by Steven Dunne
She’d phoned him after her talk with McMaster-that was a good sign-but then the conversation had turned to Daddy’s Special Girl and that morning at his flat when he’d passed Vicky off as his daughter.
Even so, such was his new-found serenity that he couldn’t hold back a smile after putting down the phone on her frosty tone. Never before had one of his infrequent relationships been threatened by the notion that he was a womaniser.
Brook extinguished his cigarette and went to the bedroom to finish packing. He stowed the suitcase under the table and picked up the phone, dialled Directory Enquiries, noted the number and dialled again.
‘Belle Vue Park? Yes. I wonder if you might help me. I don’t know how to begin. Yes. Yes. I’ll try.’ With a theatrical sigh, he managed to control his emotions. ‘It’s alcohol, you see. I’ve been having problems. Yes. Well, not yet, but I think I’m weakening. It’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow and I…I’m sure it’s a busy time. Yes, I’ll hold. That’s great. Yes, tomorrow for three nights. Thank you very much. Brook. Damen Brook. B-R-O-O-K. You were highly recommended by a friend. Sonja Sorenson. Well it was a few years ago. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’
Brook replaced the receiver and left the flat. He walked through the grey streets to Jumbo’s, pulling up his collar at the morning drizzle. Noble was already there, nursing a cup of tea. He looked up at Brook’s arrival and, before he could think, shot an involuntary glance at the clock.
‘Morning sir.’
Brook ordered his Farmhouse Special and sat down with a mug of tea.
‘I know. I’m late. It’s not like me and I’m not a millionaire,’ he added.
‘Right.’ Noble handed over a folder and indicated a Tesco bag half full of video cassettes.
‘Is that everything, John?’
‘Everything of use. The list is on top. I can’t let you keep it.’
‘What about the videos?’
‘Greatorix won’t miss them but I’ll need them back at some point. The list contains all men on their own who checked out of local hotels a day either side of the Wallis murders. There’s no Peter Hera though.’
‘Did you think there would be?’
‘I’ve no idea. Is it important?’
‘We’ll see. Even if he didn’t stay in the area, this is where we might trip him up, John.’
‘How?’
‘Because he was off his turf. Derby isn’t his town so he had to take risks. He had to deal with people to get things-vans, accommodation, pizzas. If we’re lucky…’
Brook flipped open the folder and worked down the list of names. For a moment he paused but then resumed before snapping the folder shut.
‘Nothing jumps out. Pity.’ He handed the folder back to Noble.
‘Should we extend the search?’ asked Noble. He was embarrassed at once.
‘It’s not for me to say, John.’ Brook smiled to wipe away Noble’s faux pas.
‘Maybe he’ll be on the tapes.’
‘Maybe. Any other developments?’
‘Not yet. We’ve done everything. Nothing much from around the van. If there had been another unknown car parked on the drive no-one saw it. No sign of any forced entry to the house, so the killer didn’t stay there. DI Greatorix thinks…’ Noble flashed another apologetic look at Brook. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. What does he think?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘You don’t have to bad mouth him to please me, John.’ Brook was pleased anyway.
‘I know. It’s just…’
Brook’s breakfast arrived and he took up his knife and fork. ‘What?’
‘Have you seen him eat? It’s disgusting. And the way he sweats…’ Noble broke off when he realised Brook had stopped spearing a mushroom onto his fork. ‘Sorry. Bon appetit.’
‘Does he have any ideas?’
‘He thinks it was a neighbour with a grudge against Bobby Wallis.’
‘I wish he were right. What have Forensics come up with?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Have they examined Jason’s clothes yet?’
‘His clothes? No.’
‘They’re a bit slow, aren’t they?’
Noble seemed a little put out. ‘Maybe, but when we found no blood on his shoes, he was in the clear. He couldn’t possibly have been in that room. So we put his clothes on low priority. And you weren’t here to give them a hurry-up.’
Brook nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
Noble rose to leave. ‘Well, have a good holiday.’
‘Thanks. And good luck with B.O. Bob.’
Noble laughed. Was this really DI Brook? Going on holiday, tucking into a hearty breakfast, cracking wise. Noble pinched his fingers over his nose and Brook returned the laugh.
As soon as Noble left, Brook pulled out a pen and wrote ‘International Hotel’ on his paper napkin. He didn’t need to write down the man’s name.
After breakfast, Brook returned to his flat, retrieved the keys to the Sprite and climbed into the old car. The Mondeo was next to it. Being suspended, he wasn’t sure he should still have it, but nobody had asked for it back and he hadn’t thought to offer. But The International was only half a mile away and it would be as well to keep the Sprite ticking over.
Five minutes later Brook parked on the forecourt of the hotel and clambered out.
He entered the double doors, running his eye over the excessive Christmas decorations, and rang the bell at a deserted reception. A young girl appeared, trying her best to look helpful and confident. She was petite and full-figured with plenty of make-up and bright orange streaks in her hair. The studs in her ears reminded him of Laura Maples.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Brook pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at her. The girl’s face betrayed a glimpse of alarm and Brook wondered what she’d been up to. Drugs probably. She was young and, no doubt, badly paid. What else was there?
‘No need to be alarmed, miss. I need some information on one of your guests. Apparently a man stayed here from the 16th to the 18th of this month.’
‘Ye-es?’
‘He registered under the name Sammy Elphick.’
‘Ye-es?’
‘I wondered if there was anyone here who might be able to give me a description of the man.’
‘Mr Elphick?’ She turned to the desk to flip through the visitor’s book. ‘That’s right. One of your constables rang to ask us about single men staying in the area. What’s he done?’
‘It’s just routine. Sally,’ he added after a glance at her tag.
‘Sammy Elphick? Yeah, here he is. I remember him alright. A right weirdo.’ She flipped the book round at him. Next to the name column the words ‘Harlesden, London’ glared out at Brook.
‘Was he?’
‘Yeah.’
Brook waited, wondering if Sally were some kind of comedian. When it became clear she wouldn’t be elaborating without further stimulus, he said, ‘Could you tell me about him, Sally?’
‘He wasn’t very well.’
Brook’s heart quickened. ‘How so?’
‘It was his hands.’
‘His hands?’
‘That’s right. Burnt they were. So he said. He had to wear gloves all the time.’
‘Did he? So that’s not his handwriting,’ enquired Brook, nodding at the folder.
‘No, it’s mine. He couldn’t write.’
‘And he paid his account with cash for the same reason.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Old, a bit sad-looking. He didn’t speak much.’
‘I’ll bet he didn’t eat in the restaurant either.’
‘No, he didn’t. He said it was too bright. He had bad eyes as well you see.’
‘Course he did. He’d need special glasses for that, wouldn’t he?’
Sally was impressed. ‘That’s right. Big thick frames with tinted lenses.’
‘So he didn’t take breakfast?’
>
Sally was starting to get into the swing of things. ‘No. We all wondered about that because it’s included in the price. We can’t knock anything off, you know. Not round Christmas. Not that he asked. I mean, Cook was a bit put out. He does a good breakfast. One of the best in Derby,’ she added, reverting to a professional voice. ‘But even if it was crap, people always make a point of having it, don’t they? I mean, when they’ve paid for it…’
‘Any other distinctive features?’
‘He wore a wig. I noticed that, though he kept a hat on most of the time.’ Sally was very pleased with her deductive powers. ‘Does that help?’
Brook nodded. ‘It would help more if you could tell me if he was bald underneath.’ Sally screwed up her face in concentration then shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she concluded, a little crestfallen. ‘Like I said, he had a wig on. And not a very good one.’
‘How tall was he?’
‘Quite tall.’
Brook looked up. ‘Tall? Sure?’ He looked Sally up and down. ‘How tall are you?’
‘I’m five feet three,’ she answered, a touch sensitive.
‘You look taller.’
‘I’m wearing platforms.’
‘I see. So, if you’re five-three, someone five-seven/five-eight would look quite tall.’
‘I suppose so. But I was wearing my platforms, so I guess not. He must have been taller.’
‘You’re sure you were wearing platforms when you met him?’
‘Certain.’
‘Why so certain?’
‘Because I always wear platforms.’ Brook looked a little dubious. ‘I do.’
‘If you say so.’ With a sudden inspiration Brook said, ‘Could he have been wearing platforms?’
‘Possibly I didn’t notice.’ Sally was a little defensive after being branded unreliable.
Brook whipped out the old photo of Sorenson and handed it to her. ‘Was that the man?’
She studied carefully then handed it back. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Well, thanks for trying.’ He pocketed the photo. ‘What time of day did he arrive?’
‘It was the evening. Seven o’clock.’
‘Why so precise?’
‘Because I work nine in the morning to seven at night. I was just getting off when he walked in. Kept me here for a few more minutes. Missed my bus, didn’t I?’
‘That’s a long shift.’
Sally shrugged. She didn’t need his sympathy. ‘It’s a job.’
‘Do you know how he arrived?’
‘No. You could ask Mac-that’s Bert Mackintosh. He’s on the door five ’til twelve.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘He lives in a flat down the road. Number twenty-five. Flat four. It’s only a hundred yards but I dare say he’ll be asleep now. He works late.’
Brook made to leave. Before he did, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note. He handed it to the girl who was surprised and pleased. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Get yourself a drink for New Year.’
‘Thanks a lot. I will. Happy New Year to you’
‘Didn’t she tell you I’d be asleep?’ The man yawned and covered his mouth. Not before Brook got an eyeful of false teeth shifting slightly as his jaw distended. Mac was past sixty with a thin white pencil moustache and short cropped white hair. He had a healthy sheen to his skin and his build and general demeanour added to the impression that he kept himself fit. A military man most likely.
‘She did, Mr Mackintosh. But it’s important. And I didn’t think a military man would be lying in bed all morning.’
Mac’s eyes widened, unsure whether to be pleased that Brook had noticed his army bearing. His expression betrayed an injury. He tightened the cord of his dressing gown and waited a moment, assessing Brook and the situation. The habit of an old soldier used to giving orders. ‘When you work the hours I work, it’s the middle of the night.’ He waited for Brook’s acknowledgement that he knew he wasn’t a layabout before adding, ‘You’d better come in then, Inspector…’
‘Brook.’ He followed Mac into his two rooms, noting how the essential misery of the accommodation was kept at bay by the man’s sense of pride in his meagre surroundings.
The place was tiny and down-at-heel but spotlessly clean. The first room was a kitchenette into which the old man would have led his guest had there been space for two-it was only possible for Brook to join him in the doorway, where he leaned against the frame.
There wasn’t much in the way of amenities-a sink, a worktop over a noisy fridge, a small Baby Belling electric hob with two rings-the same model as Brook’s.
The worktop it sat on was old and warped and had been stained by the rings of hot pans lain on it over the years. A half full pan of water sat atop one of the rings. Mac took the pan to the empty stainless steel sink and doubled the amount of water from the solitary tap, before setting it down and switching on the ring.
Next to the hob was a small steel teapot with a teabag in. Mac added another. Next to the teapot was a bean-stained plate with knife and fork, neatly placed together. Mac picked it up and laid it in the sink. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘When you’re on your own…’ he shrugged.
‘Don’t worry.’
Mac nodded and busied himself with the tea. He added milk from a carton in the fridge that Brook saw was otherwise empty. The lone cupboard set back on the opposite wall had glass doors similar to the one in Brook’s kitchen. The supplies Brook could see consisted of ‘economy’ baked beans, outnumbered by dozens of tins of cat food.
For a second, Brook worried that this proud, impecunious old man had descended to getting his meat from pet food, until he heard the plaintive yowl of a cat in the room next door. At the same time he spotted the newspaper-lined litter tray on the far side of the fridge.
Mac must have seen him looking. For no other reason, he said, ‘I get most of my meals at the hotel. Go through into the other room.’
Brook stepped next door. Another small room, with a low ceiling. A bay window covered by lace curtains looked down and out over the centre of Derby, every roof slick and shiny under the brief illumination of rain and low sun.
Most of the room was filled by a metal-framed bed on which the cat lay. It glared nervously as Brook entered. It was a little black kitten with wide wary eyes. Brook cautiously held out a hand to stroke it and it immediately careened itself towards the pressure of Brook’s fingers.
From a flat nearby a dull thudding music sprang up. Brook continued to look around. There wasn’t much to see. A small coffee table, a wooden-framed armchair with a uniform draped over it, a gas fire and a straight-backed chair with a small TV resting on it.
Brook could only stand and stare. It wasn’t possible to move around, as the other pitiful scraps of furniture were jammed against the far wall. A deep sadness filled him. He couldn’t explain why. He took no great pains over his own living conditions and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen such poverty before. Perhaps it was the denial of the occupant. Like poor dead Laura in her pathetic squat, clinging to the pretence that she was in control of her own life, her own environment.
‘My alarm call,’ beamed Mac, holding a mug of tea towards Brook and nodding vaguely in the direction of the music.
Brook took it and had an appreciative swig. ‘Thanks. Just what I need.’
Mac set his own mug on the floor and lifted one end of the bed. ‘Off you get, Blot,’ he soothed, as he raised the bed into a recess and closed two doors on it. Now there was a little space and Mac moved the table and chairs to the middle of the room and sat in the stiff-backed one, resting the TV on the floor, before taking a sip of tea.
‘Mince pie?’ Mac held a plate towards Brook who took a mince pie and bit into it. It was stale.
‘Very nice.’
‘I get ’em from the hotel.’
‘Right. Nice view,’ nodded Brook.
‘We like it. The moggy and me.’
Brook smiled, glad of common ground. He didn’t know how to talk about the weather. ‘I’ve got a cat. It’s a pain in the neck.’
‘I know what you mean. Bloody nuisance, this little puss. Aren’t you? I’m stuck with you now though, aren’t I?’ Mac smiled with pleasure. ‘Found him out in the alley a couple of months back. Wet through he was. No bigger than my hand. Mewling and shivering. Must’ve been chucked out. Some people. Who’d do that to such a defenceless little mite?’
‘How long have you got?’ replied Brook.
‘Now what did you want to talk about, Inspector? A Mr Elphick, you said.’
‘That’s right. Do you remember him?’
‘Should I?’
‘He stayed a few nights the week before Christmas. Old, not very well.’
‘Oh, him with the gloves and glasses?’
‘That’s him.’
‘I remember. Only ’cos he was such an odd looking sort. I don’t know what else I can tell you, ’cept he wore a wig.’
‘Sally told me. Was there anything else? His voice? His height? Anything he said.’
‘He didn’t say a word to me, Inspector, and that’s a fact. Not even thank you, when I opened the door. Not that he weren’t polite. Just that he preferred to nod than speak, that’s one of the things that made him stick in the mind. That and his appearance.’
‘Did he tip you?’
‘He did. He was a good tipper for these parts. I only saw him twice and each time he gave me a pound. Tips like that make all the difference. My army pension goes nowhere. Not now I’ve got two mouths to feed.’ He beamed at Blot who was caressing his ankle.
‘And his height?’
‘Tallish. About your height I’d say. Even with a bit of a stoop.’
‘You’re sure he wasn’t smaller? Nearer five eight.’
‘Certain. I’ve seen over a lot of men and you gets to know these things without really looking. You’d know what I mean about that, Inspector.’
‘Yes I suppose so.’ Brook was unhappy. The waters were muddying. The Reaper had gone out of his way to get Brook’s attention and now all his long nurtured certainty about the case, about Sorenson, was being undermined.
