The Reaper didb-1

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Take me through what happened when you got home.’

  Brook took a few notes although it wasn’t really his forte. Jason told him little that he didn’t already know so he didn’t have much to record. But he confirmed that his parents had ‘won’ a competition at the local Pizza Parlour and that he’d nearly stayed in. He had no idea what time he got home, though he had a feeling it was after closing time-he was self-absorbed enough not to worry about admitting he’d been in a pub. He’d got home starving and headed straight for the kitchen. He tucked into the first pizza to hand. And then…nothing. Until now. No, his parents didn’t drink wine and no, they didn’t listen to any of that classical bollocks.

  ‘But did you hear it when you got in?’

  ‘Don’t know, alright. I don’t remember.’ Jason lowered his head in despair at the thoughts and images crowding in. He sighed and looked up at Brook. ‘I don’t think I heard no music. Okay.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Brook flipped his notes shut and stood up to go. Jason was leaving a lot out but it could wait.

  Suddenly the patient seemed animated, as though Brook’s imminent departure left unfinished business. Then his face brightened. ‘What about the telly?’

  ‘Telly?’ asked Brook. ‘It’s still there.’

  ‘No, you know. An appeal for witnesses and stuff. They can interview me and I can ask people for help to catch the bastard. I can handle it.’

  Brook stood motionless for a second, unable to think of a suitable response. He could see Carly Graham open-mouthed. ‘I bet you can,’ he said, and walked away.

  Brook passed Jones at the coffee machine. ‘What happened about Jason’s clothes?’

  ‘Bagged up with his shoes and sent to Forensics, sir.’

  ‘Good. And you’ve booked in the money and the drugs?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Which means we’ve got Wallis on possession, possibly dealing. We’ll leave out suspicion of triple homicide.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘He’s a suspect, Constable. Possibly dangerous. Cuff him.’

  ‘The doctor said…’

  ‘Never mind the doctor. It’s procedure. Cuff him.’

  Chapter Five

  The press conference started promptly at four in the revamped media centre of D Division. Brook hadn’t been in there since McMaster had been promoted. He knew she’d refurbished the place but hadn’t realised how much. The last time he’d taken part in a press briefing, he’d sat at the end of a long table by the door, facing the window. The sun had slammed into his eyes throughout and he’d become bad-tempered and impatient with the stupidity of a local reporter, who took his dismay out on the Force in print the next day.

  Being a consummate politician, Evelyn McMaster had spotted this handicap and had set about changing the layout of the room. The harsh colours were gone, the acoustics had been improved but, most significantly, the officers now doing the briefing sat with their backs to the windows and the journalists had any sun shining in their eyes.

  The police had another advantage; the psychological benefit of a raised platform, boxed in to afford a view of head and upper torso only. They could now look down on the journalists literally, as well as metaphorically.

  Brook sat stony-faced throughout McMaster’s briefing-by-numbers, allowing his eyes to wander round the room at all the unfamiliar faces. A chord had obviously been struck with the nation’s editors, because all the nationals were here, as were the BBC, ITV and other TV crews. The local media were all present, including Brian Burton from the Derby Telegraph, whose nose Brook had so firmly put out of joint a couple of years back. He was also the reporter who’d splashed important details of the Plummer rape case the year before, causing a great deal of damage to the prosecution, not to mention arousing suspicions between officers at the station about who’d provided him with key information.

  McMaster drew to a close and invited DI Brook to add his own observations.

  ‘I can only reiterate the comments made by Chief Superintendent McMaster,’ Brook began. ‘From the brutal nature of these murders, we know this man is extremely dangerous. Any information, relating to his movements in Drayfin last night, or any other suspicious occurrences, that could help us catch this man, will be gratefully received. All such information will be treated in strict confidence and will be followed up, no matter how insignificant it may seem.’

  ‘What progress have you made so far, Inspector?’ ventured one reporter, squinting to counteract the glare from the setting sun.

  ‘Our enquiries are under way and no stone will be left unturned but at the moment we are awaiting the results of forensic and post mortem examinations. Until that information is available, it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.’

  ‘Have you found the weapon?’ asked an attractive young woman with a microphone.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But you do know what type of weapon was used?’ she said.

  ‘As I say, it would be inappropriate to comment further at this time.’

  ‘Could somebody be shielding this man?’ asked a man with a BBC microphone.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Brook nodded, unsure of the relevance of the question.

  ‘You don’t seem too sure,’ jumped in Brian Burton.

  ‘I’m sure it’s possible, Brian.’ Brook winced from a warning tap on the ankle bone from McMaster-another benefit of the enclosed panelling

  ‘I’m sure that most normal people, Inspector, find it hard to imagine that anyone could knowingly shelter such a monster.’

  ‘Then you don’t know a great deal about people, Brian.’

  ‘And you do?’

  ‘One man’s monster is another man’s saint. The man we’re looking for kills without pity, quickly, efficiently and for what he considers valid reasons, even if we can’t understand or condone those reasons.’

  ‘You sound like you know him, Inspector Brook.’

  ‘It’s my job, Brian, to get inside this man’s head, to see what he sees, think what he thinks. It’s not pleasant but that’s the nature of offender profiling. And although our picture of this man is far from complete, we are able to extrapolate certain scenarios from the details of the crime. So in a sense, although I can’t go into detail, we know things about him…’

  ‘And when you’ve finished extrapolating scenarios, Inspector, are you able to tell the public at large whether this man has killed before and if he’s likely to kill again?’

  Brook eyed Burton, barely masking his distaste.

  McMaster, sensing the rise in temperature, stepped back into the fray. ‘Obviously this man is very dangerous, Brian. Certainly he could kill again which is why we need to catch him before he does.’

  ‘But is it likely he’s killed before?’ asked another reporter, spotting the omission.

  ‘There’s no possible way we can answer that until…’ Brook rejoined.

  Burton interrupted. ‘So, Inspector, your profile contains no mention of the similarities between the murder of the Wallis family last night and the unsolved Reaper killings of the early nineties, in which investigation you played a leading part when you were stationed in London?’ The silence deafened Brook. He was vaguely aware of many faces looking at each other for assistance or clarification. ‘Well, Inspector?’

  ‘We’re not here to listen to wild speculation, Brian. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,’ McMaster said hurriedly, ‘and feel free to contact my office at any time.’ She stood, an amiable smile covering her face, and nudged Brook to leave.

  ‘Are you going to answer the question?’

  ‘We cannot give out specific details of last night’s murders until the appropriate time…’ began McMaster.

  ‘Is there a connection between the killer using the blood of the Wallis family to write on the walls and the Reaper murders in Harlesden and Brixton in 1990 and 1991 and Leeds in 1993?’

  Brook became aware of the low muttering of journalists, trying to gather scraps
of information. He wanted to speak but McMaster had him by the elbow as discretely as she could and, ignoring the clamour for more sound bites, was pushing him through the door of the small antechamber at the back of the room. She closed the door behind them and turned on Brook.

  ‘What the hell was all that?’ she blazed, for once dispensing with the reflex niceties of her position. ‘Where has that hack got his information?’

  ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

  ‘Don’t know. That’s not good enough. Now every crank and Edward the Confessor out there knows what we know.’ McMaster was silent. She strode to and fro, examining the floor, trying to regain her equilibrium. Eventually the pacing slowed and deliberation returned.

  ‘The Reaper. Yes, I remember. Ritual executions. Families cut up. They never caught him.’

  ‘I never caught him,’ said Brook bitterly.

  ‘You were on that enquiry?’

  Brook nodded. ‘I was a DS.’

  ‘Is it true, Damen? Could there be a connection after all these years?’

  ‘There are one or two similarities but, as you say, it’s been a long time. All the same, I’d like your permission to go to London, check it out.’

  ‘You have it.’

  ‘Then I’ll need a larger pool of officers here, ma’am. To help DS Noble.’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘We need the computer manned for logging in any information. We need the Incident Room phones manned to sift through calls from the public. We need the murder book compiled. There’s house-to-house to co-ordinate, the van and weapons search, family background…’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I’ve got enough CID but I’d like to second the two uniforms who answered the call. If we keep them in-house, they’re less likely to gossip…’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ she replied, putting up a hand.

  ‘And authorisation for any overtime and unlimited uniform back up when needed.’

  ‘You have it.’ McMaster suddenly seemed very tired but her anger pulled her round almost immediately. ‘Where did Brian Burton get all that information?’

  ‘He’s local, ma’am. He’s got local contacts.’

  ‘But a crime scene is supposed to be sacrosanct, damn it. It’s the Plummer rape all over again.’

  ‘There were a lot of people there last night, ma’am. Not all on the Force. He’d only need a couple of details and any decent internet search engine would have done the rest. It would have come out sooner or later.’

  McMaster narrowed her eyes at Brook. ‘It shouldn’t have come out sooner than it was mentioned to me. Why wasn’t I informed?’

  Brook kept his gaze on the floor. ‘It’s not definite, ma’am. I didn’t want to jump the gun before I was sure.’

  ‘It’s a bit flimsy but we’ll gloss over that for the moment. When’s the full briefing?’

  ‘Eight-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘If I don’t make it, I want you to read the Riot Act on this. Somebody in this station is feeding titbits to that journalist. I don’t want anyone on the enquiry with loose lips. Clear?’

  Brook was home late that evening. After the press conference he’d made a conscious effort to clear away some of the unavoidable foot-slogging attached to the case. First he’d read up all that was available on file about Wallis and son, including Jason’s recent brush with notoriety in a back issue of the Derby Telegraph. There were few details and the teacher’s name had been omitted. Brook made a note to chase up the information.

  Noble was out checking a lead on the van used for delivering the pizzas so Brook rang the lab to check if they’d unearthed anything of use at the scene. They had nothing preliminary, which Brook had expected. Things would be gummed up for a while, what with staff shortages and the occurrence of separate murders on the same night.

  Then he rang Dr Habib, the pathologist, and was encouraged to hear that he was performing the Wallis post mortems at that precise moment.

  Finally, he made a brief visit to the Wallis house, this time driving to the Drayfin Estate in his shiny new unmarked Mondeo. On his way he listened to a recently purchased tape of Mahler’s Ninth.

  As he parked, a uniformed officer stepped towards the car to check out the occupant then nodded in recognition, if not respect, at Brook. It was a dark and cold night with a dusting of snow. A good thing. It discouraged the ghouls who gravitated to such gore. Even the reporters were absent, having been given bigger leads to follow by Brian Burton.

  ‘All quiet, Constable…?’

  ‘Feaver, sir. Yes, sir. All quiet.’

  ‘Dark round here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes sir. Most of the street lighting’s been vandalised. Kids.’

  Brook nodded and bent under the police tape. He went into the dying room. It seemed bigger than his first visit but then it was virtually empty now. No corpses cluttering the place. He didn’t go further than the doorway as a SOCO was still working in the room even at this late hour.

  He’d seen everything he needed to the night before. He went into the bedrooms as he had before but, as then, there was nothing of interest. If he looked hard enough he knew he could probably find something incriminating in Jason’s room. But to what end? Brook had never been concerned about small time drug abuse or under age drinking. Even the unpleasant porn videos they’d unearthed under a creaky floor board were of no concern to Brook. All such matters fell under Brook’s Law of Victimless Crime. Although the nation’s legislators disagreed, Brook was unconcerned about citizens sitting at home drifting into a narcotic stupor and masturbating themselves to sleep. Best place for it.

  And whatever Wallis and son got up to in the privacy of their home, legal or not, had not been the motive for their slaughter.

  Eventually Brook sauntered away, like a tourist leaving a disappointing museum, and returned to his car. He paused as he opened the driver’s door and looked across to the house next to number 233. After a moment’s thought he reached into the Mondeo and pulled out the cassette tape of Mahler. ‘Constable Feaver,’ he shouted, waving him over. ‘Have you got a mobile?’

  ‘Mr Singh. It’s DI Brook. Sorry to bother you at this time. We’ve got a few more questions to ask you. May I come in?’

  The slightly-built, middle-aged Asian man lifted a pair of bloodshot eyes towards Brook’s warrant card. He wore an old-fashioned dressing gown and pyjamas. His feet were bare. He hesitated briefly before turning away from the door and leading Brook into his neat living room, a mirror image of the Wallis murder scene on the other side of the wall. The furnishings were perhaps a little fussier and the colours a little brighter but the rooms were essentially the same, even down to the fireplace.

  ‘I told the other detective everything I know. I’m very tired…’

  ‘I understand.’ Brook noted a small but plump valise resting on a chair. ‘Going somewhere, sir?’

  ‘My brother’s house. In Leicester. I’ve…’

  ‘You’ve had trouble sleeping after what you witnessed. I’m not surprised. But if you could find somewhere to stay in Derby it would be better. We need to be able to contact you…’

  Mr Singh sat down on his plush sofa, indicating a chair for Brook. ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you live here alone?’

  ‘My wife and daughters are in India for a few weeks. But yes, I’m alone…’

  ‘A lot of worry, aren’t they?’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘Daughters. A lot of worry. I’ve got a fifteen year old.’

  Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. They can be difficult.’ He wouldn’t look at Brook, who sensed Mr Singh was probably picturing the difficulty Kylie Wallis had encountered next door. Finally his eyes turned to Brook. ‘What questions?’

  ‘Just routine. Like how did you get on with the Wallis family?’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Wallis are…were racists. And their son Jason. They were unpleasant people and we had nothing to do with them.’

  ‘So things were strained between yo
u?’

  ‘Not really. As I said, we had nothing to do with them. We kept out of each other’s way.’

  ‘What about noise from next door? Was that usual?’

  ‘Sometimes. Things got a good bit quieter when they had the baby though. Do you mind if I smoke, Inspector?’

  ‘As long as I can join you,’ replied Brook.

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Singh took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his dressing-gown pocket and lit up with a heavy sigh then studied Brook, wondering why he hadn’t done the same.

  Eventually Mr Singh retrieved his cigarettes, shook one out for Brook and handed him the lighter.

  ‘Thank you. I left mine in the car.’

  ‘No problem. That’s where I’ll have to hide mine when my wife gets home.’

  Brook smiled but resisted the invitation for man talk. ‘What about Kylie?’

  Mr Singh was puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You said Mr and Mrs Wallis and Jason were racists. You didn’t mention Kylie.’

  Mr Singh hesitated for a moment then smiled sadly. ‘She was a lovely girl. Lovely. They didn’t deserve her, the rest of them. They were scum. I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but they were. They were trash and won’t be missed. But Kylie was always nice to my girls.’

  Brook nodded. ‘When you went next door, you went into the living room first and turned off the CD player.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You turned the volume down first?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you aware that Jason was in the kitchen at that time?’

  ‘No. I turned the CD player off then turned the big light on at the wall…’

  ‘You could see to do that?’

  ‘Yes. The hall light was on.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I saw…’ Mr Singh took a more urgent draught of tobacco and hung his head. ‘…then I went to the kitchen to phone 999.’

  ‘You didn’t touch the bodies?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Not even to check for signs of life?’

  ‘No. They were dead. Or I thought they were. I was glad to hear about the baby…’