Читать книгу The Reaper - Steven Dunne - Страница 11

The press conference started promptly at four in the revamped media centre of D Division. Brook hadn’t been in there since McMaster had been promoted. He knew she’d refurbished the place but hadn’t realised how much. The last time he’d taken part in a press briefing, he’d sat at the end of a long table by the door, facing the window. The sun had slammed into his eyes throughout and he’d become bad-tempered and impatient with the stupidity of a local reporter, who took his dismay out on the Force in print the next day.

Being a consummate politician, Evelyn McMaster had spotted this handicap and had set about changing the layout of the room. The harsh colours were gone, the acoustics had been improved but, most significantly, the officers now doing the briefing sat with their backs to the windows and the journalists had any sun shining in their eyes.

The police had another advantage; the psychological benefit of a raised platform, boxed in to afford a view of head and upper torso only. They could now look down on the journalists literally, as well as metaphorically.

Brook sat stony-faced throughout McMaster’s briefing-by-numbers, allowing his eyes to wander round the room at all the unfamiliar faces. A chord had obviously been struck with the nation’s editors, because all the nationals were here, as were the BBC, ITV and other TV crews. The local media were all present, including Brian Burton from the Derby Telegraph, whose nose Brook had so firmly put out of joint a couple of years back. He was also the reporter who’d splashed important details of the Plummer rape case the year before, causing a great deal of damage to the prosecution, not to mention arousing suspicions between officers at the station about who’d provided him with key information.

McMaster drew to a close and invited DI Brook to add his own observations.

‘I can only reiterate the comments made by Chief Superintendent McMaster,’ Brook began. ‘From the brutal nature of these murders, we know this man is extremely dangerous. Any information, relating to his movements in Drayfin last night, or any other suspicious occurrences, that could help us catch this man, will be gratefully received. All such information will be treated in strict confidence and will be followed up, no matter how insignificant it may seem.’

‘What progress have you made so far, Inspector?’ ventured one reporter, squinting to counteract the glare from the setting sun.

‘Our enquiries are under way and no stone will be left unturned but at the moment we are awaiting the results of forensic and post mortem examinations. Until that information is available, it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.’

‘Have you found the weapon?’ asked an attractive young woman with a microphone.

‘Not yet.’

‘But you do know what type of weapon was used?’ she said.

‘As I say, it would be inappropriate to comment further at this time.’

‘Could somebody be shielding this man?’ asked a man with a BBC microphone.

‘It’s possible,’ Brook nodded, unsure of the relevance of the question.

‘You don’t seem too sure,’ jumped in Brian Burton.

‘I’m sure it’s possible, Brian.’ Brook winced from a warning tap on the ankle bone from McMaster–another benefit of the enclosed panelling

‘I’m sure that most normal people, Inspector, find it hard to imagine that anyone could knowingly shelter such a monster.’

‘Then you don’t know a great deal about people, Brian.’

‘And you do?’

‘One man’s monster is another man’s saint. The man we’re looking for kills without pity, quickly, efficiently and for what he considers valid reasons, even if we can’t understand or condone those reasons.’

‘You sound like you know him, Inspector Brook.’

‘It’s my job, Brian, to get inside this man’s head, to see what he sees, think what he thinks. It’s not pleasant but that’s the nature of offender profiling. And although our picture of this man is far from complete, we are able to extrapolate certain scenarios from the details of the crime. So in a sense, although I can’t go into detail, we know things about him…’

‘And when you’ve finished extrapolating scenarios, Inspector, are you able to tell the public at large whether this man has killed before and if he’s likely to kill again?’

Brook eyed Burton, barely masking his distaste.

McMaster, sensing the rise in temperature, stepped back into the fray. ‘Obviously this man is very dangerous, Brian. Certainly he could kill again which is why we need to catch him before he does.’

‘But is it likely he’s killed before?’ asked another reporter, spotting the omission.

‘There’s no possible way we can answer that until…’ Brook rejoined.

Burton interrupted. ‘So, Inspector, your profile contains no mention of the similarities between the murder of the Wallis family last night and the unsolved Reaper killings of the early nineties, in which investigation you played a leading part when you were stationed in London?’ The silence deafened Brook. He was vaguely aware of many faces looking at each other for assistance or clarification. ‘Well, Inspector?’

‘We’re not here to listen to wild speculation, Brian. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,’ McMaster said hurriedly, ‘and feel free to contact my office at any time.’ She stood, an amiable smile covering her face, and nudged Brook to leave.

‘Are you going to answer the question?’

‘We cannot give out specific details of last night’s murders until the appropriate time…’ began McMaster.

‘Is there a connection between the killer using the blood of the Wallis family to write on the walls and the Reaper murders in Harlesden and Brixton in 1990 and 1991 and Leeds in 1993?’

Brook became aware of the low muttering of journalists, trying to gather scraps of information. He wanted to speak but McMaster had him by the elbow as discretely as she could and, ignoring the clamour for more sound bites, was pushing him through the door of the small antechamber at the back of the room. She closed the door behind them and turned on Brook.

‘What the hell was all that?’ she blazed, for once dispensing with the reflex niceties of her position. ‘Where has that hack got his information?’

‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

‘Don’t know. That’s not good enough. Now every crank and Edward the Confessor out there knows what we know.’ McMaster was silent. She strode to and fro, examining the floor, trying to regain her equilibrium. Eventually the pacing slowed and deliberation returned.

‘The Reaper. Yes, I remember. Ritual executions. Families cut up. They never caught him.’

‘I never caught him,’ said Brook bitterly.

‘You were on that enquiry?’

Brook nodded. ‘I was a DS.’

‘Is it true, Damen? Could there be a connection after all these years?’

‘There are one or two similarities but, as you say, it’s been a long time. All the same, I’d like your permission to go to London, check it out.’

‘You have it.’

‘Then I’ll need a larger pool of officers here, ma’am. To help DS Noble.’

‘What do you need?’

‘We need the computer manned for logging in any information. We need the Incident Room phones manned to sift through calls from the public. We need the murder book compiled. There’s house-to-house to co-ordinate, the van and weapons search, family background…’

‘How many?’

‘I’ve got enough CID but I’d like to second the two uniforms who answered the call. If we keep them in-house, they’re less likely to gossip…’

‘Fine, fine,’ she replied, putting up a hand.

‘And authorisation for any overtime and unlimited uniform back up when needed.’

‘You have it.’ McMaster suddenly seemed very tired but her anger pulled her round almost immediately. ‘Where did Brian Burton get all that information?’

‘He’s local, ma’am. He’s got local contacts.’

‘But a crime scene is supposed to be sacrosanct, damn it. It’s the Plummer rape all over again.’

‘There were a lot of people there last night, ma’am. Not all on the Force. He’d only need a couple of details and any decent internet search engine would have done the rest. It would have come out sooner or later.’

McMaster narrowed her eyes at Brook. ‘It shouldn’t have come out sooner than it was mentioned to me. Why wasn’t I informed?’

Brook kept his gaze on the floor. ‘It’s not definite, ma’am. I didn’t want to jump the gun before I was sure.’

‘It’s a bit flimsy but we’ll gloss over that for the moment. When’s the full briefing?’

‘Eight-thirty in the morning.’

‘If I don’t make it, I want you to read the Riot Act on this. Somebody in this station is feeding titbits to that journalist. I don’t want anyone on the enquiry with loose lips. Clear?’

Brook was home late that evening. After the press conference he’d made a conscious effort to clear away some of the unavoidable foot-slogging attached to the case. First he’d read up all that was available on file about Wallis and son, including Jason’s recent brush with notoriety in a back issue of the Derby Telegraph. There were few details and the teacher’s name had been omitted. Brook made a note to chase up the information.

Noble was out checking a lead on the van used for delivering the pizzas so Brook rang the lab to check if they’d unearthed anything of use at the scene. They had nothing preliminary, which Brook had expected. Things would be gummed up for a while, what with staff shortages and the occurrence of separate murders on the same night.

Then he rang Dr Habib, the pathologist, and was encouraged to hear that he was performing the Wallis post mortems at that precise moment.

Finally, he made a brief visit to the Wallis house, this time driving to the Drayfin Estate in his shiny new unmarked Mondeo. On his way he listened to a recently purchased tape of Mahler’s Ninth.

As he parked, a uniformed officer stepped towards the car to check out the occupant then nodded in recognition, if not respect, at Brook. It was a dark and cold night with a dusting of snow. A good thing. It discouraged the ghouls who gravitated to such gore. Even the reporters were absent, having been given bigger leads to follow by Brian Burton.

‘All quiet, Constable…?’

‘Feaver, sir. Yes, sir. All quiet.’

‘Dark round here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes sir. Most of the street lighting’s been vandalised. Kids.’

Brook nodded and bent under the police tape. He went into the dying room. It seemed bigger than his first visit but then it was virtually empty now. No corpses cluttering the place. He didn’t go further than the doorway as a SOCO was still working in the room even at this late hour.

He’d seen everything he needed to the night before. He went into the bedrooms as he had before but, as then, there was nothing of interest. If he looked hard enough he knew he could probably find something incriminating in Jason’s room. But to what end? Brook had never been concerned about small time drug abuse or under age drinking. Even the unpleasant porn videos they’d unearthed under a creaky floor board were of no concern to Brook. All such matters fell under Brook’s Law of Victimless Crime. Although the nation’s legislators disagreed, Brook was unconcerned about citizens sitting at home drifting into a narcotic stupor and masturbating themselves to sleep. Best place for it.

And whatever Wallis and son got up to in the privacy of their home, legal or not, had not been the motive for their slaughter.

Eventually Brook sauntered away, like a tourist leaving a disappointing museum, and returned to his car. He paused as he opened the driver’s door and looked across to the house next to number 233. After a moment’s thought he reached into the Mondeo and pulled out the cassette tape of Mahler. ‘Constable Feaver,’ he shouted, waving him over. ‘Have you got a mobile?’

‘Mr Singh. It’s DI Brook. Sorry to bother you at this time. We’ve got a few more questions to ask you. May I come in?’

The slightly-built, middle-aged Asian man lifted a pair of bloodshot eyes towards Brook’s warrant card. He wore an old-fashioned dressing gown and pyjamas. His feet were bare. He hesitated briefly before turning away from the door and leading Brook into his neat living room, a mirror image of the Wallis murder scene on the other side of the wall. The furnishings were perhaps a little fussier and the colours a little brighter but the rooms were essentially the same, even down to the fireplace.

‘I told the other detective everything I know. I’m very tired…’

‘I understand.’ Brook noted a small but plump valise resting on a chair. ‘Going somewhere, sir?’

‘My brother’s house. In Leicester. I’ve…’

‘You’ve had trouble sleeping after what you witnessed. I’m not surprised. But if you could find somewhere to stay in Derby it would be better. We need to be able to contact you…’

Mr Singh sat down on his plush sofa, indicating a chair for Brook. ‘I see.’

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘My wife and daughters are in India for a few weeks. But yes, I’m alone…’

‘A lot of worry, aren’t they?’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Daughters. A lot of worry. I’ve got a fifteen year old.’

Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. They can be difficult.’ He wouldn’t look at Brook, who sensed Mr Singh was probably picturing the difficulty Kylie Wallis had encountered next door. Finally his eyes turned to Brook. ‘What questions?’

‘Just routine. Like how did you get on with the Wallis family?’

‘Mr and Mrs Wallis are…were racists. And their son Jason. They were unpleasant people and we had nothing to do with them.’

‘So things were strained between you?’

‘Not really. As I said, we had nothing to do with them. We kept out of each other’s way.’

‘What about noise from next door? Was that usual?’

‘Sometimes. Things got a good bit quieter when they had the baby though. Do you mind if I smoke, Inspector?’

‘As long as I can join you,’ replied Brook.

‘Of course.’ Mr Singh took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his dressing-gown pocket and lit up with a heavy sigh then studied Brook, wondering why he hadn’t done the same.

Eventually Mr Singh retrieved his cigarettes, shook one out for Brook and handed him the lighter.

‘Thank you. I left mine in the car.’

‘No problem. That’s where I’ll have to hide mine when my wife gets home.’

Brook smiled but resisted the invitation for man talk. ‘What about Kylie?’

Mr Singh was puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You said Mr and Mrs Wallis and Jason were racists. You didn’t mention Kylie.’

Mr Singh hesitated for a moment then smiled sadly. ‘She was a lovely girl. Lovely. They didn’t deserve her, the rest of them. They were scum. I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but they were. They were trash and won’t be missed. But Kylie was always nice to my girls.’

Brook nodded. ‘When you went next door, you went into the living room first and turned off the CD player.’

‘Yes.’

‘You turned the volume down first?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you aware that Jason was in the kitchen at that time?’

‘No. I turned the CD player off then turned the big light on at the wall…’

‘You could see to do that?’

‘Yes. The hall light was on.’

‘Then what?’

‘I saw…’ Mr Singh took a more urgent draught of tobacco and hung his head. ‘…then I went to the kitchen to phone 999.’

‘You didn’t touch the bodies?’

‘No!’

‘Not even to check for signs of life?’

‘No. They were dead. Or I thought they were. I was glad to hear about the baby…’

‘Then you saw Jason in the kitchen?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I called the police.’

‘You didn’t check Jason’s pulse.’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. I assumed he was dead.’

‘Then you went outside to wait.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you saw no-one and heard no vehicles?’

‘That is correct.’

Brook nodded and pocketed his notebook. ‘May I use your phone, Mr Singh?’

‘Please.’

Brook drew out a piece of crumpled paper from a pocket and proceeded to dial. ‘Constable Feaver, it’s me. Okay. Half way.’ He put his hand over the receiver and smiled at Mr Singh.

From the Wallis house a barely audible noise could be discerned. Brook listened, watching Mr Singh closely. Singh nodded. ‘That’s how it started out.’

‘What time would that have been?’

‘Twenty minutes to midnight.’

‘Why so exact?’

‘When you’re disturbed by neighbours you look at the time. In case…’ He hesitated, then looked away, unwilling to finish.

‘…in case you want to charge round there and have it out with them.’ Brook smiled politely.

‘I suppose so. I wouldn’t have. My wife…’ Again he left the sentence hanging.

Brook spoke into the phone. ‘All the way up, Constable.’ The music was no longer muffled. It pounded through the wall and crashed onto Mr Singh’s floor which vibrated in tune. Then it died somewhat but that was more down to Mahler’s composition. Before long the horns were hammering on the floorboards again.

‘And it was midnight when it became that loud?’ Singh nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks Constable,’ said Brook into the phone. ‘Turn it off.’ Brook replaced the receiver and turned to Mr Singh. ‘I admire your patience. I would have gone straight round and hammered on the door.’

‘I was going to but they turned it off a couple of minutes later.’

‘Sorry. I thought you told DC Noble you put up with it until half past twelve before going round?’

‘I did. I mean I got my slippers on to go round but it stopped completely. So I went upstairs to get ready for bed then it started up again. Really loud. As you said, I stood it for as long as I could then I went to complain.’

‘And that would have been at half past.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

‘I’ve only just remembered with you playing the music.’

‘And how long was the music off?’

‘A few minutes, Inspector. Maybe five, no more than ten.’

‘I see.’

‘Is it important?’

Brook shrugged. ‘It could be.’

‘Is there anything else, Inspector? I’m very tired.’

‘Me too. Thanks for answering my questions at this hour, Mr Singh.’

Singh took the hint and set off for the front door. As Brook passed through the entrance Singh smiled at him. It was a bleak expression which Brook recognised as that of a fellow insomniac.

‘When will my clothes be returned to me, Inspector?’

‘As soon as we’ve finished with them. Assuming you still want them. There’ll be blood on the shoes and probably the garments too.’

Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t think.’

Brook left and returned to the Wallis house to retrieve his tape then set off for home.

After a hot shower, Brook lay on his bed to rest his eyes for a few moments. He nodded off but woke a few minutes later. Nonetheless he felt refreshed and rang Noble for a progress report.

There was news on the van. They hadn’t found it but they’d had a hit from the partial plate. It had been hired locally. Brook had expected this. He made a mental note of the van hire company and told Noble to save the rest for the briefing.

Also, the bottle of wine hadn’t been bought in a Derby supermarket, Noble confirmed. They were checking French suppliers and off-licences the next morning.

Brook told Noble about the discovery of the drugs and cash on Jason. He also mentioned Jason’s involvement in the near rape of a teacher at the local school to see if it seemed equally significant to Noble.

‘Pity we can’t leave him unguarded so the killer can finish the job then,’ said Noble.

‘Maybe,’ replied Brook. ‘You know, his family are dead and all he could think about was getting on TV for his fifteen minutes of fame.’ Mr Singh was right. The Wallis family were trash. Only poor Kylie had ever held a thought for the sensibilities of others. Her death was the real tragedy. Suddenly Brook had a brainwave.

‘John, have you set up the ID with the aunt?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon. Why?’

‘Good. They’re releasing Jason from hospital tomorrow. Have him brought there so we can hand him over to his aunt for safe keeping. His reaction might tell us something.’

‘We’re not charging him with possession?’

‘No. His family are dead, John. Let’s give the kid a break.’

Their conversation meandered on for a few more minutes then eventually there was silence and Brook could think of nothing else to say. He noticed the puzzled tone creeping into Noble’s voice. Brook rarely spoke to him on the phone and had even chided him for it once. ‘Always better in our job to talk face to face, John,’ he’d said. ‘You get the full picture that way.’

All possible distractions exhausted, Brook rang off, then, with a deep breath, dialled his ex-wife’s number. He had to look up the number for Brighton and felt a pinprick of shame–it had been months since he last spoke to Amy and Terri. He told himself it was pressure of work but knew that was no excuse. Nor was it a lingering sense of awkwardness–he enjoyed talking to Amy, better than when they were married, in fact. Even Tony, Number Two Dad, was okay. For a PR man.

‘Hello stranger,’ said Amy smoothly. ‘It’s late.’

‘Is it?’ Brook was struck by the self-confidence his ex-wife had acquired since the divorce. Certainly her new husband was bland enough to make anyone feel worthy but there had to be something more to her new-found contentment.

Perhaps Tony was one of those weirdos who refused to spend his waking hours telling his wife that the world was a sewer and that death was their constant companion and, ultimately, their friend. It was also possible that he was a better lover than Brook–unlikely but just possible.

His favoured theory was that Tony Harvey-Ellis had that most compelling attraction to divorced women of a certain age: the outward appearance of sanity.

Now, Brook could see the funny side. That time in London, he had been losing it. His obsession with a girl had wrecked his marriage. And, if anything, the fact that the girl was already a corpse when Brook met her made matters worse.

‘How are you, Amy?’

‘Never better.’

A pause. ‘Is Terri there?’

‘She certainly is. Would you like to speak to her?’ she said with the suggestion of a tease.

‘That would be nice.’

‘Ther-es-a! It’s your dad. Can you hear me? Your dad. So Damen, on the telly, ’eh?’

‘Was I?’

‘Yeah. A small bit on BBC and ITV. Very exciting. Just like the old days.’

‘Yeah. I’m getting an agent.’

‘Good to see you haven’t lost your old detachment,’ she giggled.

‘Ha ha,’ said Brook without rancour.

‘Okay Mum. I’m on the other line.’

‘Bye Sherlock. And happy birthday.’

‘Bye, darling. How are you, Terri?’

‘I’m fine, dad. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Brook was a little taken aback at this smokescreen. He was suddenly uneasy, sensing that she was under strain. Brook decided to play ball.

‘Can’t a father ring his daughter, whom he loves, without opening a public inquiry?’ he breezed. Brook always managed to shunt declarations of affection into a subordinate clause. They were safer there. ‘I just wanted to see how you were.’ There was a click as an extension was hung up. Either his ex-wife or her husband had wanted to know why he was ringing. Brook didn’t like it. ‘What’s wrong, petal?’ he asked with more urgency.

‘Dad…I…’ Brook heard a noise in the background that might have been a door. ‘My mocks aren’t ’til June.’ The guard was around her voice again.

‘Can’t you speak, Terri?’

‘I’m afraid not, Dad.’

‘Can you ring me later?’

‘I don’t see how but I’ll try.’ The strain was audible in her voice.

‘Is it something to do with Mum?’ he asked.

‘Oh no, no,’ she answered back with a feigned jocularity.

‘Tony?’ he ventured.

‘Mmm, yes. That’s right.’ Brook’s veins turned to ice and he found himself catching at a breath.

‘What time does he go to work in the morning?’

‘Seven.’

‘Ring me here, as soon as he leaves. I’ll be waiting. Any problems, you just bluff him. Tell him I know everything, whatever it is, and I’m coming down to sort things out. Okay. Got that, darling?’

‘I understand. Bye then, Dad. Nice to hear from you. And happy birthday.’ The line went dead but Brook was unable to replace the receiver for a few seconds. Problems with Tony. He didn’t dare think. It was pointless jumping to conclusions. Terri was at a difficult age. It could be anything, he decided. Personality clash–he knew about those–or maybe she just needed some attention, needed to play the two dads off against each other for a while. That was the rational explanation.

He gleaned some surface comfort but a few fathoms down the fish were nibbling at his peace of mind. Tony Harvey-Ellis was a man. With men, at one level or another, everything could be reduced to sexual gratification. If that bastard had…

Brook sought solace with a familiar ally and made a conscious effort to return to the case so he trudged down the rickety steps to the dank and dingy cellar and from a rusty metal trunk recovered a large beige folder. He removed an antiquated rubber band, wiped off some of the dust, and what looked like mould, and returned to the discomfort of his living room.

The furniture in the room was sparse to say the least. Minimalism was the fashion but that implied design and expense. Most of Brook’s objets could have been recycled from the council tip or unearthed in the furthest backroom of a teeming, hand-me-down warehouse.

There was a squeaky plastic sofa nestling along the wall next to the never-opened front door. Just to ensure that the door was never used, Brook had placed a peeling formica-topped occasional table in front of it. In another corner, stood an old-fashioned standard lamp which vomited its dingy flower-studded light onto a sturdier table, on which had been placed the phone and an ashtray.

The overall colour scheme, if scheme it could be called, for that again implied planning, was a grimy light brown, save for the once-white ceiling which had been gradually stained tobacco yellow.

Brook unwrapped the cellophane from the next pack, lit up with a sigh more relaxed than he felt, and sat down to inspect the folder. He tipped out a silver necklace and gazed at the heart-shaped links, remembering the dead girl, Laura Maples.

Eventually he dropped it back into the folder and pulled out various documents. A tightly wrapped plastic bag fell out with them. Brook held the plastic bag for a moment then took the small package back to the cellar and dropped it into the trunk then returned to examine the pile of documents.

He skimmed quickly through the chronological landmarks of his descent into hell and extracted the relevant photocopied reports, newspaper cuttings and the photographs Brook had taken with his own camera while on stakeout. Technically he shouldn’t have taken photocopies of official documents, but the Met was fairly relaxed about procedure in those days. Now they would have had his warrant card on the fire before he’d have time to call the Police Federation.

There was a number, scribbled on the back of a report. He picked up the phone and pondered. It was a long time ago. He shrugged and dialled. Coppers rarely moved house unless they were transferring. They needed a familiar haven around them, like a favoured tatty shirt–a place to hide in safety and comfort from the hell of other people’s society. The other end picked up on the first ring.

‘Hello.’

Brook discerned more than a suspicion of alcohol in the voice. ‘Charlie, is that you?’

‘Fuckin’ ‘ell. Brooky. I’ve been hoping you’d call. Wasn’t sure you’d still have the number.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m fucking shit-faced, mate. How are you?’

‘Considering it.’

‘You lying bastard,’ ex-DCI Charlie Rowlands laughed. ‘That’ll be the day that I die. You might lose a bit of that famous iron control of yours.’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time, sir.’

‘Well. I saw the press conference. Tell me, Brooky. Does that dyke with the brush handle up her arse have any idea what you’re dealing with?’

‘The Chief Super? I don’t know, sir.’

‘Call me guv, not sir. And another thing. Don’t call me guv. I’ve been retired since the last ice age.’

‘What should I call you, guv?’

‘Call me Charlie, you daft sod.’

‘Charlie.’ It didn’t sit right with Brook, even though he’d always hated calling him “guv”–too much of the professional cockney about it. ‘I need to see you.’

‘Is it true? Is it another?’ An audible strain of foreboding suddenly surfaced in Charlie Rowlands’ voice.

‘I think so. Yes.’ Brook waited. He knew the effect his call was having.

‘Same MO?’

‘Similar.’

‘Who was the target?’

‘The son. He got himself in the news a few weeks ago. He was chucked out of school for assaulting and threatening to rape a teacher.’ Brook spoke softly so as not to excite Rowlands. He had a bad heart and had taken early retirement in 1994 at the age of 56. That was fairly late for today’s career-minded desk jockeys, but Charlie Rowlands was one of the old school. He’d always said he’d never retire, that they’d have to drag him out kicking and screaming. The job was his life and that was very nearly the cost.

Given that, it was a surprise to Brook that he’d managed to hang onto life for more than a decade since. He’d been expected to keel over within six months. He wasn’t exactly a health nut. He smoked and drank heavily off-duty–and on, for that matter.

‘Good riddance. And he did all of ’em, did he?’

‘All he could lay his hands on but the son got lucky and didn’t turn up and he left the baby.’

‘Okay. Dad had form, did he?’

‘Minor stuff but he was a thug.’

‘That’s a comfort then.’ Rowlands sounded sober now. He was moving into the stage of melancholy clear thinking. ‘Signatures?’

‘Music. A picture. And expensive wine.’ Brook knew what was coming, though Rowlands was putting it off.

Eventually he said, ‘Was there a message?’

‘SAVED.’

‘In blood?’

‘In blood.’ Brook was now scarcely audible so keenly did he feel the need to monitor Rowlands for signs of strain.

For what seemed an eternity the two men listened to each other breathing before Rowlands, with a huge sigh, said, ‘Come when you like. I’m never out.’ Brook confirmed the address and prepared to hang up. ‘Damen,’ said Rowlands. He rarely called him that. ‘Sorenson’s a goner.’

The line clicked and Brook was left with the receiver in his hand, lost in thought until the whirring from the ear-piece brought him back. He replaced the receiver and went into the kitchen. He needed a drink. Actually he needed a drink in a public place to satisfy himself that a normal world still existed but he decided against it in case Terri tried to ring.

He rooted around in the kitchen. He knew he had booze somewhere. Eventually he pulled a dusty bottle of sweet Martini–won in a raffle a couple of years before–from the highest cupboard. The cupboard had sixties sliding glass doors caked in grease and Brook kept everything he never wanted to see again in there. He glanced at the photograph albums but resisted.

He cracked the seal on the bottle and examined the rust-coloured liquid. He’d only kept it in case of female visitors. Fat chance. There’d only been the one night with Wendy…WPC Jones, and she’d asked for a beer. Nobody but winos drank this garbage any more. Brook poured a large measure and drank it down with a grimace. He poured another and sat back down at the table to nurse it. He turned back to the yellowing file. Like it or not it was time to think.

He put his hand in the folder and pulled out the necklace again and draped it around his fingers. The silver hearts glistened in the half-light and Brook stared at them, seeing the face of the girl who’d worn it all those years before–what was left of it, after the rats had eaten their fill.

He returned the necklace to the folder and began to organise reports and photographs from The Reaper killings into one chronological pile.