The Disciple didb-2

by Steven Dunne

  ‘But what about your friends?’ asked Hudson. ‘Why didn’t you warn them? Why didn’t you tell the police?’

  He snorted. ‘Tell the leng? Tell them what? I don’t know nothin’. Anyway, it’s not like they didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jason turned to Brook with a taunt in his eye. ‘What they done. They told me. Stinger, Grets, Banger. They ’fessed up. Two years ago. They said they done some old woman over. Croaked her.’

  Brook’s jaw tightened.

  ‘Old woman?’ asked Grant. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘They strangled her in her flat. They told me about it. Same night as mi mum and dad and our Kylie.’

  Hudson turned to Brook and shook his head. ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’ Brook was either unable or unwilling to speak.

  ‘He knows,’ Jason nodded at Brook. ‘Ask him. Annie something. Same night, weren’t it, Inspector?’

  Brook nodded imperceptibly, finally able to comprehend what he was hearing. So there it was. The pay-off. Six lives lost to clear the slate for Jason. Three murderers, Jason’s friends, were dead, unable to drag their accomplice down with them, with Brook, hands tied, unable to put the record straight. Neat. And Brook had thought him stupid.

  ‘Annie Sewell,’ he finally said.

  ‘That’s her,’ nodded Jason cockily.

  ‘Well, this is unexpected,’ said Hudson, shaking out a cigarette. Then, remembering he was in a hospital, he slid it quickly behind his ear. ‘And it looks like we’ve found a reason for The Reaper’s visit…’

  ‘You don’t even know her name. You should at least know that.’ Brook looked at the floor, unable to meet the triumph in Jason’s eyes. ‘Stephen’s mum died too,’ added Brook, trying to pick at a vestige of conscience.

  ‘She weren’t no MILF — a right sket, she were,’ replied Jason.

  ‘What about her young boy?’ Brook spoke wearily, aware of the futility of his question and his search for a dormant indignation.

  ‘Okay, Damen, it’s not our job to judge…’

  ‘Yeah an’ he weren’t no saint neither,’ added Jason with a shrug. ‘Worst o’ the lot.’

  ‘Nine years old,’ said Brook.

  ‘Still had an ASBO, din’ he?’ Jason sneered back.

  Brook rose from his chair. ‘He was hung by the neck.’

  Hudson stood in front of him, assuming imminent violence. ‘Okay, Inspector. Go and get some air. That’s an order. We’ll take it from here.’

  Brook blinked at Hudson, Grant hovering behind him, aware that his body language was causing concern. He smiled faintly, mimicking Jason’s faraway stare.

  ‘Sure.’

  Outside in the corridor, Grant allowed Brook to walk ahead of her and walked in front of Hudson to slow him down. She engaged her boss with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘Well, guv, one day on the case and we’re already in credit,’ she said softly.

  Hudson shrugged and stepped after Brook. ‘We’re not here to solve bungled burglaries, Laura.’ He caught up to Brook. ‘Well, Damen. What’s the story on this Annie Sewell?’

  ‘You heard Jason. He was pretty clear.’

  ‘So she was killed the same night as the Wallis family?’

  ‘That’s right. But she got lost in The Reaper maelstrom.’

  Hudson nodded. ‘I can see how she might. Could those lads have killed her?’

  Brook came to a halt and looked into Hudson’s eyes. ‘It wasn’t my case. But yes, those lads could’ve done it.’

  ‘Well, that’s some measure of justice then,’ said Hudson. ‘That’s a comfort.’

  Brook smiled bleakly. ‘Right. Three cheers for The Reaper.’

  ‘What are we looking for, Mike?’

  ‘You got me, Ed. Maybe I’ll know when I see it.’ Drexler shone the flashlight around the cabin, consciously avoiding the bloody writing on the wall. Wandering around at night at a deserted crime scene that had offered up over twenty corpses was good reason not to crank up the atmosphere any further.

  ‘It’s late,’ said McQuarry, resolutely confining her own flashlight to watching her step.

  ‘There must be something to connect, Ed. Assuming the Dodge is at the bottom of a lake, or burned out on some forest track, we can’t tie the Ashwells to Sorenson. So we have to tie Sorenson to this cabin. If we can put him here then…’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘…we can sweat him.’

  ‘Thought you said he was made of ice,’ retorted McQuarry. ‘Look, Mike, Latent have been all over this place. They got Sorenson’s prints from the garage but no matches in here, none on the wine bottle, nothing. He would’ve worn gloves. He’s not stupid. We got no saliva in the wine, hell, he didn’t even leave a glass. There are no footprints we can find, no fibres and no hairs.’

  ‘He doesn’t have hair.’ Drexler shone his flashlight under the worn sofa then stood upright. He moved into the hall and opened the door to the third bedroom. The smell hit them like a wall of sewage, rancid and sour, and they puckered under its assault.

  Drexler ran his fingers over the bolt on the door. ‘This feels like it’s been forced.’

  McQuarry peered at it. ‘Maybe Sorenson ransacked the place.’

  ‘Looking for what?’

  Drexler shook his head and swept the light around the windowless cell. The thin blanket and dank mattress were at Quantico and had delivered up their grisly secrets. The DNA of the Bailey girls was abundant in this room but nowhere else in the cabin — this had been their prison. Blood, hair, saliva, tears, urine and even traces of excrement were all found on the mattress. Two related females had spent time in this room, the mother, Tania, was not one of them — she’d been raped and then murdered in the clearing, probably in front of her family, according to the profiler. Young Sally had joined her parents a month or so later. They still hadn’t found Nicole’s grave. They probably never would.

  The Ashwells had spent time here too. Their body fluids were all over the bedding, chiefly semen and saliva. Young Billy had evidently been fully initiated into the family pastime. It didn’t paint a pretty picture but at least the fact leavened the agents’ horror at the memory of Billy’s feet scrabbling for solid ground as he dangled from the noose in the garage.

  But there was something more. According to Forensics it wasn’t just Caleb and Billy who’d been in the room: there were three different sets of DNA, all from the same family. A third male had been present, though less frequently it would seem, and Caleb and Billy’s only next-of-kin was Caleb’s brother, Jacob Ashwell. It seemed reasonable to assume he was the other participant and a bulletin was issued on him.

  Inquiries had found Jacob’s last known address in Las Vegas but he’d since fled. And the fact that he hadn’t come forward despite the media attention was telling. The gas station — while no gold mine — was a merchantable piece of real estate and Jacob Ashwell was the sole heir now that the corpse of Caleb’s wife Mandy-Sue had been positively identified from her dental records.

  Finally Drexler closed the door on the chamber of horrors and continued his tour. He unfolded the Forensics report from his back pocket and read it for the hundredth time. He went into the bathroom and opened the rickety bathroom cabinet with its cracked mirror.

  ‘What are you looking for, Mike?’

  ‘The drugs.’

  McQuarry sighed. ‘The CSIs went over this place twenty-four/seven for three days, Mike. If they didn’t find the drugs then they’re not here.’

  Drexler looked at the sheet again. ‘Billy Ashwell had coffee before he died, laced with hyoscine and traces of morphine. The combination depresses the central nervous system and causes paralysis and amnesia. George and Tania Bailey both received a similar cocktail of drugs before they died.’

  ‘I read the report, Mike. But there’s nothing here.’

  Drexler sighed. ‘Know what I’m thinking? Maybe Sorenson took it … for future projects.’

&nbs
p; ‘Good luck getting a search warrant. It’s past nine, Mike. I’d like to have some dinner and maybe a drink before I go back and collapse in my welcoming motel room.’

  Drexler rubbed a hand over his face, then smiled. ‘Sorry, Ed, you’re right. Let’s get out of here. Dinner’s on me.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  They closed and locked the cabin door and walked back towards the darkened garage on the highway, Drexler swinging his flashlight and McQuarry greedily lighting a cigarette.

  The noise of the forest was deafening and, but for their one pyramid of torchlight, the darkness total.

  ‘It sure is lonely out here, Ed. I can’t imagine anyone wanting…’ Drexler halted in his tracks and swung his flashlight at the scrub on the side of the dirt track. He retraced his steps and got down on his haunches to examine something on the ground.

  ‘What is it, Mike?’

  ‘This hole. It looks freshly dug.’ Drexler swung his flashlight over the hole. It was about a foot deep and six inches in diameter. He fingered the soil inside it. ‘What do you suppose was buried in there?’

  Drexler stepped back and swung his flashlight from side to side. There was a line, an avenue almost, of half a dozen small saplings planted equidistant from each other. The end tree was now missing. He approached the sapling nearest to the hole. The deep green leaves were large and oily, and horn-shaped creamy white flowers drooped towards the ground.

  ‘Unusual. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a tree like this. Know what genus that is?’

  ‘Gee, Mike, is it a Californian Redwood?’

  Drexler laughed. ‘Sorry, Ed. I’m used to you knowing everything.’

  ‘I know my stomach is grumbling.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to this end tree.’

  ‘There’s been heavy traffic on the site, Mike. Maybe one of the ambulances or tow trucks knocked it over.’

  He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

  It was cold, dark and beginning to rain by the time Brook, Hudson and Grant arrived back at the Ingham house. For that reason the crime scene was not as besieged as it might have been. There were still a few gawping locals hanging around the taped-off area, and media organisations were still represented, but the weather and the lateness of the hour had thinned out the crowd.

  As Brook pulled the car into the nearest parking space, a few lights and cameras swung in its direction. A few friendly cries hoping to elicit an interview could be heard above the drone of the generators.

  ‘Inspector. What progress are you making, if any?’

  Brook turned to see Brian Burton grinning at him. ‘No comment at this time.’

  ‘Should I ask the Senior Investigating Officer?’ Burton added with a leer. If Burton had been expecting a reaction from Brook, he was disappointed. ‘Had a chance to read my book yet, Inspector?’

  ‘I don’t read fiction, Brian,’ Brook replied coolly and the throng of Burton’s colleagues bellowed with laughter. Brook walked calmly past the clutch of journalists and ducked under the tape, following Hudson and Grant to the crime scene. Cameras flashed behind him and Brook was halted in his tracks. Mike Drexler stood at the back of the crowd. He’d only caught a glimpse as the camera flash died, but he was sure it was him. He was standing some way off behind a knot of onlookers and seemed to be smiling in Brook’s direction.

  Brook stood and waited for the next camera flash. When it came a few seconds later there was no sign of Drexler.

  The sound of booing erupting from a small huddle of people beyond the tape distracted Brook’s attention. He turned to the group of no more than four people gathered in the dark, at least one of which was an elderly woman.

  Hudson and Grant halted and came back towards him. ‘What is it?’ asked Grant.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Brook. ‘Are they booing us?’

  Grant narrowed her eyes against the slanting rain. ‘I think they are.’

  Seeing the three detectives now paying attention to them, the small group of people became more voluble. One shouted, ‘Let The Reaper alone. If you can’t keep the streets safe, let someone else do it for yer.’

  Another shouted, ‘Good riddance to the scum. Long live The Reaper.’

  And yet another chanted, ‘Scum in fear. The Reaper’s near. Scum in fear. The Reaper’s near.’ The chant was taken up by the others.

  ‘Fuck me!’ said Hudson, throwing a cigarette into his mouth and continuing towards the house. ‘That’s a first. Three cheers for The Reaper? You weren’t wrong, Damen.’ Brook merely grunted.

  Once inside the relative comfort of the police marquee, the detectives were joined by Noble.

  ‘I take it you heard the Neighbourhood Watch out there?’ asked Noble.

  ‘Hell, yes,’ answered Hudson. ‘Bizarre.’

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t find it so bizarre if you had to live next to the Inghams, guv,’ observed Grant.

  ‘She’s right, sir. Door to door all round the estate, everyone we spoke to told us they lived in fear. Seems they were a constant nuisance and worse. The noise, the loud music at all hours, routine thefts, threats. They behaved like they owned the estate. Apparently the little kid was the worst. He was even put up for an ASBO. Nobody would raise their face to them, never mind a hand. And nobody went out without leaving lights and the TV on.’

  ‘So good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?’ nodded Hudson.

  ‘It fits The Reaper’s MO, guv. Target the troublemakers, the petty criminals,’ added Grant. ‘Maybe people are seeing the connection now.’

  ‘Connection?’ said Brook, fixing her with a look.

  ‘The pattern. After five of these, people are starting to realise that if they’re minding their own business and behaving themselves, they’re safe. A few less villains on the street — who cares?’

  Brook smiled. She caught on quickly. Under his breath he said, ‘Nobody cares.’

  Only Grant heard him above the background hum of the generators and she turned to him for the first time without hostility, giving him a bleak smile in return.

  ‘Maybe we should piss off back to Brighton then, Laura. Let someone turn this road into a Reaper theme park,’ Hudson observed, to his own amusement. ‘Thought not. Bring us up to speed, John.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Call me guv, will you, John? Sir makes me sound like a fucking teacher.’ Noble looked over at Brook, who affected disinterest. ‘What about the bodies?’

  ‘All gone and Dr Habib says he’ll have something preliminary first thing in the morning. Forensics too.’

  Hudson looked at his watch. ‘Hopefully that’ll give us something to chew on at briefing.’

  ‘And you know the good news,’ said Noble with a glance at Brook. ‘We’ve got a clear thumbprint from the mobile phone. There are a few other smudged marks which are partials of Jason’s. But the thumb isn’t his. It doesn’t match any print on the database. Criminal or internal!’ he said, with more than sufficient emphasis. But, as if he were addressing first-day cadets, he felt compelled to add, ‘DI Brook is in the clear. If there was any doubt.’ Noble looked pointedly at Grant, who nodded.

  ‘We never doubted it, did we, Laura?’ said Hudson, encouraging his sergeant with a look.

  ‘Not for a second, guv,’ she answered in a monotone.

  ‘And did we get anything useful from the street, Sergeant?’

  Noble nodded. ‘One lead — Mrs Patel, our nosy neighbour from two years ago, said she saw someone standing outside her house, watching the Ingham house. All the streetlights round here have been vandalised so she couldn’t give us anything more than she thinks it was a man.’

  ‘Doing what?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Like I said — just standing, watching.’

  ‘Sounds promising. What time?’

  ‘Around ten. She watched him for a few minutes and then he moved away.’

  ‘That’s a long time to hang around waiting for his opportunity,’ said Hudson. ‘Risky.’

  ‘May
not be our guy,’ said Grant.

  ‘If he moved off towards the Wallis house, it might still be him,’ said Brook. ‘But I agree. If he’s using the Wallis house as cover, why stand in the road getting noticed? Anything else, John?’

  ‘Just background. No other witnesses. Every curtain, every blind facing the Ingham house seems to be permanently drawn. Everybody on the Drayfin just wanted to block them out. Getting nosy invited trouble. And it was past one in the morning. Too late for most.’

  ‘Did people hear the music?’ said Brook.

  ‘Everybody close by heard it but nobody looked at their clock. It was normal and people were used to tuning it out. One minute it was pounding out, the next morning it had stopped.’

  ‘Pounding?’ said Hudson.

  ‘Some kind of rap music was on. Nobody heard the Chair de Lune.’

  Brook smiled. ‘The Moon Chair, John? No, they wouldn’t have. The rap was for the neighbours. Debussy was only for the victims.’

  ‘We found melted plastic in the oil drum. It’s probably the CD the Ingham boy had on. My guess is that once they were out cold, The Reaper takes it off, tosses it in the fire and puts his own stuff on.’

  ‘Did you find a case for it, John?’

  ‘For the Debussy, no — could have been on the fire as well. But there’s an empty case for a gangsta rapper on the kitchen table.’

  ‘What about clothing? Anything dumped nearby?’ asked Grant. ‘Not that we’ve found. So far we’ve got some clear footprints round the barbecue but they match up with the victims’ shoes.’

  ‘What about the path and the gate?’ said Brook, nodding at the darkened house that backed onto the Ingham house.

  ‘If that’s how he got away he left no sign and no one in the next street saw anything either,’ replied Noble. ‘They’ve taken the gate away for further tests.’

  ‘No footprints or marks of any kind? With all that blood on him?’

  Noble shrugged. ‘Not that they can find. There’s been some rain.’

  ‘Maybe the killer left the Ingham house at the front?’ offered Hudson.

  ‘Then why the blood on the fence at the back?’ persisted Brook. ‘Did you find out who lives there?’