by Steven Dunne
Gadd and Noble stood by the car talking in low tones. Brook directed Jason to it. DC Gadd prepared the cuffs.
‘There’s no need for that, Constable. He’s no longer under arrest. Take Jason and Mrs Harrison home.’
‘Yes sir.’ She opened a door and Jason scrambled inside. Carly Graham got in beside him, clucking and patting and talking in low tones designed to bring comfort.
As DC Gadd drove away, Brook looked after her. ‘Nice girl that. You should ask her out, John.’
‘Not my type,’ he replied. ‘So young Wallis is off the hook?’
‘Not completely. We may still need to interview him. About the drugs and the cash. But it’ll keep.’
Brook walked up the path towards the neat red brick semi, admiring the garden as he went. The house was for sale but it was clear from the loving care that had gone into the garden that the move was a reluctant one. He glanced next door at the two decaying cars perched on piles of bricks in the front yard, a large black and white cat watching Brook and Noble from the bonnet of one.
Brown paint peeled from a front window. A grimy curtain blocked the view into the house, sparing further blushes, if shame the residents felt.
The contrast with the house Brook approached now was stark. The Ottomans were clearly proud of their little empire and had done a lot with what they had, a corner house with a larger than average garden.
The small lawn was manicured and the flowerbeds were free of weeds. The hedges were trimmed, save the one that adjoined the neighbouring property, which had been allowed to grow tall to blot out the view. The garage was in a good state of repair too, with newly painted doors. A shiny Nissan snuggled between the open doors and a Volkswagen sat on the drive, minus its badge.
Even the gate, which Noble was now closing behind him, had been carefully maintained. It opened and closed without a sound save the click of the latch. As Brook neared the house, a slight man, about five-six, mid-forties, was scrambling to his feet with a small basket of weeds, pulled from cracks between the stone flags of the path. He looked round at Brook’s approach.
‘Mr Ottoman?’
The man narrowed his eyes against the wintry sun. He nodded as he spoke. ‘Ay. And you’d be the police I suppose.’
‘DI Brook, and this is DS Noble,’ said Brook offering his ID which Ottoman took longer than was polite to examine.
‘You’re here about the Wallis murders.’
‘What makes you say that, sir?’ inquired Noble.
‘Well you showed bugger all interest in what that bastard, Jason Wallis, did to my Denise so unless you’ve come about some other…’
‘Quite right, sir,’ Brook interrupted. ‘We’ve come about a crime that’s been committed, Mr Ottoman. Not one that’s been threatened.’
‘Threatened? That bastard…’
‘Can we go inside, sir?’ asked Noble with counterbalancing charm. ‘We shouldn’t be discussing this outside.’
Mr Ottoman hesitated and then gave in to a lifetime’s training. ‘I’m sorry. Yes. It’s been a difficult time. Come in. My wife…She hasn’t…she’s been under a lot of strain.’
‘Of course she has, sir. We understand.’
‘She’s not been back to work then?’ inquired Brook, still looking around. He glanced at the upper storey of the house in time to see a curtain fall.
‘She’s signed off until after Easter, Inspector. She’s had a nervous breakdown. You’ve no idea what that’s like.’ Brook allowed himself a thin smile and sneaked a glance at Noble to check his reaction. There was none.
Ottoman showed them through a small spotless kitchen and into the equally well-ordered lounge then went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Denise. We’ve got visitors.’
Brook and Noble sat and waited. Denise Ottoman evidently came down the stairs, Brook could hear the descending chord of each step, but she declined to come into the lounge. Instead she went into the kitchen to her husband. After some hushed conversation, she emerged a moment later behind Mr Ottoman, carrying a tray of four cups.
She was a plain woman of about forty, a little taller than her husband. Her hair was dark and long with grey flashes and was swept to the back of her head and held by a grip. She wore slacks and loafers with large socks crumpled around her ankles and a very baggy woollen polo neck, which completely swallowed any figure she might have had.
All the while her husband’s eyes followed her progress, like a new parent monitoring the first faltering steps of an infant.
Denise Ottoman placed the tray on a coffee table, declining, at first, to look up from the floor. Until she discovered her cigarettes were missing. Then her face became frantic and she cast her eyes around the room for them, a rising panic bubbling to the surface of her emotions.
Brook recognised the symptoms. The shock of innocence removed in one brutal corruption, her vision of the world soiled and crumbled to dust at her feet. She now had ‘victim’ written all over her, though not in red lipstick. Brook had seen it all too often and reached swiftly into Noble’s pocket to offer her one of his cigarettes.
She looked up at him now with her red-rimmed eyes, grateful. ‘Thank you.’ She lit up and they all sat at Mr Ottoman’s bidding. Denise Ottoman coughed up smoke as elegantly as she could. She was not a smoker.
‘What can we do for you?’ asked Mr Ottoman. He looked at Brook and then at his wife in turn. Brook stared back at Ottoman and waited for Noble to speak.
‘Well, sir, we just wanted to…’ Noble’s pre-arranged hesitation worked perfectly. Brook was a fine teacher.
‘You want to know if I’ll confess to the Wallis murders. Am I right?’
Brook smiled. ‘Not at all.’
‘Then why are you here?’ asked Mrs Ottoman. Her voice was little more than a squeak.
Brook turned his gaze to her. His voice exuded a detachment he didn’t feel. ‘We’re here to eliminate you from our enquiries, Mrs Ottoman.’ She looked away and Brook felt her pain. He didn’t enjoy this but it was his job. To be sure he got the truth he always pushed people as hard as he could, even when convinced of their innocence. ‘Although you have a powerful motive for wishing harm on Jason Wallis, and possibly Mr Wallis, we’re certain you or your husband didn’t commit murder. But there are formalities. We’d like you to tell us where you both were on Monday night so we can close the book on it.’
‘We were here, Inspector.’
‘All night?’ chipped in Noble.
‘Of course all night, Sergeant. Where would we go on a Monday night in winter, in Derby?’
‘Just the two of you?’
Ottoman looked at his wife who resumed her examination of the floor. ‘Just the two of us.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘Do, Inspector?’
‘Yes.’
‘We watched television.’
‘All night?’
‘All night. Every night.’
‘What did you watch?’ asked Noble.
Ottoman smiled for the first time. For Noble it was an odd thing to do. But Brook recognised the impulse behind it.
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. You see, when I say we watched television, what I mean is my wife sits on the sofa sobbing herself to sleep, unable to let me near her. And I sit here staring at the TV, unblinking, not listening, not taking notice of what’s on, not even realising it is on. It’s just white noise to me but more comforting than hearing my wife cry or the sound of blood throbbing in my ears.’
Denise Ottoman ran from the room. Brook heard the soft gulping noise trail into the kitchen before giving way to a more vivid wailing. Noble stirred to go after her but Brook stopped him with a motion of his hand.
‘Do you understand? There’s nothing else we can do. We can’t go out, we can’t have friends round. We can’t have a bloody life. I can’t even go to work without Denise ringing me to say she’s heard a noise…’
‘I see…’
‘No you don’t see, Inspector. You don’t know what tha
t animal did to her.’
‘She was threatened, sir,’ chipped in Noble, at once seeing the reproving look on his superior’s face.
‘Threatened? My wife is on tranquillisers. That bastard got her by the throat and pushed her back onto the desk. Then he forced himself on top of her, laughing, running his hands over…’
‘I’m sorry.’ Noble’s attempt to retrieve the situation was in vain.
‘My wife was terrified. She couldn’t move. She could feel him…lying on her…ready…’ Mr Ottoman looked down at the floor and wrung his hands. His voice had softened as though he were confessing to a priest. He looked up briefly. ‘He would have, you know, if…’
‘You don’t have to relive this, Mr Ottoman. You’ve told us where you were. That’s all we came for.’
There was a long silence before Ottoman could manage, ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. When things like this force their way into your life it can be a shock to the system. You will get over it. Trust me.’
‘Get over it?’
Brook looked at Noble, inviting him to get up but Ottoman’s voice made him pause.
‘Do you know what the worst thing was?’
‘Tell me.’
‘When he was on top of…my…wife…he turned to the other kids, kids Denise has known and helped, some of them for years, and said, ‘Who’s after me?’ And you know what they did? They laughed. They laughed and cheered. They thought it was funny. Even the girls. Maybe they were just glad it was her and not them, I don’t know but…what’s happening to people, Inspector? At the risk of sounding Victorian, things…it didn’t used to be like this. What happened?’
‘I don’t know.’
All this time Ottoman had been staring into space. Now he engaged Brook’s eyes. ‘She can’t go back, you know. Twenty years of her life and she can never go back. Never. Can you imagine it? Standing in front of that bunch of animals, trying to help them. Can you imagine the message that sends? Can you? Yeah. Fuck me over any way you want. I’m a teacher. I’ll take it because I’m worthless.’ He paused for a second and ran his fingers through his hair before looking back at Brook. ‘Sorry. There’s no excuse for that language.’
‘Don’t be. We’re not nuns.’
Ottoman laughed without mirth. ‘Do you want to know another thing? That piece of shit could be back at school the week after next if the appeal goes his way, which it will, after what’s happened. Sympathy vote.’
Brook stood with an air of finality, Noble following suit. ‘I see no reason to trouble you again, Mr Ottoman. I’m sorry for the intrusion. Thanks for the tea.’
‘Inspector.’ Ottoman remained seated, looking at the floor. ‘Is it true what the papers said? About poor Kylie, I mean. Having her throat cut.’
‘Yes but she didn’t…’ Noble was cut short by his superior’s interruption.
‘Didn’t stand a chance. It was a terrible sight.’ Mrs Ottoman was standing by the door now, wrestling a handkerchief around white knuckles. She gave a little whimper. Mr Ottoman was grave and narrowed his eyes in a good approximation of suffering. ‘She begged for her life but it didn’t do any good. I shouldn’t be telling you this.’ Brook hoped that under their current level of stress the Ottomans wouldn’t spot such an obvious lie. They didn’t show it if they did.
Mrs Ottoman looked at her husband who shook his head. ‘Poor kid,’ he said with a sigh. ‘She didn’t deserve that. Not when her brother is still alive. Her classmates are devastated, absolutely devastated.’
‘Classmates?’ inquired Brook with an arch of the eyebrow.
‘Yes. I’m her teacher, as you know. Was her teacher.’ He corrected himself. Brook glanced at Noble without expression. Noble was less able to hide his surprise. ‘Well, one of them. Not her form teacher. She’s in my literacy group. I teach at Drayfin Lane Primary, when I’m not on leave to look after my wife.’ He held out an arm for her to slip under which she did after the briefest indecision.
‘Yes.’ Brook nodded. ‘Devastated.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Noble in the car.
‘Ottoman teaching Kylie Wallis? Interesting coincidence. Though that’s probably all it is.’
‘There’s something wrong about those two, don’t you think?’
‘They’re married, John. What could possibly be right?’
Noble emitted a curt laugh. ‘I don’t mean that, sir. I mean…’
‘I know what you mean. You mean the house and the garden.’ Brook nodded absent-mindedly.
Noble covered his blank look well but when Brook refused to elaborate he had to concede his ignorance. ‘What about them?’
‘So neat. Well organised.’
Chapter Eleven
Brook closed the door to his flat with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was grateful for the chance to cut himself off from the world, on the other, secretly dreading the invasion of private thoughts. Poor Terri. He’d barely thought about his daughter all day, cut his emotions off at the knees, absorbing himself in his work until he could do no more. What kind of father was he?
But now he was home, alone with nothing else to distract him, at the mercy of images of his daughter and her stepfather. His daughter, little Terri, in bed…
Brook pressed the play button on the flashing answering machine. Someone had called but there was no message. He tried 1471 and recognised the Brighton code although it wasn’t the Harvey-Ellis home number. He dialled and waited.
‘This is Hall Gordon Public Relations. Our office hours…’
Brook rang off and re-dialled. ‘Who’s that? DC Morton. Can you get me an address? It’s in Brighton. Hall Gordon Public Relations. I’ll hold.’ He grabbed a pen and paper. A few moments later he jotted it down and replaced the receiver.
He thought for a moment, staring at the address then made a decision. He looked round for the folder he’d been reviewing the night before and suddenly realised, with a jolt, it was gone. He’d left it on the table, next to the phone. There was a note instead.
Thanks again for your generous offer. I’ve nipped out for some food (you’ve only got penicillin cultures in the fridge) and I’ll do the cooking. My treat.
Vicky.
P.S. Love the cat.
Now Brook saw the girl’s carpetbag on the sofa. He’d forgotten about his spur-of-the-moment offer that morning. Stupid! Or perhaps he’d been shrewd. Perhaps he’d invited her to share the lonely hours, deflect him from himself and thoughts of his daughter. And it wasn’t all bad. She loved Cat and she was intelligent. She could spell penicillin and use apostrophes. Most young people whose writing Brook encountered, petty criminals and fresh-faced coppers, ground out statements like they were pulling teeth. Even then Brook would have to skip through them and correct all the text message spellings. Apostrophes were something to sling on any word ending in s. Just in case. In a few years the English language would be dead. Ageing rappers would be the new English teachers. 4 shore.
Brook saw the folder on the floor next to the sofa and leapt over to it. A cursory check revealed nothing missing-as far as he could tell. There’d been a lot of loose stuff in there-he might have forgotten. At least Laura’s necklace was there. He took it out of the folder and put it in his trouser pocket, then slipped the address he’d jotted down into the front of the straining folder.
Brook felt ashamed. He was getting old. Paranoid. Of course she’d moved it. She’d shifted everything but the phone, ready for a meal. There were Brook’s two spoons and forks-from odd sets-two glasses, one with a stem, the other a tumbler, looking as though they’d been cleaned, of all things. She’d also brought in the salt and pepper, a cheap, if matching set he’d filched from the canteen.
Brook went to his room and threw the folder onto his bed then pulled a small suitcase from underneath. He opened it and tossed in sufficient clothes for a two-or three-night stay. For once he took a little more care over his selection without really understanding why. Finally he closed the case, took it out t
o the Mondeo and, with a guilty glance over at the Sprite, slipped it into the boot along with his bulging file. The old thing wouldn’t have made it down the M1. Not in a million years. He wasn’t betraying the old bucket, he was saving it.
He smiled at this justification. Only children attributed personality to inanimate objects-like a little girl with a doll. The image returned him to Terri but, just as quickly, he pushed her away again.
Before he closed the boot, Brook took out the two slim folders from Dr Habib and put them in his room-a little light reading for the early hours.
There was another folder from the Forensics lab. He left it where it was. He’d already had the potted version. The wine glasses were clean and too common to be traceable to a particular shop. Serology confirmed that there were no traces of saliva in the wine, other than the Wallis parents.
There were no fingerprints in the blood on the wall and no glove prints. The killer wore latex gloves, which on rare occasions can be identified by the microscopic imperfections built into them during manufacture. But, of course, they needed the gloves to obtain a match.
Minute traces of talcum powder, to stop hands becoming too sweaty, were found around the room and on the victims, confirming the use of gloves. If delivering food, nobody would notice the difference between those and looser, food-handling gloves.
The story was the same with other fibres and hair. There was an abundance of foreign samples and several hairs different to the victims, but without fibres or hairs from the killer, a match couldn’t be made. It would take weeks just to separate and identify the many different samples, with no telling how long ago they were deposited on the victims or in the house. Until a suspect was identified or an arrest made it was just a case of bureaucratic evidence collection and going through the motions.
Footprints were the same. There were dozens-so many marks across the film of blood particles on the carpet that they were almost indistinguishable. There were blood traces in the downstairs corridor and the path but these too had been compromised by other shoe patterns.
