diamond White cider, the drink of choice for seekers of oblivion. Most of the revellers had not been disappointed.
Noble kneeled to examine one of several handrolled cigarette ends that littered the yard like confetti. ‘Smells like zoot to me.’
Brook looked over. ‘Got a hole in your tooth, John?’
Noble returned a bleak smile. ‘Marijuana, sir. Street name, zoot. I’m down with the kids.’
Brook nodded and rolled his eyes towards the sofa supporting the single male corpse. The boy, a teenager, sat upright, though his head, baseball cap still in place, was twisted backwards over the back of the sofa, his gaping wound fully exposed. They’d both seen the twist of pink gristle of a severed windpipe before. The cleanness of the cut was consistent with The Reaper’s MO – no hacking, no panicked slashing, clean, cold, efficient and almost matter-of-fact. A job to get done, then move on. Who’s next?