by Steven Dunne
‘So he cuts his signature on Jason, turns the music back up and then leaves. God.’ Brook shook his head in dismay, not bringing himself to say what needed to be said. But Noble said it for him.
‘But why didn’t he kill him? He had him.’
‘I’m not sure, John. The only thing I can think of is that Jason was in no condition to know he was about to die. And that’s key for the man we’re dealing with. That’s what gets him off. It’s the knowing…’
‘With respect, sir, that’s fucking bullshit. If Jason’s the reason he’s chosen this family he should do him right there. I mean, he’s never going to have him in his sights again. He’s left him for a reason, something we don’t know yet.’
‘Maybe he knows Jason’s a killer. Maybe he’s leaving him to us.’
‘What? So we can send him to prison-maybe. You don’t believe that for a second.’
Brook sighed. ‘All right, all right. It’s a mystery. We’ll figure it out. Anything else? What? Is he?’ He looked up at the TV. Jason Wallis filled his screen. ‘I’m watching it now, John.’ Brook stayed on the line but turned the sound on the TV back on.
‘I just wanna say if anyone knows anything to come forward. Speak to the police. Whoever did this to my family is sick. Dangerous.’ Pause for slumping of head and wiping of tear. Jason’s aunt tightened her grip on his arm to give him the strength to get through. ‘Me mum and dad and me sister…’
But Jason couldn’t go on and the camera moved onto McMaster and Greatorix seated next to one another.
McMaster, as usual, was immaculate and the same could almost be said for Bob Greatorix, now basking in the limelight he so craved, a hint of a smirk submerged beneath his mask of fake sympathy.
Brook grimaced at the sight of McMaster. After all her support he should have warned her about young Wallis personally. Now she was between a rock and a hard place. With Charlie’s confession, Brook had the evidence to charge Jason with at least conspiracy to commit murder. Sorenson too. But now, after this debacle, even bringing her The Reaper wouldn’t wipe the tape of her sitting next to a teenage killer, comforting him in the regulation manner. The press would tear her to pieces.
He turned off the phone, forgetting Noble was still on the other end, turned off the TV and finished dressing. Then he packed his bag and prepared to leave.
There was a knock at the door. ‘Who is it?’
A pause. ‘Daddy’s special girl.’
Brook put his bag and coat on the bed and walked to the door. ‘Vicky?’
‘Yes. Let me in.’
Brook raised a hand to the door but hesitated. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Can we talk inside?’ Still Brook waited. ‘Please!’
Finally, curiosity got the better of him and he turned the handle. Before he could pull the door open it crashed against his right shoulder and he was sent spinning onto the bed, knocking his bag and coat to the floor. He tried to right himself, but a wiry figure was on him, forcing a cloth into his mouth. Brook could taste a pungent chemical aroma and had already taken an involuntary gulp before swinging back onto the mattress and bringing his knee up into his assailant’s crotch.
Brook felt the gust of breath through the man’s teeth as he doubled up. His grip eased so Brook was able to flex his left foot into the man’s chest and heave him off the bed. He fell heavily into the doorframe of the bathroom.
Vicky shrank back, unsure what to do, but a second later she flung herself onto Brook’s legs and clung on tight while the man staggered back to the bed with the cloth.
Brook was already feeling the effects of one lungful of the chemical and tried to wriggle free from Vicky’s grip. But the man fell on Brook’s chest and forced the cloth back over his face. Brook grabbed his right arm to hold him off but he was young and strong.
As the man edged his arm closer to his face, Brook’s head was forced off the bed towards the floor. The more the man pushed, the further off the bed Brook slipped until the back of his head was touching the floor. Now there was no retreat from the fumes as the man pressed his weight against Brook’s defensive arm.
Finally, Brook felt the cloth against his mouth and held his breath. His eyes darted at the bag by his head. His coat, which had lain on his bag, was on the floor next to it.
With his free hand, Brook dragged the coat to him and slid his fingers into the pocket. After a few seconds scrabbling to get the correct hold, Brook pulled out Charlie’s gun and thrust the nozzle against his attacker’s forehead.
‘Get off!’ he grunted through the cloth. ‘Now!’ Brook fixed his eyes onto the man, trying to look calm. He didn’t feel calm. His heart was pounding against his ribs and his head spun from the chemical.
‘He won’t shoot, Pete. I know him,’ urged Vicky, still clamping Brook’s legs.
Brook screwed his eyes in what he hoped would appear a display of quiet determination. ‘Now!’ he gasped.
Brook felt the man’s arms relax and the cloth retreat from his face as he stood back from the bed. Brook leapt up to open the window and gulp in fresh air all the while keeping the gun trained on his assailant.
Petr Sorenson was a young man of medium height, a little taller than Vicky, and with the same slant to his eyes, the same blond hair. His face was flushed and he panted heavily, all the while looking at Brook with that sullen hatred Brook had seen in Jason.
‘Shouldn’t you be studying?’ Brook managed to say through urgent draws of oxygen.
‘Fack you!’ Brook expected the abuse but not the broad cockney accent. But with a wealthy background to live down in the college bar, perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise.
‘Face the wall. You too, Vicky.’
She looked at him, eyes pleading. ‘This wasn’t my idea.’
‘Turn round.’
‘Please,’ she began to sob. ‘Please, you have to tell us. Uncle Vic won’t say, even though he’s dying.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘About The Reaper,’ she implored.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Brook threw the cloth at Vicky. ‘Put it over your brother’s mouth and nose.’
‘What? No. I won’t do it.’
‘Do it, Vicky.’ Petr half-turned to his sister, nodding. His face was grim now. The flash of hatred was gone. Understanding and acceptance had replaced it. ‘Don’t blame her, mate. You don’t know what he did to her.’
‘Why do you want me to hurt him?’ she sobbed at Brook.
‘I’m going to see your uncle now. He’s expecting me. Put your brother under. Now.’
‘I don’t understand.’ She was barely able to speak.
‘He’s right, Vicky. Do it,’ said Petr again.
‘I can’t have any distractions, Vicky. Your uncle and I have been planning this day for a very long time. When he’s…when we’re finished I’ll answer all your questions.’
‘I won’t do it.’
‘It’s better than a crack on the head or a bullet in the leg, sis. Do as he says.’ Expecting no argument, Petr dropped to his knees.
‘He wouldn’t do that. I know him.’
‘You don’t know me at all, Vicky. I’m a man. Capable of anything. Like your uncle-like your father.’
Vicky’s eyes widened. Brook saw fear there. She picked up the cloth and pressed it over her kneeling brother’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Pete,’ she muttered. Brook watched Petr inflating and deflating his chest. It took longer than expected but eventually his eyes rolled skywards and he fell on his side.
Brook prodded a finger into his ribs. He stood to face Vicky and nodded at the bed.
She kicked off her shoes, moved to the bed and lay down like a corpse. Legs together, toes pointed away from her, arms folded, eyes staring at the ceiling.
Brook knelt beside her then a thought crossed his mind. ‘Is your mother home?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve not been home for a while. We were waiting for you outside Charlie’s house. We followed you from there.’
‘How did you know I’d be…? Uncle Vic told you,’ he realised before he’d even finished the question.
‘Is Mr Rowlands dead?’ asked Vicky.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. He’s not.’
Brook raised the cloth. Vicky held his arm.
‘Won’t you tell me? I’ve got to know.’
‘Tell you what?’
She gulped now and her eyes widened. ‘My father. Is he still alive? Is he The Reaper?’
Chapter Twenty-nine
Brook sat quietly in his chair and watched Sorenson sleep. He was content to wait. He’d waited a lot of years; a few more moments wouldn’t hurt.
The house was empty. Sonja was nowhere to be seen. The nurse had let Brook in then left at once, according to her instructions. Everything was ready.
As Brook waited for his host to wake he took out Laura’s necklace, slid Lizzie’s ring from the chain and put it in his pocket. He held the chain up to the light and examined it draped around his fingers.
He imagined he was there, in that hellish place where Laura died. Everything was dark but his senses were keen. He fancied he could almost smell the stench of decay in his nostrils. Human waste, old food, damp walls. Something else. Sweat, bad breath.
There was an empty can on its side, a small stove on the floor. And then he heard the tears, the muffled squeals of pain. He could see Wrigley’s face, teeth grinding, grimacing, moving towards the girl. Then away. Then back. And still the smell. The beer breath. The sweat. Another thing. Sickly sweet. The fear. Laura’s fear.
Wrigley smiles. It’s not a smile of pleasure, of happiness. It’s a smile of triumph. Conquest. The fight has gone. He can do as he pleases. He tears at the girl’s neck and the pain is fierce but quick. The necklace is taken. A keepsake dangled to taunt, to remind him of his greatest day. He’s already invaded the present. Now he seizes the past, receding glimpses of childhood tarnished. He puts it round his own neck. Yeah. Now he’s somebody. Now he exists. Laura knows. Brook knows. They won’t forget Floyd Wrigley in a hurry.
But the moment fades and his power is gone. Wrigley takes a neck at a bottle. He’s hungry. He wants back what he had. That power. To be a God and squash this ant. To take the future and complete the set. There is a way.
Brook let the necklace drop to his lap. Poor Laura. Poor Vicky. He thought of her lying unconscious in his hotel room. As Brook had sat beside her on the bed, Vicky had revealed every appalling detail of her torment.
Sorenson groaned and Brook glanced across at the sleeping old man. Even unconscious the pain came, though you wouldn’t have guessed from his countenance. Despite his years, despite the cancer, despite his every terrible deed, his expression was that of a dozing newborn.
Brook got up from his chair and tiptoed to the desk. After a moment rummaging in the shelves, he emerged with a disc and dropped it on to the turntable in the corner.
As he returned to his chair the first strains of the lament from La Wally rent the air. Brook waited for Sorenson to wake, pleased with his little conceit.
Sorenson filled his chest and sighed though he kept his eyes closed. ‘Is that you, Inspector?’
‘Yes.’
Sorenson’s lids lifted and his black eyes blinked up at Brook then creased into a smile of warmth and welcome. ‘I’m glad you came.’
‘I’m here for your confession.’
Sorenson grinned. ‘Why, what are you going to do with it?’
Brook was startled by the simplicity of the question, realising he didn’t know the answer.
Sorenson smiled an apology for putting his guest on the back foot. ‘Thank you for coming. I’m tired.’
‘Charlie’s dead.’
Sorenson looked down at the floor in genuine sadness. ‘He was a good man.’
‘Tell me about the Dentist Game.’ Brook saw Sorenson flinch. He recalled, years before, bringing up the subject of his brother Stefan’s death and seeing a similar reaction. Sorenson’s eyes closed for a moment and when they opened there was the ghost of a tear.
‘Ever since Vicky crossed my path, I’ve assumed you sent her to check on my progress. I was wrong. You didn’t know she came to Derby. And she has no idea what you are or what you’ve done. That’s why, when she stole a look at my Reaper file, she was stunned to see a picture of you there. Uncle Vic.’
‘She would be.’ Sorenson paused. This hesitancy was new. It pleased Brook. He’d finally got to Sorenson and would soon know it all. But a small corner of his mind told him to beware. He was in the presence of a heartless killer and manipulator.
Brook continued to wait but his normally garrulous host didn’t seem to know how to continue. Vicky was the key to Sorenson. She was the person he cared about most. Brook knew every sickening detail. Getting Sorenson to talk about it would be difficult. But when he did, if he did, the dam would burst.
‘Tell me about the Dentist Game.’
‘You’ve seen what Stefan did to Vicky?’
‘She told me.’
Sorenson nodded. ‘But you’ve seen other things, haven’t you? You’ve had episodes before.’
‘Episodes?’
‘Visions, a sixth sense which allows you to picture things that have happened, that are going to happen.’
‘We all have empathy. We can all imagine another’s plight.’
‘As you imagined young Laura’s.’
‘I’m a policeman. It’s my job. When I put a sequence of events together it’s almost like writing a script or shooting a film.’
‘And the future?’
‘Everyone gets a sense of something about to happen from time to time. Is that why you came to Derby for me? Because you think I have a talent.’
Sorenson smiled. ‘No. If put to good use it will be a useful tool, no more.’
‘Good use?’
‘Something to guide your future work.’
Brook laughed. ‘You mean arrest people because I’ve had a vision of them committing a crime. Is that how you choose? You’re crazier than I thought.’
‘The Reaper’s victims choose themselves.’
‘But you’re prepared to execute a family on the strength of a feeling or a vision you think you’ve had. You’re a madman.’
‘Your contempt would be deserved if so. Those feelings, as you call them, merely point the way. The Reaper has great resources of time and money. Only when he’s sure does he take his prey.’
‘So you see your victims before you kill them? Some kind of sixth sense. Do you touch them? Is that how it works?’ asked Brook, remembering the handshake on his last visit.
Sorenson was silent. ‘You continue to personalise these acts, Damen. Is it deliberate? I can only help you understand The Reaper’s work if you see it in its proper context.’
‘Which is what?’
‘The Reaper is an entity, Damen, not a person. He’s an idea that cannot die. He is not motivated by ego. He doesn’t act for personal gain and takes no pleasure from his work.’
‘Semantic nonsense…’ Brook took a breath. He had his own agenda and realised he was being drawn from it. After a moment he nodded at Sorenson to signal acceptance of the rules. ‘So The Reaper meets his victims and discovers the crimes they’ve committed.’ Sorenson nodded. ‘And these meetings are social?’ Sorenson nodded again. ‘And accidental?’
Now he smiled. ‘Usually.’
Brook nodded. ‘Unless The Reaper needs a…project in a specific city like Derby. Then you, sorry, The Reaper has to find somebody suitable.’
‘Exactly.’ Sorenson nodded, suddenly animated. ‘But it depends who The Reaper is helping. Roddy Telfer was difficult to find because he’d moved away from Edinburgh by the time…’
‘By the time The Reaper wanted to help Charlie Rowlands.’ Sorenson smiled at Brook, taking no offence at his tone. ‘What about Floyd Wrigley? How could The Reaper prove he killed Laura Maples, even with all his time and money? There was
no evidence to connect him once the rats had done their work.’
‘On the contrary, there was the best evidence of all. A witness.’
‘Second sight isn’t evidence, Professor.’ Sorenson said nothing but his eyes continued to bore into his opponent. Brook’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean a proper witness-someone actually saw him? You?’
‘On the night of her death. I was in a cab, coming from Heathrow. I’d been in Stockholm for a few days. The cab stopped at lights, I looked out of the window and there they were, walking along Goldhawk Road together. It was very late. Three in the morning. But they held me, interested me. They were an odd couple. Ill matched. I knew something was wrong. She was nervous but he gave off an aura of tremendous self-assurance. But I could sense it was a sham. His inadequacy filled him with a rage I could almost touch. They turned into Ravenscourt Gardens and were gone.’
‘What happened then?’
‘I went home to bed.’
‘You did nothing?’
‘What was I going to do? I didn’t know he was going to kill her. It was only later. You said it yourself many years ago, on one of your first visits here. You can only act retrospectively. Your ‘after sales service’ you called it,’ Sorenson chuckled.
‘But afterwards you tracked him down.’
‘Not at first. It was of no interest until you told me how her death haunted you. And then…’
‘Then The Reaper wanted to help me.’
Sorenson beamed. He seemed pleased with himself suddenly. ‘Yes. Help you. Show you what was possible. It was the perfect opportunity.’
‘Why won’t you tell me about the Dentist Game?’
‘Vicky, darling. Where are you? Where’s Daddy’s Special Girl?’
Sorenson looked away. ‘My brother’s dead.’
‘Yes. The year before Sammy Elphick and his family were butchered. Cancer, wasn’t it?’ Brook’s face was hard. He’d trained for this moment, rehearsed every sentence and polished every nuance until the script gleamed like Greatorix’s forehead.
‘Vicky where are you? Where are you hiding? It’s Daddy. I’ve got something for you.’
