The Disciple didb-2

by Steven Dunne

  Brook held his body limp to signal acceptance of the terms and conditions and the arm around his throat spun him around to push him back against a wall.

  ‘I’m DI Brook, CID.’

  Suddenly the pressure on his torso evaporated and the voices lost their well-grooved tone and became tense and clipped. ‘Sir! Sorry, sir. We had no idea.’ Brook fumbled for his warrant card but a gloved hand touched his breast pocket. ‘No need, sir. I recognise you now.’

  ‘You could have asked for ID straightaway.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. But we’re responding to a 999 call.’

  Brook was bending down to pick up his phone but looked up sharply. He hesitated for a second then said, ‘I know. I heard the message from Dispatch and I wasn’t too far away. Did you catch who called it in?’

  ‘We’re not sure exactly. Emergency services got a suspicious call from a mobile. Bit garbled but the caller left their mobile on so they located the signal and asked us to have a look.’

  ‘Right,’ nodded Brook.

  ‘We’d have been here sooner but were on another call.’

  ‘So sorry if we…’

  ‘PC Duffy, isn’t it?’ asked Brook.

  ‘That’s right, sir. And PC Parker.’

  ‘Well, we’ve no time to waste. Stay here and get back onto Dispatch. I’ve only been here a few minutes myself but we seem to have several bodies and one survivor…’

  ‘Bodies?’ repeated Duffy as though the word was unfamiliar to him.

  ‘Bodies, Duffy. Murdered. It looks like The Reaper,’ he added. It had the desired effect.

  ‘The Reaper!’ replied Duffy and Parker in unison.

  ‘We’re going to need ambulances. Also, very important, get onto Dispatch and get Forensics here urgently — as well as the duty police surgeon. Third — maybe you’d better write this down — we need to start the hunt now. I think the killer may still be close. We need patrol cars blocking all roads off the estate as soon as possible. We need to get the helicopter and the thermal-imaging cameras up in case he’s hiding in someone’s garden. Also Traffic. We need to keep an eye on all suspicious movement on the roads linking Drayfin to all major routes, especially the Ml southbound …’

  ‘What about northbound?’ asked Parker, scribbling furiously.

  ‘Why not? And investigate any vehicle driving erratically or speeding away from Derby, particularly vans with anyone in overalls or protective clothing. There won’t be many this time of night.’

  ‘Anything else, guv?’ asked PC Duffy.

  ‘Apart from not calling me guv, no. Wait … yes. Tell Dispatch to get DS Noble down here now.’

  Noble arrived twenty minutes later and parked beside the flashing ambulance. For once, his customary poise, so studiously nurtured and encouraged by Brook, was under pressure. He approached Brook, who was standing alone at the front gate of the house pulling on a cigarette.

  ‘Sir,’ he said with admirable brevity. The two officers exchanged no more than a glance.

  Brook was about to speak when two ambulance men wheeled out a body on a trolley. The detectives both turned to look at the face, disfigured by spatters of blood, an oxygen mask covering his mouth.

  ‘That’s Jason Wallis,’ Noble shrieked in bewilderment. ‘It can’t be.’ He turned to Brook who returned only an enigmatic smile. ‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he said, forgetting Brook’s disapproval of swearing. ‘Jason Wallis again?’

  ‘Easy, John. How’s the patient?’ asked Brook.

  The paramedic at the front of the trolley paused to address Brook. Despite years of experience, the man seemed shaken. ‘He hasn’t got a scratch on him — far as we can tell. He’s well out of it, had a lot to drink. But none of the blood on him seems to be his.’

  Brook looked at the bloodstained latex glove on the man’s hand. ‘Did you touch the scalpel?’

  ‘I don’t think so. We left it on the arm of the sofa, next to the mobile.’

  ‘Good.’

  The man paused and sought Brook’s eye with an expression Brook had seen many times before. ‘I’ve seen car wrecks…’ He shook his head and continued toting the trolley to the back of the ambulance with his partner. Noble’s eyes followed the flashing light down the street as the ambulance drove away, then turned to Brook. ‘So it’s The Reaper again.’

  Brook decided not to challenge him. ‘It looks like it.’

  ‘And Wallis too. It doesn’t make sense. Unless DI Greatorix was right. Maybe Jason did kill his own family and got a taste for it.’

  ‘And managed to leave himself unconscious at the scene again? I don’t think so, John.’

  ‘Then what have we got?’

  ‘We’ve got a sophisticated and ruthless executioner who seems to be staking out this estate like a great white shark. That’s not Jason. But you’re right in one sense. I think someone would like us to think it was Jason.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘They left the murder weapon in his hand.’

  Noble nodded, without showing much sign of understanding. ‘How many? Bodies, I mean.’

  Brook took a deep breath. ‘Six.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  * * *

  An hour later the house and garden was a hive of activity. The first of the arc lights had been hooked up to a portable generator and were illuminating the Scene of Crime Officers as they worked. One officer was directing the erection of two large marquees to shield the evidence from the elements, as well as from the enterprising journalists who would soon be mobilising to cover the story.

  At Brook’s prompting they also removed the piece of shiplap fencing in the backyard. As they took it away, Brook held his hand up to stop them. He peered intently at it and could clearly see the blood on the top panel where the killer — he refused to use the word Reaper — had brushed his bloodstained clothing as he made his escape.

  ‘Okay, thanks.’ Brook waved on the lead Scene of Crime Officer, who winked in acknowledgement.

  The neighbour’s house beyond could now be accessed. It was in darkness and though officers banged on the door to explain to the occupant what they were doing in the garden, there was no reply.

  Brook returned to the front of the Ingham house. A small but vocal crowd was gathering at the edge of the hastily erected police tape, some drinking cans of beer, most just trying to stay warm, but all taking an interest. Mobile phones were glued to ears, grins were glued to faces as they basked in the glow of their newfound worth. They had news that friends and family would want to hear, news that people would listen to without interruption. This was their chance to make their mark, maybe even get on the telly. For years to come, the untalented would regale the barely conscious down the pub with stories of their involvement.

  ‘Our Billy used to knock around with the Inghams!’

  ‘Mrs Ingham used to do my hair!’

  ‘You can see their garden from our roof.’

  ‘Them fuckers nicked me hubcaps.’

  ‘I reckon it was their Stephen done our house over that Christmas. Thieving little cunt.’

  ‘The mum was a right slag. Good riddance to the fat cow and her brats!’

  ‘I wonder who’s having their telly? It’s forty-two inch.’

  ‘They’ve even got fucking helicopter out. Wave, we might be on the box tonight.’

  Just after five in the morning, Brook stepped carefully along the roped path, even though the Scene of Crime Officers had already checked the ground. Behind him came Noble. As they rounded the side of the house, both men’s eyes darted around greedily for the details recently illuminated by the large arc lights.

  ‘That’s a lot of claret,’ remarked Noble, glancing at the three corpses on the sofas.

  Brook nodded; his eye was a little more measured, as he’d already observed the scene, albeit by the glow of a spent fire. He glanced across the fences to the window of the Wallis house a few doors away, from where he’d stood looking down at the Ingham garden just three hours before. The
protective board was missing, as he’d left it. He knew at some point he might have to direct Forensics to it, if he could come up with a justification that wouldn’t incriminate him. For now, to Noble’s mild bemusement, he’d merely stationed an officer at the front of the house. ‘In case people decide it’s a good place to sneak a look at what’s going on,’ was how he explained it to Noble.

  ‘Where are the other three bodies?’ asked Noble, his breath steaming in the cold.

  ‘Upstairs bedroom. Two adults, one male, one female, and one male child, about ten years old,’ replied Brook, turning his attention back to the scene before him.

  Two sofas sat at right angles to one another, facing towards the heat of a fire, as they might in any living room. In this case the near-dormant fire was a brazier made from a discarded oil drum in the bare backyard of the Ingham household. The closest sofa supported two bodies next to each other, stretched out, feet towards the fire. The second sofa held just one corpse, similarly positioned. The seat where Jason Wallis had been unconscious was now vacant and, as promised, the bloodied scalpel and mobile phone were on its arm, waiting to be photographed and bagged. On the ground were discarded plates, some with dirty cutlery, and some with remnants of the condemned boys’ last meal. Burgers and hot dogs in half-chewed buns, stained by blood and ketchup. There were also a dozen or so discarded Special Brew and other assorted beer cans, some crushed and thrown at a bin some ten yards away, others upright, probably unfinished, by the side of the sofas. In addition Brook could see at least four empty two-litre bottles of Diamond White cider, the drink of choice for seekers of oblivion. Most of the revellers had not been disappointed.

  Noble kneeled to examine one of several handrolled cigarette ends that littered the yard like confetti. ‘Smells like zoot to me.’

  Brook looked over. ‘Got a hole in your tooth, John?’

  Noble returned a bleak smile. ‘Marijuana, sir. Street name, zoot. I’m down with the kids.’

  Brook nodded and rolled his eyes towards the sofa supporting the single male corpse. The boy, a teenager, sat upright, though his head, baseball cap still in place, was twisted backwards over the back of the sofa, his gaping wound fully exposed. They’d both seen the twist of pink gristle of a severed windpipe before. The cleanness of the cut was consistent with The Reaper’s MO — no hacking, no panicked slashing, clean, cold, efficient and almost matter-of-fact. A job to get done, then move on. Who’s next?

  ‘Good question,’ muttered Brook.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Brook ran his eyes over the empty space next to the corpse. He had to peer round the still warm oil drum to get a view, but grunted when he saw what he was looking for. Or rather, what he was expecting to be absent. He motioned to Noble.

  ‘Is that where Jason Wallis was sitting?’ Noble asked.

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Which means Wallis can’t be our killer,’ said Noble. ‘You were right.’

  Brook nodded his approval. ‘Good spot, John.’ He switched his attention to the other sofa. Again both male victims were young, probably seventeen-year-olds if they were contemporaries of Wallis. Like the other boy, their heads were pulled back so their severed windpipes winked up at the heavens. All the young men wore similar clothing — baggy jeans exposing designer underwear, padded jackets or hoodies and grubby Nike training shoes. A peaked cap, espousing support for the New York Yankees, still clung to one boy’s head, in spite of the muscle spasms he must have endured as his life had convulsed to a close.

  Brook moved away towards the car that stood on bricks at the rear of the house. It was an old Toyota, battered and rusty and had flames daubed amateurishly on the side. The portable CD player sitting on the roof had been turned off. Brook was tempted to start the music again but resisted. It didn’t stop the soundtrack from other Reaper crime scenes rolling around his head — Mozart’s Requiem in Brixton and Mahler’s Ninth from the Wallis murders two years before. His eye followed the extension cord through the back door to the now brightly lit kitchen.

  ‘John.’ Noble looked up at Brook, who nodded towards the internal wall through the kitchen window. ‘SAVED’ was written in large, bloody letters. All the letters oozed red tiny tears, as if of condolence, which had pooled on the grease-caked linoleum floor. Noble nodded back to Brook in recognition. The Reaper’s unique sign-off.

  For years Brook had puzzled over who was SAVED until his final apocalyptic night with Sorenson. The worst petty criminals on the estate would have died tonight, The Reaper having seen fit to save honest neighbours from their malevolence. Summary and absolute justice as before — but it didn’t make it any easier to look at.

  One of the SOCOs working near Jason’s sofa stood up and turned to Brook, holding two clear plastic evidence bags in front of him. One contained the bloody scalpel, the other a mobile phone, also stained with blood.

  The officer pulled down his mask. ‘Mobile’s not been dusted but it looks like there’s a print in the blood.’

  ‘Sounds promising,’ said Noble. ‘Bit careless for The Reaper though.’

  ‘It could be Jason’s,’ noted Brook.

  ‘Or the ambulance man’s.’

  ‘No, I moved it off Jason’s lap so they could take him to hospital. Can we get a list of the last calls and any texts?’

  ‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ said the officer. ‘And if any pictures were taken.’

  Brook and Noble nodded their thanks and moved further down the garden towards a shiny new barbecue, still sporting a couple of scorched burgers.

  ‘This is a Weber, sir. Top of the range barby.’ Brook recognised the distinctive brand from his evening with Mike Drexler. ‘Looks new. Wonder where they nicked it,’ smiled Noble, looking over at Brook, who seemed distracted suddenly. ‘Something wrong?’ Brook looked into his sergeant’s eyes. To Noble he seemed to be wrestling with a different mystery a million miles removed from this blood-soaked scene. ‘Are you okay, sir?’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t nick it. Maybe they won it in a competition, John.’

  Noble’s expression sobered as soon as the observation hit home. ‘You think? The same MO. Cheeky sod.’

  ‘Why change a winning formula? We’ll need those burgers and sausages bagged for analysis, John. They could have been … doctored.’

  ‘Twilight Sleep again?’

  ‘It worked last time.’

  ‘What happened here?’ asked Noble as they walked over to where the fence panel had been removed.

  ‘Best guess? Emergency exit. The killer has finished his work and is about to leave. Maybe he hears my car or maybe even sees me coming up the path…’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Brook sighed, feeling suddenly very tired after his night’s labours. He looked up at the washed-out dusty sky, dawn still some way off. ‘It’s been a long night, John.’

  ‘You think you disturbed The Reaper?’

  Brook hesitated, trying to find the right words. Ahead of him the path forked into two. One way required honesty and promised awkward questions, suspicion, maybe even removal from the investigation. The other was the path of deceit and would require a balancing act of exhausting proportions. He’d already taken a pace along it with his lie to PCs Duffy and Parker about his presence on the scene. ‘I don’t know for sure.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’

  He looked back at Noble. ‘A lifetime, John.’

  The house adjoining the Ingham backyard was still in complete darkness. Brook ran his torch around the neat little back garden. ‘What are we looking for, sir?’

  ‘Assuming our killer vaulted over the fence and landed in here covered in blood…’

  ‘Panicking after you turned up.’

  ‘…there might be bloody footprints on the path, maybe some fibres, maybe he left DNA on the front gate.’ Brook was trying his best to ignore Noble’s piercing glance.

  ‘You realise what the Chief Super’s going to say when he finds out? Never
mind Brian Burton and the rest of the media. What were you doing here in the middle of the night?’

  ‘It’s complicated, John, and I’m tired.’

  ‘That’s not going to cut any ice with…’

  ‘Odd.’

  Noble stopped to look at Brook. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Look at the row of houses facing the crime scene.’

  Noble scanned from side to side. Of the dozen houses backing onto the crime scene only the one opposite was in darkness. Every other household alerted to the calamity in their midst had numerous lights beaming, some of which outlined a human frame peering out to catch a glimpse of the horror. Only the house, past which the killer may have made his escape, was dark.

  ‘Empty house maybe? Or whoever lives there could be away. Lucky.’

  Brook arched an eyebrow at Noble. ‘The Reaper? Luck? I don’t think so. Get Duffy and Parker to knock on doors and find out who lives there and where they are. We need to get in there. And station someone out front for the foreseeable.’

  Fifteen minutes later the two detectives climbed the now bare stairs to the Inghams’ first-floor master bedroom and prepared to enter. They approached the door as a bright flash illuminated the dingy room to reveal a child’s bare feet suspended in the air. Once Brook would have reeled from such a sight. Now he was detached enough to just wrap it into his calculations.

  Twenty years had passed since Brook had gazed at the corpse of a boy hung from a ceiling in the flat of Sammy Elphick, a petty criminal who lived with his wife and son in a slum in North London. A family had died that day too. How many more would it take before The Reaper was satisfied?

  Brook stepped just inside the door to survey the scene but Noble, following right behind, let out an involuntary ‘Jesus!’ The various SOCOs looked up from their different activities then grinned at each other. They always relished the shock and awe of the unprepared.

  ‘You’re not going to blow chunks are you, detectives?’ said one. Noble speared a contemptuous look his way.

  ‘I reckon the Chief Super will be losing his bran flakes when he gets here,’ said another and the low chuckle was taken up by the rest, but just as quickly died away.