by Steven Dunne
Disconsolate, he pulled up to the red light on the South Circular, at the crossroads of Brixton Hill. An hour ago he would have run the lights but now the urgency was gone. It was late. Near midnight. The tension of the chase had evaporated, the search fizzled out. Even the rain was stopping.
Brook had lost the game. He’d lost to Sorenson. He’d lost to The Reaper.
The lights turned and Brook drove on. He hung a left towards the city, intending to take a long loop through Brixton, back up to Clapham and home. It was over. Time to let go.
Home. Then a thought-an icy hand of dread squeezed his heart. What if he’d been tricked? Sorenson had lost him and then doubled back towards Amy and baby Theresa. They were alone. Helpless.
Brook blinked to gather his thoughts and get his bearings. Which way? He’d just missed the turn-off by Brixton Town Hall. Now he’d have to turn up by the Academy and gun it down there.
Brook changed down and floored the accelerator. As he did so, something caught his eye and he jumped onto his brakes and slithered to a halt. On the opposite side of Brixton High Road, Brook stared dumbstruck at a street sign. He gazed at it. Electric Avenue.
‘There could even be an electric storm. Very rare. Yes, sparks are going to fly.’
Brook stared on, his mind churning. A cabbie pulled past, glaring and gesticulating.
Finally Brook pulled into the outside lane and swung right, up towards Brixton Market, now deserted except for discarded fruit and vegetable boxes. He parked underneath the arches opposite the eastern end of Electric Avenue.
Brook’s family were forgotten. The hunt was back on. He leapt from the car and padded down the street.
Chapter Twenty-two
Jones woke from her third uncomfortable night in the armchair to the sound of the gulls feeding on dawn crabs. It took her a moment to realise where she was, before the pain in her back reminded her. She’d spent the whole weekend in vigil, watching Brook sleep, feeding him rum when he roused briefly, sneaking out for half an hour of exercise in the evening or a bite of toast in the morning. Now it was Christmas Eve and, like it or not, she’d have to try and find a doctor. This couldn’t go on. She couldn’t endure another night in that chair.
She looked at her watch. Gone eight. She shifted her position but it didn’t help. She sat forward and pulled the curtain aside and a finger of grey light crept into the room. Then she saw the crumpled bed. Brook wasn’t on it. She sat up, wincing at the pain in her lower back, and stood to stretch her legs. Where was he?
The noise of the shower offered first comfort, then anxiety.
She lifted a hand to tap on the bathroom door then stopped. There was an unusual noise coming from the bathroom. It was so commonplace, yet so unexpected, that Jones could only stand and listen, a baffled expression creasing her face.
No. There was no mistake. Someone, presumably Detective Inspector Damen Brook, was whistling. In fact, more than that, he was breaking into song as well.
Jones was worried. She raised her hand again but, as she did, the water stopped. A second later the door opened and Brook stood before her, one towel round his waist and another being rubbed vigorously through his thinning hair.
‘Morning, Wendy. Shower’s free.’ He beamed at her.
‘Thanks.’ She continued to examine Brook for signs that all was not well. ‘Are you alright, sir?’
‘Never better, Wendy. Never better.’
‘Good. It’s just that for the last few days…’
‘I know. I’m the weak silent type.’ He smiled as he came over to hold her shoulders then stooped to kiss her on the cheek. ‘I can’t thank you enough. In fact, I can never repay you for what you’ve done for me. Now hurry and get cleaned up. I’m starving.’
Brook buttered his fifth piece of toast and devoured it with the same gusto as he had the others. He poured himself another tea and sat back to enjoy the view out of the window and lick the butter from his fingers. The food on the table had been annihilated. Two full English breakfasts, both eaten by Brook, had followed two mini-packs of cereal and several unsanctioned refills of economy orange juice.
Brook purred as he picked at his teeth.
‘You eat like a condemned man.’
Brook smiled. ‘On the contrary, I’ve been reprieved.’
Jones drained her tea and excused herself for a few minutes. When she returned to the dining room and sat down, Brook followed her progress, not hiding his attraction. She smiled back at him, still puzzling over the enigmatic grin, now a permanent fixture on his face.
‘Let me guess. Charlie?’
‘Still the great detective.’
‘It wasn’t difficult. Navy rum with sugar. Doctor Rowlands’ Miracle Cure All. I suppose he said I don’t drink enough.’
‘He says you’re in denial.’
‘He may be right. But if so I recommend it.’
‘The Chief Super rang him. If we don’t get in touch, we’re off the case. That was two days ago.’
‘I’m off the case. I won’t let her tar you with the same brush.’ Jones pulled a face. ‘What? I can handle McMaster. Trust me, Wendy.’
‘So you’re going to speak to her?’
‘Eventually, but not on the phone. I’ve got an errand to run in town then we can head back to Derby.’ Without irony he added, ‘Home.’
Brook turned to give Jones a final reassuring wave then pushed his way into the smoked glass of the revolving door.
On the fourth floor he was ushered into a swish outer office and asked to wait. Leather sofas, soft lighting, tinted windows, tasteful, understated Christmas decorations. PR was clearly a good business to be in.
A colour co-ordinated brunette strode confidently towards him, default smile in place. Her hair was flawless, her teeth blue-white and her make-up without blemish.
‘I’m Mr Harvey-Ellis’ secretary. Can I help you?’
‘Yes I’d like to see him.’
‘Is he expecting you, Mr…?’
‘Detective Inspector Brook. By now, I would say, yes. Ms Gibbs,’ beamed Brook, scrutinising her nametag.
Ms Gibbs seemed unsure. She disappeared for a moment then returned. ‘I’m afraid he’s in a meeting at the moment and can’t be disturbed.’
‘You astonish me.’
‘We’re closing at lunchtime, we’re very busy. It’s Christmas Eve. But if you’d like to wait…’
‘No. I’d hate that. I’m easily bored. You trot along and tell him to disturb his meeting or I’ll come along and disturb it for him.’
Ms Gibbs stood open-mouthed, darting her Siamese eyes around the reception area in the vain hope that someone would come to her assistance. ‘I…’
‘Still here?’
At this Ms Gibbs turned and scuttled away. Brook followed her into another office.
Unaware of him, she paused to compose herself outside a large pair of doors sporting the sign ‘Conference One.’ She brushed herself down, as though in the twenty seconds between the reception area and the conference room she’d been strewn with litter, and knocked timidly on the door before entering. Brook marched in behind her.
Perhaps a dozen people sat at the long polished table. Twelve pairs of eyes moved their curious gaze from the flustered Ms Gibbs to the encroaching Brook.
Only one person was standing, furthest from Brook, a burly man, an inch or two shorter than Brook, with a heavy-set face, partially obscured by thick wavy black hair. The jacket from his expensive suit had been discarded onto the back of a chair and he stood in shirtsleeves and loud braces. He had a pointer in one hand and stood to the side of a data projector. It was Tony Harvey-Ellis.
Only his eyes didn’t engage Brook with curiosity. Only his eyes didn’t bore into Brook’s granite expression with a mixture of annoyance and interest. In fact, he didn’t look at Brook at all. Terri must have poured it all out to him and now Tony stood on the scaffold of his own folly, resigned to his fate. Humiliation? Violence? Arrest? Perhaps all three. Resignation
flowed from his every pore. No fear, just a hint of sorrow perhaps. Sorrow for the end of self-esteem, the end of a persona carefully constructed for others.
In those few seconds Brook almost felt sorry for the man. Then he remembered Amy. Poor Amy. Her world would fall apart again. Only one thing was a consolation to Brook at that moment-the thought that soon, perhaps today, his star would begin to rise in Amy’s eyes again. It was an unworthy thought but it caused him no guilt. In fact, he liked the idea. Without wishing to, Amy would have to reassess her previous marriage in the light of damning new evidence against her current arrangements. There was no way back for Brook and Amy but it was nice to think of their history together being rewritten, if just a little.
A distinguished man in his fifties, with thick grey hair, stood to take charge of proceedings. ‘Can I ask what the hell you think you’re doing?’
‘No you can’t.’ Brook beamed at him in such a polite manner it caused an immediate tremor of unease.
‘Look here…’
‘Sit down.’
‘Ms Gibbs. Call the police.’
‘The police are here, PR man,’ said Brook. ‘Tony Harvey-Ellis.’ He looked at Brook now, a grim smile glued to his face. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brook. I’d like to speak to you in connection with several serious offences, including the corruption of a minor and rape.’
Gasps exploded round the room. Tony’s smile faded. He nodded at nobody in particular. He certainly didn’t acknowledge any of his colleagues, now turned towards him, jaws sagging.
‘Must we do this here, Damen?’ His voice was calm.
‘Do what?’ Brook’s air of bewilderment was over the top, as was his subsequent embarrassment. ‘Oops. Silly me. Have I been indiscreet? Have I said the wrong thing? Me and my big mouth. Then let’s go to your office, Tony.’ Brook turned to the throng as he made to walk out. ‘Everyone just forget I said anything.’
Brook waited for Tony outside the conference room and let him pass. Tony led Brook to another door and they went into his private office. As Tony closed the door behind Brook, a dozen faces looked on from the safety of the conference room.
When they were alone Tony turned to face Brook, flinching at the expected blow but not preparing to defend himself.
‘Do you think I’ve come here to hit you, Tony?’
‘I don’t know. I only know I’ve been a shit. I deserve it.’
‘You want me to hurt you, don’t you?’
‘No, I…’
‘Course you do. You think you’ll feel better. You’ll think you’ve had your punishment.’
‘No.’
‘Well I’m not making it that easy for you. Not a chance. Nothing you can say will make me hurt you.’
‘Listen, Damen, it just happened, I didn’t plan it this way…’
Brook took a one step run up and kicked Tony in the crotch. He collapsed to the deep shag carpet like a slaughtered cow, doubled in agony. His breath came in harsh rasps. And Brook circled him without expression.
‘Now look what you’ve made me do. That’s not what I wanted at all, but you’re too clever for me. And now you’re feeling a lot better and I feel like a fool.’ Brook ambled to the window and looked out across the bay. ‘Nice view.’
Tony was still panting hard but not as violently as before. ‘Do what you want to me. It won’t change what’s happened. We still love each other.’
Brook pursed his lips, his body rigid with effort. ‘Does Amy know?’
‘No, and she’s not going to, not from me anyway.’
‘She’ll find out, Tony. Sooner or later. Terri’s a young girl. You took her virginity. She can’t lock that sort of thing away forever. Not from her mum.’
Tony started sobbing. Finally he said, ‘I’ve ruined everything.’
Brook smiled and pulled him up onto a chair, patting him on the back. ‘Yes you have. But you see, that’s self-knowledge right there. That’s a good thing. I’ve discovered, and you’ll find the same, that if you can acknowledge your mistakes, if you can put your hand in the air and say, ‘I screwed up,’ it only takes ten, maybe fifteen years to get over it.
‘Now here’s what you’re going to do, Tony. When I leave, you’re going to pull yourself together and you’re going to ring Amy. You’re going to arrange to meet her in town for lunch at your favourite restaurant. Tell her you’ve got a promotion or a big salary increase, she’s bound to believe a slick salesman like you…’
‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her after this.’
‘That’s good, because you’re not going to. While she’s out, you’re going to slip back home, pack your bags and leave Brighton. Today.’
‘What?’
‘That’s right. Today. And you’re not ever going to come back.’
‘What about Amy?’
‘You’ll never see her or Terri again. And don’t worry. You’ve seen how well Amy gets over failed marriages. She can look after herself. She’s got her own money. And some of yours.’
‘Where will I go?’
‘I don’t care, Tony-as long as you go for good. Clear?’
‘But my life’s here…’
‘Not any more.’
‘It was an accident. I’ll talk to Terri. She’ll understand…’
Brook grabbed Tony by the collar and forced his face into eye contact. ‘No, you have to understand, Tony. If you don’t leave I’ll have you arrested. You’ve broken the law and you can go to prison. You wouldn’t like prison, Tony. It’s not for people like you. Especially if people get the idea you’re some kind of nonce. And believe me they will. You’ll feel like you’ve had a Giant Redwood shoved up your arse.’
Brook released him and he slumped onto the floor. After a long pause for thought, Tony sighed with resignation. ‘Alright, I’ll leave.’ With that, his face crumpled and he cried like a smacked child. Brook picked him up and patted him again.
‘Good. That wasn’t hard was it? And don’t ever come back. Not ever. Understand?’
Brook gave Tony a friendly slap on the face and stood to walk cheerily out of the office, being sure to leave the door ajar for inquisitive spectators to get a clear sight of Tony’s humiliation.
‘Merry Christmas.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Brook sat in his kitchen, drinking coffee and watching Cat vacuum his way through a plate of prawns, the traditional peace offering after being left to survive on the cheap cat food provided by Mrs Saunders while he was away. It had been five days since his return and one since his subsequent suspension-a month, on full pay.
‘The least I can give you,’ McMaster had said. ‘It’s out of my hands. DI Greatorix has taken over the Wallis enquiry.’
She’d seemed genuinely sorry, though it was difficult to be sure. Perhaps the best indicator of her state of mind were the telltale signs of neglect in her beloved spider plant.
‘Don’t worry, ma’am. I understand. I need to get away.’
‘A holiday?’ She looked him in the eye to check he was serious. ‘That’s fine, Damen. I envy you. Have a good rest and we’ll see you soon, fit and well.’
A holiday. Hardly that. But no matter. Now he was free. Free to dig deep. Free to do what he should have done all those years ago, what he would’ve done had he not been so blinkered, so certain.
All that remained was to be sure Jones was untainted by his folly and, by the time he left the Chief Super’s office, McMaster was in no doubt that WPC Jones had acted properly at all times and had even tried to object to some of DI Brook’s decisions.
As a result, Jones didn’t even receive a reprimand, just a quiet word, ‘one girl to another,’ as McMaster had put it.
But that was as good as it would get for Jones. Brook knew she could expect a harder time from colleagues. Nothing could stop the avalanche of comment from the rest of the station about their missing nights together in a seedy Brighton guest house.
It began for Brook as soon as he walked through the front door. He�
�d slipped into the station early that first morning, hoping to avoid the worst. But Harry Hendrickson was at the front desk when he arrived and his face broke into a malicious grin.
‘Well if it ain’t Romeo. Juliet still in bed is she, lover boy?’ he’d said with a smirk. ‘She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not,’ he crowed at Brook’s retreating back, before turning to PC Robinson for approval.
And this time Hendrickson wasn’t the lone source of barbs. Everyone in the division felt they had a contribution to make and lost no opportunity to present their material. A group of fresh-faced constables sang Dirty Old Man under their breath before subsiding into a hum. Others, WPCs in particular, not wishing to lower themselves to crudity, just giggled.
Even Greatorix had joined in, going out of his way to deliver the odd wisecrack, though for the most part he was content just to be smug. And why not? It didn’t get much better for a low-flyer like Bob Greatorix. Revenge was rarely so swift and so sweet and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to twist the knife-revenge for Brook’s superiority, revenge for his insinuations in the canteen, revenge for all Brook’s advantages-his money, his brains, his healthy glands.
But, to the annoyance of his detractors, Brook was at peace with the world. Once he would have recoiled from such attention, everybody knowing his business and talking about it. He still didn’t enjoy it, but since that day on the pier with Terri, he’d changed. He’d lost his daughter, the only thing of value to him. Now, nothing mattered. Now he was able to cope with the jibes, all the more since discovering that cheerful forbearance of the baiting diminished the pleasure of his tormentors.
Brook wasn’t worried for himself. He could handle it. He had handled it for years. But Wendy. The thick skin he’d acquired didn’t extend to her and he knew she’d been reduced to tears on at least one occasion.
It was easy for Brook. He’d only been in the station for a couple of days before his suspension kicked in. Wendy would have it tougher for a while. She’d get through it, he knew that, but at what cost to their relationship? Assuming they still had one.
