by Steven Dunne
‘Just like the first one. Harlesden, wasn’t it?’ asked Noble quietly.
Brook nodded. Another camera flash made him realise how tired his eyes were. He tried to focus despite the fatigue. He looked up at the young boy swaying minutely at the end of a rope which reached up through a trapdoor-cum-skylight in the ceiling into the roof space. The same MO as Harlesden all those years ago when Sorenson had removed the Elphick boy’s fingers, settlement for a V-sign the boy had flashed at him in the streets of Shepherd’s Bush. Had that been this youngster’s offence this time around? It seemed an extraordinary coincidence.
He couldn’t look at the boy’s face so busied himself with other details. The Derby County FC pyjama top had a small breast pocket with a slight blood-stained bulge; Brook knew the two removed fingers would be in there.
He checked the stumps on the boy’s disfigured hand. The cuts were clean, surgical. Noble bent to examine the boy’s feet. The soles were dirty and scuffed, except where several trickles of urine, expelled at point of death, had cleared small channels through the grime. A teat of liquid still clung to the right big toe.
Brook looked at the boy’s ankles, visible under his pyjama bottoms. They were a bluish pink with the accumulating blood of post-mortem lividity.
Noble followed Brook’s gaze. ‘I thought lividity created a deeper purple than that,’ he remarked.
‘It does,’ agreed Brook. ‘After eight hours. It’s nearly seven now. He’s only been dead about six hours at the most.’ He leaned in towards the boy to examine more closely. As he did, the body swayed gently round and Brook was forced to see his face. ‘Full circle.’
‘Sir?’
‘We’ve come full circle, John. This is a copy of the first Reaper murder in Harlesden.’
‘A copy?’
‘The hanging, the removal of the boy’s fingers. See the spots of blood under the body.’
‘I assume the fingers are in the pyjama pocket. And he would have been dead or dying before he was strung up, right? That’s the same as Harlesden.’
‘You’ve done your homework.’
Noble looked a little guilty. ‘Brian Burton, I’m afraid.’
They moved past the boy to the centre of the room and were assaulted by other odours beside urine, smells Brook knew well. Emptied bowels and the sickly sweetness of ageing blood had temporary dominion over the stench of stale beer and tobacco, which hung in the air and leached from the peeling, yellowed wallpaper. But now the room also had a chemical edge as the forensic officers applied their sprays and gels.
Like the other Reaper crime scenes, the room was sparsely furnished. It was important that only death and its key details would take the eye. A large double bed and wardrobe had been pushed close to the far wall, and beyond that was an ancient oak wardrobe, the doors of which were no longer flush. The doors had no handles, only holes for fingers to prise them open. There was no other furniture except for the chair that The Reaper probably used to hoist the boy into the noose.
Brook berated himself with a small shake of the head. Sorenson was dead. The Reaper was dead. This bore the hallmarks of The Reaper’s method but it wasn’t the same. Something wasn’t right. Something was different. Brook moved gingerly towards the bed for a better look, careful to avoid the officer kneeling nearby who was combing through the bare carpet. Two adult bodies were in the bed: on the far side the male, young and naked from the waist up; on the near side, the female in a silk slip, older and heavier. Both were still under the deepening red duvet, but neither was sitting up to face the boy. Brook narrowed his eyes to ponder this and made a mental note.
As ever, after the first Reaper killings in Harlesden, Brook searched for something tasteful, something wonderful, if only in reproduction, to give the dying a glimpse behind the curtain of humankind’s lofty ambition. In Harlesden it had been a painting, ‘Fleur de Lis’, for the Wallis murders a poster of Van Gogh and the grandeur of Mahler, beautiful sights and sounds to usher the dying towards the pit with smiles on their faces.
Brook looked around at the bold and colourful posters that had been displayed to enliven grubby walls, but knew The Reaper hadn’t brought any of these. Famous football players grinning for the camera adorned several walls, while other sporting posters suggested a passion for both Formula One and topless female motorbike racing.
‘Well, Burton can write down the details but never having been at a Reaper crime scene, he wouldn’t be able to tell you that this isn’t original Reaper.’
‘Why not?’ asked Noble.
‘It’s not a carbon copy. It’s not how…’ Brook was about to put himself into the frame but managed to stop himself. ‘It’s not exactly how The Reaper would’ve done it.’
‘You once said The Reaper liked to vary his MO from crime to crime. You know, to fool the profilers.’
Brook looked at Noble and smiled. ‘That’s it. Prove me wrong with my own words again. Derby CID will be in good hands when I finally head for the elephants’ graveyard, John.’
Once Noble would have beamed with childlike joy, but now he merely looked away before muttering, ‘Had a good teacher.’ A few seconds later he nodded at the walls. ‘There’s no poster, no art for them to enjoy while they die. That what you mean?’
‘True. But assume the music’s on loud enough to be heard in here. Maybe that was enough splendour to usher them across the Styx.’
As usual, Noble was able to breeze past Brook’s baffling rhetoric. ‘Okay. So what else is different?’
Brook smiled at Noble. ‘You have been at a Reaper crime scene before. Why don’t you tell me?’
Noble looked around the room with new eyes. He gave a half-smile to Brook, then called across to one of the SOCOs who was kneeling to dust a beer can next to the bed. ‘Are the bodies in the bed exactly as they were found?’
When Brook and Noble returned to the ground floor, DS Morton was waiting for them. He held up a rubbish bin containing a selection of discarded blue and white plastic wrappers.
‘Looks like our victims had a lot of meat in them, sir.’ Morton nodded at the contents. ‘Sausages, burgers, kebabs. Think we can rule out cholesterol?’ he added with a grin, which froze under Brook’s baleful stare.
‘What does it say on the packet?’
‘Moorcrofts,’ chipped in Noble. ‘It’s a local butcher in Normanton.’
Brook nodded. ‘Makes sense if the meat was a gift from the killer. Asda has CCTV.’
‘Also local butchers might struggle to pinpoint when the meat was bought.’
‘There’s a good chance they’ll remember someone buying barbecue food in winter. Get those packets bagged and get someone round there,’ instructed Brook.
At that moment DC Cooper popped his head round the door. ‘Chief Super’s here, sir.’
‘Thank God,’ said Noble. ‘I feel safer already.’
Brook and Noble left the kitchen. As they rounded the corner of the house, Noble muttered, ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ Brook followed his stare. DCI Hudson and DS Grant were donning protective clothing alongside Chief Superintendent Charlton. ‘Sir, they’ve got no place…’
‘Calm yourself, John. More pairs of eyes can’t hurt. Morning, sir,’ he shouted over the drone of the helicopter passing overhead.
‘Inspector. Sergeant. What’s good about it?’ returned the Chief Super.
‘Nothing if you’re a member of the Ingham clan, sir.’
‘Quite.’ Charlton hesitated, realising Brook, and especially Noble, expected further words from him. ‘I sent a car for DCI Hudson and DS Grant so they can have a gander and share their impressions with us — as they’re in the vicinity. More hands make light work, eh?’ he finished with a half laugh, unable to meet Brook’s eyes.
‘Morning, Joshua, Sergeant Grant,’ smiled Brook. ‘I thought you’d be back on the south coast by now.’
‘Lucky we weren’t,’ muttered Grant, a little louder than she intended, and Brook narrowed his eyes to divine her me
aning. It didn’t take long.
‘You don’t look so good, Joshua,’ observed Brook.
‘No. I had a rough night. I didn’t have time to have all the vaccinations before we came up north.’ Noble took tight-lipped offence but Brook, not being a Derby native, just smiled. ‘Is it true?’ ventured Hudson. ‘Is it another Reaper killing?’
Brook paused for a second. ‘It has all the hallmarks.’
‘Hope you don’t mind us taking a look, Inspector?’ added Grant, clearly hoping that he did.
‘Not at all. The more the merrier.’
‘They’re here at my request,’ put in Charlton as though Brook had somehow voiced an objection.
‘It’s a good idea, sir. A fresh perspective would be useful,’ said Brook, glancing at Noble’s pained expression.
With that, the party set off for the garden and Brook set about removing his latex gloves and coveralls. As he scrunched up his protective suit, he noticed Grant turn at the corner of the house and run her eye over Brook’s clothing.
Brook caught her eye and nodded. She smiled mechanically and continued after the others. Hudson and Grant had come to Derby to nail Brook for the murder of Tony Harvey-Ellis. Now a new Reaper killing put him even more squarely in the spotlight as far as they were concerned. He shrugged. He had nothing to hide … at least nothing that wasn’t already well hidden.
Chapter Eleven
Sheriff Andy Dupree poured himself a black coffee and plucked a sugar-coated doughnut from the box next to his wide-brimmed hat. His Marine-crop haircut was severe and both Drexler and McQuarry realised this was the first time they had seen him without the hat.
Dupree took a small bite of the pastry and washed it down with a sip of coffee so strong it left a black slick along his upper lip. ‘What did he say when you told him about Ashwell?’
Drexler looked at McQuarry then at the table. ‘He said, “Dear me.’”
Dupree let out a laugh. ‘Dear me? Mr Sorenson, you just survived a visit with the Ghost Road Killers. And all he said was “Dear me”? These fucking Limeys, I gotta tell you.’ He shook his head and chuckled again. ‘He say why he didn’t come forward?’
‘He claims he didn’t know the Ashwells were dead.’
‘With all the media and shit. How’s he expect us to swallow that?’
‘He doesn’t have a TV, Andy.’
‘Well, there’s some weird shit right there.’ Dupree shook his head. ‘But he don’t deny being there?’
‘How could he?’ said McQuarry.
‘Or buying the knife and the coffee?’
‘The coffee was free but no, he didn’t deny anything about being there.’
‘So he coughed to murdering Ashwell and son.’
McQuarry raised an eyebrow and helped herself to coffee. ‘Damn, I forgot to ask him that.’
Dupree smiled. ‘And you think this Sorenson knew they killed the Baileys?’
‘We’re sure of it,’ said Drexler. ‘Why else would a rich and powerful man bother taking out those two lowlifes? He’s been flagging it up from the get go. He takes the rose petals to stuff into Billy’s pocket to tell us why the Ashwells have died. He writes some Wittgenstein on the cabin wall when he’s done, then starts quoting him at me almost before we’d said hello.’
‘Why the fuck would he do that?’ pondered Dupree. ‘We coulda looked at him for a while then moved on. Now he draws a lot more heat.’
‘Mike has a theory,’ said McQuarry with a hint of scepticism. Dupree turned to Drexler.
‘He wants the heat, Andy,’ nodded Drexler. ‘He wants the attention and for us to know he did it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s some kind of Bored Rich Guy game. He kills Ashwell and his boy and is challenging us to prove it.’
‘More than that, Mike. He’s challenging us to care,’ said McQuarry.
‘And do we?’ asked Dupree. ‘Don’t give me that look, Ed. I’m serious! This Sorenson’s done the world a favour, far as I can see. Let’s give it a day then move on. Spend our time looking for some real bad guys.’
‘You’ve got a point, Andy. But there’s one thing I have to understand and it’s the reason we have to pursue this,’ said Drexler.
‘What’s that?’
‘Caleb Ashwell’s been bushwhacking folks on the Ghost Road for twenty years and not only did he not get caught, but no one actually knew that crimes were being committed.’
‘So?’
‘So how the hell did Sorenson know? How did he see what no one else has ever seen? How did he know to stop there? How did he know to pay cash? And how did he know not to drink the coffee?’
McQuarry and Dupree stared at the table. A few minutes of head-shaking later, they looked up at Drexler, who was waiting for his moment.
‘Okay, Mike.’ nodded Dupree. ‘Why don’t you tell us?’
‘There’s only one explanation, as far as I can see. This isn’t his first murder.’ Dupree and McQuarry considered the statement but neither could raise a counter. ‘Victor Sorenson is made of ice. He was looking for the Ghost Road Killer and because he knew Bailey’s route, he knew vaguely where to look. He’s a hunter. And a hunter knows how others hunt. That’s how he knew and that’s why we have to stop him.’
‘It’s bang out of order, sir,’ seethed Noble.
‘So you’ve said.’
‘You’re taking this very well.’
‘How should I be taking it, John?’
‘You should be sticking up for your division, sir,’ said Noble icily. ‘What about our reputation? I suppose you…’ He stopped in mid-sentence.
Brook stared at him, taken aback by this sudden glimpse of old grudges he thought had withered. ‘But I’m not from this division, am I? I’m an outsider who was imposed on it. That’s why I don’t care about its reputation. That what you wanted to get off your chest, John?’
Noble looked away, tight-lipped; Brook heard him mutter, ‘Not exactly … maybe.’
Brook sighed and looked around. ‘We shouldn’t be arguing in front of the troops.’ He walked Noble a little way from the house, although privacy of any kind was impossible. ‘John, look at it from Charlton’s point of view. Greatorix is on the sick list. And I’m in the doghouse because of Brian Burton’s book. I’m tainted, John. Past and present. There’s a long and well-documented history of my failure to catch The Reaper, on top of which…’
‘On top of which?’
‘On top of which … they’re here. And they’re already investigating a possible Reaper killing in Brighton,’ he added quietly.
‘What?’ exclaimed Noble. ‘What killing?’
‘Tony Harvey-Ellis.’
‘Who’s he?’
Brook nodded towards the Ingham house. ‘I’ll tell you later.’
Chief Superintendent Charlton had emerged from around the side of the house. His face was ashen and he appeared to be having a little difficulty walking, to judge from the attention he was giving to where he stepped. Brook fancied he was blind to everything apart from what he’d just witnessed. Behind him followed Hudson and Grant. The latter detached herself and headed over to the gap in the fence. She gazed across at the darkened house opposite before approaching a uniformed officer. Brook watched her, trying not to be obvious about it. The uniformed officer pointed towards PCs Duffy and Parker who were kicking their heels next to a Scientific Support van. Grant marched over like any good detective would. Talk to the first officers on the scene. Basic police work. It wouldn’t be long now.
Brook flicked his eyes back to Charlton who, together with Hudson, was approaching. Brook realised he had never seen the Chief Super out of uniform before. Minus his protective suit, he was soberly dressed and wore a large camel coat from which he now extracted a pair of brown leather gloves. He pulled them on, without breaking his sightless, unblinking stare.
On reaching Brook and Noble, Charlton finally managed to find his voice. ‘My God.’ He shook his head and squinted up at Brook suddenly. Bro
ok gazed down into his confused eyes and fancied he detected a morsel of sympathy in there. Sympathy for the victims no doubt, but also some realisation of what it must be like for CID, at the sharp end, to have to deal with such sights.
‘We need a win on this one, people,’ Charlton said. ‘We’ve got to catch whoever did this. And not just for the stats. Who could do such a thing?’
‘How long have you got?’ nodded Hudson grimly. ‘Honestly, that was nothing, Chief Superintendent. One of the neatest crime scenes I’ve ever seen.’
‘Is it The Reaper?’ asked Charlton, fixing Brook with a look.
‘It’s a creditable copy,’ replied Brook, keeping a peripheral eye on Grant, who was still talking to Duffy and Parker.
Charlton nodded. ‘You can tell me how you know that later. What’s being done now?’
‘We’ve forty or so uniformed officers searching all the neighbouring gardens. I’ve got my CID team going door to door for witnesses, asking about the history of the Inghams, feuds, disputes, known enemies. The Forensics people are obviously doing their thing. We’ve got a scalpel as murder weapon and a mobile phone, which may have prints on it. We assume it was the one used to call emergency services last night so we’ll be getting the tape for that this morning. We’ve got a brand new barbecue, which may provide a link to previous Reaper investigations. It may have been delivered to the Inghams as a prize. That’s a Reaper signature to gain access.’
‘What else?’
‘The bodies will be going to the mortuary within the hour and Dr Habib has got his team prepared…’
‘What about the survivor, Inspector Brook? This Jason Wallis. He’s now survived two Reaper attacks, shouldn’t we be looking at him as our killer?’
Brook looked doubtful. ‘Sir, I wish it was that simple…’ Brook broke off as DS Grant rejoined the group. At first her face had carried an expression of confusion, but this had given way to satisfaction as she approached. She locked her gaze onto Brook, a thin smile curling her lip.
