by Steven Dunne
‘No,’ was Brook’s abrupt reply. ‘Bannon was at Francesca Stanforth’s funeral.’
Mullen was surprised. ‘Francesca?’
‘That’s right,’ echoed Brook. ‘Amelia told me you were there too.’
Mullen stepped back from the door. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘I don’t—’
‘It’s cold,’ interrupted Mullen.
Brook dutifully walked into the dark lounge. Mullen closed the door and hastily lit a couple of candles. The wood burner was glowing faintly. Brook sat at Mullen’s request.
‘What about her funeral?’ said the old man, levering himself down opposite Brook.
‘At some point during or after the service, DCI Bannon spoke to Billy’s mother.’
‘Mrs Stanforth?’
‘That’s right. It would have been quite an animated conversation, maybe even an argument, because Mrs Stanforth complained about Bannon’s behaviour in writing and he received a reprimand.’
Mullen steepled his hands under his nose. ‘Yes. I remember the incident. There was some shouting.’
‘Can you remember what it was about and what Bannon said?’ asked Brook.
Mullen narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s a long time ago. Did you ask Amelia?’
Brook hesitated. ‘I can’t. She’s missing.’
Mullen’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘Missing? What do you mean?’
‘She wasn’t in her room this morning,’ said Brook. ‘She may have gone on a trip.’
‘A trip?’ said Mullen. ‘On her own?’
‘We’re not sure.’
‘That doesn’t sound right, Inspector.’
‘No,’ agreed Brook. ‘We’re looking into it.’
‘I see. Well, I hope—’
‘Mr Mullen,’ said Brook sharply. ‘DCI Bannon.’
Mullen stared at Brook before rocking himself upright to go to the cupboard where he extracted the half-full bottle of port. He poured himself a small glass and gestured towards Brook who declined with a shake of the head. ‘The Chief Inspector asked Mrs Stanforth if she’d seen Brendan McCleary the night Billy died. In fact he seemed most insistent that she had. He badgered her until he was asked to leave.’
‘I see,’ said Brook, nodding. ‘And Mrs Stanforth denied it?’
‘When she’d stopped crying, yes. Does that help?’
Brook smiled minutely and got to his feet. ‘That’s a big help. Thank you.’
‘I don’t see how,’ said Mullen.
Brook hesitated. ‘I now know that Francesca Stanforth was murdered.’
‘Murdered?’ exclaimed Mullen. ‘But her death was supposed to be an accident.’
‘Accidents can be faked,’ said Brook. ‘Especially with heavy drinkers.’
‘Can you prove it?’
‘I can certainly try.’
‘Who?’ inquired Mullen. ‘Brendan?’
‘Who else?’ Brook moved towards the door. ‘Thank you. I won’t trouble you further.’
‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Mullen. ‘I don’t want to rake all this over again. Billy’s birthday is near.’
‘I understand,’ replied Brook.
‘Inspector, wait.’ Mullen stared at Brook. He took a sharp breath and held a hand to shield his eyes as though in pain. ‘I think I ought to warn you. There’s somebody with you.’
Brook was puzzled. ‘No, I’m quite alone.’
‘I don’t mean in the car. I mean with you now, a spirit shadowing you.’ Mullen closed his eyes and gripped his throat.
Brook’s eyes glazed over. ‘This is all very entertaining,’ he said drily.
Mullen opened his eyes wide. ‘Your companion. . .’
‘In case you weren’t aware, I’m not impressed by this mumbo-jumbo.’
Mullen ignored Brook. ‘He’s trying to speak but it’s difficult.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Brook.
‘He wants to know what happened to him,’ explained Mullen.
‘Don’t we all,’ said Brook. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ He marched to the front door. ‘Give my love to Marilyn Monroe,’ he added over his shoulder.
‘Do you know anyone called Floyd?’ said Mullen urgently at Brook’s retreating frame.
Brook halted halfway across the threshold. He turned slowly back. ‘Floyd?’
‘Floyd.’ Mullen smiled beatifically at Brook. ‘Tall, black male, well-built. He’d have been about thirty-five years old when he died. Did you know someone by that name?’
Brook’s eyes burned into Mullen’s. ‘Yes, I knew somebody by that name. Many years ago. In London.’
‘And he died a violent death?’
‘You’ve done some research into my past,’ said Brook sourly. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Research?’ said Mullen. ‘No, I merely report what I see.’
‘For a fee,’ snapped Brook. ‘And I’m not buying.’
‘I told you, I can’t turn it on and off.’
‘You should make more effort.’
‘Don’t you want to know how he died?’ smiled Mullen.
‘I know how he died,’ said Brook.
‘There’s blood on his teeth, in his mouth,’ Mullen offered.
‘There would be,’ said Brook. ‘Floyd Wrigley had his throat cut. He was the victim of a serial killer called the Reaper in nineteen ninety-one. And those facts are a matter of public record.’
‘Then why does he cling to you for answers, Inspector?’ said Mullen.
‘Maybe because I found the body.’
‘That must be it,’ nodded Mullen. ‘I’ll say goodbye then. I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you again.’
Brook turned to march towards his car, his mind replaying their conversation. He could feel the old man’s eyes following his every step. Light rain was beginning to fall.
‘Inspector!’ shouted Mullen from the doorway. Brook turned to listen, his car keys in his hand. ‘You must meet a lot of bad people,’ said the old man. ‘And I’m not one to judge.’
Brook held his eyes for a moment before climbing into the driver’s seat.
Mullen watched him drive away before closing the door on the world. Shivering, he returned to the warm lounge and took another sip of his drink, looking across the long oak table towards the chessboard, now shorn of combatants as the endgame approached.
Brook was sombre when he pulled up at the cottage an hour later. After lighting the wood burner, he sat down with a larger than usual malt and plucked a book from a dusty bottom shelf. In Search of the Reaper was Brian Burton’s woefully inaccurate volume that attempted to make sense of the murder of a family in Derby several years previously. Three members of the Wallis family had been slaughtered in their own home by the Reaper, a serial killer who had been active since his first strikes in London in 1990 and 1991.
Brook had tried and failed to bring the Reaper to justice as a DS in the Met. Then, when the Reaper had apparently followed Brook to his new posting in Derby many years later, he’d tried to catch him again as a detective inspector. All files remained open and, officially, the serial killer was still at large.
After burning his throat with a large swallow of whisky, Brook flicked through the index to find the name Floyd Wrigley. Wrigley, a drug addict and dealer, had died in ’91 in his poky flat in Brixton. His wife and daughter had died with him, their throats cut by the Reaper.
Brook had been first on the scene and, according to Burton’s third-hand account, had found the family dead in their home.
‘A matter of public record,’ said Brook, journeying back to that unhappy time and remembering the girl Wrigley had violated and butchered, so long dead. Laura Maples. The sight of her decaying, rat-infested corpse had invaded his dreams for years.
He drained his glass and fetched a pen, underlined the name Floyd Wrigley in Burton’s book then bent down the page. He slipped out to the car and threw the book into the boot and brought back the three pieces of junk mail taken from McCleary’s flat, binning the f
irst two. The third held his attention for a moment. He tore open the envelope and examined the contents before consigning them to the refuse with the others.
Twenty-Five
Thursday, 20 December 2012
Scott gently opened his eyes to blackness and blinked rapidly to be sure they were open at all. Now, instead of waking with a start, Scott had adjusted, had gradually come to accept his situation, even in his sleep. No longer did he move to sit bolt upright when semi-conscious, no longer did he loose off a shout of despair. His life had changed, his environment had been reduced to an underground box with no way out and he had trained himself to ignore the screaming in his aching limbs and chafing skin, to keep perfect stillness as his default position.
It helped that he was growing weaker by the hour. Now it was easier to preserve the integrity of his tiny cell, to prevent the roof collapsing and the soil engulfing him forever. The urge to move, to stand and to turn was ebbing away as his breathing shortened. It would soon be over. He was almost glad. He moved a hand to rustle blindly in the plastic bag, fumbling for the final packet of biscuits and counting them out with his thumb like an abacus. Seven biscuits. And not even chocolate. He managed a bitter smile but the tears followed soon after, the salty liquid almost a welcome tide, carrying grit and other irritants away from his eyeballs.
He had only one thought now. Trapped, barely able to breathe or move, he could concentrate on only one thing: do whatever it took to survive in one form or another. He’d seen the light. Friendly faces beckoning him to the other side. Even Josh, the friend he’d betrayed.
Scott thumbed the scar on his palm at the thought of his dead friend. Omerta. Blood brothers. We’ll be brothers in death at least.
No, he would survive. Those miners on the other side of the world had survived for months and they got out fine. Better than fine. They were celebrities. On the telly every night, everyone wanting to speak to them, everyone thinking they were great. Ladies and gentlemen, the heroes of the hour. Loud screaming. Girls in the audience. Be like winning the lottery. . .
‘Scott!’
Scott snapped his neck to stare up to the top of the pipe. A face. A voice. Their eyes met and hope surged through him.
‘I’m here. Get me out, please. Hurry. Get me out. I want my mum. I want to go home.’ The flimsy barriers of stoicism inside the boy were washed away like a sandcastle at high tide and Scott sobbed uncontrollably, his limbs quivering, almost salivating with the prospect of movement. ‘Please, please, hurry.’ Blinking away the bitter tears, Scott glimpsed the man’s eyes at the other end of the pipe. His black eyes were creased in merriment, nodding faintly with satisfaction.
‘You’re hanging on,’ he said. ‘That’s good. You’ve been down there a long time.’
‘Get me out of here,’ shouted Scott.
‘Not long now, Scoot,’ said the man’s voice, his face creasing at Scott’s reaction.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Scott. ‘Why have you done this to me?’
‘Don’t you know, Scoot?’
‘Get me out of here now or my dad will kill you.’
‘Brrr,’ said the voice, breaking into a long low chuckle. ‘You’re scary.’
‘Please. Get me out,’ screamed Scott, happy to beg.
‘You’ll be out in a day or two,’ said the voice.
‘Mr Stapleton?’ shouted Scott in shock. ‘Is that you?’
‘What if it is?’ said the voice.
Scott couldn’t look at him. ‘I. . . I’m sorry about Josh. It wasn’t my fault.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ The chuckle broke out again. ‘I saw what you did to him.’
The aggression returned to Scott, adrenalin summoned from somewhere. ‘I didn’t do nothing.’
‘That’s a double negative.’
‘Let me out, you bastard. You can’t do this to me. . .’
The face grinned one last time before disappearing and Scott could see only a pair of hands either side of the pipe.
‘No, don’t leave me,’ screamed Scott. He was hoarse and his throat felt as if it was on fire. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he begged as the tears began again.
‘I’m not leaving you,’ said the voice, sounding more distant. ‘I’m getting you out of there.’
Scott’s face deformed in horror when he saw the hands stretch something over the end of the pipe. The breeze disappeared and although he could still see the sky and the hands working, his vision was distorted. Then he realised what it was. That stuff his mum used to keep food fresh. ‘No. Don’t. Please. Don’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.’
‘Course you can,’ said the man. ‘For a couple of days at least.’ When the man had finished wrapping the clingfilm over the end of the air pipe, he waved a hand across the boy’s disfigured vision in ostentatious farewell, ignoring the muffled pleas and screaming that dwindled to silence the further he walked away.
At five the next morning after a restless night of familiar dreams, Brook left his cottage wearing his walking gear, carrying shoes and a torch. He dropped them into the boot and drove out of Hartington through the dark and dank village streets.
A little over half an hour later, he pulled into the grounds of St Agatha’s Care Home, this time happy to park the car as far from the ivy-covered building as possible. Gently closing the driver’s door, Brook flicked on the torch and strode out of the car park to cross the deserted main road.
On the far side, he clambered on to a convenient stile and, balancing on top, surveyed the boggy field with his torch. Locating what appeared to be firmer ground, he jumped and landed with a slither before picking his way carefully to higher, drier pastures then set about climbing up and over the shoulder of land.
Half a mile of sustained walking later, Brook reached the crest of the hill and scoured the hillside in the pale light. He tramped around several fields without success before his eyes alighted on a ruined outhouse in the distance.
Five minutes later, Brook approached the outhouse and, when he was almost upon it, caught sight of a caravan beyond, nestling in the lea of a crumbling wall. Beyond that an old Land Rover sat hard by the other side of a second crumbling wall. He turned off the torch and, at reduced speed, crept noiselessly towards the settlement, taking care where he placed his feet as he drew near.
A wisp of wood smoke rose from the dying embers of a brazier fire, confirming habitation. A blackened cooking pot sat on the ground nearby. Apart from the faint glow of coals at the bottom of the rusting, punctured oil drum, the only other light came from the moon peeping occasionally between the clouds.
Almost at the caravan, Brook’s attention was attracted to the highest wall of the ruined outhouse. Four dead rabbits had been hung by their feet on a length of twine. Their bloodied heads were draining into plastic bags, intermittent black drips trickling through holes and down the stone on to the manure-rich ground.
In the shadow of the caravan, Brook took a breath and placed a gloved hand on the door. Too late he heard movement over his shoulder and before he could turn, a gun barrel was jammed into the back of his head.
‘Don’t turn round, copper,’ said a deeply gravelled voice.
Brook’s breath steamed hard in the cold air. ‘Take it easy, Brendan.’
The gun barrel tapped Brook sharply on the back of the head. ‘Shut it. And put your hands up.’
‘Where’s Amelia?’
This time the butt of a rifle caught Brook squarely on the side of his head and he staggered forward against the caravan. The man then grabbed Brook’s coat collar to fling him on to the cold wet ground.
‘I said shut it,’ he spat with real venom.
Brook scrambled on to his knees, turning to face Brendan McCleary, rubbing his ear. The old man’s face was in shadow under an Australian bushman’s hat but the rifle at his waist was impossible to miss. ‘Hands up, I said.’
Brook clambered to his feet. ‘Put that down, Brendan. I can’t help you if you threaten a police officer.’
&nb
sp; McCleary took off the hat and threw it to the ground. His unkempt grey hair stuck out from his balding head. His crooked, blackened teeth appeared in a grin that split his whiskered jowls. He raised the gun to take aim.
‘You mean like telling everyone I’m a nonce. That your idea of help?’
‘That wasn’t my idea,’ said Brook.
‘Bollocks. You were there. I saw you. You and that young copper planting that filth in my place,’ McCleary snarled, shaking his head. ‘Kids. Little boys.’ He struck a fist into his chest, animated in his sudden rush of anger. ‘Now everyone thinks I’m a beast.’
‘We didn’t put it there, we just found it. And you’re right, we knew it was suspicious but DI Ford wouldn’t listen.’
‘Ford,’ said McCleary, his lip curling. ‘One of Laird’s lackeys. He did the press conference.’ The rifle lowered slightly.
‘That’s right,’ said Brook, trying to soothe. ‘It’s his case but Noble, the other officer you saw, is trying to put him straight.’
‘I don’t know nowt about that missing lad,’ said McCleary, lifting the rifle again.
‘I know,’ said Brook, his hands now in front of his chest, pacifying. He stared at the rifle, wishing he’d paid more attention in weapons seminars. ‘Now put the gun down so I can help you.’
McCleary looked at the weapon and back at Brook. ‘Help me? I don’t think so, copper. See this. I shouldn’t have guns. It says on my licence. But the beaks don’t understand. I need ’em for rabbits. I don’t have much money, see.’
‘What is it?’ asked Brook. ‘An air rifle?’
McCleary’s expression was contemptuous. ‘Do I look like a ten-year-old? It’s a twenty-two semi-auto, same as the one you got from my flat. It’ll do you plenty of damage, no messin’.’
‘How many rifles have you got?’ asked Brook.
‘Two,’ growled McCleary. ‘For rabbits.’
‘We didn’t find the other one, Brendan,’ said Brook, lowering his hands slightly. ‘It wasn’t in your flat. Someone must have taken it. Someone who planted those pictures.’
‘Someone took it?’ McCleary was confused. ‘Who?’
‘We don’t know,’ said Brook.
