The Reaper didb-1

by Steven Dunne

Brook rested his eyes for a moment. He listened to the rain lashing against the car and felt it rocking under the wind’s assault.

  He opened his eyes at the sound of a vehicle approaching from the rear. A white two-seater transit van passed by. It had a sign on the door that Brook couldn’t see. A hire van maybe.

  It slowed to a halt in front of Number 12. A figure hopped out. Impossible to see who it was. About Sorensons height and build certainly, but if it was Sorenson he wasn’t in his usual garb. The man was dressed head to foot in black. A black one-piece, overalls probably, black gloves, black sports shoes and, most striking, a black balaclava. Black to hide the blood.

  The figure opened the back doors of the van and skipped up the step to Sorensons house. Obligingly an outside light was turned on and, just to make sure Brook hadn’t missed his entrance, Sorenson pulled off his woollen helmet.

  Even at a distance of fifty yards, in poor light, Brook could see it was Sorenson. But what a difference. The version stood before Brook now was as bald as a billiard ball and, just to emphasise the point, Sorenson ran his hand over and around his shiny pate, feeling the rain on his skull, before disappearing into the house.

  ‘…even a hair follicle falling to the ground could be their undoing.’

  The challenge had been thrown down. DNA sampling. Sorenson had told Brook how he might be caught, that very afternoon in Ravenscourt Gardens, and had shaved his head to prevent it.

  Brook turned his attention to the van. There were things in the back but he could only pick them out in silhouette. One shape could’ve been a coil of rope. He was tempted to nip out and take a closer look but decided against it.

  Sorenson wouldn’t be long if he were leaving the doors open. And there might be a limit on the latitude Brook was allowed. He could take nothing for granted.

  Sure enough, a second later Sorenson reappeared, his black helmet back in place, arched under the weight of the boxed CD player Brook had seen on his previous visit.

  With the boxes safely lodged in the van, Sorenson returned to the driver’s seat and drove away. The rain began to beat down harder as Brook pulled the unmarked squad car out into the road and sped after his prey, trying to maintain discreet distance. It would be difficult. Traffic wasn’t light in such weather. Fortunately Sorenson didn’t drive as fast as most Londoners, perhaps unaccustomed to driving, perhaps to be sure not to lose Brook.

  They headed south. Progress was steady. Across the A4 on the Earls Court Road, on over the Fulham Road then left onto the Kings Road. The van now heading east turned south again towards the river, right onto Beaufort Street and Brook’s pulse quickened as a secret dread began to pull on his gut.

  The van crossed Cheyne Walk and, as Brook had begun to fear, went straight onto Battersea Bridge. No. He wouldn’t let himself think it. Sorenson wouldn’t be so stupid.

  Over the river now and on into the night. Still south. Latchmere Road. Not far now. He hoped he was wrong. He wasn’t.

  Through the lights Sorenson slowed and turned left onto Knowsley Road and drew to a stop outside Brook’s new house. Amy’s house, really, he’d spent so little time there.

  With some difficulty, Brook found a parking space a few cars behind the van. It was all he could do to leave it atthat. His every fibre screamed at him to pull across the van, drag Sorenson out and beat him to a mush.

  He didn’t. He couldn’t. All he could do was sit, paralysed, his fear mounting. He watched the van but no-one got out. Sorenson was just sitting there, waiting. Waiting for what?

  The rain pulverised the bonnet of Brook’s car and his wipers were on top speed. It was hard to see what was happening. And then a panic began to grip Brook. Was Sorenson still in the van or had he got out somehow, using that delicate touch for sneaking around he’d demonstrated before?

  Wild ideas suggested themselves. Was there a hatch in the van, which even now Sorenson could be crawling through, before dragging himself along the blind side of the parked cars to the track which led to Brook’s back garden? Was it possible he was even now in the house?

  Brook couldn’t think straight. He was suddenly hot and panting heavily. Sweat burned his eyes but he brushed it away quickly to avoid lowering his lids. Where was Sorenson? What was he doing?

  Brook tried to keep his eyes on the van but he had to look at the house, just to be sure. He darted an agitated glance at the warm glow behind the living room curtains and suppressed a shiver. There was nobody outside the house. He was sure. But had The Reaper got out of the van? Was he already inside? What was happening to Amy and baby Theresa at this minute? Surely Sorenson wouldn’t…

  Even as he rationalised Sorenson’s behaviour Brook knew he was making a massive assumption. Sorenson was TheReaper, a cold-blooded killer, a man who could execute a child without a second thought. Brook had forgotten. He’d been sucked into Sorensons world and had lost sight of what he was, what he’d done. Perhaps that had been the plan. To lullaby Brook so he could put his family under the knife.

  He had to get out of the car. He had to look. This was his family. He must go look.

  But he couldn’t. Brook was numb, burned onto the seat, drained of energy, of will, his eyes locked onto the van in which he hoped and prayed Sorenson sat. All he could do was hang on. Hang onto that kernel of faith that had taken root in his gut.

  He likes me. We have an understanding. He wouldn’t do that to me.

  Then it hit him and his face contorted with self loathing. He’d betrayed them. His own seed. His family. The wife and daughter he was willing to sacrifice to his faith-his faith in Sorensons need for him and his own hunger to be embraced by Sorensons grand design, to be there at the death, literally or metaphorically, it didn’t matter to Brook.

  With a Herculean effort, Brook managed to raise his arm to the door handle and pull it towards him. It opened but as it did so, Brook saw the tail lights of the van cast their crimson fire over his hand.

  Sorenson was on the move again, pulling out and round the corner, in no particular hurry.

  Brook switched on his ignition but at once turned it off. He slumped forward, head bowed, eyes closed. His faith had been rewarded but at what cost? He was finished as a viable father, husband and human being-at the end ofhis tether. Rowlands had seen it and tried to warn him. Amy too.

  The thought of his beautiful wife forced Brook to sit up. He started the car and set off. As he pulled level with the house he sounded the horn. Once. Twice. Nothing. He made to step out but Amy’s face at the window, peering through the condensation, stopped him. She was safe. The Reaper hadn’t called. Nor would Brook. He couldn’t. He’d forfeited his wife and his daughter to the game. He’d lost them forever.

  He sped away and followed the road back to the main street. He looked right and left. Nothing. Sorenson had lost him. Why? Why had he done that? That wasn’t part of the plan. Think.

  Going south. Always south. Brook turned left and gunned down to the lights just turning red. He slammed his foot to the floor and hurtled across the front of a startled black cab, which came to a skidding halt in the nick of time. Brook looked back in the mirror to be sure only the cab’s horn had sustained damage.

  On he sped. Onto Clapham Common. South. Keep going. Brook knew now why Sorenson had stopped outside his home. The game had softened Brook. He’d been civilised by it, by the genteel adherence to proper behaviour, to rules. That’s why Sorenson had been to his home. To remind him what could happen if he forgot what he was dealing with-The Reaper.

  Brook was angry-angry at the dance Sorenson had led him, angry with himself. He’d been a fool and Sorenson wanted him to know it. That was good. He needed that reminder. It could help him stay sharp. And focused. And hungry. Now he could win.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Brook turned to walk back to Holland Park Avenue. He was going to be late meeting Wendy. Then an impulse overwhelmed him and he crossed the road and hauled on the brass pull of Number 12. He held his breath and listened.

&nbs
p; No music. No sound. Nothing. He was about to turn away when a noise from within made him linger. The door opened.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The woman peered at Brook dubiously. Her voice had a heavy Scandinavian lilt. She looked about fifty years old with short blonde hair, tinted to disguise any grey, wide, clear grey eyes and a clear complexion. She was still a handsome woman and must once have been a great beauty. She held a hand over her eyes to shield them from the low sun.

  ‘Is this Professor Sorenson’s house?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Right.’ Brook was hesitant. He hadn’t expected the house to still be Sorenson’s. ‘I…used to be a friend of his…it was a while ago. I heard the news and came to pay my respects.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ she said without gratitude. She was suspicious, uneasy, gripping the door with one hand. ‘It’s a difficult time.’

  ‘Yes. Are you Mrs Sorenson?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  Brook nodded politely. She didn’t trust him. Why would she? He didn’t trust himself. It was time to get personal. ‘I hadn’t realised Professor Sorenson…Victor had married. He certainly kept that quiet.’ He unfurled a smile that implied her husband had been a lucky son of a gun.

  At the mention of his name, Mrs Sorenson seemed to thaw and she smiled back. ‘Oh no. I’m not Victor’s wife. I’m his sister-in-law. Victor never married.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry. You must be Stefan’s wife then. Widow,’ added Brook, glad he’d reviewed the file a couple of days before. His tone was regretful and he bowed his head in the appropriate manner. ‘I knew Stefan only slightly,’ he lied. ‘A terrible business…’

  At the mention of Sorenson’s brother, the frost returned to his widow’s face.

  ‘Yes.’ She dropped her eyes and a hint of remembered pain clouded her features. Brook was surprised. She hadn’t got over it in all these years. There were others like him.

  ‘How are the children taking it?’ asked Brook, immediately realising that Sorenson’s nephew and niece must be her children.

  ‘Badly. Victor became a father to them.’

  ‘I know.’ Brook had nowhere else to go with this and wished he hadn’t bothered. He looked at his watch, keen to be away from the awkwardness. ‘Well, I must be off. Please accept my best wishes.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She held out a hand, more cheerful now that he was leaving. ‘Mr?’

  ‘Brook. Damen Brook.’ He shook her outstretched hand.

  To Brook’s amazement Mrs Sorenson’s face lit up in a warm smile of recognition that changed her completely. She looked different now, different and yet, somehow familiar. Had he met her in the old days? He didn’t think he had.

  ‘Mr Brook! Why, of course. Victor used to mention you all the time. He was very fond of you, you know.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Yes. You were always in his thoughts and prayers.’

  Brook smiled back with as much warmth as he could manage. ‘And he in mine.’

  ‘Where are my manners? Won’t you come in and have some tea?’ She was positively gushing now and Brook found it unnerving. What had Sorenson said about him? The mention of his name usually had the opposite effect. Perhaps he should send Harry Hendrickson and a few others round for a reappraisal.

  ‘I can’t. Thank you. I have an appointment.’ Brook took a step back to try and close proceedings.

  ‘What a pity. Well, thank you for coming. If Victor were…’ Her lip began to wobble and tears filled her eyes.

  ‘I understand,’ Brook nodded and turned to walk back to the hotel, not noticing the curtain twitch at the porthole window on the second floor.

  ‘Interesting,’ he muttered. His impulsive act had thrown up an intriguing question. Why had Victor Sorenson been handed the responsibility of looking after his brother’s two children after his murder in 1989 when the mother was still around? Or had they just been visiting the night Brook had crept into their room all those years ago? He resolved to find out.

  Wendy Jones looked at her watch as Brook stepped into the piano bar. He caught the gesture and smiled at her not to be embarrassed.

  ‘You’re right. I’m late. Sorry.’

  ‘No need to be. It’s just, twice in one day. It’s not like you. I mean…they say…’ Jones blushed.

  Brook raised an amused eyebrow as he called a waiter over. ‘Really? And what do they say exactly?’

  ‘That you’re always punctual,’ she replied softly, looking at the ground.

  ‘Anything else?’

  Jones paused, then looked up and smiled back. She stared at an invisible list on the palm of her hand. ‘Rich, arrogant, clever, obsessive, no sense of humour, likes old sports cars, difficult to get along with.’

  Brook threw back his head and guffawed. ‘No sense of humour? I resent that.’

  She laughed and her face brightened. It was a heartening sight. Brook was reminded of their night together, recalled having never seen anyone giggle as much as her. Though he’d assumed that was Breezer-induced.

  Jones continued her own reassessment. She’d been misled. He’s just different to other people, she thought. Nothing wrong with that. And the things he’d told her, the things he’d seen. It would make anyone difficult to get along with. It wasn’t surprising he carried the scars. In fact, he should have been more damaged. She felt a brief twinge of desire. He was lost and maybe she was the one to find him.

  ‘So you are rich,’ she accused.

  Brook’s grin faded to a smile as though he was ashamed. ‘It depends how you define rich.’

  ‘Why don’t you define it for me? Harry Hendrickson reckons over a million.’

  ‘Does he? Well, he’s way out. If you really want to know, I sold my flat in Fulham when I got divorced. It made?180,000 profit, all of which I gave to Amy and Terri. Last year I sold the house in Battersea for a profit of nearly?800,000, would you believe?’

  ‘Which you gave to your wife and daughter.’

  ‘No. She’s remarried so we split it. Okay?’

  ‘And you’re paying for the hotel yourself.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Just to take another look at this Sorenson’s house?’

  ‘Right.’ She didn’t seem convinced. ‘Atmosphere, Wendy. It was important to get back the old feeling. No matter how painful. I hope I didn’t embarrass you earlier?’

  ‘No. I understand how you must have felt. This Sorenson sounded very charismatic and you were young.’

  ‘I felt better telling you.’

  There was a lull as both drank their coffee but the awkwardness had gone.

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘Now? It’s too late to see Charlie Rowlands. We’re going to check in with my old station, put out a few feelers and then I’m going to buy you a fantastic dinner.’

  ‘Sounds good. But as you’re down to your last four hundred grand, do you mind if we go Dutch?’

  Brook sat naked on the edge of the bed and pummelled his wet hair as he talked into the phone. DS Ross, a wide boy from Hammersmith nick, was on the other end.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Brook. ‘Married to Stefan Sorenson. He was bludgeoned to death in his home in Kensington ’89. Right. How are you spelling that? S-O-N-J-A Sorenson. Got it. Belle Vue Park Retreat. What is that? Interesting. Four years? Sounds like a sick woman. Yeah. Thanks a lot. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s nothing but you’ll be the first to know if I turn up a connection.’ An impatient pause. ‘I know I’m out of my jurisdiction,’ said Brook. ‘That’s why you’ll hear the moment I find anything. You’ll have to take that up with my Chief Super. Yeah. Yeah. Thanks again.’

  Brook slammed down the receiver. ‘Moron.’ He’d forgotten the contempt the Met had for ‘Hillbillies,’ one of the many insults they hurled at coppers stationed outside the M25.

  Still he had his information. Mrs Sonja Sorenson had spent four years in a ‘retreat’. From 1988 to 1992. Retreat-a sugar-coated name for a mental institution, a
ccording to Ross, though attendance was voluntary, not to mention expensive.

  Her mental problems pre-dated both her husband’s murder and her brother-in-law’s subsequent atrocities. Natural then that after Stefan Sorenson’s murder, responsibility for his children would devolve to Victor.

  And perhaps it was feasible that she knew nothing about Victor’s activities. But four years was a long time. Perhaps she knew what Victor had done. Maybe her husband’s murder, and her brother-in-law’s obsessive search for his killer, and his brutal revenge on Sammy Elphick and family, had prolonged her illness.

  But that still didn’t explain why such a young mother, with two very young children should check into a glorified mental hospital the year before her husband’s death.

  Brook knew he should have delved deeper into Stefan’s murder at the time, but he’d been so preoccupied with the Harlesden killings, and so thrilled to uncover a motive for them, that he hadn’t felt the need to be exhaustive. Perhaps he’d been right. Perhaps there was nothing in it.

  But now he had a bigger problem. He had a dinner date with Wendy Jones and he wasn’t sure what to wear.

  Wendy Jones chewed her final mouthful of baklava with her eyes closed. She swallowed, with an extravagant moan of pleasure, and resisted the temptation to lick the film of honey from her spoon. Instead she sat back, contented, and opened her eyes. Brook watched her, his chin resting on his knuckles, a half-smile playing around his lips. It was good to watch people, young people, enjoying life, satisfying their appetites with no thought other than self-gratification.

  First Vicky, now Wendy.

  The memory of his desperate night with Vicky, brought home to Brook the possibility of carnal pleasures.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Jones.

  Brook filled her glass with wine. ‘Thinking how nice it is to see you eat.’

  ‘Don’t. I’m supposed to be watching my weight.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I’m getting…stocky.’

  Brook took the opportunity to inspect her. It was less embarrassing than showing her he could rely on his memory. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Wendy.’