Читать книгу The Reaper - Steven Dunne - Страница 8

Brook took a final urgent drag and tossed the cigarette. He walked up the communal access road and unlocked the back door into the kitchen of his flat. He never used the front door as it opened into his living room, a quaint reminder of a childhood spent in a back-to-back terrace, with which he wasn’t comfortable. Memories of strange, rubicund men collecting rent or insurance and breathing light ale fumes into his pram were still keenly felt forty-odd years on.

He looked briefly at the answer machine. For once it was flashing so he played the message. It was from Terri, his daughter, wishing ‘a happy birthday for tomorrow to my number one dad’, her nickname for him since acquiring a second father. She’d moved with her mother and ‘number two dad’ to Brighton after the divorce. Brook didn’t wipe the brief message but left the machine flashing to remind him to ring her.

It didn’t sit well with Brook that a father should need a reminder to talk to an only daughter and his unexpected good mood soured as a result. He looked at his watch. It was his birthday. He could see the single envelope on the mat by the front door. He left it there.

After picking at his curry and downing a celebratory glass of milk, he showered and went to bed. He remembered to leave a little food by the flap, in case Cat tired of its nocturnal foraging, and lay down to read in his box-sized bedroom, head grazing one wall, feet flat against the other for the warmth from the radiator on the other side.

For a change, sleep came quickly, though it rarely lasted beyond an hour. And too often it would be an hour of visions exploding across his brain. Some he could recognise, some he couldn’t. Then sometimes, on a case, he would see something–a face, a crime scene, a piece of evidence–and recall an echo of it in a dream he’d already had. It bothered Brook at first until he’d been able to write it off to the Job. The things he’d seen were enough to fever any brow.

Tonight even the concession of one fitful hour was withdrawn and he woke to the noise of the phone a few moments later. It was DS John Noble.

‘Sir, you’re awake.’

A sigh was Brook’s only answer. ‘What’s up, John?’

‘Murder, sir. A bad one.’

‘Bad as in poorly executed or bad as in not nice?’

‘The latter I think,’ replied Noble, making a conscious effort to impress with his vocabulary. Eighteen months hanging on to DI Brook’s coat tails had taught Noble three things. ‘Avoid swearing, John, in my presence at least. Try to speak proper English, if you know any. And most important, don’t ever call me guv.’

‘DI Greatorix should be dealing but he’s already on a call.’

‘So he is. Where are you?’

‘ASBO-land.’

Brook let out a heavy sigh of frustration. ‘John, if you’re on the Drayfin, just say so.’

‘I’m on the Drayfin Estate.’

‘What’s the address?’ Brook jotted it down. At this time of night it wouldn’t take him long to get to the rundown housing estate on the south side of the city, built in the sixties when Britain’s city planners had decided that people were keen to live cheek by jowl in identical, low-cost boxes. It was little surprise to Brook that residents in such areas attracted more than their fair share of Anti-Social Behaviour Orders. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’

Fifteen minutes later the noise from Brook’s Sprite ensured that those houses on the Drayfin Estate still in darkness were fully alerted to the commotion in their midst, and soon switches were being flicked and curtains twitched.

If he spent much more time driving around in the middle of the night, the National Grid would be inviting him to the staff parties. The idea brought a brief smile to Brook’s lips. A pity he couldn’t introduce such levity into his dealings with others, he thought.

Brook was mulling over the comedic potential of his future transactions with Sergeant Hendrickson when, without warning, he jumped onto the brakes. The car shuddered to an unconvincing halt. Seconds later a black and white cat hurtled across the path of the Sprite and skittered away into the mist, a pink tail hanging from its mouth.

Brook exhaled heavily and, fully awake now, pulled over to the huddle outside Number 233–a small red brick semi-detached–as an ambulance was pulling away. He killed the engine, aware of looks and smiles exchanged between the knot of uniformed constables attempting to keep warm on the verge outside the house.

He wondered if the earlier incident with Hendrickson had been thrown into the mix for general sport. Such disputes spread like wildfire amongst the smaller, close knit stations and D Division was no exception.

A young man stepped from the throng. Detective Sergeant Noble was a good looking, fit twenty-seven year old who took a keen interest in his own advancement. Apart from a regulation-stretching blond mop, parted in the middle, he was smartly presented, even at this late hour. The contrast with his own hurriedly assembled and shapeless clothing wasn’t lost on Brook.

‘Evening, John–or rather morning.’ Noble nodded but Brook could tell he wasn’t his usual ebullient self because he fidgeted with his latex gloves, not meeting Brook’s eye. ‘Have you puked, John?’ he enquired with a hint of mockery.

‘No sir.’ A pause. ‘Not yet.’

‘Who was that in the ambulance?’

‘PC Aktar, sir. He was first on the scene. He fainted.’

‘Causing great hilarity amongst his colleagues no doubt.’ Despite himself Brook took a little comfort from this alternative explanation for the smirks that had greeted his arrival. ‘Is it that bad, John?’

‘Not so much to look at. I’ve seen worse. It’s just…’ he tailed off and looked at the floor.

‘Is the PS in there?’ asked Brook.

‘The surgeon’s been delayed.’

Brook raised an eyebrow then nodded. ‘Right, the other murder. And SOCO?’

‘Same.’

‘A fresh crime scene. Talk me through it.’

‘The family’s name is Wallis.’

Brook narrowed his eyes in recognition. ‘Bobby Wallis. Yes. Petty theft and an ABH. General scourge if memory serves. Which one is it?’

‘Well.’ Noble looked round as though he were afraid of making a fool of himself before turning back to Brook. ‘There are four bodies.’

‘Four?’ Brook fixed his DS with a stare. A long-buried echo sounded in the vaults of his heart, quickening its beat. He ignored Noble’s faint nod and ran his bottom lip underneath his upper teeth, a gesture of calculation that he hoped would mask his unease. ‘Go on.’

‘Bobby Wallis, his wife we’re assuming, plus his daughter–Kylie–and a baby. One survivor. The son. Jason Wallis. He was out cold and a strong smell of booze on him. Could be drugs as well. He’s gone off to hospital.’ Brook turned to Noble with his eyebrow cocked. ‘He’s under guard,’ answered Noble. ‘But there are no obvious bloodstains on his hands or clothes. And if he was in there…’ Noble looked away.

Brook nodded then looked around as though a cigarette vendor might recognise his need and come forward with a pack. It seemed he was about to make one of those periodic visits to hell that he’d moved to Derby to escape. Months of stultifying boredom, interspersed with sporadic journeys through the entrails of the human condition, Brook a mute witness to the black hole of depravity and despair that sucked all virtuous emotion from him. Black. The colour of man’s heart. The colour invisible in the night. The colour of old blood.

‘Witnesses?’

‘A neighbour across the street, Mrs Patel, says she saw a white van make a delivery. Around 8.15. There are pizza boxes from Pizza Parlour inside so it looks legit. She remembered a partial plate. I’ve put it out on the wire. No hits yet.’

‘Score one for the busybodies. Are you checking with Pizza Parlour?’

‘They’re closed but we’re running it down. Do you think it’s important?’

‘Yes. The van’s wrong. In my experience most pizza deliveries are done on a moped. If Pizza Parlour did have a van, they’d have their livery all over it.’

‘So why would our nosy neighbour not see that if she can remember a partial?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’ve been onto Traffic to be on the lookout on all the major roads.’

‘Good. Give it to the motorway boys as well though he may be long gone. And tell them we’ll need to look at all the CCTV for our time slot.’

Brook waited while Noble got on the radio to Dispatch, all the while scanning the uniformed officers for the chance to bum a cigarette. But no-one would light up until the senior officer had disappeared into the house.

Noble rejoined Brook. ‘Well, let’s take a peek, John.’ And with that Brook attached his mental blinkers and concentrated fully on Noble’s brisk summary as they walked towards the front door.

‘The next door neighbour found them, sir. A Mr Singh. He came round at about half past twelve to complain about noise–loud music–the front door was ajar so he walked into the front room and there they all were. Apart from the son–Jason–who was flat out in the kitchen.’

‘How were they killed?’

‘Throats cut, and, well, you can see for yourself. You won’t believe it.’ Noble’s recollection began to gnaw at his composure. His features adopted the pained squint of a man holding on to himself, so useful at funerals.

Brook stopped and almost to himself echoed his DS. ‘Throats cut.’ Then with a turn of the head he roused himself to keep step with Noble. ‘I’ll believe anything where people are concerned, John.’

‘The weird thing is the victims were just sat there, facing the telly, like they were watching Big Brother’

‘Big…?’

Noble looked at Brook with a momentary puzzled expression then looked away, realising his mistake. ‘Big Brother. It’s a TV programme, sir. Very popular, with ordinary people, I understand.’

Brook caught the undertone of Noble’s gibe with a flush of pleasure. He was learning a healthy disrespect for superiors. It would make him a better copper. ‘Please don’t explain the tastes of the nation to me, John, I’m tired. Sitting around the TV like a normal family, you say.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Since when has it been normal for a family to sit down together–as a family. Not since the golden age of Ovaltine and Dick Barton.’

‘Dick Barton?’

‘The radio. Or the wireless, to be strictly accurate.’

Noble nodded. ‘You mean kids have a TV in their own room…’

‘Or their own music or computer. The point being, never fail to question what initially hits you as normal. Families rarely socialise as a unit these days.’ A sliver of personal grief deformed Brook’s features for a second and was gone.

‘So having the family in one place is part of the MO. The killer’s staged it.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Well that would rule out Jason as the perp.’ Noble was conscious of his gaffe before he’d finished the word and prepared himself for Brook’s disapproval.

Instead Brook smiled thinly and looked him briefly in the eye. ‘Perp? Have you got indigestion, John?’

Noble smiled back.

They stopped at the Wallis front door. It was open. Noble handed Brook a pair of latex gloves which he pulled on.

‘Was the front door forced?’

‘No obvious sign of it.’

‘How many have tramped through already?’

‘Besides myself, PC Aktar and the neighbour, Mr Singh. Also the ambulance crew had to stretcher Jason out from the kitchen.’

‘What about Aktar? Where was he?’

‘He fainted out here.’

‘Did he? That’s interesting.’

‘Delayed shock maybe.’

Brook nodded. ‘Maybe.’ Avoiding the handle, Brook pushed the front door back with a latex finger. There was another door on the right off the hallway with red smears on the handle. The door was open just a crack and Brook noticed Noble make a conscious effort to suppress a shudder at the thought of what lay beyond. Ahead, in full view, lay the brightly lit kitchen, door wide open. The sink was visible, as was the lid of a cardboard pizza box lying open on the drainer.

‘How many have been in the living room?’ asked Brook, fleetingly aware of his unintended joke.

‘Mr Singh went in and found them. Aktar had to go in to check for signs of life. He went in the kitchen to check on Jason too. I only looked in at the door. I didn’t want to disturb anything.’

‘I don’t think we can compromise the hall any more than it is but watch out for any obvious bloody footprints, John. Step right up against the wall.’ With that Brook picked his way past the murder room, towards the kitchen, Noble following in his superior’s footsteps.

Once in the bright stark room, Brook knelt down to examine the linoleum. ‘What do you think that is?’ he said, indicating a small knot of dark red matter on the floor.

Noble felt his gorge rising. He managed to wrench out a, ‘Dunno,’ keeping his eyes averted from the offending unction.

Brook removed a pencil from his coat and prodded the floor then raised the red tip of the pencil to his nose. He sniffed, suppressing a smile, aware of the discomfort of his audience. This must be how the boy who ate earwigs at Brook’s primary school had felt. He stood and turned to look at the open pizza box on the drainer. Two closed boxes were neatly stacked under the top one.

‘Tomato sauce. From this pizza. Pizza Parlour’s Quattro Stagioni–Four Seasons to you and me,’ he added with a smile. ‘And very good they are too.’

‘You know your takeaways,’ said Noble.

‘I went to university, John. That’s how I was able to read it off the box. Note two pieces missing. One cut from the ham and mushroom segment, the other torn from the pepperami. Jason Wallis was found unconscious here, this is where he fell, but the rest of the family are in the living er…lounge?’

‘Right.’

‘Good. Remind me. Is PC Aktar heavy?’

Noble was taken aback but had become accustomed to not reacting to Brook’s odd questions.

‘Fairly heavy, yes.’

‘Right.’ Brook’s expression took on a faraway look. There was silence as both men realised they’d used up all their distractions. Suddenly, with a full swallow of air for Dutch courage, Brook sought the eye of his DS and nodded towards the living-room door. ‘Am I right in thinking the killer’s left us a message in there, John?’

Noble’s lips parted in surprise. ‘How did you…?’

As Noble’s voice began to falter, Brook, alive to his discomfort, tapped into one of his meagre seams of humanity–the mother lode had been exhausted long ago–and he threw Noble a straw to clutch.

‘I’d like a peek at the scene before SOCO start bagging and tagging. You’ve already seen it, John, so wait outside for the surgeon. I don’t want anybody else in the house until SOCO have done their stuff. No-one else comes through that front door.’ He paused before adding, ‘Okay?’ The two men, normally cloaked in layer upon layer of emotional cladding, looked at one another as men rarely do. Noble’s instinct was to turn away and adjust his protective layers but something made his eyes linger, the need to communicate his gratitude.

‘There’s a lot of blood on the floor. You might compromise footprints.’

‘I’m just going to look from the door not traipse round shaking hands and sitting on laps. If this has been staged I want to see it as the killer intended it to be seen. Atmosphere, John, remember.’

‘Right. Get a feel for the crime before anything else. Mind the handle. There are blood smears on it.’

As Brook prepared a finger to push open the bloodied door, he turned to Noble. ‘Get onto SOCO and the PS and give them a hurry-up. And get on to the hospital. They probably know but tell them they might need to pump Aktar’s stomach. Young Wallis too. Just to be on the safe side.’

It was the smell that hit Brook first. It wasn’t new to him, the smell of death, the sweet smell of ageing blood, the excrement expelled by a body no longer able to maintain its integrity, the sweat no longer evaporated by the heat of its host. These things weren’t new to Brook but the smell of a victim’s terror was. Almost. Only twice before. In London. Brixton 1991. And the first time, 1990. Harlesden. Harleshole of the Universe, as his old DI, Charlie Rowlands, had dubbed it.

And the same thoughts were intruding then, as now. Did his own fear give off the same scent on those rare occasions his nightmares overpowered his reason?

Brook wondered–no he knew–this was the smell discharged as people watched their own deaths unfold. Yes, he knew, as he knew the other smell, the hint of perfume–talcum powder. To keep sweaty palms dry inside latex gloves. He wished he had some now.

Brook stood to one side of the door and tried to take it all in. Bobby Wallis sat in his armchair, facing the TV. His body was contorted with effort, his fists clenched and spotted with blood. His head was tilted at an angle, as though puzzled by something. Brook peered at the half-closed eyes and turned to follow the victim’s sightless gaze, squinting above and beyond the TV to the word ‘SAVED’ daubed in blood on the alcove wall. Rivulets wept from all the letters except the D. This letter was fainter than the others though the writer hadn’t been short of ink. A message from the killer. SAVED. Who was saved and from what? Brook was no nearer knowing. The Reaper was back. He knew that much.

The memories came flooding in and Brook was tempted to move around the room as if physical activity could quell the images in his mind. But one of those images was of stepping in a pool of blood all those years ago in Brixton so he managed to anchor himself.

He noted the poster on the chimney breast and nodded in recognition. Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’. It didn’t belong in this house. Rich, vivid colours stood out against the grubby walls. The blue and golden flowers, the single white flower. But now the picture was different, scarred by the slash of red, like a giant approving tick on a piece of artwork. He was held for a moment. Harlesden in 1990, Brixton a year later. And now Derby. Why such a long gap? It made no sense.

Brook forced his mind back to the present and returned his eyes to Bobby Wallis. There was a new orifice under his chin and his dark blue sweater was saturated black with blood. Arterial sprays were everywhere. Walls, clothing, furniture, the small silver Christmas tree in the corner, the dark carpet probably, though it was difficult to tell.

There would be blood all round the bodies and footprints in the blood–the neighbour’s and PC Aktar’s–who would have had to tramp around the room checking for signs of life. They wouldn’t be hard to distinguish for today’s Scene of Crime Officers with their digital imaging technology. The killer’s footprints would eventually be isolated–for what it was worth. They’d still need a suspect before they could find a match.

Brook moved his head, trying to catch a look at the front of the man’s face. Then he saw it, reflected in the dim light, a faint glimmer scarring his cheeks. It was there as before. The man’s cheeks were encrusted with it–salt from tears. Something had made this man cry and sure as hell, it wasn’t Big Brother.

Brook remembered him now. Bobby Wallis had form and Brook was willing to bet he hadn’t cried since early childhood. He was a local hard man, a man’s man, a petty criminal, who graduated from years in the system and drifted in and out of menial work. Sometimes he got drunk and beat up those who were sure not to fight back. Not his family though. They were part of him. He’d protect his kids. He’d protect his wife. Love was another matter.

Brook remembered his own dead father, a miner in Barnsley. Although as different from Bobby Wallis as chalk from cheese, Brook recognised the symptoms. A life built on small successes, hungrily sought and endlessly trumpeted to drown the background hum of failure.

With his father it had been his work as a union official and coaching the church boys’ football club. With Wallis it would have been a good result at the bookies or the chance smile of a barmaid ‘asking for it’.

Brook turned his gaze to the ample figure beside Bobby. Mrs Wallis was on the sofa comically dressed in a towelling tracksuit that stretched itself, with more than a hint of complaint, around her abundant flesh. At least in death she’d discovered irony, thought Brook, trying to suppress a grim smile.

A pack of cigarettes and gold lighter sat neatly beside her. They would surely have been knocked over in the death struggle so they had to have been placed there post mortem. If there was a reason apart from the killer’s sense of order, Brook didn’t know it. His eye lingered on the pack. He was sorely tempted to take one and light up.

Mrs Wallis had also cried. Her face was contorted with pain and effort, though Brook doubted whether she’d have been able to plead for her life. Like her husband, she wore the large, sopping bib of a bloodstain beneath telltale sinew, protruding like a bag of giblets from her throat. Another life to make no mark. Gone forever. Brook nodded. The same format. And the gore wasn’t too bad. He could cope. Except. There was always ‘except’. That was the same as Harlesden and Brixton too.

The girl lay face down on the fake animal skin rug. Brook was glad he couldn’t see her face–an oversight on the part of the killer perhaps.

Her feet were bare up to her ankles where her pyjamas took over. The bottoms were relatively free of blood and were dotted with cartoon characters. Her top lay in tatters around her torso. It had been slashed open, exposing her back and shoulders. Something had been carved onto the smooth alabaster skin below her shoulder blades and Brook strained his neck to make it out. SAVED again. The lettering was cut in straight lines including the S. The blade had been thin and very sharp, as Brook could see no evidence of effort or hacking around the deep cuts; another cutthroat razor perhaps, or even a scalpel.

The area around the girl’s torn neck shone dark with blood though not as much as might be expected for such a major wound. Nor was there much blood coming from the cuts on her back.

He decided these wounds were administered post mortem to prevent excessive bleeding. That fit the pattern. The killer wouldn’t want his message obscured. Dr Habib would have to confirm it but Brook was sure enough and took some measure of comfort from the fact.

Now he scanned the floor. He could see no obvious sign of the weapon. The Reaper had taken it with him this time. The Reaper. Brook was annoyed with himself. How quickly he’d parcelled up the crime and assigned it to his old quarry. He had to keep an open mind.

He began to scan the room itself. For a family home there was very little mess. Some Christmas cards on a string had been taken down to make way for the Van Gogh poster but even then they’d been neatly stacked behind the little Christmas tree in the corner. If you didn’t count the bloodstains, there was order. The killer had arranged everything, tidied everything so only the important things remained to catch the eye. Before or after death, Brook couldn’t tell. A bit of both, probably.

A few crumbs of food on the carpet were the only other signs of disorder. Probably caused by the victims as they knocked over their meal in the struggle to understand what was happening to them. The pizza boxes were now in the kitchen, out of the way. They’d done their job and were now just clutter as far as the killer was concerned. Everything was deliberate, put in place for Brook to see.

He shook himself to gaze again at the girl, trying not to imagine her ordeal. A few hours before, she would have been pink with life, the rug a deathly white. Now the roles were reversed. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. What had she done to deserve this? She hadn’t chosen her parents. Brook could write off their useless existence with little guilt. But the girl should have had her whole life in front of her.

Next Brook glanced at the carry cot beside the TV, glad he couldn’t see inside. It must have been the thought of the little mite that had eaten away at Noble’s sangfroid. This was a new outrage for The Reaper: murdering a baby. He remembered what Charlie Rowlands used to say in London, ‘The smaller the victim, the bigger the crime’.

Was that what started the tears for Bobby and Mrs Wallis? Or was it their young daughter’s throat being torn open in front of them? He wished he could be sure it was one of the two but he knew not to take it for granted. Impending death could induce terrifying selfishness.

And the son, Jason, a petty thief and general chip off the old block, Brook recalled. He was alive and the girl and the baby were dead. Why? That didn’t tally with the past. In Harlesden and Brixton no-one was spared.

For a split-second Brook was consumed by the hope that this was different, just a one-off, mindless slaughter, not the work of The Reaper but the drug-addled frenzy of a teenage boy or a disgruntled neighbour pushed over the edge. He looked back at the Van Gogh poster and the bloody daub on the wall and the thought died in its infancy.

Brook wanted to step outside. His need for a cigarette was becoming almost clinical. He swept his eye round the room one last time. On the shelf of the fireplace above the gas fire stood a bottle of red wine with two half full glasses either side. ‘Nice symmetry,’ nodded Brook. He couldn’t make out the label from where he was but suspected the killer had brought it. It looked too expensive for the weekly Wallis shop at Lidl.

To the left of one of the wine glasses what looked like a lipstick had been stood on its end. Brook glanced at Mrs Wallis to see if she was wearing any. It was difficult to tell. It had probably fallen out of her pocket and had been tidied up by the killer.

Brook turned and then looked back. Whatever impression the killer wanted to convey, the chances were he would want it seen as someone came through the door. Many serial killers enjoyed creating a tableaux. In this case, family life as it should be: gathered together to discuss the events of the day, then wiped out by a single act.

As Brook turned again to plot a path back to the cold night air a noise from behind halted him and his head snapped back towards the murder scene. He froze, not daring to move, listening for further noises. He stared at Bobby Wallis for a long time, watching for any sign of movement, examining the wound on his neck again to be sure he was dead.

He turned to leave but the noise returned. This time it was unmistakeable. A rustling of material. Someone or something was moving in the room. Brook stood like a statue for what seemed an age, his breathing shallow, his ear cocked, only his eyes allowed to move. The next sound was one Brook had not heard for many years. Not since Terri had been a baby. It was an infant gurgling, preparing itself to wake and scream for a feeding with that disproportionate power that robbed so many new parents of their sleep.

Brook stepped round the room as quickly and as delicately as he could manage before peering into the carry cot next to the TV. A baby wriggled, its eyes closed, trying to kick off its blanket. Tiny eyes flickered but instead of joy Brook’s mouth fell open in horror. On the child’s forehead–in small lettering–the word ‘SAVED’ again. Brook narrowed his eyes and pulled the restrictive blanket away from the baby and felt around its torso for any further signs of injury. The baby wriggled even harder and began to kick out and cry. Brook plucked the infant from its swaddling, hardly daring to look at the disfigurement inflicted although there was something odd about it.

He walked towards the door holding the child but stopped suddenly. Then he bent down to sniff the baby. A second later Brook had produced a handkerchief, dabbed it into his mouth then wiped away a corner of the letter D from the baby’s forehead. ‘Lipstick.’ Brook sighed with relief and hurried out of the room.

‘Sergeant!’ he screamed at the top of his voice. ‘Get over here!’

At this terrifying noise, the baby opened its mouth and began to scream as loudly as its tiny lungs would allow. Brook was unable to keep from laughing out loud and long at the baby’s distress. In a bad mood, he’d once said there was, ‘No finer sight than a child in tears,’ and finally his words had found a more worthy setting.

He’d forgotten how to hold an infant and he marched the baby out of the front door at arm’s length, as though he’d set the chip pan on fire. Noble flew to him and took the bundle, amazed.

‘I thought…’

‘Get the little sod off to hospital. If you can, get a shot of the forehead before it gets cleaned off. And when you’ve done that get this place completely sealed off. See to it yourself, John, and let’s get it right this time.’

Two hours later Brook stood at the gate of the Wallis house, pulling hard on a ‘borrowed’ Silk Cut and stamping his feet to keep warm. It wasn’t yet five o’clock but despite that and the biting cold a small huddle of interested bystanders stood shivering in the blackness on the other side of the potholed street, their faces glowing in the burnished light of flashing squad cars and ambulances. A Scientific Support van was parked next to Brook’s Sprite, its back doors open. Noble pulled up and got out of a squad car and approached Brook looking sheepish.

‘How’s the baby, John?’

‘It seems fine. No injuries.’

‘Did you get a shot of the writing…?’

Noble waved a disposable camera at Brook and nodded.

‘…and was it lipstick?’

‘It looks like it. The hospital’s sending us a sample.’ Brook nodded. ‘Sir, I’m sorry about…’

‘It’s not your fault, John. I’m sorry I snapped.’

‘I didn’t check…’

‘You had a crime scene to preserve. You had every right to accept what Aktar told you. It’s his mess.’

‘Even so.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just pleased we found out before the PS arrived. That would have been embarrassing.’

‘How could Aktar have made such a mistake?’

‘I suspect he was already feeling unwell.’

At that moment, a scene of crime officer in bright protective clothing carrying one end of a carpet emerged from the house. The other end of the carpet followed supported by another officer. They placed it carefully in the back of the van.

‘Do you want a look round before the bodies go, Inspector?’ he said.

‘Please.’

Brook leapt up to the front steps with Noble in reluctant pursuit.

Inside more officers in bright clothing were photographing the victims before bagging the hands, feet and heads to preserve any trace evidence adhering to them.

Brook stepped across the now bare floor to the girl still lying face down on the rug. He examined the cuts on her back but saw nothing new. Then he looked hard at her ankles and wrists and finally, the back of her head.

‘No marks,’ he said across to Noble who was doing the same examination of Mr and Mrs Wallis.

‘Same here. No obvious contusions or restraint marks as far as I can tell.’

Brook nodded. ‘They were drugged.’ He went to look more closely at the wine bottle on the fireplace.

‘You think the wine’s drugged?’ asked Noble.

‘I don’t think so. The girl wouldn’t have had wine. The killer brought it for some reason. Maybe for himself–to celebrate a job well done.’

Noble managed a chuckle. ‘Yeah, good health. Perhaps he’s left saliva in the glasses.’

‘We’ll see.’ Brook walked back to the door and looked again at the scene as a whole. The TV was pushed back into the alcove, the CD player against the far wall. Brook had checked. It was an old one. Not like Brixton. No entry there. It was the pizzas. They were the way in. He approached the CD player.

‘This has been dusted, I take it,’ asked Brook of no-one in particular.

‘Yeah,’ answered a SOCO kneeling down by the fireplace.

Brook turned the power on with his knuckle and ejected the tray. A CD of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony lay there. There was no case nearby.

Brook smiled. Mahler: something to listen to, something beautiful. He pressed play. The tray returned to the body of the machine. Brook waited for the music. Nothing. The display told Brook that fifteen seconds of the first track had elapsed. He located the volume control and moved it round to the right. At once the low strains of Mahler’s melancholic lament could be heard. He held the circular button and turned it further round. Shuddering horns filled the room.

Brook turned it to full blast and everybody stopped what they were doing and turned to the source of the annoyance. The sound was distorted. Brook returned the volume control to its original position with an apologetic smile then turned off the power.

As he looked round the room for the last time, Brook knew the killer was a man, the man. It couldn’t be a woman. Course it couldn’t. It wasn’t just statistical. Women give life–at least biologically–men take it. No need for offender profiling to tell him that.