Читать книгу The Disciple - Steven Dunne - Страница 8

September 1995, Northern California

The vehicle swept into the gas station and drew to a halt next to a pump. Sensored floodlights banished the gathering gloom and cast the surrounding woods into surly shadow and a multitude of insects came to life at the sudden warmth of the lights. A powerfully built young man in oily dungarees, with unkempt straw for hair, half-ran, half-walked from the flat slab of a building towards the pump. He arrived and stood waiting for the driver, looking intently over the vehicle, wiping his mouth with a napkin extracted from his grimy shirt pocket.

The driver stepped out, pulling his map from under a sealed plastic wallet full of deep red rose petals on the passenger seat. He stared at it for a moment then tossed it back into the vehicle to cover the small box of bullets on the back seat.

‘Fill her up, sir?’ asked the attendant, his mouth still half-full of food. It had stained his chin with a film of grease. The man nodded and strolled towards the building, stretching and flexing his frame as he went. He’d been driving all day and could feel the tingling in his legs as blood reintroduced itself to his muscles.

He walked into the shabby prefab and let the fly screen clatter behind him. The man heard the nightly news report of the latest from the OJ Simpson murder trial being chewed over by the commentators. There was no escape from the story, even in this remote corner of Northern California.

His dark eyes flicked around the squalor, adjusting to the strip lighting that buzzed and flickered overhead. A water cooler burped its welcome somewhere in the back and insects glided towards his eyes and ears. The fetid atmosphere was almost tangible, unperturbed by the ancient fan struggling to push the treacly air around the room.

A man dressed in a soiled, sweat-stained, sleeveless vest, which must once have been as white as his arms, leaned forward across his desk. The reflected glow of a small TV danced around his three-day stubble.

‘Evening, sir. Welcome to Alpine County,’ beamed a middle-aged version of the young man filling his car. ‘Caleb Ashwell’s the name. That there’s my boy Billy.’ He turned off the TV and stood to greet his customer.

‘Evening,’ replied the man, declining to throw his own name into the mix. ‘Am I on the right road for Markleeville?’

‘Yes, sir. You’re on 89 – ten miles out of Markleeville. That where you’re headed, Mr … ?’

The man looked up at Ashwell and, after a pause, answered. ‘Brook. No, I’m headed for South Lake Tahoe.’

A slow yellow grin filled Ashwell’s features. ‘Not far to go, sir. Maybe thirty, forty miles,’ he said. ‘You English, Mr Brook?’

‘You could say that,’ answered Brook distractedly.

‘I knew it,’ exclaimed Ashwell, slapping the counter. ‘Just love that accent. Welcome to California, Mr Brook. God’s own country. After Texas, ’course.’ He held out his hand for Brook who kept his hands behind his back but, when Ashwell wouldn’t be denied, he placed his thin hand into the American’s rough paw and shook as firmly as he could.

If Ashwell noted Brook’s discomfort at the contact, it didn’t seem to have registered. ‘And we all sure loved your Mrs Thatcher over here. The Iron Lady. Mighty fine. Mighty fine. And your Princess Di? Well now, sir she’s a real beaut, yes indeed.’ Ashwell’s face cracked into the professional smile of the salesman. ‘Is that a Dodge Ram 250 you got out there, sir?’ he said, marching to the grimy window to look out. ‘Didn’t know you could rent that model any longer?’ He turned to Brook expectantly, waiting for his answer.

Brook gazed back, his own smile starting to function. ‘I didn’t, I bought it second hand in Los Angeles.’

‘A ′92?’ The smile was broad but the eyes were probing. Clearly there weren’t abundant opportunities for conversation on this lonely stretch of highway.

‘No, 1991 – it’s already clocked over a hundred thousand though,’ replied Brook.

Ashwell seemed satisfied with that. ‘In four years? Ain’t a lot for the 250, sir. She’s just getting started. Mighty fine vehicle – a real workhorse. You must be touring round a lot. You been to Yosemite yet?’

Brook nodded and fixed his interrogator with his dark eyes. ‘I drove through yesterday. It was magnificent.’

‘Ain’t it? One of the Lord’s finest day’s work right there.’ Brook shrugged. Ashwell pressed on. ‘And you’re gonna love Tahoe.’

Brook noticed a camera on the back wall, stared at the red light for a few seconds, then looked back at Ashwell with a half-smile.

Ashwell must have seen him looking because, unsolicited, he said, ‘Had a couple of robberies last year. Goddamn bikers.’ He looked around for somewhere to spit but then evidently thought better of it.

‘You can never be too careful,’ agreed Brook.

The young man came through the door, rubbingb his hands with a cloth. ‘Billy. This gentleman’s from England.’

‘They got a queen, Pop.’

‘That’s right, son. Whyn’t you pour Mr Brook here a cup of coffee to take with him?’ He turned to Brook. ‘On the house, you understand. Freshly brewed. You ain’t got far to go but you need to stay alert on these roads and a cup of hot Joe always does the job. It’s awful dark out there when the sun dips.’

Brook smiled. ‘Thank you for your kindness. What do I owe you?’

Billy returned with a lidded paper cup and handed it to Brook. ‘Ten bucks even.’

Brook pulled a credit card from his wallet, thought for a second, then slid it back in. He then pulled out a large wad of notes, methodically looking for the right denomination, before pulling out a ten-dollar bill. ‘Pity they didn’t make these easier to use,’ said Brook, apologetically. ‘They all look the same.’

‘Just like niggers,’ chortled Billy, until his father’s hand caught him hard round the head.

‘Don’t you talk your foolishness round real people,’ shouted Ashwell. ‘Get on up the house.’ Billy’s head sagged onto his chest and, close to tears, he slumped away. ‘Sorry about Billy, Mr Brook. He ain’t bright but he ain’t usually that stupid.’

‘No need to apologise – must be hard out in this wilderness for a boy his age. Your wife too,’ said Brook, suddenly keen to make conversation.

‘It sure is a lonely stretch of blacktop, sir, no word of a lie – but beautiful too. ’Specially in the winter when the snow’s on the hills. Got a cabin up on the bluff,’ said Ashwell, indicating behind him with a flick of his head. ‘Momma’s gone. There’s just Billy and me.’

Brook nodded. ‘I see.’ He stared back at Ashwell but seemed lost in thought. He smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you sell corkscrews; lost mine last night at the campsite.’

‘No problem, sir.’ Ashwell slapped a penknife on the counter, which had various attachments including the corkscrew Brook was looking for. ‘Five bucks.’

This time Brook counted out five ones. ‘Well. Thanks again for the coffee.’

‘Don’t mention it, Mr Brook. Now you drink it while it’s hot. And we’ll hope to see you again soon,’ he called to Brook’s receding frame. Ashwell stood motionless, watching the Dodge pull away as the deathly quiet slowly engulfed the station again.

A moment later the silence was shattered as the sound of another engine signalled a different vehicle encroaching on the California night.

‘I still don’t see how you can rule out the wife and daughter.’ Chief Superintendent Donald Maddy stroked his beard as was his custom when ruminating over matters of detection. It didn’t help his deductive powers at all – he didn’t have any – but, whenever matters outside his comfort zone were presented to him, he subconsciously reached for his facial hair to mask his unease. Grant had read the textbooks and knew that psychologists attributed this kind of mannerism to a desire for concealment based on inadequacy. She also knew that had she, Hudson and the Chief Super been discussing community policing or traffic management, Maddy would have opened himself up by putting his hands behind his head, inviting contradiction so he could show off his in-depth knowledge of the subject.

She looked over at Hudson who nodded. He always encouraged Grant to take the reins in the Chief Super’s office, because he was too easily exasperated when those he dubbed ‘pencil necks’ didn’t accept his superior expertise.

‘It’s the way he was murdered, sir,’ answered Grant. ‘He was killed by someone who knew what they were doing. The wife and daughter wouldn’t have had a clue.’

‘They might have hired someone to do it,’ observed Maddy.

Hudson’s features began to darken but, before he could speak, he heard Grant say, ‘Good point, sir. We’ll certainly keep that in mind.’

Maddy seemed pleased that his impressions were of some value and attempted to gild the lily. ‘What was that drug again?’

‘Scopolamine mixed with traces of morphine.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said as though in recognition.

‘It induces a condition known as Twilight Sleep,’ said Grant. ‘It’s why Harvey-Ellis was so compliant with his killer, sir. We’ve got no material evidence here in Brighton apart from those drugs. Whoever did this has come and gone without a trace.’

‘No witnesses, nothing on CCTV?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘What about this Sowerby?’

‘A weasel, sir, and we’re not ruling him out. However, we’re dubious he could plan something this slick. And motive is weak – Harvey-Ellis was a good customer. There’s always money but Sowerby swears blind he didn’t sell him out. For the moment we believe him.’

‘And he didn’t notice anyone who might have been setting this up?’ asked Maddy.

‘No one.’

‘Which leaves only the wife and daughter,’ nodded Maddy. ‘As I said.’

‘Not quite true, sir,’ said Grant. ‘But this is where it gets tricky. The ex-husband also has motive and, what’s more, he has professional criminal know-how.’

‘Opportunity?’

‘We’re not sure yet. He lives in Derby. But he does know Brighton. Two years ago he found out his daughter and stepfather were lovers and marched into Harvey-Ellis’s office where he assaulted him and threatened him with arrest.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘Yes, sir. But he’s a serving DI in Derby CID. Damen Brook.’

Maddy made eye contact for the first time. ‘The Damen Brook? Of Reaper fame?’

‘The same.’

Maddy took a minute to process the information, then shrugged. ‘We must root out all bad apples, Detectives. That’s our job. Do what you have to do.’ He nodded at them both, clearly expecting this to be the end of the meeting. When they showed no sign of moving, he held out his hands. ‘Something else?’

‘We ran the combination of drugs through the database,’ said Hudson, deciding it was time to contribute. ‘The only recent incidence of those two drugs being used in a crime was during the last Reaper killings in Derby.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Maddy, this time unashamed to have it spelt out for him.

Hudson paused for a second to be certain there would be no misunderstanding. ‘We’re working on the theory that Brook learns about the drugs while working the Reaper murders and then puts the same drugs to use when he kills Tony Harvey-Ellis.’

‘Sounds reasonable. What’s the problem?’

‘If we clear Brook, it means Brighton may have had its first Reaper killing.’

The man listened to the music over the quietly chugging engine. He checked his map one more time then turned off the headlights to enjoy the music in the dark. Fauré’s Requiem seemed appropriate to the grandeur of the landscape, not that he could see much of it now, tucked away as he was in a side road that had been cut into the terrain to allow the US Forest Service to do its work in the thick woodland.

He ejected the tape, turned off the engine and stepped out of the car. He left the door open and allowed the light to illuminate his work as well as the thousands of excited insects heading for its unexpected balm. He produced a flashlight from a small rucksack and tucked it into his black boiler suit. Other items had already been carefully packed but the man extracted one and examined it. The 9mm M9 semiautomatic pistol was not his tool of choice – brutish and unsubtle things, guns – but when spur of the moment work raised its head, he would have to put it to use. He’d bought it from a pawn shop in LA last year but had never intended to fire it. Now that it was to be pressed into service, the man had to be sure he knew how to use it. He checked the safety lever again as the pawn shop owner had shown him and made sure that a bullet from its 15-round magazine was in the chamber.

When he was ready, he placed the gun back in the rucksack and pulled the bag over his shoulder. He reached back into the car to pick up the drink from the cup holder and closed the door quickly to extinguish the light.

In the dark he gazed at the cloudless heavens. All unnatural illumination now extinguished, the man marvelled at the son et lumière around him – the stars blinking like traffic lights and the Milky Way cradling all these celestial bodies in its opaque arms.

When he could bear to close his eyes to the majesty above him, his ears were invaded by nature’s symphony. Insects, crickets and cicadas set the rhythm, accompanied by the birds who hunted them. The hoot of owls was familiar, watching for the scurry of rodents. Other calls, cries, warnings and death rattles he didn’t recognise but the performance filled him with awe nonetheless – the cacophony of the forest as it lived and died. And all the time the damp smell of the timber filled his lungs, with an aroma unsurpassed by the sweetest perfumes as the ageless woodland exhaled all around him.

He wasn’t sure how long he stood there in the night, composing himself for the task ahead, but it was difficult to pull away.

Eventually he flicked on his flashlight and started his walk to the forest at the edge of the tarmac. He could have driven onto the dirt track that wound its way through the trees but he couldn’t chance being heard. And if the ground was soft he would have run the risk of leaving an impression of his tyres. As usual he’d thought of everything.

As he set off, a pair of eyes shone back at him, but the animal wasn’t curious enough to stare for long and skittered away through the undergrowth. The distinctive three-note whistle of the Mountain Chickadee sounded nearby as it prepared to dip and dive for flying insects, but the man was now oblivious to all but the work in hand.

He walked steadily with the flashlight in one hand, drink in the other. It wasn’t the city terrain he was accustomed to and he found it hard going at first until he hit his stride. Twenty minutes of steady progress along the track brought the man to a clearing at the top of a small rise from which he could see a building next to the highway, bathed in moonlight below. He doused his light. The track he stood on wound back into the forest and took a leisurely and sinuous course that would eventually bring it out behind the main road. Before that though, the man could see a light from a house set back from the road – this was his destination.

Having recovered his breath, he made for the light. A few yards further on, however, he stopped. Another track, overgrown and near undetectable, wound its way off into the trees and would have been of no interest had the man not spotted a dark patch a few yards further along it. He edged closer and bent over the stain, flicked his flashlight on and touched it with his fingers. It was oil. He peered down the track as best he could. As his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he fancied he could make out two lines on the ground that might have been flatter than the rest of the vegetation. He hesitated briefly, then crept along the track into the darkness.

A few moments later the track widened out into a flat and well-tended clearing, completely surrounded by high walls of rock and dense foliage. It was deathly quiet in this sheltered bowl and unnaturally hot. The man’s recently shaved head began to itch in the heat. He guessed that this might once have been a disused quarry or part of an opencast mine. But interesting though the geography might be, what drew the man’s immediate attention was the line of vehicles parked along the far rock wall. There were eight different vehicles in various stages of decay, from vaguely roadworthy down to rusted hulks, and, from what he could see, all were some kind of motor home. The newest he recognised – a bright yellow VW camper – and its tyre tracks were still visible across the well turned soil.

The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Something brushed his cheek and he opened his eyes at once. He shivered now, despite the heat. Maybe it had been a flying insect or a bird’s wing because no foliage hung nearby. Maybe. What he couldn’t explain was the sensation he’d felt, like the scrunch of long fingernails dragging across his day-old beard and, more, the distant scent of a woman’s perfume hanging on the still air.

He turned the light back on and moved closer to the line of vehicles, stopping at the VW camper. His flashlight followed a line of five faint scratches along the side of the bodywork, travelling from the door handle back towards the rear door. The man shone his light quickly at the spot on the ground where the marks ended, cupping his hand over the beam to limit its visibility. A long painted fingernail, twisted and torn from its digit, lay on the ground – and beside it were more scratchings in the ground. He stared intently at the earth, which was firmer here.

‘HELP,’ he read. After a few minutes, he turned and made his way back to the main track.