by Steven Dunne
‘I’m ready.’
Drexler began to doze. The heating in the car was cranked up to combat the chill of sub-zero temperatures and, despite being still light, he was in no shape to resist the sedative effect. His notebook slipped from his lap and his head dropped down onto his shoulder. Soon he was snoring.
He woke up some twenty minutes later feeling refreshed. Light snow had built up on his windshield and he moved the wiper switch to clear his vision. Sorenson’s black eyes were burning into him.
Drexler stiffened, his feet kicking the fast-food cartons strewn across the floor of the car. He cursed himself for keeping his firearm in the trunk.
Sorenson grinned and his breath steamed as he mouthed something. He walked through the bank of slush to the driver’s side window. Drexler opened his window no more than a crack.
‘That is you, Special Agent. Are you lost?’ He grinned confidently at Drexler, who didn’t return his smile.
‘Just pulled over for a nap, sir. I was on my way to our satellite office.’
Sorenson’s grin remained. ‘I was just walking around the grounds and I saw you.’
‘Walking in this weather with a bad chest?’
Sorenson smiled coldly. ‘My chest’s fine. And, coming from England, this weather is normal. It’s the heat that does for me.’ Sorenson seemed to weigh his next utterance. ‘Would you care to join me? I’ve got another fifteen minutes to walk then I’ll be having a hot drink.’
Drexler nearly laughed. He was about to dismiss the invitation when he realised it was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. ‘Sure, why not?’
Sorenson nodded, pleased, then jogged arthritically back to the wet highway to wait for Drexler to lock up his car.
After the two men passed through, the gates swung noiselessly together. Drexler looked round as they closed and Sorenson pulled a remote gleefully from his pocket. ‘You Americans. Considering the privations you suffered creating this country, it amazes me that you can’t open or close your own gates or garage doors. Dangerous to have things so easy, don’t you think? This way.’
They set off away from the house, following the boundary wall. They walked in silence for five minutes, though not, it seemed to Drexler, as a result of any detectable awkwardness.
‘How’s your case faring?’ Sorenson finally asked.
Drexler smiled. ‘I’m not at liberty to talk about ongoing investigations.’
‘Ongoing? So you still seek the killer of Caleb and Billy Ashwell? Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you seek the killer of two people who would never have been allowed to see decent society ever again? Assuming they escaped the death penalty.’
Drexler didn’t answer for a few moments. Finally he said, ‘The man who calls at every gas station on a highway looking for his victims has to be a cold calculating killer. No matter what happened to the Baileys and those other poor families, the man who led Billy Ashwell to the end of a rope couldn’t possibly have known he was involved in his father’s crimes. But he was prepared to execute him anyway.’
Sorenson laughed then his tone became serious, almost accusing. ‘But he was involved in the crimes.’ Drexler raised an eyebrow. Sorenson smiled now. ‘So I gather from the newspapers.’
They continued walking in silence for a few minutes before Sorenson said, ‘Do you ever dream, Mike?’
Drexler looked across at him. ‘Sometimes.’
‘An American dream? A dream of betterment?’
‘What’s your point?’
‘In Europe our dreams are different. Our governments don’t promise us happiness. But the American Dream is about being so much better than you are – as though that would make you happy. A pity then this country cannot grasp greatness, Mike. It’s there, right in front of you but always out of reach.’
‘What are you talking about, Professor?’
‘You. The FBI, the government, the ruling elite and all you represent.’
Drexler paused, trying to divine Sorenson’s meaning, without success. ‘Which is what?’
‘The enforcement of laws that, for all their high-sounding rhetoric, keep the uneasy peace in one of the most vengeful nations on the planet. You know, this country imprisons children who accidentally shoot other children with guns legally kept in the home, by “responsible” adults. Those adults are protected by the same constitution that allows children to be exposed to violent films and games that glorify these weapons. When children become fixated by these guns and accidents inevitably happen, everyone throws up their hands in horror and astonishment.
‘That’s hilarious enough, but just to make it even funnier your nation maintains the pretence that it’s the children’s fault and locks them away for years, with hardened criminals. Only in America,’ he added with a malicious grin.
‘Is there a point to this lecture, sir?’
‘Just that everyone in this nation would be happy to justify the execution of Billy Ashwell, including your partner. Everyone, it seems, except you.’
‘With respect, you don’t know what my partner thinks.’
‘She’s not accompanied you this last week, I notice. A parting of the ways?’
Drexler hesitated and turned to Sorenson. ‘She’s busy. I’m working this solo.’ He was unhappy with his answer as soon as he said it. It made him sound like a lone wolf, a misfit going off the deep end.
‘Using your vacation to persecute an innocent man?’ Sorenson couldn’t prevent a snigger.
‘What makes you think I’m on vacation?’
‘Just an impression.’
‘My partner may disagree with me, but she understands why I have to do this. We have a bond.’
‘Ah, yes. That would be the bond created at the residence of the late Reverend Hunseth.’
Drexler turned towards Sorenson’s mocking smile, feeling his fists clench. The moment passed and Sorenson’s nose remained unbroken. His thoughts swam around his head like a draining sink. Where did this old man get the confidence to goad somebody like him? It was unnerving. Sorenson played a dangerous game but played it with a confidence that made Drexler uneasy. Everything Sorenson had said felt like an assault, his words like the most invasive probe, against which he was powerless to defend himself and his country.
For an instant he imagined being under Sorenson’s power and almost began to feel sorry for Caleb Ashwell. He imagined Sorenson opening his bottle of wine to drink a toast, grinning at his captives, telling them what he was going to do to them … and smiling as he did it.
After an age, Drexler’s lungs began to slow and his mind began to reassemble. But once more he was to be wrong footed.
Sorenson looked down at the ground, apparently ashamed. ‘Forgive me, Agent Drexler. I shouldn’t have flung that at you. It was crude.’
‘Who told you about Hunseth?’
‘This is America. I’m rich. And everything and everybody is for sale,’ said Sorenson. ‘But I didn’t need to pay for that information, Michael. May I call you Michael? Special Agent is so impersonal.’
‘It’s Mike.’
Sorenson nodded. ‘Mike. As you better than most must know, your government’s fantasy of a free society is maintained by a few clever gimmicks. Freedom of information is one. It’s all in the records.’
Drexler nodded. ‘But you have to know what you’re looking for, Professor.’
‘Call bme Victor. Now come and have that hot drink, Mike. You look cold.’
Brook slouched against the patrol car, sucking on one of Hudson’s cigarettes and watching a small crowd gather in the dusk. Brian Burton stood on the other side of the police tape, arguing with a uniformed constable about his right to trample all over potential evidence in the cause of free speech. Brook turned away from him and looked back towards the Ottomans’ home. He shook his head as a SOCO gingerly carried away the bloodstained mountain bike from the house.
‘Guess that’s a clincher,’ said Hudson, grinning widely. ‘It takes all
sorts, Damen. You of all people…’
Brook looked up at him with a bleak smile. ‘I suppose.’
Laura Grant walked back towards them. ‘The neighbour two doors down said they set off on Sunday morning before nine o’clock. She said she hadn’t seen Denise out of the house for two years so it was a shock when she saw them loading up the car. And apparently they were having words.’
‘Okay, luv. Do us a favour and scrounge a few CID coffees off one of the neighbours, will you? Try the one two doors down. She sounds accommodating. We won’t be getting in until Forensics have strutted their stuff.’
Grant gave Hudson one of her looks then turned on her heel to pass the instruction to a PC.
‘They didn’t waste much time hitting the road,’ said Hudson.
‘What kind of car?’ shouted Brook.
Grant turned round. ‘What?’
‘Ask the neighbour what kind of car they were driving, Laura.’ Grant nodded and turned to leave. ‘And … Laura!’ She turned round expectantly at Brook’s call. ‘No sugar.’
She grinned at the two senior officers, mouthed a mute obscenity and walked away.
‘I don’t see them driving something black and powerful.’
‘Cars can be hired, Damen.’
‘They’re just not up to it, Joshua. They’re teachers, for God’s sake. The nearest they come to homicide is slapping an unruly pupil on the spur of the moment.’
‘They’re educated, Damen. You said yourself they had the intelligence.’
‘Really? Joshua, they didn’t even wipe the blood off the bike.’
Hudson shrugged. ‘Blind panic. You do what they did and try not to let it affect you.’
Brook looked up at him, but could discern no ulterior meaning. ‘When I visited last week, Denise couldn’t even open the door properly. You heard what the neighbour said. I doubt Denise ever leaves the house, especially at night.’
‘Well she’s left it now,’ replied Hudson. ‘Look, Damen. Stress does funny things to people. Then again, maybe she’s not involved. Maybe it’s just her husband looking for some payback…’
‘And leaving Jason Wallis alive again?’ Hudson shrugged at this. ‘Then who’s the woman watching in the bedroom?’
‘All good questions, Damen. Want some good facts to go with them? The Ottomans have motive. John Ottoman is the right age, build and height. He’s on the estate the night of the murders. He’s wearing black clothing. A bloodstained mountain bike with the same tyre tread found at the scene is in his home. The next morning the Ottomans pack their bags and make a run for it. Want another fact? DS Noble has been listening to the 999 call and thinks it’s Ottoman’s voice.’
Brook was quiet for a moment, trying to get past the accumulated evidence. For a second he was prepared to accept it, then he thought of Sorenson. ‘It’s not them,’ he muttered.
A Scene of Crime Officer walked down the path carrying several items in plastic bags. Cups, a telephone, a remote control – all items likely to carry fingerprints.
‘Where’s the other bike?’ asked Brook.
The SOCO shook his head. ‘Only one bike on the property.’
Brook looked at Hudson who shrugged again. ‘They can explain it when we catch them.’ Hudson grinned again and nodded towards the house. Brook turned to see an officer holding up a bloodstained black balaclava from the top of a bin bag.
* * *
Brook and Hudson waited with Charlton for the assembled journalists to be ready. Charlton and Hudson were in high spirits at the prospect of the press conference. They were determined to avoid triumphalism, but were finding it hard not to smile. This would be a huge feather in their caps once John and Denise Ottoman were in custody. Brook was less thrilled at the prospect. He could see Brian Burton in the second row preparing his questions; no doubt some would be fired in his direction. With the lights not yet on, Noble entered from the side door and passed a piece of paper to Charlton, who read it with satisfaction before passing it on to Hudson. Brook read it with a sinking heart. The thumbprint from Jason’s mobile phone belonged to one of the Ottomans. As Jason had heard a male voice at the crime scene, it was fair to assume the print was John’s. In addition, blood from the mountain bike had been matched to one of the victims – Stephen Ingham. DNA samples from various artefacts recovered from the Ottoman home were still being tested against the DNA taken from the fence panel.
‘Excellent,’ said Charlton, under his breath. ‘Now we all know what we’re going to say. The key thing is not to get ahead of ourselves, keep it simple and state clearly that our suspects are wanted only in connection with The Reaper killings in Derby. We make it clear that we have no evidence for the murders in London and Leeds until we interview…’
‘Wait a minute. I didn’t agree to that. We can’t connect them to the Wallis murders as well…’ began Brook.
‘Why can’t we?’
‘There was no evidence; they were never suspects. And there are still loose ends in the Ingham deaths.’
‘The Chief Inspector and I are agreed. As far as we’re concerned, the Ottomans are connected to Jason Wallis and have tried twice to kill him in revenge attacks for the assault on his wife.’
‘Then why is he still alive? Jason himself heard John Ottoman talk to the emergency services. If he was there for Jason, why didn’t he kill him first?’
Charlton noticed several journalists, including Brian Burton, start to take an interest in their conversation. ‘Keep your voice down, Inspector. I don’t need to tell you how criminal plans can go wrong…’
‘And I don’t need to tell you, sir, that both you and DCI Hudson were nowhere near the Wallis Inquiry. Trying to tie the Ottomans to that crime is not supported by any evidence…’
‘But fortunately we have a surfeit of evidence from the Ingham murders which provides circumstantial … Where are you going? Inspector, sit back down,’ Charlton hissed. But Brook was gone. Charlton turned around with a smile glued to his face, hoping nobody had noticed the disagreement. The lights came up and Charlton’s smile disappeared.
Brook arrived back at his office to collect the folder on Mike Drexler. He slumped in his chair and stared out of the window at Derby’s low horizon, across the flyover and on past the cathedral. The daylight was almost gone and people would be sitting in their homes watching Chief Superintendent Charlton and DCI Hudson giving their press conference. By the next morning John and Denise Ottoman would be on the front pages of every newspaper in the country and, in spite of the delicate policespeak employed by Charlton, presumed guilty by every editorial and reader. He wondered what such publicity would do to Denise Ottoman’s fragile mental state.
He opened a window and sat down to read the file on Drexler. There were only three pages so it didn’t take long. He tossed it onto his desk then lit a cigarette. His thoughts returned to the Ottomans and the media jackals preparing to tear their lives apart. How to save them?
Brook stubbed out his cigarette and dropped the filter out of the window, before closing it.
He stood to leave, picking up the Drexler folder. The Ottomans hadn’t been convicted yet. There was still time.
Brook passed through the Incident Room on his way to the car park. Grant and Noble were talking over a coffee.
‘You missed the press conference,’ said Noble. ‘We’re just going out to celebrate. The rest of the team are already in the pub. If you care to join us.’
Brook paused. ‘Two dangerous teachers have escaped and could be roaming the streets of Derby issuing detentions even as we speak. And you want to celebrate?’
Noble darted a smile at Grant. ‘We’re safe for now, sir. They’re out of the country. They caught a ferry from Dover to France, Sunday lunchtime. We just heard.’
‘So it’s a plain old hide and seek now,’ put in Grant.
‘They got away. Then maybe a celebration is in order, John. Do we know what car they were in?’
‘Volkswagen Polo.’
‘Is
that black and powerful, Laura?’
She smiled. ‘No, it’s green and small, but the car Tommy Blake saw might have been a legitimate taxi. We just haven’t found it yet.’
‘And has he been shown a picture of Denise Ottoman?’
Grant sighed. ‘He has actually. No joy though. We also showed him the cleaned-up picture from the North bedroom to compare. It’s not come out much clearer.’ She handed him the printout, which Brook examined. ‘Tell me, Inspector, do you always take a good result so badly?’
‘There are no good results in our game, Laura.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Joshua tells me you’re driving back to Brighton tomorrow.’
Grant turned to Noble. ‘Can I have a minute, John?’
Noble hesitated, then said to Grant, ‘I’ll meet you downstairs.’
When he’d left the room, Grant turned to Brook. ‘Yes, sir, we’re going home. We’ll be back when the Ottomans are caught. But I thought I might take an extra day in Derby.’
‘Oh?’
‘I prefer to take the train. Besides,’ she said, a smile playing around her lips, ‘I’ve got a standing invitation to go walking in the Peaks.’
Drexler sank back in the sofa and accepted the hot chocolate from Sorenson’s wrinkled hand. He took an immediate sip of the dark sweetness.
‘It was a righteous shooting, Professor. Agent McQuarry supported me. The Board of Inquiry supported me. The Reverend was a secret drunk and an abusive bully.’
‘How did you know that, Mike? Did he have a T-shirt to that effect?’
Drexler glared at him. ‘I knew his type. He also had a knife. He’d already beaten his wife and threatened her with it. Drunks do that. When we got there we could see hesitation cuts on her neck. But I knew from experience he wasn’t hesitating out of reluctance. He was putting the knife against his wife’s neck again and again to let her feel its unforgiving steel, to amplify her terror.’
Sorenson drifted over to the hearth and turned on a gas tap. He lit the jet with a taper and flames began to crackle around the dry logs placed above. With a sharp breath, he turned to face Drexler, his black eyes boring through the smoke to his core.