The Disciple

by Steven Dunne

  But now, despite Sorenson’s death, The Reaper was back. And a former FBI agent had moved next door to write a book about a fifteen-year-old case in California. Brook was starting to read between the lines and Sorenson was there.

  He threw the book aside and left the cottage. Drexler’s car was in the drive but the house was in darkness. He checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. He walked down the side path and knocked. No reply. He tried the door but this time it was locked. He considered breaking in but thought better of it. As he turned to go, however, the outside light came on, the lock turned and the door opened.

  Drexler stood before him, apparently unsurprised to see him. ‘Damen.’ He made no effort to invite Brook inside.

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘It’s late.’

  ‘We’ve found a suspect.’

  Drexler’s head cocked to one side. ‘The Reaper? You’d better come in.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  McQuarry opened her eyes at the first ring. She craned towards the clock – three in the morning – then flopped back down with a groan. A few seconds later she flicked on a lamp and pulled the receiver to her ear.

  ‘Ed. It’s me.’

  McQuarry rested her head on her spare hand. ‘Who else? What’s up?’

  ‘We got him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Sorenson.’

  McQuarry opened her eyes and sat up. ‘You’ve arrested him?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Listen, you have to come back to Tahoe.’

  McQuarry looked around for her cigarettes but couldn’t see them. ‘Why, Mike?’

  ‘Because we can connect him to the cabin.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You know that freshly dug hole near the cabin? The one we saw that night we searched the site.’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Well, there was a small tree in it. Same as the other ones in the row, remember?’

  ‘A tree … Mike, I don’t…’

  ‘Ed, that tree was taken and replanted in Sorenson’s grounds.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because he invited me in for a drink and I saw it.’

  ‘He invited…’

  ‘Know what I think? That tree is some kind of natural source of those drugs Ashwell was using on tourists. Like deadly nightshade or something. That’s why we couldn’t find anything in the cabin. Ashwell must’ve told Sorenson before he died or maybe Sorenson worked it out – he’s an industrial chemist, remember – so he takes one of the trees for his own use…’

  ‘Mike. Slow down.’ McQuarry got out of bed and walked to a small table. She picked up a pack of cigarettes and lighter and put one in her mouth. She opened the double doors to her apartment balcony and stepped out in her pants and 49ers sweatshirt to light her cigarette. The cold air woke her up with a jolt and she glanced off to the blinking lights of Sacramento below. ‘That doesn’t mean it’s the same tree. You’ve no proof that he took it.’

  ‘That’s not all. I had a lip reader look at the film of Sorenson buying his gas at Ashwell’s garage. Ed, he lied about his name. He told Caleb his name was Brook…’

  ‘Brook?’ McQuarry took a large pull on her cigarette and tried to gather her thoughts. ‘So what?’

  ‘So, I thought I’d check it out. I’ve got a friend in the Metropolitan Police, the London … branch or district or whatever they call it, where Sorenson has a house. You remember those murders four or five years back? In England.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘The Reaper murders in London. Serial killer. He ghosted into family’s homes and killed everyone, children included. It even made the papers here because there was talk of him being another Jack the Ripper.’

  ‘The Reaper … I remember.’

  ‘You remember he cut their throats? Like Caleb. One boy was hung though – the son of one of the victims. Yeah? Like Billy. And another thing, all the victims were petty criminals…’

  ‘Unlike Caleb and Billy.’

  ‘…and listen to this,’ Drexler continued, missing the objection. ‘One of the investigating officers was a Detective Sergeant Brook.’

  McQuarry took another draw, her mind absorbing the information. ‘It’s a bit thin. Sounds like a common enough name.’

  ‘There’s more. Victor Sorenson was interviewed by this Brook in connection with the Reaper killings.’

  ‘He was a suspect?’

  ‘Well, according to my friend, no, but that’s still a connection. And apparently Brook became so obsessed with this Reaper…’

  ‘Sound familiar?’

  ‘…that he had to take a leave of absence. Mental problems. His marriage failed…’

  ‘Mike. Okay, okay, I get it.’

  ‘One more thing, Ed. Remember the Golden Nugget Motel? Sorenson booked all the rooms for the day after tomorrow, under the name Peter Hera.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Peter Hera is an anagram of The Reaper.’

  McQuarry looked across at her bags, already packed. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Should I open that bottle of champagne now, Damen?’

  ‘Not tonight, Mike.’

  Drexler nodded. ‘No. The end of a case is never for celebrating. It just frees you up for the next human train wreck. Who’s the suspect?’

  ‘A man called John Ottoman – a teacher. But he escaped to France. He’ll be caught soon enough.’

  ‘Did he do it?’

  ‘There’s a lot of evidence.’

  ‘I’m sure you were very thorough.’ Brook detected an undertone and narrowed his eyes to dredge up the inference. He was on the point of asking for a clarification but let it pass. He didn’t want to be sidetracked tonight.

  Drexler indicated an armchair for Brook, opposite his own and facing a small but robust coal fire. A small chintz lamp gave out light to see by, but not enough to dispel the gloom. On Drexler’s chair sat a leaded glass, half-full of what looked like malt whisky. On the cushion was Brian Burton’s upturned book. Brook sat down while Drexler brought him a tumbler and showed him a green bottle.

  Brook nodded and stretched his feet towards the fire while Drexler poured the whisky and handed him the heavy glass. Brook examined the bottom of the glass but could see no sign of anything untoward. He sniffed its intense peaty bouquet and half-smiled at remembrance of things past. Brook took a small sip, recalling the taste from his meetings in Sorenson’s London home. He looked up at Drexler who seemed at ease and Brook felt a tremor of anxiety. He was in the home of a man he would soon denounce as The Reaper but he feared that, like Sorenson, he was unlikely to be troubled by it.

  ‘Are you enjoying Burton’s book?’

  ‘It’s badly written. Though a fascinating subject,’ said Drexler, closing it. ‘But he doesn’t have a good head for those little details that make all the difference. The details cops notice and lose sleep over, but people like Burton can’t see.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘This kid, Jason something.’

  ‘You don’t even know his name.’

  ‘I know he’s still alive, against all the odds. He’s survived The Reaper not once but twice. Anybody but a cop could put it down to an oversight and move on. But we know better, don’t we? We know all too well why he was left alive.’

  ‘Do we?’

  ‘Sure we do – it’s called division of labour. Why kill someone when you can get someone else to do it? And when that someone else has killed for you, well, then there are two of you to work the next Reaper killing – and after that three of you. And before long…’

  ‘Before long there’s a whole Reaper network to do the killing,’ said Brook.

  ‘Many hands make light work… a bit of a commie mantra but it fits. But here’s the mystery, the thing this Burton will never think to address. Someone has failed to deliver on this kid. Twice.’

  ‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ said Brook. ‘About some people’s commitment to the cause.’

&nb
sp; Drexler grunted his amusement. ‘It does. But go careful, my friend. Even an untalented flatfoot like Brian Burton spotted one thing.’

  Brook raised his glass and fixed his eye on Drexler. ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘How many times you’ve failed to catch this guy.’

  Brook took a sip of his drink. ‘He doesn’t rate me very highly,’ he said with a thin smile.

  Drexler nodded. ‘Another of those details missed, Damen. That’s why Burton’s a fool. He actually thinks you’re incompetent. But he doesn’t know you at all. Personally, I think it must take a special type of genius to keep letting The Reaper slip through his fingers and still look like he’s doing his job properly.’

  Brook eyed his host for a moment, trying to organise his thoughts. The gloves had been peeled off and he would finally get some answers. Time to throw his first punch.

  ‘Well, on this side of the pond, Mike, we have something called the rules of evidence. We’re not allowed to execute suspects just because they have a knife in their hand.’

  Drexler smiled back. ‘I see you’ve been doing your own background reading. You’re referring to the Reverend Hunseth. Seems like a long time ago.’ He looked off into the fire, as Sorenson had all those years before. Then he looked back at Brook. ‘I got some grey hairs over it, sure, but I’m fine with it now. Nobody missed him. Nobody mourned him – ’cept maybe the local liquor mart. But you’re wrong, Damen. Even on my side of the pond they don’t like unexplained shootings. Questions were asked. People were interviewed. But I was a federal agent and my partner was in danger. I was able to answer them and that was enough. See, back home, the good guys have guns too.’ He laughed at a private joke. ‘I suppose that makes me The Reaper, Damen.’

  ‘You were for the Reverend.’

  ‘Hunseth got what he deserved.’

  ‘Did your father?’ Brook was pleased to see the icy expression infect Drexler’s face, his knuckles whitening for a few seconds.

  Finally Drexler smiled and affected a slight nod, to acknowledge a blow well aimed. ‘Always go too far, because that’s where you’ll find the truth.’

  Brook nodded. ‘Albert Camus.’

  Drexler eyed him. ‘You know Camus. Why am I not surprised?’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘So tell me, Damen. Is this teacher, Ottoman, getting what he deserves? Is he The Reaper’s disciple?’

  ‘He didn’t do it, Mike.’

  ‘You amaze me,’ said Drexler in a monotone. He cocked his head and considered Brook as though anew. ‘What happened? Were they getting too close? Was it too obvious to your superiors? Did you have to throw them a bone? The professor wouldn’t be pleased. He’s not keen on civilians getting hurt in the crossfire.’

  ‘Sorenson’s dead.’

  Drexler nodded. ‘That’s the rumour.’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ said Brook. ‘I was there.’

  Drexler took another sip of his drink. He walked over to a small stereo and switched it on. He checked the disc then pressed play. ‘But he lives on through others, Damen. His will be done.’ A deep sonorous note sounded from the speakers and a choir took up the opening verse.

  ‘And what’s that exactly?’

  Drexler swivelled to face Brook. ‘Cutting out the dead wood, Damen. So the tree can grow stronger.’

  ‘Is that what you’re doing here, Mike – strengthening the tree?’

  ‘I’m writing a book, my friend, for the good guys who already died. That’s why I’m here.’ He reached into the drawer of a nearby chest. He pulled a gun from it and placed it on the arm of the chair then looked away, remembering, a sudden sadness invading his features. He closed his eyes, but Brook resisted the urge to make a lunge for the gun. ‘Fauré’s Requiem. Imagine heading for the next world with this rolling around in your head.’

  Brook’s eyes burned into Drexler’s death mask. ‘There isn’t a next world.’

  Drexler grinned, his eyes still closed. ‘No, there isn’t.’

  ‘But I’d prefer the Debussy if I have a choice.’

  Drexler opened his eyes. ‘I don’t have any.’

  Brook nodded. ‘No, of course.’ He looked at the weapon and then at Drexler. ‘If this is my reward for breach of contract,’ Brook paused for effect, ‘then I’m ready.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘But first I’ll tell you what I told Sorenson. The Laura Maples case … I was young and in a bad place. I made a mistake. Floyd Wrigley was a mistake and one that I am never going to repeat. No matter what Jason Wallis has done to me I’m not going to kill him, nor am I going to join your little network. I’m not like Sorenson and I never was.’ Drexler stared at him and Brook fancied he could detect uncertainty for the first time tonight. His hesitancy pleased Brook, so he continued. ‘So if it’s all right with you, I’d like a last cigarette and then you can do what you’ve got to do.’

  ‘Last request – just like in the movies.’ Drexler looked down at his gun, then smiled. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea, Damen. I’m no tough guy. Just careful. I don’t know how far off the reservation you’ve strayed. But one thing about Sorenson, you of all people should know, is that when the good guys get in the way, that’s when you get out. Those are the rules. No civilians. No John Ottomans. No matter what the cost. You’ve served. I’ve served. We’re the thin blue, my friend. We’ve got rights.’

  Brook’s eyes narrowed. Answers. Fat chance. All he was getting here were more questions. Why had Drexler killed Harvey-Ellis? And why was he still in Derbyshire? The Inghams were dead. His work was done. Was he hanging on for Brook to deliver on his contract with Sorenson? Or was he planning another atrocity?

  ‘You can forget about me, Mike. I won’t kill Jason Wallis.’ Brook stared hard at Drexler who wouldn’t look back. Instead he put his hands together, immersed in the music. ‘When are you leaving?’

  ‘Soon. A week.’

  ‘You paid six months’ rent in advance.’

  Drexler smiled. ‘I won’t starve. My research is nearly done. I just need to speak to one last person and I’ll be on my way.’ ‘And who’s that?’

  Drexler fixed him with a twisted smile. ‘Don’t you know?’

  Brook rose to leave, declining to finish his drink. ‘Thanks for all your hospitality, Mike.’ Drexler accepted with a nod of the head. ‘I won’t bother you again. But don’t contact me and don’t send me any more emails. And, rules or no rules, if you come back to Derby…’ Brook turned to be sure he locked onto Drexler’s eyes ‘…I’ll kill you.’

  Drexler picked up the gun and followed Brook to the door, pulling a cigarette from a pocket and throwing it into his mouth. Brook walked into the blackness without looking round. ‘Goodbye, Damen.’ Drexler aimed the gun at Brook’s retreating back. He squeezed the trigger briefly then relaxed and let the gun fall to his side. He went back inside and lit his cigarette, removing the clip from the M9.

  He sat down to finish his drink, examining the weapon. Sorenson’s gun. It had never been fired in anger since the professor had given it to him. Maybe it never would be. Maybe Sorenson really was dead. Maybe he really was chasing ghosts.

  When Brook woke the next day, it was to the sound of knocking on his door. He jumped out of bed and glanced at the clock. To his surprise it was ten past nine. He padded to the window overlooking the lane and saw a taxi in the road. A second later, Grant stepped back from the door and looked up. She was dressed for walking. She saw him at the window and waved.

  Brook acknowledged her and pulled his trousers on, fastening them up as he skittered down the stairs to open the front door. On the way, he picked up the folder on Mike Drexler and put it in a desk drawer. For the first time since moving to Hartington, Brook had bolted his door and he slid it open as she turned away from the departing taxi.

  ‘Laura? What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m here to go walking, remember?’

  Shivering in his T-shirt, Brook looked at her. He hadn’t thought she was serious, but he beckoned her in and returned
to the semi-warmth of the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

  ‘We said nine o’clock,’ he threw over his shoulder in mock admonishment.

  ‘Yeah, sorry to keep you waiting,’ she smiled back. ‘I had trouble finding a cab to come all this way.’

  ‘I’ll bet.’

  ‘Brought you the local paper.’

  Brook looked across at the headline: CHIEF SUSPECT INNOCENT, SAYS REAPER DETECTIVE He smiled faintly and continued to make tea. ‘I suppose I’m back in the doghouse,’ he muttered, handing Grant a mug.

  ‘Not with us. Joshua doesn’t care. But I haven’t spoken to Charlton. There’s more,’ she said, turning to page three. ‘We got a DNA match from Stephen Ingham and Benjamin Anderson to the two samples taken from Annie Sewell’s sheltered accommodation the night she was murdered. Jason Wallis was telling the truth…’

  ‘…but not the whole truth,’ added Brook. Grant raised an eyebrow. ‘Never mind.’

  Brook read the first few paragraphs then took his tea upstairs to get fully dressed. After a quick glance across at his neighbour’s house for signs of life, he returned to the kitchen to make a flask for his rucksack. ‘I didn’t have time to make sandwiches,’ he said.

  Grant grinned at him. ‘I noticed. Didn’t you think I’d come?’

  ‘Honestly … no.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep so I figured why not. I need a day to wash the case out of my brain.’ Brook smiled at her. ‘A day?’

  ‘All right. A month would be better, but it’s a start. I know Josh would’ve been talking it through all day in the car…’

  ‘About how and why I killed Harvey-Ellis?’

  She smiled as they stepped out into the cold. ‘Day off, remember.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  They struck out down the lane into Hartington, past the Devonshire Arms and the post office and were almost through the village when Brook led them onto a path beside a municipal toilet building. Through the gate and following the path across fields, they eventually came to a small copse and stepped through another gate. Within a few minutes they were walking next to the River Dove, following the heavy winter waters through the steep-sided valley. They met few other walkers and were content to walk in silence for the first hour.