The Reaper didb-1

by Steven Dunne

  Noble flipped open his notebook. ‘On the morning of the murder, our man, wearing dark glasses and a black baseball cap, hired a white transit from Euro Van in Allenton. He paid cash and gave a false name and had a licence to match. Name of Peter Hera.’

  ‘Hera?’ said Jones.

  ‘Yes?’ Brook queried.

  ‘I don’t know. It seems familiar. Something from Greek mythology.’

  ‘Hera was a goddess of some kind,’ replied Brook. ‘Married to Zeus, I think.’

  ‘Maybe this guy thinks he’s a god,’ offered Rob Morton.

  ‘Could be,’ nodded Brook, trying to sound impressed. Clearly nobody else in the room had ever bothered with crosswords or simple anagrams. He motioned Noble to continue and returned his eyes to the floor as if thinking about the case.

  ‘The van he hired was the same van seen outside the Wallis house on the night of the murders. It hasn’t been seen since. An alert neighbour, Mrs Patel, remembers seeing the white van outside the house and the fact that the driver delivered several flat boxes. She jotted down what she could see of the number plate, it was dark and foggy, remember.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’ asked Aktar. ‘I mean, getting a pizza delivered is hardly suspicious, is it? Even in ASBO-land.’ He permitted himself a satisfied smile at this.

  Noble knew better and kept a straight face even though DI Brook didn’t appear to be annoyed. In fact, Noble wasn’t even sure he was paying attention. He looked as though his mind was elsewhere. ‘To those law-abiding citizens who live on the Drayfin Estate, everything is a potential crime, particularly at night, Constable. Let’s just be thankful Mrs Patel is nosy enough to jot down a partial. We had enough to trace it to Euro Van. Uniform haven’t yet found where it’s been dumped but it shouldn’t take long. We’ve had Traffic review all the relevant footage and there was no sign of it leaving Derby on any of the major routes. It should still be here. We’ve put out a national alert just in case it slipped out on a minor road. Locally we’re concentrating on bus and rail stations…’

  ‘Good thinking, John,’ chipped in Brook. ‘I don’t think our killer’s local but he’s not going to risk driving home in the van. Nor is he going to dump it anywhere there’s obvious CCTV, so look further afield.’ Noble nodded and made a note.

  ‘Do we have a description at all?’ asked DC Bull.

  ‘Nothing useful,’ Noble continued. ‘He was dressed in black overalls, the baseball cap and glasses hid his face. One thing. The neighbour thinks he was small and slim but it was hard to see and there are few working street lights in the area. Euro Van would seem to confirm the description. So we’re looking at around five-six, five-seven, and 140 pounds. Age unsure, but the guy who hired out the van says not young. At least middle aged. But that’s very roughly. He didn’t take much notice.

  ‘We know the mileage of the vehicle when it was hired out but until we find the van, we don’t know how far he’s driven. Nor do we know where he took the van until he was ready to commit the crime. All we know for sure is that at 7.25pm, on the night in question, he drove to the Pizza Parlour on Normanton Lane, being careful to park away from the restaurant, and bought three large pizzas, paying cash. According to the till roll that was at 7.36 exactly…’

  ‘I know you’ll think this is a daft question, sir,’ ventured Aktar, ‘but why take pizzas to the Wallis house? They seem a bit cumbersome. In fact, why take food at all?’

  Brook paused, gathering his thoughts as though he’d been following proceedings. ‘It’s a very good question, Constable. Yes, food’s cumbersome but it has certain advantages. First, because he’s handling food, it allows him to wear disposable gloves without arousing suspicion. I’m certain there’ll be no fingerprints…’ Brook shrugged.

  ‘I see.’ Aktar nodded mechanically.

  ‘He also knows that the whole family will eat hot food immediately,’ added Jones. ‘So whatever drug he’s added to the food will be ingested straight away. That’s good for his schedule. If he brought round drinks as a prize, he can’t be certain the whole family will consume at the same time, never mind that it would be easier to see if it’s been tampered with. You’d be suspicious if a Coke bottle had a broken seal.’

  ‘And people have different drinks, I suppose,’ added Bull, getting into the swing.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Brook, holding his eyes on Jones. ‘He might have to take beer for the parents and Coke for the kids. Maybe the mother doesn’t like beer. He can never be sure. With a pizza, it’s a sure shot for the whole family. It’s relatively bland for a start. He can’t risk curry or Chinese in case somebody doesn’t care for it. And don’t forget they’ll have ordered their favourite toppings when they won the competition.’

  ‘He’s thought about this a lot, hasn’t he, sir?’ said Morton. ‘The cunning bastard.’

  Brook would normally have stamped on such displays of emotion; they were counterproductive to logical thought, but he remembered his own first encounter with barbarous slaughter and let it slide. If Morton was very lucky he might not lose the rage that had been painstakingly squeezed from Brook, year on year.

  ‘Go on, John.’

  ‘Mrs Patel remembers the van pulling up just after 8pm. It’s only a five to seven minute drive from Pizza Parlour so he’s used the intervening time to doctor the food. The killer thinks the whole family will be there, but he’s wrong. Jason Wallis has gone out. Our killer delivers the boxes and then, we assume, he leaves to let the family tuck in. We don’t know if he knows about Jason’s absence but he may have found out.’

  ‘How?’ asked DC Gadd.

  ‘Steering the conversation to check if everyone’s there, pretending the boxes are about to spill if he doesn’t put them down inside the house. There are ways,’ answered Brook. He nodded at Noble.

  ‘Mrs Patel remembers looking again at 8.20 and the van was gone. By then the family are tucking into the pizzas. We’ll find out from Forensics this afternoon what each of them ate.

  Our killer is confident that he can return later and get in without a struggle. The front door has bolts but at that time of night the door would only have been on the latch and any criminal worth their salt can get past an old Yale lock. It’s cold and dark and late when he returns, so he’s unlikely to meet many people. We don’t know if he pulls up to the front of the house in the van. Probably not. Certainly no-one sees him.

  Our best estimate of the time he returns is between 11.00 and 11.30 because the music the killer puts on starts at 11.40 according to the next door neighbour, Mr Singh. Around that time the victims were killed-the PMs may fine tune that but don’t bank on it-and the music is turned up to full volume around midnight so it’s quite a small window with all he has to get done. At half past midnight the neighbour’s had enough and goes round to complain and finds the bodies.’

  ‘One thing, John-it may be nothing-but Mr Singh said the music was turned off some time between twelve and half past, then turned on again which means our killer may have left later than midnight.’

  ‘Why would he turn it off?’ asked Jones.

  Brook shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe he turned it down when Jason came back?’ said Aktar.

  ‘That’s a good thought, Constable. It would explain why Jason heard nothing when he got home.’ Aktar was thrilled with his contribution so Brook tried to let him down gently. ‘There’s just one problem with it.’

  ‘If Jason came back why didn’t he get his throat cut?’ said Jones softly. ‘It wouldn’t have been difficult in his condition.’

  ‘Right!’ said Aktar, trying not to look crestfallen.

  Brook smiled at Jones. ‘Go on, John.’

  ‘So having returned, our killer probably has a small case or bag carrying a bottle of wine, two glasses, a corkscrew-in case the Wallises don’t have one-the murder weapon and-given the careful arrangement of the victims-possibly a camera,’ continued Noble, assuming credit for his superior’s observations. ‘
He may have a change of clothes as well as the Van Gogh poster and a CD of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony. And before you ask, it’s not Bob Marley,’ he added with barely a glance at Brook. ‘Mahler’s a classical…’

  ‘He wrote nine symphonies, his last being the most famous. He was dying and knew it. He wrote it as his own requiem,’ continued Jones. ‘My dad’s a big fan,’ she explained, examining her shoes and missing Brook’s approving smile.

  Noble, chastened, looked at Brook who raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you, Constable Jones,’ said Noble. ‘Okay. Our man re-enters the Wallis household. And if he didn’t know before, he knows now that Jason isn’t there and could return at any moment. So he has to hurry.

  ‘We think he brings the baby downstairs and puts it in the cot. The girl is out cold where she lay, face down on the rug. He cuts the girl’s throat…’

  ‘Not yet, John.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Not straight away. He revives Mr and Mrs Wallis before he kills the girl.’

  ‘He does?’ exclaimed Noble.

  ‘Oh yes. That’s vital. That’s what the wine is for. Remember the tear tracks. It’s important that Mum and Dad watch their daughter die. You can’t teach someone a lesson if they’re not paying attention,’ he added. ‘They watched her bleed out in front of them and knew they were next. That was supposed to be their final sight on earth. That and the Van Gogh poster.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Aktar to nobody in particular. Jones also betrayed an exclamation of disgust although the undertone of anger was what hit Brook. He was impressed.

  ‘I suppose they couldn’t listen to the music or taste the wine if they were unconscious,’ she observed.

  ‘Exactly, Constable.’ The temptation for Brook to call her Wendy was becoming difficult to resist and he saw that she’d noticed it as well. Brook became self-conscious and decided to move things along.

  ‘To finish off for you, John, the killer goes about his work quickly. He’s annoyed because Jason’s not there. And it’s spoiling his vision, his creation, and he doesn’t know when or if he’s coming back. He can’t appreciate his work of art fully. He puts up the poster…’

  ‘What’s that in aid of?’ asked Aktar.

  ‘Probably to tell them he’s better than them because he appreciates art,’ Brook said. ‘Though it’s more likely he’s telling us. Anyway, he revives the parents. It’s not easy because he’s had to use enough juice to put them down and keep them there. He manages it but they can’t stand or call out. Perfect. All they can do is watch as he slices across Kylie’s throat.’

  ‘Doesn’t he revive the girl?’ asked Noble.

  ‘I don’t think so. She’s small and she’ll have felt the effects of the drug more than her parents. And he doesn’t need her to suffer, that’s for the parents. She’s an innocent. But she still has to die. She’s an essential tool for our killer who has no qualms about killing her or desecrating her corpse. So, to rub it in, he cuts her top down the back and cuts the word SAVED below her shoulder blades, while her parents watch.’ Jones and Aktar continued to listen but with heads bowed. The others simply stared at a convenient point on the wall.

  ‘The baby’s been brought down and he uses one of Mum’s lipsticks to write SAVED on its forehead. By now Bobby and Mrs Wallis have started to cry and struggle but can do no more than wriggle and empty their bowels. If he hasn’t put the music on before, he does so now.

  ‘He enjoys the music, but probably not the wine-he’s too intelligent to give us any useable saliva. Then he turns to the parents. I think he does Bobby last. He deserves to wait.

  ‘He cuts the throat of Mrs Wallis and watches Bobby’s reaction as she chokes on her own blood. The spray from her arteries hits Bobby, the carpet, the killer, everything. Maybe he steps back and takes photographs of the last moments, I don’t know. I’m just speculating but that’s what I’d do.’ Jones looked up at him sharply, but Brook was lost in thought. She glanced at the display behind his head, imagining what the killer’s own album might show.

  ‘Finally he turns to Bobby. He watches him struggle and smiles. He waves the scalpel, cut-throat razor, whatever it is, in the air, like a conductor with a baton, and closes his eyes to savour the music. Maybe he talks to him. Listen. You’ll like this bit. Close your eyes. Have a sip of wine. It’s a Nuits St George.’

  Brook stops for a moment as though frozen. Silence. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. Nobody breathes. It’s dangerous to rouse sleepwalkers.

  ‘And after he cuts him?’

  Brook snaked his eyes towards Noble. ‘He waits. Watches. Listens. To life ending. Then he dips his finger into the blood and writes his message on the wall. And it’s done.’

  ‘But because of Jason, he has to hurry.’

  ‘That’s right, Wendy.’ Brook was unaware of the slip. ‘He’ll need to change into fresh clothing or, more likely, take off protective overalls which are covered in blood. He wraps the weapon in his overalls, stuffs everything into his bag, turns the CD up and leaves before the commotion starts. Whoever finds the bodies will see a neatly organised execution posing as a cosy family scene. Minus Jason.’ Brook looked round. ‘Questions?’

  Nobody could think of much to say at that moment. Finally DC Cooper made his first contribution. ‘How does the killer know the Wallis family have a CD player?’

  ‘He doesn’t. Maybe he’s got a small cassette player and a tape as well, just in case. But he can do without the music if he has to.’

  ‘And why kill the girl if she’s innocent?’ Jones asked, taking her hundredth glance at the photographs.

  ‘That’s his MO, Constable. Her death will serve his purpose because it makes the parents suffer so much more. Not only do they have to watch her life end, but they know they’ll be joining her.’

  ‘I don’t get it, sir.’ Aktar’s broad accent made him sound plaintive.

  ‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to.’ Brook kept silent for half a minute. He’d sped through the briefing, feeling the need to get it over quickly so he could be alone but now he felt it necessary to leave a pause for the full impact to sink into his team.

  ‘Now we have a puzzle. There are two survivors. Jason Wallis, who should have been there…’

  ‘Lucky bastard,’ muttered Jones.

  ‘…and baby Bianca who was. Question. Why take the trouble of bringing the baby down from its…’ Brook looked at the ceiling in self-admonishment, ‘her bed, to complete the family gathering and yet not kill her?’

  Noble glanced at Jane Gadd. He knew that Brook would already have the answers but he sensed an opportunity to impress her. ‘It could be an act of mercy on the part of the killer to show himself in a better light. Make us think he’s not an animal.’ Noble paused, trying to appear spontaneous. ‘And also he knows the baby can’t identify him.’

  ‘True,’ nodded Brook. He put his hands in his pockets and allowed discomfort to linger to remind his audience of the need to think. He became aware that Jones wanted to fill the vacuum.

  ‘Sir,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I know this might sound a bit weird but…I get the impression that he doesn’t enjoy the killing. Even the parents.’

  Noble kept silent but drew in a mocking breath. Aktar felt obliged to smile weakly so he could keep a foot in both camps. Morton, Cooper, Bull and Gadd turned to Jones with varying degrees of confusion etched on their faces.

  Brook just stared. ‘Go on, Constable.’ The inquisitive tone removed the smile from Noble’s mouth.

  ‘Well sir, they all died quickly and relatively painlessly, after they’d served their purpose. You said the girl died first and was probably unconscious when he cut her throat. Her purpose wasn’t to suffer but make the parents suffer. He wants them to suffer a lot but even then it’s mental torture. They die just as quickly as the girl. Their real ordeal is to watch their children die.’

  ‘But the baby’s alive!’ protested Noble, looking at Brook for support that didn’t arrive.

  ‘Okay. But
if he’s already killed the girl, they’ll think he’s going to kill the baby as well,’ continued Jones. He only has to pretend. He bends over the carry cot to make it look like he’s going to cut the baby, just to turn the screw. But they can’t see. He doesn’t need to do it to make them suffer, so he doesn’t. That’s why he brought the baby down and that’s why he didn’t kill it. Her.’ Jones halted, suddenly uncertain. ‘Is that too simplistic, sir?’

  Brook smiled. He wanted to clap but for Noble’s sake he had to be non-committal. ‘An interesting idea, Constable. Worth thinking about.’ He arched an eyebrow at Noble, who registered it with satisfaction. Brook hoped Jones wouldn’t see but his hope was in vain and he saw her colour rising.

  ‘As you’ve got your thinking cap on, Constable, answer me this. Why this family?’ His attempt to throw her a bone failed. The damage was done. Blank faces greeted Brook’s hardest question. Jones just looked at the floor, her face a mix of emotions.

  ‘It was thanks to you, PC Jones. You put me on the right track.’ She perked up a little but Brook could see she wouldn’t forget his slight for a long time. ‘I realise motive is hard to fathom for this sort of crime but believe me, although we can’t see it, serial killers have strong reasons for apparently random killings.’

  ‘Serial killer?’ PC Aktar exclaimed. ‘In Derby?’

  ‘You’re right, Constable. They’re rare in this country but they exist. Shipman, Sutcliffe.’ He turned to Noble next. ‘How do we know it’s a serial, John?’

  ‘The organisation,’ Noble said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘The selection of appropriate victims.’ Noble looked pleased with himself but not with Brook’s response.

  ‘Well remembered. Although the Wallis family seem to be randomly selected, they’re not. I think Jason Wallis was the reason for this crime. Constable Jones pointed me in the right direction.’ Brook continued to check her demeanour for signs of forgiveness. There were none. ‘Ironic then that he should escape his fate.’

  ‘Why is Jason the main target, sir?’ enquired Aktar.