by Steven Dunne
‘Don’t touch anything in the coffin,’ said a white-suited SOCO.
Brook picked up her cold hand and caressed it with the thumb of his good hand.
‘Didn’t you hear me?’ said the SOCO. ‘We’ve not done the coffin.’
Brook turned blankly to the officer. ‘Get out.’
‘Pardon?’ said the officer.
‘Get. Out.’
Noble appeared at the doorway. ‘Graham,’ he called to the officer. ‘Got a minute?’ Reluctantly Graham hauled himself into the corridor, preparing to berate Noble in Brook’s place. Noble waited for him to pass then glanced up at Brook but he’d already turned back to Adele.
Brook picked up her hand again. ‘Forgive me, Adele. I let you down.’ He placed her waxy hand back down on to her chest and carefully opened the handwritten volume resting on her stomach.
The missing book. She’d left her diary behind. She’d left her rough notes behind. But when sudden fame engulfed her, she had her collection, her anthology of doom, ready for the world. Be damned and publish. Brook flicked through it with some difficulty. Every page was full of poetry. She had a lot to say.
He placed the book back on her bandaged abdomen.
Brook and Noble walked slowly through the derelict building, following in Gadd’s footsteps as she explained what little she knew. The two Detective Sergeants covered their noses against the sickly-sweet smell of old blood mingling with the caustic chemical odour of embalming. But Brook was oblivious to all sensory input. Noble monitored his empty expression. He’d seen him this way before. He was back on the tightrope.
‘The hospital closed in 2004,’ explained Gadd. ‘Smethwick used to volunteer here but we’re still looking for documentary proof of that. My guess is when it closed he had the run of the place and decided it would be a perfect base of operations.’
‘How come it’s not as wrecked as the rest of the site?’ asked Noble.
‘It’s the furthest building, for one thing. And I’m guessing he made a big effort to secure it from intruders. He was an engineer, remember. He boarded and barred all the windows and barricaded all the doors from the inside – except the way he came in. He seems to have rigged something up that only he can access. It took us ages to break in.’
Gadd looked sympathetically across at Brook but he was completely blank. ‘We found Phil Ward and Jock – they were embalmed and partially mummified. Jock’s insides are on the floor. It looks like Poole knocked over his canopic jar. From the look of his tracksuit, he must’ve spent some time sitting in the remains …’ She shuddered.
Noble’s phone began to croak. He listened for a few moments then rang off with a puzzled expression. ‘That was Cooper. Traffic found Rifkind’s Porsche. It was in the centre of Derby, just pulling into Westfield car park.’
Brook cocked his head. ‘Derby?’
Noble was glad to see Brook back with them. ‘That’s not the weird bit,’ he said. ‘Rifkind and his wife were in it. They were going shopping.’
‘But the cottage …’ began Brook.
‘Rifkind says he wasn’t living there; he was working on his novel at home. He told his wife to lie to anyone who called.’
‘But I saw the car at his cottage,’ said Brook.
‘Rifkind said you told him to keep it out of sight because of Adele’s father, so he left it at the cottage. He fetched it yesterday.’
Brook’s smile was thin. ‘So Rusty escaped on a bicycle.’
‘Bicycle?’ said Gadd. ‘We found one in the same bay as we found the ambulance. It looks like the one Rusty was riding towards Borrowash.’
Noble smiled over at Brook. ‘No bicycle. No Porsche. Face it, Rusty didn’t get away. He’s impersonating a slice of toast at the mortuary. You got him.’
The mid-morning sun shone weakly through high skylights in the domed roof. On a large wooden table lay a bizarrely dressed figure wearing tight white binding around his legs and dark green face paint which matched his dark green knitted mittens. A white conical headdress with feathers was on the floor nearby.
‘Lee Smethwick aka Ozzy Reece aka Osiris,’ said Gadd.
‘He’s not been embalmed,’ said Noble.
‘No,’ replied Gadd. ‘Should he be?’
‘That was why they took Len,’ murmured Brook.
‘Expathologist,’ explained Noble. ‘He had the skills to embalm Smethwick’s body so he could live forever in the Afterlife.’
‘Well, obviously Poole didn’t play ball,’ said Gadd.
‘Len must’ve realised what lay in store if he got out,’ said Brook softly.
‘Good riddance, I say,’ snarled Noble.
A voice boomed from the shadows. ‘Len. It’s Rusty.’ Noble and Gadd looked at each other then ran back to the corridor which led to the rooms where Adele and the other three bodies had been discovered. The voice emanated from there.
‘Sorry I can’t speak to you live but I have to be somewhere. I have a confession, Len. I lied – there is no way out. You’ll have to twiddle your thumbs until the police arrive unless you burn the place down. The good news? They’ll be there very soon.’
DC Cooper walked out of the gloom and beckoned them to follow. He led them past the four rooms. Adele’s body was in the first, Kyle’s the second and Becky’s the third. As they passed the fourth room, a SOCO taking photographs illuminated Poole’s limp body dangling from the end of the rope.
‘They’re very keen to speak to you. They know about Russell and they’ve arrested Yvette. She told them everything. Never mind. You’ve plenty of work there to take your mind off things.’
They arrived at the end of the corridor. Rusty appeared on the monitor of a small laptop. He was sitting in Brook’s kitchen, baseball cap on his head. Brook could see the night sky through the window.
‘Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings, Len.’ He laughed. ‘But look on the bright side. Treat your incarceration as good practice for prison.’
Rusty grinned now. ‘Inspector Brook. If you’re hearing this you must have found the hospital. Quite a place, isn’t it? And you must admit Lee did a great job on Adele and the others. Wait until those pictures hit the internet. Everyone’s going to know her and her work.’
He waved a hand behind him. ‘As you can see, I’m talking to you from your kitchen, waiting for you to get home, so I can unveil myself. That’s right, we haven’t played out the final scene yet but I’m trying to talk to you as though we have. I know – the timeline’s weird. Have you seen Back to the Future? It hasn’t aged well.
‘Let me give you some good news if you haven’t already worked it out. Terri’s safe and well and under the floorboards at Rifkind’s cottage. I left her there about ten minutes ago. No need to thank me. She’s a great girl and I wouldn’t want to deprive her of the chance to mourn you when you finally decide you’ve had enough.
‘I’ve been staying at the cottage on and off. Adele had a key and I thought what better finale than to deal with Rifkind and drive into the sunset in his Porsche. Unfortunately the bastard was never there when I was around, although his car was. No keys either. Can’t figure that one out but I’m going to have to settle for the VW. Well, if it was good enough for Hitler…
‘Goodbye, Inspector. Don’t forget our little talk that we haven’t had yet. I know you won’t let me down. A legion of confused and unhappy people are counting on you for a lead. Know what? When you go I might pop back and do a stint in the Constabulary – all those vulnerable souls. Must be great. Ah, I think I hear you driving up. Sorry about having to drug you but you know how it is. Actually you don’t because I haven’t done it yet. Confusing, isn’t it?’ He grinned. ‘Time to fly.’
He reached for the screen and the message ended but began again at the start almost at once. Cooper silenced it with an emphatic digit.
Brook turned to walk back to his car, his face like granite. He ignored everything and everyone on his journey back to the light – the officers cutting down Len Poole’s body
, the remains of the three teenagers he’d hunted for so long, the bizarrely dressed chef beginning to turn green under the make-up, even the rats scuttling around in the blood-soaked room near the entrance.
When he reached the sunlight he turned like a robot and stumbled through the weeds towards his car. Charlton approached from the other direction and slowed when he neared Brook.
‘Not good news, I hear, Inspector. At least the perpetrator didn’t—’
Brook walked past the spluttering Charlton without a word or even a glance of acknowledgement and continued on his way like an automaton, unblinking and ignorant of the increasing urgency and volume of the Chief Superintendent’s demands.
Brook got in his car and drove to the recently created gap in the perimeter fence, where a Constable on crowd control was exchanging banter with a couple of young kids. Brook wound down the window.
‘Constable. Have you got a cigarette?’
‘Don’t smoke, sir.’
One of the kids, a gap-toothed fourteen year old, chirped, ‘I’ve got fags. I’ll sell you one.’
‘How much?’ asked Brook.
‘A tenner,’ he answered, trying not to laugh. His friend cackled and held out a fist to tap.
Brook rummaged in his pockets and produced a twentypound note. ‘I’ll take two.’
Warily the boy approached the note. After checking its authenticity he took out two cigarettes and held them out to Brook, not letting go until he had a hand on the note.
Brook put the first cigarette in his mouth and pushed in his lighter while the boy showed the note to his amazed friend. He lit up with a sigh.
‘Those things’ll kill you, Inspector,’ said the Constable.
Brook looked at him as he pulled away. ‘That’s the plan.’
Twenty-Nine
Wednesday, 8 June
BROOK FINISHED POLISHING HIS SHOES and manoeuvred them on to his feet with some difficulty. The skin on his burned hand still felt tight, but an hour after taking the painkillers he was able to tie a vague knot in his shoelaces. He stood and flexed his feet inside them. The shoes felt harsh and uncomfortable, as did every other garment on his body. His white shirt was tight and his black suit and tie were shiny with wear. He hated funerals.
It was a beautiful sunny day as he set off to drive towards Derby. In the week he’d spent recuperating from his wounds, Brook had managed to spend quality time with his daughter until her departure for Manchester earlier that morning in her hire car. Terri was none the worse for her ordeal, having been unconscious for most of it after Ray/Rusty had knocked on Brook’s door. Her sunny disposition contrasted sharply with Brook’s as he continued to brood over the case. At least he’d found time to organise some basic creature comforts so that fridges were filled, grazing cats were fed and large quantities of cigarettes purchased.
Brook pulled into a lay-by and cracked open a new carton from those on his passenger seat. He lit up with something approaching pleasure. The pain would arrive soon enough.
Half an hour later, Brook reached the end of the A52 and turned off towards Markeaton Crematorium on the northern edge of the city.
After struggling to park, Brook located Noble and Gadd standing together in the crowd. The small chapel was overflowing with mourners, well-wishers and vast numbers of media, filming and recording the service. Noble and Gadd were both dressed in expensive black suits, though only Noble wore a tie. Despite his shabby attire, Brook manoeuvred his way to stand beside the two Detective Sergeants.
‘How are you, sir?’ asked Gadd.
‘Better.’
‘Hand okay?’
‘Better.’ Brook took out three packets of cigarettes, handed two to Noble, who pocketed them with a grin. He offered the other open packet around before lighting up himself. ‘Smoking too much though.’
‘Please don’t give up again. I can’t afford it.’ Noble exhaled smoke through his grin and Brook looked sideways at him.
‘Becky Blake …’ began Brook after a suitable pause.
Noble rolled his eyes to the heavens. ‘Not this again. Why can’t you accept—?’
‘Because it was too easy, John. The accelerant, for one thing.’
‘So there were six bottles of embalming fluid in the car. We know Rusty or Ray or whatever you want to call him, was mixed up with Lee Smethwick. Maybe it was for him.’
‘But why put the bottles in Terri’s car? Why bring them to Hartington?’
‘Who knows? Maybe he was storing them at Rifkind’s cottage.’
‘John …’
Noble shook his head. ‘Sir, it’s a decent result. There’s nothing we could’ve done. The kids were dead before they’d even been reported missing, and you hunted down the person responsible. The DNA from the body in the car is a match to the semen inside Becky Blake. It also matches the tissue on the plaster found at Alice Kennedy’s house and the toothbrush recovered from Yvette Thomson’s bedroom. What more do you want? Even the Chief Super’s happy we got a closure.’
‘But remember what Habib said about Becky when we told him she’d been raped.’
Gadd leaned over to pick up the reins. ‘But she’d been given Rohypnol, sir. It’s a relaxant. That’s why there was no sign of forced intercourse.’
‘But Habib was surprised she’d had intercourse at all.’
‘He didn’t say it was impossible,’ replied Gadd. ‘There were traces of condom lubricant in her vagina as well as semen.’
‘That’s another thing. Why use a condom at all if he’s then going to spray his semen all over her?’ said Brook, making an effort to keep his voice down. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Maybe he had an accident when he took it off,’ rejoined Noble. ‘Who knows?’
Brook shook his head and continued the conversation with himself. ‘It’s out of character. Sexual domination isn’t his thing. But he wanted me to know. He flagged up to me that he had raped her – and that gave us his semen. Why?’
‘Because he was a criminal,’ said Noble indulgently. ‘And criminals make mistakes.’
‘Then there’s the transport issue,’ continued Brook.
‘Transport?’
‘How did Rusty get to my cottage? His bicycle was at the hospital.’
‘What did Terri say?’
‘That when he arrived he was sweaty.’
‘There you are,’ said Noble. ‘He walked from Rifkind’s cottage. It can’t be more than an hour. And he’d have the VW at his disposal after he got to your place.’
‘But how did he get from Derby to Rifkind’s cottage? Not on a bike, it’s a forty-minute drive.’
‘There must be a bus service,’ reasoned Noble.
‘Or maybe Rusty had a car that we don’t know about. Maybe he walked to my cottage from the intended crash site after leaving that car nearby.’
‘A car nobody saw,’ said Noble.
‘With a body hidden in the boot which matched his DNA?’ added Gadd with a doubting eyebrow. ‘That doesn’t sound very likely, sir.’
‘And don’t forget they found the incinerated laptop and camcorder …’
‘Props,’ said Brook. ‘Like the laptop he left in his bedroom.’
At that moment the hearse pulled into the large crescentshaped driveway followed by relatives’ vehicles. Press cameras began to whirr.
Roz Watson stepped from the first vehicle in a black trouser suit. She was tiny and Brook almost didn’t recognise her without her grey dressing-gown. Her husband’s coffin was in the hearse and the pall-bearers gathered at the doors to carry it into the chapel.
James Henry Watson had watched the final Deity broadcast in horror, while staying at the house of his brother and his wife. His mood had worsened during the day, according to all witnesses, and later that evening after receiving a text purporting to be from his daughter, he had snuck into his brother’s garage and hanged himself with an extension cord.
Roz Watson kept her eyes lowered from the flash of the cameras, but when sh
e saw Brook, she stopped and marched defiantly over to him. ‘Bastards,’ she screamed as though the dialogue during the search of her house had never ended. ‘This is your doing.’
The cameras flashed even more urgently at the scent of conflict, but the three detectives maintained expressions of stone in the face of such an absurd accusation. Taking their silence as admission, the shrivelled woman raised a hand towards Brook but thought better of it, instead snarling, ‘When can I have my Adele back?’
Brook lowered his head. ‘Her death is still the subject …’ He choked on the official language and took a breath before looking directly into the wizened face of the grieving wife and mother. ‘As soon as possible,’ he mumbled.
She stared for a moment longer then went away to follow her husband to his final resting-place. Brook caught sight of Charlton in full uniform. They exchanged a nod of acknowledgement before Charlton ran a surreptitious eye over Brook’s suit.
Brook arrived home late that evening, finally able to park outside his cottage. After the Watson ceremony he’d attended a simple service for Phil Ward that Brook had arranged and paid for himself. He was the sole mourner. A few hours on the phone had turned up an elderly mother in Harrogate but she had been too infirm to travel and, not having ‘clapped eyes on him for thirty year’, she couldn’t be persuaded to accept Brook’s offer of a taxi-ride down the M1.
Back at his cottage as night fell, Brook sat on the garden bench in shorts and T-shirt, a jar of whisky and a cigarette in one hand. He spent a couple of hours mulling over the Deity case, trying to form the qualms he’d expressed to Noble into a credible theory. Defeated, he trotted up to his doorless bedroom and went straight to sleep, dreaming about walking up a strange rock formation in Australia and meeting Rusty at the top.
What we see and what we seem is but a dream.
Brook woke in the night and sat bolt upright in bed.
‘Sir, it’s three o’clock in the morning.’