Читать книгу The Disciple - Steven Dunne - Страница 9

‘A new book released today offers a chilling insight into the horrifying events of two years ago when the serial killer known as The Reaper struck in the Derby suburb of Drayfin. The family of Robert Wallis were subjected to a brutal attack in their home which left both parents and their eleven-year-old daughter, Kylie, dead. All the victims had been drugged and their throats cut. The only survivors were teenage son Jason, who was out of the house that night, and baby daughter Bianca, who was there but was spared.

‘Brian Burton, crime correspondent at the Derby Telegraph, covered the case extensively and hopes to throw new light on the events of that night. Rose Atkins went along to his book launch to speak to him for East Midlands Today!

‘In Search of The Reaper by Brian Burton chronicles the terrible events of the night almost two years ago when Derby became the latest city after London and Leeds to be visited by the notorious serial killer, The Reaper. After he left, three people, including an eleven-year-old girl, were dead and two other children orphaned. I asked the author why he felt compelled to write this book.’

‘I covered this case from the start, Rose, and I felt it was important to share with the people of Derbyshire, and hopefully beyond, some of the reasons why this terrifying killer struck in our city and also to highlight some of the mistakes that have allowed this butcher to remain at large.’

‘In your book, Brian, you’re very critical of Derbyshire CID. Can you tell us why?’

‘I don’t think there’s been nearly enough analysis of what went wrong during the Wallis investigation and I hope the book sheds new light onto what more could have been done.’

‘You’re talking about the roles played by Detective Inspector Damen Brook and Chief Superintendent Evelyn McMaster.’

‘It’s no secret that I’ve been critical, particularly about Inspector Brook, whose competence for the investigation I questioned at the time. I think Superintendent McMaster’s main failing was not realising that DI Brook’s capacity to catch The Reaper was seriously in question. Her subsequent failure to remove him from the investigation showed a profound lack of judgement. But at least Evelyn McMaster paid the penalty for her failings and has since left her post. One of the most galling aspects of this case, in my opinion, is that the chief architect of the police’s dismal inability to catch, or even identify a suspect, is still in the Force.’

‘Why do you say DI Brook was unfit to run The Reaper investigation?’

‘Well, you have to go back to the history of The Reaper, which I cover in the book. The first documented Reaper killing was in 1990 in North London. The family of Sammy Elphick were murdered in their home in Harlesden. The killings were highly ritualistic, with messages written in blood on the wall, something that is a distinctive characteristic of all the Reaper killings. Again both parents and a young child were slaughtered. And perhaps even more startling was that, once again, DI Brook was on the case.’

‘To be fair, he was only a Detective Sergeant at the time though, wasn’t he, Brian?’

‘That’s true. But as you’ll see in the book, my research shows his superior, DI Charlie Rowlands, left the day-to-day running of the investigation to Brook. And in Harlesden, just as in Derby, no witnesses were found and no suspects were identified. Not one, even though DS Brook was on the case for more than a year, by which time a second family had also been killed – Floyd Wrigley, a petty but violent offender and heroin addict, his common-law wife and his young daughter Tamara. This time the killings took place in Brixton in South London and all three had their throats slashed.’

‘Returning to your book, Brian, you also allege that a mental breakdown suffered by Brook shortly after the Brixton murders in 1991 was no more than a smokescreen for removing him from the case.’

‘That’s right. By then I think the penny must have dropped and Brook was axed from the inquiry. And what many in the Derbyshire constabulary have personally complained to me about is that an officer who was patently unfit for duty in London should then be transferred to Derby. To me, and others, that sends the message that Derbyshire’s a second-class county. And, of course, what better place for The Reaper to strike than a city policed by a man who has already failed to catch him twice? And that’s exactly what happened. The Drayfin killings in Derby remain unsolved and The Reaper remains at large.’

‘But DI Brook was removed from that investigation at an early stage.’

‘Too late, in my opinion, Rose. By the time a local detective, Inspector Robert Greatorix, had been assigned to the case, valuable time had been wasted and the trail had gone cold. To this day, nearly two years later, not a single suspect has been identified. Sound familiar?’

‘Thank you, Brian, for taking time out from your book launch to talk to us. In Search of The Reaper is available from today. This is Rose Atkins for East Midlands Today.’

‘Rose Atkins, with Brian Burton there. I should say that East Midlands Today contacted the Derbyshire constabulary prior to recording that interview and both Chief Superintendent Charlton and Detective Inspector Brook were unavailable for comment.

‘On a related matter, troubled teenager Jason Wallis was released from a young offenders’ institution yesterday. Jason had served three months of a six-month sentence for shoplifting at White Oaks near Lichfield. Seventeen-year-old Jason survived the murder of his family by The Reaper two years ago, because he was out drinking with friends, and has been in trouble from a young age. This film of Jason was taken at the time of the Wallis family’s appeal against Jason’s permanent exclusion from Drayfin Community School after he allegedly assaulted a female teacher. Just a few weeks later, Jason’s family were brutally slain by The Reaper in their home. Before Jason Wallis was released, we sent Calum French to speak to John Ottoman, husband of the teacher involved.’

‘I’m standing outside the home of John and Denise Ottoman. Twenty-two months ago, Denise Ottoman, an English teacher for nearly thirty years, was teaching a group of Year 10 GCSE students when she was allegedly assaulted by Jason Wallis, one of her pupils. The assault, while never proven, led to Jason’s suspension from Drayfin Community School, though he was later reinstated after the death of members of his family in Derby’s first Reaper murders.

‘Denise Ottoman meanwhile has not returned to work and was granted early retirement on health grounds almost a year ago, at the age of fifty-one. I asked her husband about his reaction to news that Jason Wallis would soon be free.’

‘Appalled but resigned would be my reaction.’

‘Why do you say that, Mr Ottoman?’

‘Without wishing to personalise this and relive the events surrounding the assault on my wife, I should say that Jason Wallis has been a blight on this neighbourhood almost since he was old enough to shout an obscenity. He has been a violent and disorderly individual for much of his life and has shown scant regard for the feelings and welfare of anyone but himself.’

‘Surely his early release is a sign that the young man has turned his life around?’

‘More likely a case of the society we live in bending over backwards to accommodate anti-social elements. It’s no surprise to my wife and I that the authorities have seen fit to release him, but what I find upsetting is that Jason Wallis can walk away from his sentence after three months while my wife Denise has not been able to set foot outside our house since the assault – she’s a prisoner in her own home.’

‘What do you say to those who believe that Jason’s offending has its roots in his family’s murder and that he’s suffered enough?’

‘Simply that Jason’s anti-social behaviour started many years before the death of his family. His father and mother weren’t the most functional parents and seemed to keep Jason on a very loose leash, which only encouraged him to greater heights of unpleasantness. The tragedy is, I taught Jason’s sister Kylie at Drayfin Primary and I was as upset as her classmates that such a lovely girl should have been taken from this world so suddenly and so violently.’

‘So you’re suggesting it might have been better if The Reaper had murdered Jason instead of his sister Kylie?’

John Ottoman glared at the reporter. ‘That’s your interpretation of what I said, not what I actually said. I need to get back to my wife.’

‘Just one more question, Mr Ottoman. If you could speak to Jason now, what would you say?’

Ottoman turned back and faced the camera. ‘I’d remind him that The Reaper is still at large and to change his ways while he still can.’

Caleb Ashwell glowered at his son who stared sulkily at the neck of his Coca-Cola bottle, avoiding his gaze.

‘Send a boy to do a man’s work,’ growled Ashwell. ‘No word of a lie. Maybe you ain’t no boy. Maybe you a girl. How about it, Billy? You a bitch, Billy? Got too much of your whore momma in you? That true, boy?’

Billy’s face darkened, his mouth opening, but he knew better than to reply and kept his counsel, continuing to stare anywhere but at his father.

A noise from the next room broke the tension and Caleb looked up at Billy who was finally able to look back.

‘Go fix that, boy!’

Billy jumped up and went to the next room and Caleb stood to stretch his legs. He flung open the front door and stepped onto the stoop to roll a cigarette.

Billy came back to stand behind his father and eyed the tobacco tin. ‘Can I have one of them, Pop?’

‘These is for men, not boys, nor no cissies neither.’

‘I ain’t no cissy, Pop. I’m sixteen. Seventeen next month.’

‘What you say?’

‘I ain’t no cissy. It ain’t my fault Mr Brook don’t stop. He just kept right on going, Pop. I followed all the way to Echo Lake and he don’t stop. Just kept on going.’

Ashwell eyed his son with one final sneer of disdain then relented. He tossed over the tobacco tin. ‘Well, maybe I didn’t put enough sleep in the coffee. Pity we didn’t get an address.’ He struck a match and held it to his cigarette. ‘Probably flat out on his porch sleeping like a baby…’ He stopped when the flame illuminated a pale paper cup outside on the deck table. ‘What the hell?’

Billy turned and they both approached the coffee cup as though it were a landmine. Billy picked it up gingerly.

‘It’s full.’

Caleb’s realisation came a second too late – the baton was already travelling towards his head. As he turned to run into the cabin for a weapon, the tip crashed down on the front of his head, and he slumped onto the deck like an unsupported scarecrow.

Billy stooped to check his father, then looked up at his attacker as he stepped out of the shadows. ‘Mr Brook?’

‘Pick him up and get him inside.’ Brook held the baton in his right hand and a gun in the left. He gestured with it.

The boy dragged his father up into the sparsely furnished cabin as best he could manage and Brook followed. There wasn’t much to see inside – a blackened stove in the corner, a small dog-eared sofa and an old rocking chair with wooden spokes for a backrest. They faced the cold stove and an old TV, mounted atop a wooden crate. There was a rickety dining table and four matching chairs in another corner.

‘Over there,’ nodded Brook. Billy walked the staggering Caleb over to the old rocking chair and sat him down in it. Brook pulled a pair of cuffs from his belt and threw them at Billy. ‘Pull his hands through the back then put those on his wrists.’

Billy hesitated for a moment, then stepped behind his father and pulled his arms together before clicking the cuffs into place. Brook ordered Billy to sit on the floor before slapping Ashwell’s face to revive him.

Ashwell moaned and opened his eyes. He tried to rub his head with his cuffed hands, not yet registering the restraints.

‘What the fuck?’ He pulled urgently at the cuffs and tried to stand, but Brook raised the gun once more.

‘Better relax, Mr Ashwell. It’ll go easier that way.’

Ashwell looked up at Brook and shook his head to clear his vision. ‘Mr Brook. What the hell you think you’re doing?’

‘Apologies for the crude attack, Mr Ashwell. It’s not my usual style.’ Brook swung his rucksack down to his feet and started to rummage around in it. After a few seconds, he extracted the penknife he’d bought a few hours earlier at the gas station below. From his rucksack he also removed a half-bottle of red wine and, using his recent purchase, opened the bottle. ‘Needs to breathe,’ he said to Caleb with a grin.

‘You ain’t answered my question, you sick son of a bitch. What the fuck you think you’re doing? This is kidnapping. You can get twenty years for that in California.’

Brook smiled at him. ‘You’ve researched it, have you?’ Ashwell didn’t answer. Brook pulled out a CD of Fauré’s Requiem and looked over at Ashwell with a look of regret on his face. ‘I don’t suppose you have a CD player?’

‘A CD player? That what this is about, you bastard? No, we ain’t got no CD player.’

‘Pity. Then again, you’re a few notches up from my usual clients. The things you’ve done … maybe you don’t deserve beauty.’

‘Beauty. What the fuck?’

‘I could always hum it for you.’

‘Hum it to me? Fuck you, there’s a TV there. Help your goddamn self. You want the key for the gas station? There’s maybe two hundred dollars in the till. That’s yours but that’s all we have. Sooner you get what you want, sooner we can all get on with our lives. But do me a favour, leave the keys to these goddamn bracelets in the station so I can get my hands moving again, will ya?’

Brook eyed the overweight Ashwell. He’d certainly belied first impressions. The man was smart. His tone had changed now, was almost friendly as he tried to normalise the situation, tried to present Brook with a vision of how things should end. A finale with all three lives intact. Brook decided it was time to up the stakes.

‘I’m not here for your money, Mr Ashwell. I’m here to extract payment of a different kind. I’m The Reaper and my currency is life.’

* * *

DCI Hudson hurried back to the car with the two coffees as a heavy shower began to pelt him. Grant leaned over and opened the door for him and he sat down awkwardly with the cellophane-wrapped sandwiches under his armpit.

Grant took her chicken salad from him and peeled the lid from her Americano.

Hudson took a swig of his tea. ‘Bloody weather. You get north of Watford and you’re straight into the next ice age. You’re not going to need those,’ he said, nodding at her sunglasses.

Grant removed them with a smile. ‘My eyes get tired at the moment.’

‘I hope you haven’t come back to work too soon, luv. You know what these viruses are like.’

‘I’m fine, guv. But I’d feel better if we weren’t going up to Derby,’ said Grant, giving her protest another airing.

‘I thought you liked the idea.’

‘Until I realised that Brook should be coming down to our turf. That’s how we pressure him.’

‘With what? Look, darlin’, he isn’t back at work until tomorrow morning. I know you think this is a courtesy too far but, trust me, it’s best we make the effort.’

‘You think we’ll catch him off balance?’

‘It’s worth a try. If he thinks he’s got away clean he won’t be expecting questions, never mind a visit – it gives him less time to think.’

‘I don’t know. On his home ground he might be more at ease. And we’ll be outsiders.’

‘Home ground,’ smiled Hudson. ‘No such thing. Damen Brook is the outsider wherever he is.’ Hudson took another mouthful of tea and swilled it round his mouth.

‘You sound like you know him.’

Hudson cocked his head. ‘I do sort of, though mainly by reputation – I only met him twice.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Brook doesn’t make friends easily, or go out of his way to earn the respect of colleagues. He was a DS to one of my mates when I was up in the Smoke. You remember I told you about DI Charlie Rowlands? A legend and a fantastic copper. When he died, Brook was at the funeral. He gave a reading. We shook hands. No more.’

‘So he won’t remember you, guv?’

‘I doubt it.’

‘What did Rowlands think of Brook?’

‘Charlie was in charge of the first Reaper inquiry in North London in 1990. Harlesden, it was.’

‘Sammy Elphick, Mrs Elphick and their son.’

Hudson smiled at her. ‘I see how you spent your evening. No wonder you’re tired.’

Grant shrugged. ‘We need to be ready.’

Hudson nodded. ‘Well, Sammy was small time, a petty criminal like the other victims. They found him and his wife tied up with their throats cut. But before they died they watched their son die – he was only ten but The Reaper strung the boy up from the ceiling and cut two of his fingers off and the parents cried while they watched. Then there’s the blood message on the wall.’

‘SALVATION!’ nodded Grant. ‘Religious nutter?’

‘Seems like.’

‘So what went wrong with Brook?’

‘Brook was Charlie’s DS but Charlie told me Brook ran the entire thing. He said he was the most brilliant detective he’d ever worked with and he’d worked with a few. But the problem Brook had was getting on with ordinary coppers, coppers who weren’t as good as him. He came across as arrogant and condescending, and they despised him for it. Still do. And when The Reaper came along … well. It was his first failure.’

‘What happened?’

‘You’ve read the files.’

‘He had a breakdown after Brixton in ′91. It doesn’t say why.’

‘From what I can gather, Brook started to take it home with him, started brooding about the stuff he’d seen. His marriage started to suffer.’

‘Not unusual.’

‘No. But there was another case…’

‘Not The Reaper?’

‘I can’t remember it very well, luv. It was after the Elphick killings had died down. There was another murder, not related. Some runaway schoolgirl called Laura something – Laura Maples. That was it. She’d been raped and murdered in some grubby squat. Brook found the body but not before the rats had been at her.’

‘And that tipped him over the edge?’

‘Who knows? By the time the second family were killed in Brixton…’ Hudson looked across at Grant.

‘Floyd Wrigley, common-law wife and daughter,’ she answered hesitantly. ‘Throats cut. “SAVED” written on the wall.’

Hudson nodded. ‘By then Brook was starting to veer off the rails according to Charlie. Soon after he had some kind of breakdown and a couple of years later he put in for a transfer to wind things down and get some peace. In 1993 The Reaper killed in Leeds but Brook got nowhere near that. Roddy Telfer, a smalltime drug dealer, had his head blown off and his girlfriend was strangled.’

‘Different.’

‘Very. There’s still a thought that it may have been a copycat because of the MO.’

‘Sounds completely wrong for The Reaper.’

‘It was, but the perp wrote “SAVED” on the wall after the killings. So…’

‘And then nothing for over fifteen years until two years ago in Derby.’

‘No. And nobody knows why. But it was all there in Derby. The parents, Mr and Mrs Wallis, and their young daughter had been drugged. The Reaper had delivered some food. It was doctored with scopolamine and morphine…’

‘Twilight Sleep.’

‘Right. He delivered the food and came back when they were out cold and cut their throats. The parents had cried so it looks like he made them watch the girl bleed out. It’s a signature. “SAVED” was on the wall again and some art poster. And there was some classical music playing while they died. Another signature.’

‘What’s that all about?’

Hudson shook his head. ‘No idea. Something to let us know The Reaper’s a cut above your average killer, I guess.’

Grant nodded. ‘Well, he’s been in the wind for twenty years so I suppose he is. Just Brook’s luck to be in Derby for The Reaper’s comeback. Or is it?’

Hudson drained his tea and managed a half-note chuckle. ‘You think The Reaper struck there to send Brook a message? Could be. But here’s the measure of the man. The Reaper kills the Wallis family. Brook’s back on the case. A week or two later he gets himself suspended – why, we don’t know – but his career’s over for all money. Then a few weeks later he solves the Laura Maples case, after nearly twenty years. He confronts some rich old geezer on his deathbed – Svensson or Sigurdsson or something – gets him to confess to the rape and murder of the schoolgirl. On videotape, mind you. Then the guy poisons Brook and cuts his own wrists. But Brook survived and that catch saved his career.’

‘SAVED.’ Grant looked down at the dregs of her drink and nodded. ‘Convenient.’ She looked up at Hudson, her eyes suddenly shining.

‘What’s wrong, luv?’

Grant ignored him and reached into the back seat for a file. ‘I know why he got suspended, guv.’ She handed a sheet of A4 to Hudson and indicated a date at the bottom of the page.

‘Fuck me. Good spot, Laura. Brook assaulted Harvey-Ellis six days after the Wallis murders. He went AWOL in the middle of one of the biggest investigations of his career because he found out about his daughter and her stepfather.’

‘And he came down to Brighton to sort it out.’

The man sipped on his glass of Californian Zinfandel and extracted a notepad from his rucksack. Caleb Ashwell had slipped back into unconsciousness, his head slumped on his chest, his double chin fanning out like a goitre.

Billy Ashwell shifted on his knees and eyed Brook. ‘What you gonna do, Mr Brook? Pop ain’t so good. He needs a doctor.’

Brook picked up the cup of coffee and put it on the floor next to Billy.

‘Drink it.’

Billy shook his head. ‘Ain’t supposed to drink coffee. It keeps me awake nights.’

Brook smiled. ‘That won’t be an issue, Billy. Drink it!’ he said softly, brandishing the gun and hoping the boy wouldn’t spot his lack of ease with the weapon. Again Billy shook his head. ‘Why? What’s in it?’

‘Don’t know. Pop makes it.’

Brook nodded. ‘Will it kill you?’

‘Nope. Knock you out though.’

‘Then drink it or I’ll shoot your father, then I’ll shoot you.’

Billy hesitated then withdrew a hand from his pocket and flicked the lid from the cup. ‘It’s cold,’ he said, before realising it would make no difference to Brook. He took a wary sip and scrunched his face.

‘More,’ said Brook. Billy stared back sulkily then took a huge pull on the cup, almost draining it.

‘Okay,’ said Brook. ‘That’s enough. Put the lid back on.’ Billy did as he was told. A few moments later his head began to roll and he couldn’t sit upright. Brook was able to take the cup from the burly young teenager without a whiff of resistance.

He retreated to a chair to watch and was pleased to be able to put down his gun. He began to write down all of Billy’s symptoms. At the top of the page he wrote ‘Sleep’, because that’s what Caleb had called it, followed by ‘Twilight’ and a question mark. After a few moments of writing he closed the notepad. Billy’s eyes were now just slits, he behaved with all the somnolence of a junkie.

‘Stand up.’ Billy lifted his head and tried to stand but his limbs wouldn’t obey. Brook smiled. ‘Perfect.’

A groan came from Caleb Ashwell, still slumped on the rocking chair. He shook his head and tried to right himself on the chair, but failed. Brook poured him some wine into a plastic cup. Ashwell drank, licked his lips, then opened his eyes.

‘Sorry I don’t have a proper glass.’

Ashwell blinked then fixed Brook in his sights. ‘You lousy bushwhacking son of a bitch. Get these cuffs off me, you fucker, or I’ll kill you.’

Brook smiled back but remained perfectly still. ‘I see you’re not a wine drinker, sir. Can I get you a beer instead?’

‘A beer? Fuck you. I said, get these cuffs off, dammit, ’fore I take a baseball bat to your ass.’

‘Do you think abusing and threatening me is the right way to secure your release?’

‘I don’t give a cold shit in hell what you think, you Limey fucker.’ He tried again to right himself. He noticed Billy on the floor beside him. ‘What you done to my boy?’ Then he saw the cup. ‘You son of a bitch. You fed that coffee to my boy?’

‘Sleep you called it. Would that be from Twilight Sleep?’ Ashwell didn’t reply. ‘Twilight Sleep, caused by a mixture of scopolamine and morphine. In small doses it can create a zombie-like compliance – in larger doses, death. I’m impressed. Where would you get that sort of knowledge? And, more importantly, where do you get your scopolamine?’ Still Ashwell remained mute. ‘Maybe you know it better as hyoscine.’ Brook took a sip of wine. ‘Let me assure you, sir, that unhesitating and well-mannered cooperation is the only way you and your son have a chance at seeing the dawn.’

Ashwell continued his sulk, but the barriers in his mind had crumbled. ‘Used to be a fly boy down South America. Had my own charter service. When I went to Colombia I found out about scop. They use it a lot down there for robbing folk. Rape too. It comes from Borrachero trees. Brung some saplings back with me to grow.’

‘Where?’

‘Oh, around,’ Ashwell said with a grin. ‘You want some, I’m sure we can come to an understanding.’

Brook took another sip of wine. ‘So when you got back from South America you set yourself up in a lonely gas station miles from anywhere and started using it on people.’

‘Not people, Mr Brook. Tourists like you.’

Brook smiled at the distinction. ‘They get a spiked coffee and young Billy follows them in the tow truck until the drug takes effect.’

‘S’right. When the drug kicks in, they pull over for a sleep. Then he robs them. And that’s the operation, right there.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Sure. When they wake up they don’t know what’s happened to them – scop causes amnesia, see. They just go on their way. No harm, no foul. Eventually they work out they been robbed. But what the hell? They’re insured, ain’t they?’

Brook smiled. ‘Surely when they wake up and realise they’ve been robbed, there must be some evidence they’ve been here.’

‘What evidence? We don’t got no till receipt. We say it’s broke and if they want one, we just write a chit. And we only take the ones who pay cash.’ Brook smiled suddenly, his black eyes disappearing under a concertina of skin. ‘You knew, didn’t you? That’s why you put your credit card back.’

‘One of the reasons.’

‘How in the hell you know what we was going to do? ’Bout the coffee an’ all?’

‘Let’s just say I had a feeling.’

‘Bullshit. Are you police?’

Brook fixed Ashwell with a wintry eye. ‘You’re going to wish I was.’

‘Why? What you going to do? Nuth’n. You’ve had your fun. Now take our money and get on out.’

‘You’d make a great salesman, Mr Ashwell.’

Brook pulled off his black gloves. He had a pair of latex gloves underneath. Then he stood, zipping his boiler suit up to his neck. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got no great art to remind you,’ he said. A cutthroat razor gleamed suddenly in his hand.

Ashwell saw it and began to talk a little faster, grinding his wrists against the handcuffs. ‘Remind me of what?’

‘Of how wonderful the human race can be if it aspires to greatness instead of evil. Ideally, you should die beneath a beautiful painting, with wondrous music as your companion to oblivion. Alas…’

‘You’re gonna kill us over a few dollars? You’re gonna kill my boy?’

‘You killed Billy years ago. I’m just here to make it official.’

‘I ain’t killed no one.’

‘Really? Tell me, did you kill your wife before you murdered the humanity in Billy or after?’

‘My wife?’ screamed Ashwell.

‘No matter. The chronology is hardly an issue now.’

‘You son of a bitch…’

‘So what happens to the children in your operation?’

asked Brook, to forestall another rant. ‘I hope it’s quick and painless.’

‘Children?’

‘You know, the children who don’t drink coffee – the children on holiday with their parents who could identify Billy. And the other people in the vehicle who can remember what happened to them – the people who can remember being robbed, the people who can remember the car crashing, the people who can remember Billy turning up to help, the people who can remember being towed back here, who know where you’ve parked their car, with all the other cars in the clearing out back.’

Ashwell smiled his green and yellow smile and thought for a second. Then he seemed to come to a decision. ‘Oh, those people.’ He seemed to drift off for a moment, remembering secret pleasures. ‘Well, that’s why I choose tourists like you, Mr Brook, on holiday, hundreds of miles from home. It could be months before some of those people are missed. And even when they are reported missing…’

‘Of course. They’re travelling. They could be anywhere,’ nodded Brook, his mouth beginning to harden.

‘Exactly. And if the crash ain’t killed ’em, we bring ’em back here and have some fun. We party with the wives in front of their menfolk. They don’t like that.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘Then we kill the men in front of their families. They sure do make a hollering. We kill the little ’uns straight off usually but if the kids are old enough, we keep ’em a while and show ’em a good time. I get to bust the girls then give ’em to Billy when I get bored. If we get a real squirrelly little bitch, I invite my brother Jake over for a blind date.’ Ashwell sniggered. ‘They’re old enough to bleed, they’re old enough to butcher. That’s what Jake says.’

Brook walked over to Ashwell’s chair. ‘I hope Jake’s already dead because I’ve got a lot on at the moment.’

‘Ain’t no call to take on so, Mr Brook. We kept the sweet stuff for you. Got plenty of money left. Lot more than two hundred dollars. You can have it all. And don’t forget we got you on camera, Mister Brook.’

Brook circled slowly round behind him.

‘I bought some gas and left,’ said Brook. ‘No harm, no foul.’ He moved directly behind Ashwell so that the cuffed man had to strain to keep him in view.

‘We got your licence plate too.’

‘Same answer,’ whispered Brook in Ashwell’s ear.

Ashwell’s head was yanked back so his Adam’s apple strained at the skin of his throat. Brook placed the blade of the razor onto the submerged blue of the carotid artery.

‘We got a mic in that camera, Mr Brook,’ squeaked Ashwell. ‘They’ll know your name.’

‘Oh, I doubt that.’ However, Brook appeared to hesitate as he processed this new information. Ashwell waited, hope seizing him. ‘See, that’s the other reason I didn’t give you my credit card. My name’s not Brook,’ said the man. He began to hum the Requiem … then sliced cleanly into Ashwell’s flabby neck.