Deity didb-3

by Steven Dunne

  He set about suturing the wound. When he’d finished his rough stitching, he re-covered the body with a surgical sheet and bent over the head with his newly fashioned tool. ‘Okay, Jock. Here goes.’ Adjusting the surgical light for maximum illumination, he positioned the honed end of the brass instrument up the cadaver’s right nostril and pushed it up as far as it would go, then just as carefully pulled it back down. He examined the skin on the upper lip. No damage.

  Now he reached under his gown to a tool belt and pulled out a ball pein hammer. He inserted the brass rod back up the nostril and, with more force this time, pushed the sharp blade through the resistance of the cartilage. After a brief check that he still wasn’t breaking the skin on the face, he manoeuvred the hook into position and steadied the hammer against the base of the rod and gave it a sharp tap.

  There was a sudden pop and an object flew out of the man’s eye-socket and bounced across the floor with the tat-tat-tat of glass on ceramic. Oz cursed and scuttled after the glass eye which had settled under the exsanguinations tank. He retrieved it, spat on it to clean off any dirt and, after polishing it on his gown, returned to the slab and forced the eye back into the socket, accompanied by a loud sucking noise.

  He took a different grip on the brass rod still protruding from the nose and picked up the hammer again. Settling on a slightly altered angle of trajectory, he gave the base of the rod another sharp tap and this time a squelching noise like a bubble of gas in hot mud induced a satisfied nod. He withdrew the brass rod, being ultra-careful not to slice through the upper lip as he extracted it. He wiped the clear slimy liquid from the hook against his apron and placed a pair of triangular wooden props under one side of the corpse to allow the brain fluid to drain away through the now punctured membrane and out through the nose on to the slab.

  Brook sat motionless on the raised stage of the briefing room while Charlton sat under the lights next to Alice Kennedy — no Len Poole — and fiddled with the prepared statement. The room was half-empty as most national media weren’t interested in four young adults who had disappeared together, especially as there were no signs of foul play.

  The local radio and TV stations were represented though, as well as the local newspapers. Brian Burton, Crime Correspondent of the Derby Telegraph, stood ready with his photographer and at one point snaked a lingering malevolent glance in Brook’s direction.

  Brook kept his eyes to the front. He wasn’t going to be drawn into swapping insults with Burton and risk deflecting attention from the appeal. He was pleased to be sitting next to Charlton, who would politely field all questions from a journalist who had spent an inordinate amount of time trying to wreck Brook’s career. Burton had long-held ties with local coppers and he shared their opinions about Brook’s fallibilities. His book about The Reaper, who had slaughtered two families in the city, had been as much about criticising Brook’s failure to catch him, as profiling the activities of the serial killer.

  After a heartfelt plea from Alice Kennedy, Charlton took over. ‘At this stage in proceedings, it’s important to stress that we are not treating this incident as abduction. It appears that all four young people willingly left their homes and their lives behind. This involved an amount of planning and premeditation which leads us to believe that these four young people are, very probably, safe and well.

  ‘The fact that Adele, Becky, Kyle and Russell all have passports in their possession suggests that they may intend to leave the country. However, all the information we’ve received from Border Controls and the British Transport Police indicates that they have not yet done so.

  ‘Wherever they are, we would urge them, if they are listening to these broadcasts or reading the papers, to contact a family member or the police as soon as possible. They may be unaware that their departure has created such interest and may worry about the consequences of their disappearance. Let me say now that no action will be taken against you. The only action that interests the police here in Derby is that four young people are returned to their families so that we can all get back to normality.

  ‘Whatever problems may have prompted their decision to leave, we want them to bear in mind that there are many, many people here in Derby who cherish them and want to help them. Thank you.’

  The Q amp;A began. Chief Superintendent Charlton fielded the first question from a Radio Derby journalist but Brook could feel Brian Burton preparing his question and knew it would be aimed in his direction.

  ‘Inspector Brook,’ began Burton a moment later. ‘Given your failure to identify a single suspect in the killings of two Derby families, how confident are you that you can now find four missing individuals?’

  Brook stared ahead without expression while Charlton glared at Burton. ‘I’ll answer that, Brian. First of all, those killings are not recent — the Wallis family were attacked five years ago — and that line of questioning is unproductive and an insult to Mrs Kennedy and the other parents who are worried about their children right now. Furthermore, in my service, we do not apportion blame to individual officers, working within a team, for the failure of an inquiry. Some criminals are more resourceful than others and bringing them to justice is not straightforward. That said, do not think The Reaper can rest easy. Two families were brutally murdered in our city and until The Reaper is brought to justice, those cases remain open.

  ‘DI Brook is an experienced and talented detective and part of a highly capable team and I’m in no doubt that, with the help of our friends in the media, these young people will be found and returned to their families.’ Charlton motioned Brook to stand, which he did. Alice Kennedy followed suit.

  ‘Just a minute. .’ began Burton.

  ‘No,’ said Charlton firmly. ‘We have work to do, and if there are no relevant questions about the current inquiry, it would be better for all concerned if we got on with our jobs.’

  The camcorder was trained on the television screen. The uniformed Chief Superintendent was spouting his spiel but the lens rested on his face for just a moment before moving to film the Detective Inspector in charge of the search. His face was impassive and controlled. The camcorder zoomed in further when a local reporter asked a question about the hunt for a serial killer some years before. The Inspector’s eyes betrayed barely a flicker of emotion. Still the camcorder stored his image, only being lowered when the press conference drew to a close.

  The three police cars and Brook’s BMW made their way in convoy across the city and arrived on the Brisbane Estate.

  In her habitual dressing-gown, the diminutive Roz Watson opened the front door to PC Crainey and DS Noble, who explained the reason for the visit. Under Brook’s instruction, the warrant was to be a last resort in case a voluntary search was refused.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. Her husband joined her at the door as Brook arrived.

  ‘We can’t go into details but we think Adele may have hidden her laptop somewhere in the house and we’d like your permission to search for it,’ said Brook, locking eyes with Watson.

  ‘Do we have a choice?’ he asked. Noble readied the warrant.

  ‘Not if you want to help us find your daughter,’ replied Brook.

  The Watsons stood aside to let Brook and his team search the premises.

  Five minutes later, Jim Watson sat on the sofa next to his wife. He stared at the floor taking no interest in proceedings. PC Crainey, the Family Liaison Officer, sat on a chair opposite them both, staring at the same spot on the floor and avoiding Mrs Watson’s gaze as her eyes pierced him with her swelling anger. The rest of the team swarmed over the house.

  ‘Are we suspects?’ spat Mrs Watson in PC Crainey’s direction.

  ‘It’s just routine.’ He looked away as he spoke which Roz Watson took as confirmation.

  ‘Bastards,’ she said to her husband’s frozen face. She shook her lank grey locks at him. ‘Are you just going to sit there? They think we did something to our daughter.’ He glanced briefly in her direction but said nothing.
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br />   For the next few minutes the three kept silent during the scuffs and bangs of beds, chairs and other objects being inspected, emptied, moved and put back again. Occasionally they could hear the exchange of information between the searching officers.

  ‘Bastards,’ the woman said again.

  Finally Watson spoke without lifting his eyes. ‘Don’t let them get to you, Roz. That’s what they want.’

  ‘They’re just doing their jobs,’ said Crainey to Roz, as though he wasn’t a member of the same invading force currently rifling through the Watsons’ home.

  Seconds later, the steps groaned under the dual footfall of Brook and Noble and the door to the living room opened.

  ‘Shed key?’ asked Noble.

  ‘On the hook by the back door,’ said Watson.

  Brook studied Watson’s face to gauge stress-levels. He seemed relaxed and Brook began to worry that they were too late, or worse, that he’d misread the situation. A shout rang out from above and the stairs once again complained under the assault of descending officers.

  DS Morton entered the room. ‘Bathroom — under loose floorboards.’ He held out two books in his latex-covered hands, both bound in shiny black. Brook took one gingerly in his gloved hands and opened it. Noble took the other.

  ‘Adele’s notebook,’ said Brook, skimming through before stopping at a particular page. ‘ “The Night Walker”,’ he read.

  ‘He comes at night, The Night Walker

  When the house sleeps and sighs

  I feel him in my bones

  I see him with my eyes.

  ‘He comes at night, The Night Walker

  When the dark is on the rise

  I feel him on my bed

  I feel him by my side.’

  Brook looked over at Watson, who was maintaining his vacant expression.

  His wife also fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘What are her poems doing under the floor, Jim?’

  Watson grunted. ‘Maybe she put them there. For safekeeping.’

  ‘This is Adele’s diary,’ said Noble, flicking through the other tome.

  ‘Save us some time and tell us where the laptop is, Mr Watson,’ said Brook softly.

  ‘The laptop?’ shouted Mrs Watson. ‘What’s going on, Jim?’

  Watson was about to plead ignorance when something shifted in his mood. He turned to his wife then looked over to Brook, seeking understanding. ‘Behind the boiler, wrapped in towels. There’s a false backboard.’ Morton hurried back upstairs.

  Brook nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Jim.’

  He looked back at his wife without expression. It was over. He could be himself. ‘My life is over. Time to make it official.’

  ‘What do you mean? What have you done?’

  Watson stared flatly back at her. ‘I could’ve had my pick.’

  Brook and Noble dropped the two books into evidence bags and turned to go.

  ‘You’re not leaving me here,’ pleaded Watson suddenly. ‘With her.’

  ‘Jim?’ She stood now, her head darting around searching for answers.

  Brook studied him. ‘Of course not. We’d like you to come to the station and assist with our enquiries.’

  ‘Gladly — just get me out of here,’ said Watson.

  Brook looked over at Crainey who took out his handcuffs and bade Watson to stand. The man turned to allow Crainey to snap the cuffs into place.

  ‘What are you doing? Jim?’ said his wife, moving towards him. Brook held her away but the barrier merely increased the wiry little woman’s urgency and she reached past Brook to grab at her husband.

  Watson ignored her and pulled against the impassive steel without success. He smiled. ‘Free at last.’

  Mrs Watson seemed about to tip over into hysteria so Brook signalled Noble to move her husband outside quickly.

  ‘PC Crainey will give you a receipt for the exhibits and talk you through what’s going to happen,’ said Brook, moving away.

  ‘You’re taking him? You’re taking my husband?’

  ‘Speak to PC Crainey.’

  ‘But why have you handcuffed him? What will the neighbours say?’

  ‘It’s just a precaution. For his own safety,’ said Crainey as Noble and Brook guided Watson towards the front door.

  PC Crainey stood between Mrs Watson and her departing husband. ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘Jim?’ she shouted.

  Outside, Watson heaved a sigh of relief as he reached the squad car. But as Noble eased Watson’s head safely into the vehicle, a camera flashed and Brook found himself face to face with Brian Burton.

  ‘Hello, Inspector. Would you care to inform our readers why you’ve arrested Adele Watson’s father? Have you found a body? Has Jim Watson killed her?’ At that moment, Morton emerged with the laptop. Burton spotted it. ‘Ho ho, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what Mr Watson’s been up to.’

  ‘Just as well they sent you then, Brian,’ said Brook over his shoulder.

  ‘Been browsing the kiddie sites, have you?’ shouted Burton, stooping to harangue Watson, inside the squad car. ‘Your daughter catch you at it and you topped her? That it?’

  Brook turned back to the squad car and banged on the roof. The car sped away and Burton swung round to get in Brook’s face.

  ‘Well, Inspector.’

  ‘It’s just routine, Brian. Mr Watson is not under arrest, he’s helping us with our enquiries.’ Brook made for his car.

  ‘If he’s not under arrest, why is he wearing handcuffs?’

  ‘It’s just procedure.’

  ‘Well, here’s my procedure, Inspector. I’ve got a picture of a missing girl’s father being taken away in handcuffs and that’s what tomorrow’s front page will show,’ said Burton to his retreating back.

  Brook turned round and marched up to Burton. ‘I’d ask you not to print that picture, Brian, but I know that would guarantee it. Instead, I’ll say this. If you indulge in wild speculation or say what you just saw as an arrest, your readers will switch off from the story thinking it’s done and dusted, and the search for four young people, who may be in danger, will become that much harder.’

  ‘What sort of danger?’ asked Burton, shoving his Dictaphone in Brook’s face.

  Brook’s face darkened and he tried to slow his breathing. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment further.’

  ‘What we see and what we seem Is but a dream, a dream within a dream.’

  Brook switched off the tape.

  ‘That’s Adele,’ said Watson. ‘What is that?’

  Brook pushed the cup of tea nearer Watson and looked across at Noble in the other chair. ‘It’s a message from Adele.’

  ‘What message? Where is she?’

  ‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ said Noble.

  Watson put his hands flat on the table and his head on top of them. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘Really I don’t. I wish I did.’

  ‘But you don’t deny hiding the laptop and Adele’s books.’

  Watson sat up again. ‘No. I did that. But that’s all I did.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  Watson couldn’t find the words to acknowledge his innermost thoughts. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he finally said.

  Brook wore latex gloves to open one of the books and began to read ‘The Night Walker’ again.

  Watson scraped back his chair and stood. ‘Please stop.’ The uniformed officer on the back wall moved swiftly to reseat him. Watson sat down, defeated. ‘Please. I. . I didn’t do anything.’

  Brook turned to the middle of the diary and opened up the tome to show Watson. He ran a gloved finger down it. ‘There are two pages missing here. They’ve been razored out.’

  ‘Not by me, Inspector. I’ve not opened either book. I swear. I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?’ said Noble.

  ‘You think I’d have left “The Night Walker” in there if I’d been cutting p
ages out of her books?’ demanded Watson.

  ‘So that poem does refer to you?’

  He hung his head. ‘I’ve been worried about her. Maybe I. .’

  ‘Maybe you’ve what?’

  Watson looked up. ‘She’s grown up so fast. I was losing her.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been possessive, I realise now. You can’t stop it — time. I wanted to spend time with her before it was too late, before she didn’t need me. That’s all.’

  ‘Then why hide the books?’ said Noble.

  ‘I was embarrassed because Adele thought. .’ He came to a halt.

  ‘But why didn’t you destroy them? The computer too.’ Watson was silent.

  Brook answered for him. ‘Because they’re the last link to the daughter you love.’ Watson nodded his head in confirmation. ‘Adele’s bed was a mess and the phone and leaflet moved. You?’ Watson nodded again.

  ‘Did you masturbate?’ asked Noble.

  Watson stood, his eyes blazing, and fists clenched. Noble and the uniformed Constable struggled to reseat him, Brook watching on, unmoved.

  Eventually, when Watson was calm enough to hear the question again, he responded with a look of pure horror. ‘How can you think that? You’re sick, you are. Perverted. Worse than me. At least I’m her father — I have a right to be near her. You’re strangers. You shouldn’t think about other men’s daughters that way.’

  ‘We’d prefer not to,’ said Brook.

  ‘So tell us,’ said Noble.

  ‘No, I didn’t masturbate. I was on the bed because I just wanted to be near her, okay, to smell her. It was in my head. Only there. Please, I promise you. I didn’t do anything. Ask Ade.’ His head fell to the table again and he began to sob. ‘My God, what have I done? Please forgive me. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to drive you away. I love you.’ He sat bolt upright. ‘You must believe me. I never — I wouldn’t-’