The Assassin's Dog

by David George Clarke

  It was only when he turned his attention to the large pool of blood on the bathroom floor and bent over to flush the blood towards the floor drain that he thought to look under the sink unit. And there on the floor, lying by the wall where it had scooted after Trisha stood on it, was his calfskin wallet, large bloodstains soaked into its soft absorbent surface.

  “Shit!” he yelled, dropping the shower head and reaching for the wallet. It had been a Christmas present from Mo, one she’d picked up in Italy on a trip there for one of her classes. It wasn’t something he could pop into town and replace.

  “Buggering bollocks!” he shouted in frustration. “Why is that here?” Then he remembered. Distracted by the approaching storm, he had forgotten to take it with him the previous morning when he went to work. Normally it would be with his warrant card and SCF office pass, ID that he’d quietly tossed in a kitchen drawer before peeling off his sodden suit to avoid Emma discovering he was a police officer. In his eagerness to move the evening forward, the absence of his wallet had escaped his attention.

  As he opened the wallet to see the extent of the damage, wondering if in any way it was recoverable, his eyes fell on something farther along the wall under the sink unit. His business card, with his name, rank and posting. Had Trisha McVie discovered who he was? Was she about to confront him when she had the most God-awful accident? He shook his head. Whatever she had learned, it was of no importance now; she was dead.

  He took the wallet and card, also bloodstained, into the bedroom and laid them on the bathrobe that was still lying in a crumpled heap next to the bathroom door where he had thrown it. He would deal with them later; for now he had to complete the cleanup of the bathroom.

  After twenty minutes, every surface in the bathroom appeared to be spotlessly clean with no visible sign of any blood. Gus knew from various forensic briefings there could still be residues, traces lurking in the grouting, a minute drop he had overlooked that once sprayed with the reagent Luminol would shine like a beacon. He shrugged. It would have to do for now. Once he had moved the body, disposed of it, he could clean the bathroom again and again over the next few days. Mo wasn’t due back yet. He had time.

  He turned off the shower and let the water drain away from around Trisha McVie’s body. Somehow, washed clean of blood, the wound to her nose and the frozen look of horror on her face seemed even worse than before. He averted his eyes and bent to lift her arm. Although there was more movement now, there was still considerable resistance. It would need more time before he could wrap the body in the old white bath towels he remembered had been stored in the garage for tearing into rags. In the meantime, he must clean and tidy up the downstairs bathroom, gather together the clothes he’d washed the night before, wipe down all the kitchen surfaces, locate every dish, glass, knife and fork they had touched and stack them in the dishwasher for a double run. What else was there? Wine bottles. Christ! How many had there been? He would soap and rinse the outsides to remove any prints and dump them in a recycling bin somewhere the next time he went out.

  By eleven that evening, he had ticked off all the items he could think of on his mental list. The kitchen and utility area were pristine, as was the downstairs bathroom, while in the master bedroom, there were clean sheets on the bed. The sheets from the previous night had just completed their third wash and were tumbling in the drier. He looked longingly at the chairs by the wood-burning stove, but he knew if he sat down, he’d be asleep in seconds, and there was still the body to be moved. He wanted it out of the bathroom and hidden somewhere. If it was sufficiently flexible, he could wrap the body in the old towels and store it at the back of the garage until he had decided where to dump it. As yet, there was no visible decay and he would take the precaution of wrapping the head in a plastic bag, tying it securely at the neck to prevent the wounds from transmitting their inviting signals to blowflies. Tomorrow, he would buy some large bin liners and securely wrap the body. Even with those, he wanted to dispose of it within the next two days before there was any serious deterioration.

  Carrying the towels from the garage, he returned to the master bathroom and tested Trisha McVie’s arms. There was definitely more movement and with a little extra force he persuaded them to lie alongside her torso. Soon, he had the body stretched out on the largest of the towels, ready for wrapping. But before that, he fetched a bin bag from the kitchen and wrapped Trisha’s head to isolate the wounds. After wrapping another layer of towels around the body, he bent to lift her. She was heavier than he expected, but he was strong and since the body appeared to become more flexible with every passing minute, he decided to sling her over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

  Once the body was out of the house and hidden in the garage, a sense of relief swept across Gus, one he knew was premature but for which he still felt grateful. Returning to the master bathroom, he felt he should clean it once again, but he was almost asleep on his feet and he had to be presentable the following morning or DC Cotton, and possibly the bosses, would ask more questions. Returning to the master bedroom to strip off the fresh shorts and T-shirt he had put on after his extended session in the bathroom, he noticed again his wallet lying on the bathrobe.

  He sighed. “Always one more thing.”

  After removing the banknotes and cards, he filled the washbasin with cold water, added some soap and submerged the wallet in the water, holding it down with a large tube of toothpaste. “Maybe I’ll be lucky,” he said, finally stripping off his clothes and braving the shower he’d spent so long cleaning before collapsing on the bed for some much-needed sleep.

  Chapter Thirty

  After watching Gus Brooke stagger into his cottage, Rosselli found a lay-by next to a stand of trees half a mile along the road, parked and picked up his phone. Scrolling through the electoral records for the area, he discovered that the occupants of the cottage were listed as Fergus John Brooke and Maureen Hazel Brooke. A further search and Google rewarded him with details of Mo Brooke’s career as a sculptor and instructor, and, with a little digging and the putting together of two and two, Rosselli learned she was currently in Croatia with a class.

  So Detective Brooke was home alone. Why should that make him so downcast? Was he missing his wife? Rosselli pulled a face. He didn’t look the type.

  A soft whine from Goccia reminded him that she needed a stroll. As he clipped her lead onto her collar, he contemplated his progress. He felt as if a play were unfolding before him, a mise en scène to which he was an audience of one. But, as the acts proceeded, he could see opportunities in the developing plot for audience participation; the spectator could become a player.

  He leaned over to stroke Goccia’s neck.

  “I know you fancy sniffing your way through those woods, little lady, but do you think you can keep nice and quiet? I’d like to find out a little more about this young detective. I have a feeling that it could be the disappearance of the police superintendent that’s making him depressed. Is it a coincidence that her car was found so close to his house? Shall we see what he’s up to?”

  Goccia wagged her tail with enthusiasm.

  “I knew you’d see it my way, cara. I’ll tell you what, I’ll make a deal. If when we get to the detective’s house we find there’s no sign of anything going on, we’ll go straight back to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep.”

  By eight o’clock, having hiked with Goccia in the fading light through the wood behind the lay-by and across several fields, Rosselli had established himself in Brookes’ garden in the cover of a large plum tree and an ageing garden shed, about twelve metres from the cottage. With no neighbours to worry about, he was confident he could hear and observe any activity in the house without drawing attention to himself, as long as Goccia remained quiet, and that was something at which she excelled.

  Having made Goccia comfortable, Rosselli took out a pair of powerful binoculars that had an option of night vision when needed, although for now there was more than enough light coming from the
various cottage windows. Not being overlooked, it wasn’t Gus Brooke’s habit to close any curtains or blinds.

  Rosselli was intrigued by the constant activity. He could hear a washing machine rumbling away in a utility room located in a single-storey projection of the house into the garden, and Brooke seemed to be spending an inordinate amount of time going backwards and forwards from one room to the next.

  For a long time, he could hear the shower running in an upstairs bathroom, running for so long that whatever the detective was doing, it was far more than simply taking a shower. At one point, when the shower was still running, Rosselli caught a glimpse of a haunted-looking Brooke carrying more clothing or bedding through the kitchen towards the utility room. At first sight, he appeared to be naked, but then Rosselli noticed the waistband of a pair of boxer shorts. However, what caught his attention more was that the man was wearing a pair of bright yellow kitchen gloves.

  Brooke only remained briefly in the utility room, after which Rosselli saw him heading back upstairs. About ten minutes later, there was a loud cry of ‘Shit!’ from the area of the upstairs bathroom, followed quickly by what sounded like ‘Buggering bollocks!’

  Goccia’s head shot round and Rosselli immediately bent to comfort her.

  “It’s nothing, little one,” he whispered, “just an angry man. Go back to your dreams.”

  A short while later, Brooke spent a considerable length of time in a downstairs bathroom, but unfortunately for Rosselli, the window was closed and although the light was on, he could only see shadows of movement through the frosted glass.

  After Brooke had spent more time in the kitchen gathering and washing crockery, Rosselli’s patience was finally rewarded when the detective appeared at the kitchen door, now wearing a T-shirt in addition to the boxers. The yellow rubber gloves were still on his hands. Brooke hurried to the side door of the garage, pulled it open and went inside. Rosselli heard a faint click, after which light flooded through the open door. A few minutes later, he emerged carrying a pile of limp white towels.

  When Brooke disappeared back into the house, Rosselli bent down to whisper to Goccia. “I think we are reaching the climax of this particular act, tesoro. We won’t have long to wait now.”

  His intuition proved correct. After no more than fifteen minutes, Brooke appeared again at the kitchen door, this time carrying a heavy load wrapped in white towels that was draped over one shoulder. To Rosselli’s practised eye, the heavy load could only be one thing.

  He heard Brooke moving things in the garage for a while, after which the garage light went out and the detective returned to the house.

  Rosselli was stunned to see that he hadn’t even locked the garage door behind him.

  When he heard an upstairs shower start running, Rosselli slung the small pack he’d brought with him over his shoulder, picked up Goccia and made his way back across the fields to where he’d left his car. After placing the pug in her basket on the rear seat, he whispered to her. “I’ve just one more thing to do, tesoro, then we’ll head home.” Goccia settled obediently.

  By the time Rosselli returned to the cottage, the place was in darkness and he felt confident that Brooke would already be in a deep sleep.

  Making no noise, he slipped on a pair of latex gloves, opened the garage door and shone a pencil torch around inside. Towards the rear but about a foot from the wall, he saw a stack of plastic garden chairs and a pair of folded garden loungers standing on their sides. Looking behind the garden furniture, he could see that lying on the floor was the load that Brooke had carried in a short while before.

  After donning a head torch, Rosselli used his phone to record how everything was arranged before systematically and silently removing the items blocking his way to the body. Having recorded how the towels were wrapped around the head, he removed them along with the plastic bag beneath them.

  “Superintendent Trisha McVie, I presume,” he whispered quietly as he shone the light onto the face. He could see from the damage to the nose that it couldn’t be a fatal injury, so he felt carefully around the back of the head, carefully separating the damp hair. “Ah, there we are,” he said, as he found the large wound to Trisha’s skull. “Did you have a fight, or was it all one horrible mistake? Whatever it was, your Detective Brooke has got himself into a terrible mess, one that we can take good advantage of, I think.”

  He took several shots of Trisha’s face, after which he tilted the body forward and recorded the injury to the back of the head, before lying her down again. It was then that he noticed the stud earrings in Trisha’s ears. He smiled as an idea formed in his mind. “One of these might add even more value in my dealings with Detective Constable Brooke.” He removed the earring from the right ear and slipped it into his pocket.

  “Now,” he said, “we need something in the shot to show that the body was here in this garage.”

  He looked around. Under a workbench, he noticed a pile of box files. Opening the first one, he struck gold. It was full of old photographs. He selected one of Gus Brooke on his own, a head-and-shoulders portrait of him smiling and relaxed, and another showing Brooke with a woman whom Rosselli recognised from the pictures he’d seen online as Brooke’s wife Mo. This one had a handwritten message on it.

  To Gus, all my love, Mo.

  “So you’re Gus, are you, Detective Constable Fergus Brooke,” said Rosselli, smiling. “That’s worth knowing.”

  He placed the photographs one on either side of Trisha McVie’s head and recorded another image on his phone.

  “Gotcha!” he smiled. “The police officer in the pub was right; it’s a good name.”

  Ten minutes later the photographs were back in the box file, the file under the workbench, and the bag and towels wrapping McVie’s head and body completely reassembled. As he worked, Rosselli compared everything with the photos he’d taken earlier on his phone to ensure the final arrangement of everything looked identical to how he had found it. Two more minutes and there was no indication that anything had moved in the garage; it was exactly as Gus Brooke had left it.

  Rosselli stood in the shadows outside the garage, careful to avoid a full moon whose intense light kept teasing from behind the scudding clouds, remnants of the weather front that had brought the previous night’s powerful storm. Gus Brooke was providing him with excellent material for the perfect scenario to achieve his goal: the removal of Jennifer Cotton from this earth without anyone suspecting her death was anything other than an unfortunate accident; killed in the line of duty.

  He wondered where Detective Brooke was planning to dispose of the body. Would he use the abandoned industrial premises? It had clearly been his immediate choice for dumping the car. However, there was no need to speculate; the detective would let him know in due course, although he wouldn’t realise it.

  Rosselli fished in his backpack and removed a tiny transmitting device. He switched it on and attached it to the underside of the rear of Brooke’s car, the powerful magnet in its casing guaranteed to hold it in place. The battery in the device would last for about ten days, more than enough for the job in hand, and if it wasn’t, he would replace it. He took his phone from his pocket, called up an app and activated the device. Every time Brooke’s car moved he would be alerted.

  “Time to go home, tesoro,” said Rosselli, as he climbed back into his car ten minutes later. Curled up in her basket, Goccia subconsciously registered his presence with a slight flick of her tail, but at this stage of the evening, she was only interested in sleep.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Early the following morning, Gus Brooke’s mind began nudging his subconscious with image after image of Trisha McVie sitting astride him on his bed, grinding rhythmically as she leaned over him, blood from her massively distorted nose dripping onto his face.

  Tossing his head from side to side in an effort to avoid the blood, he reached up to push her away, but as he grabbed her face, half her head came away in his hands as water from a powerful jet hit
her body from behind and bounced onto a mobile of glass ornaments above the bed, setting them spinning and crashing into a screeching cacophony of smashing glass that slowly transformed into an insistent beeping.

  Thrusting the image away from him, Gus sat up in bed with a gasp, his face and body covered in sweat. But the beeping didn’t stop. His alarm. Shit. It would be still set for 6:00 and the last thing he was capable of right now was a run or a bike ride.

  As the images in his head crumbled into fragments and disappeared, Gus looked around the bedroom in the grey early morning light, relieved to see the walls and fittings weren’t dripping blood and a mutilated Trisha McVie wasn’t still writhing in his bed.

  The events of the last thirty hours began to clarify in his memory and he closed his eyes, willing it to be a crazy nightmare. But it wasn’t. Trisha McVie’s body was wrapped in old towels in the back of his garage and needed to be dealt with. Other things also needed attention, like her clothing, his clothing and his wallet. And sheets needed ironing to Mo’s exacting standards. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but all he achieved was to make himself dizzy. Which was when he remembered he hadn’t eaten for over twenty-four hours. His last meal was the one he’d eaten with Trisha the night before last. There hadn’t been much of a chance yesterday, and even when someone had thrust a sandwich at him at lunchtime, he’d refused it, worried that if he ate it he would throw it back up.

  The first thing he saw as he turned on the bedside light was the bathrobe still lying by the bathroom door, the bathrobe that Trisha had worn and which might still bear evidence of her on it: hairs, or traces of her perfume. How had he missed it? Slipping on a pair of boxers he grabbed from a drawer, he picked up the robe, took it downstairs to the utility room and tossed it in the washer, after which he set about making himself some breakfast.