by Steven Dunne
‘Mrs Dorothy North. A pensioner. Lives alone.’
‘Did she see or hear anything, anyone in her garden?’ asked Grant.
‘She’s away. That’s why the house has been dark through all this.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘No. Her next-door neighbour,’ Noble indicated the house to the left, ‘knows only that she’s away for six weeks and left two weeks ago.’
‘Okay, John. Get Cooper to re-canvass the entire block — both streets. Mrs North might have other friends in the street, so look for people nearer her own age. And check for any relatives. Find someone who knows where she went.’
‘Is it important, Damen?’ queried Hudson.
‘Maybe not. But it’s the house backing onto the Inghams and the woman who lives there is away. With The Reaper I tend to be suspicious of helpful coincidence.’
‘I thought this was a copycat,’ offered Grant, almost smiling.
Brook looked across at her. ‘Either way.’
‘Is this usual, Damen?’ asked Hudson. ‘As Reaper crime scenes go.’
‘The Reaper always likes to mix it up. Assuming it is The Reaper,’ he added with emphasis for Grant’s sake.
‘You still say it’s a copycat?’
‘Method can be copied Joshua. And yes, I shall say it’s a copy.’ Sorenson’s dead. ‘There are too many differences and too much evidence.’ And Sorenson’s dead.
‘I mean the phone call for one. The Reaper would never do that.’ And did I mention Sorenson’s dead?
‘We’ll need to hear more on that in the morning. Okay, let’s walk through again.’
For the next half hour the four detectives re-enacted the crime for their own benefit, arguing over a detail here and miming an action there.
Brook, who knew from experience how things had probably played out, watched Hudson and Grant go about their business. He had to admit he was impressed. They seemed well matched, each with differing talents that complemented the other’s. They picked up on the significance of certain details and together sometimes came up with ideas that surprised or intrigued Brook. One such idea came to DS Grant as she had stood underneath the skylight in the bedroom ceiling. The rope that had hung the young boy was no longer in situ, having gone to the laboratories along with all the other evidence.
Brook noticed her as she stood gazing up into the roof space for several minutes, a finger twirling a few stray hairs.
‘What?’ he said.
Eventually she broke her reverie and looked at Brook. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But that rope seems desperately random,’ she added with a smile that suddenly softened her features.
‘How so?’ asked Brook.
‘Well, you say The Reaper’s MO is to kill the child in front of the parents?’
‘What of it?’
‘But why a rope?’ she said. ‘He didn’t need one to tie the parents up.’
‘I don’t follow, luv,’ put in Hudson, walking over to them on the now bare floorboards.
‘Why did he bring a rope?’ It seemed a simple question, the significance of which had escaped Hudson and Noble.
Brook’s brow, however, creased in thought. ‘Why did he bring a rope?’ he echoed, as though to hear the question again would help.
‘What are you getting at?’ asked Hudson.
‘Well, you say he has a fairly fluid MO,’ Grant reminded Brook, who nodded. ‘In Harlesden the parents were tied up and the boy was strangled before being hung from a light fitting. He’d taken rope for the parents, so he already had it there for the kid. That sounds improvised to me. In Brixton a year later the daughter was tied up as well and had her throat cut. He may have taken rope for the parents but didn’t need it because they were drugged.’ She looked at Brook for confirmation.
‘Heroin,’ nodded Brook.
‘Okay. There was no kid in the Leeds killings — not one that had been born anyway — and the Wallis girl was poisoned and her throat was cut.’
‘You’ve done your homework,’ said Brook, starting to see where this was going. ‘And you’re right. There was no rope at the Wallis house. The drugs did everything the rope could and more.’
‘So?’ asked Noble.
‘So follow the pattern, John. Different MOs in each case.’
‘To fool the profilers, you said,’ replied Noble.
‘Maybe,’ agreed Grant. ‘But look at how The Reaper’s polished his act, how he’s evolved. Harlesden and Brixton were twenty years ago, when he was younger and stronger.’
‘He’s making life easier for himself each time,’ nodded Hudson. ‘The physical effort required gets harder over the years, so he changes things.’
‘But not this time, don’t you see?’ exclaimed Grant, warming to her subject. ‘This time he’s back to the rope, lots of physical effort, even brute strength is needed — which would seem to back up Inspector Brook’s theory of a copycat.’
‘So there’s a younger healthier Reaper out there,’ said Hudson. ‘A disciple.’
Grant smiled and nodded at him. ‘Exactly.’
‘Seems to make sense,’ agreed Noble.
Grant frowned suddenly. ‘But even so, why not copycat the later killings? Even for a young guy, a rope isn’t that easy to carry to the scene, especially if you don’t know how much to bring. And another thing. How did he know he could get access to the roof space to tie it off? Unless…’
Brook looked excitedly at Grant. ‘You think …?’
‘Definitely,’ said Grant, catching the mood.
Hudson and Noble could only look at each other.
Brook led the way out of the Inghams’ master bedroom, down the bare stairs and through the brightly lit backyard to the street. He marched towards the derelict Wallis house, Grant at his shoulder, Hudson and Noble trailing along in their wake.
The uniformed officer on duty outside the Wallis house stiffened and hastily hid the cigarette behind his back as the four detectives approached.
‘Inspector,’ he said.
‘Constable…’
‘Hopkin, sir.’
‘Miserable duty, Constable,’ said Brook without evident sympathy. ‘Sorry you got lumbered. Why don’t you finish your ciggy?’
PC Hopkin wasn’t sure how to react. He’d only been in the Force for a year and didn’t know Brook very well, but what he’d heard had all been bad. ‘Sir, I…’
Brook smiled. ‘I mean it. Stand easy and enjoy your cigarette.’ He made a play to look around at the deserted streets now that all the spectators and journalists had packed in for the night. ‘Who’s going to know?’ With that, Brook and Grant eased past him and made for the front entrance of the Wallis house. The chipboard from the previous night had been removed by Forensics in the hope of finding some latent prints and Brook disappeared inside first, Grant following.
Hopkin’s cigarette remained firmly behind his back until all four CID officers were safely inside the house.
Brook’s eyes swept round the sparse but now well-lit room where he’d waited for The Reaper the previous night. But instead of the mock-up of the Maples girl’s miserable squat, the room was now completely bare, apart from the crime scene lighting and a single wooden chair. The mattress had been removed for further examination by Forensics officers. The picture frame, candle, stove and unopened cans of food had gone to the laboratories too, as had the wine bottle and the glasses from downstairs.
‘So there was a mattress here,’ said Grant, waving a hand at the bare floorboards, ‘and an empty picture frame on top.’
Brook nodded.
‘But no picture in it. Why?’ She looked expectantly at him.
Brook shook his head, remaining mute. Over the last few hours he was being forced to react to all sorts of information that had once belonged only to him. He wasn’t about to open another seam into his past and produce the picture of the girl who had once haunted his dreams … not even for Laura Maples’s namesake.
Hudson and Noble arrived at the t
op of the stairs and crowded into the derelict bedroom. ‘Why all the excitement?’ said Hudson.
Brook and Grant looked around. They both saw the stout wooden chair off in one corner and Grant picked it up to place in the middle of the room.
‘The houses on this street are identical, Joshua,’ said Brook, watching Grant climb onto the chair. ‘That has to help with planning.’
Hudson and Noble turned to follow Brook’s gaze and watch Grant lift her latex-gloved hand to the ceiling. She clenched it into a fist and gave the trapdoor a solid jab. At once the board fell on top of her, pushed down by the weight of something lying in the loft space above. She emitted a startled scream, lost her balance and tumbled off the chair, falling towards the floor. Fortunately Brook was well positioned and managed to catch her. He held his hands under her armpits and lowered her to the floor, their eyes locking briefly as her face passed his. Then they all turned to look into the roof space.
A rope tied to a rafter in identical fashion to the one used in the Ingham house had fallen into the bedroom. It swayed through the air gently and, at the business end of the rope, another young boy swung stiffly from side to side, his feet no more than five feet above the floor.
‘Fuck me.’ Hudson held out a hand to halt the motion of the body, as the noise of everyone’s quickened breathing began to ease. He turned the form round and stared into the face with its sightless open eyes, abnormally red cheeks and happy grin. Hudson smiled back at the boy and tapped on his plastic mannequin’s head with a knuckle.
‘He did a dry run,’ said Noble, now able to manage a relieved grin. Brook smiled back at him and Grant joined in. ‘That’s how he knew how much rope to bring.’
‘The clever bastard,’ nodded Hudson.
Chapter Thirteen
It was gone midnight when Brook pulled up outside the Midland Hotel to drop off the weary Hudson and Grant. It had been a long day — two days in Brook’s case. They exchanged goodnights and Brook pulled away from the entrance and into the deserted streets. A moment later, he turned into a parking bay beside a line of former railway workers’ terraced houses and turned off the engine. It was cold and a light rain was in the air again. Winter was on its way.
He stepped out of his car and shook out a cigarette from a near empty pack that had been donated by Hudson. He looked at his watch again. Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d set off to meet The Reaper not knowing what to expect, being sure only that Victor Sorenson wouldn’t be on hand to greet him. So why on earth had he gone? He took a pull on his cigarette and faced up to the facts. How could he have stayed away? Whoever was doing this knew that he wouldn’t be able to resist. Just as Sorenson would have known.
Brook pondered his options. Dr Habib had been prevailed upon to arrange a seven a.m. meeting to give up his findings on the Ingham killings and Brook debated the value of driving the forty-minute journey home. He’d have a couple of hours’ more rest if he went straight back to his office and dozed at his desk rather than drive out to the Peaks.
He dropped the unpleasant cigarette down a sewer grate and got back into his car. He was about to turn the engine on when in his driver’s mirror he saw a figure emerge from the hotel on the other side of the street. He turned around to be sure. There was no mistake: it was Laura Grant. What’s more, she was walking his way. Brook wondered what to do. He’d already bade his politest farewells to Hudson and Grant when he dropped them off and his already low reserve of social skills was severely depleted. Laura (he could call her that in his thoughts at least) seemed to have softened towards him as the evidence began to point away from Brook, but he knew she — and Hudson for that matter — would still be harbouring a kernel of suspicion about him, if only in relation to the death of Tony Harvey-Ellis.
He looked in the mirror again and reached for the ignition. But to turn on the engine would draw further attention, with Grant now only twenty yards away.
Feeling a fool, Brook resolved just to sit there and let her pass. If she spotted him, so be it.
A few seconds later, Grant drew level with Brook’s car; out of his peripheral vision, Brook could see she had stopped. For a few seconds neither of them moved, then Grant crossed the road towards his car. There was now no doubt she had seen him. He turned to meet her advancing frame, tossed his head back in feigned surprise and lowered his window.
‘Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Still awake?’
She reached his car door and, although not annoyed, she seemed a little puzzled. ‘Are you stalking me, Inspector?’ she asked with as mild a reproach as she could manage.
Brook grinned now and opened his door to get out. ‘Actually no,’ he said. ‘Why, what are you up to?’
Grant looked at him, thinking. ‘I’m about to arrest a kerb crawler.’
‘Really? Need back-up?’
She laughed easily, the condensation from her amusement blowing between them. ‘No. But what are you doing?’
‘Honestly? Just thinking things through and wondering whether it’s worth driving all the way home. You?’
She studied him for a moment then said, ‘Don’t laugh, will you? But I’m a bit of an insomniac, especially in the middle of a case. I often walk late at night by the sea. I love it. It clears my head.’
Brook smiled faintly, remembering his many battles with slumber. ‘Why would I laugh? Must be common in the job.’ ‘It’s a weakness,’ she replied, betraying a hint of self-disgust. ‘And you need to be strong.’
‘In a man’s world? Yes.’ She smiled. ‘So I handle it.’
‘I’m sure you do,’ he said. ‘Mind if I walk with you?’
She looked at him and considered the question for a moment.
‘Why not?’
Brook got out of the car and together they ambled off in the direction Grant had been taking, neither feeling the need to speak. After a few minutes Brook smiled. ‘Four words,’ he said. ‘That was impressive.’
‘Sorry?’
‘“They’re all dead.” You said that was four words. In the briefing. You must have noticed everyone looking confused, mentally counting out the words. Most coppers would think it was three words. Some even two. Not you.’
She smiled but not at Brook. ‘My dad was a real stickler for that sort of thing when I was at school.’
‘Glad to hear it. But I must warn you to be careful about appearing too brainy if you don’t want people to dislike you. In the job, I mean.’
‘I know — it can cause resentment. I’m not very good at hiding things, I’m afraid.’ She flashed a sideways grin at him. ‘Like giving you a hard time. You may have spotted that.’
Brook laughed. ‘I believe I did.’
‘Sorry.’
‘No need. That’s nothing to the hard time I give myself.’
Grant looked up into his eyes. ‘You too? Figures. I wish I could be more like Joshua — DCI Hudson.’
‘Oh?’
‘You know, relaxed about things. Treat it like any other job. Also he’s very clever but he doesn’t let it show.’
‘He’s got the common touch, has he?’ smiled Brook.
‘I thought you two knew each other?’
‘Hardly at all. Mainly through a mutual colleague — Charlie Rowlands.’
‘His old boss.’ She nodded.
‘And mine.’
They walked in a large circle through the darkened city centre of Derby for another twenty minutes, neither talking, simply walking and enjoying the freshness of the night air now that the rain had stopped and the sky had cleared. Brook felt comfortable in Grant’s presence and she apparently felt the same.
They arrived back at the Midland’s entrance. As Grant prepared to go inside, Brook said, ‘If you love walking, Sergeant, you should come up into the Peaks. There’s some wonderful scenery.’
She turned back to him and for a split second Brook thought he might have said the wrong thing, might have implied she come to his home and spend the night.
But a moment later she sm
iled.
‘I’d like that.’ She turned to go and Brook, already heading for his car, turned back at his name. ‘Inspector Brook. Call me Laura.’
He smiled and continued on the way to his car. Laura. Beautiful name.
Forty minutes later, Brook pulled the BMW up to the door of his cottage and got out. Drexler’s hire car was on the small drive next door and the house was in darkness. He held the car door open for a second then slammed it hard and locked up. He ran his eye over Rose Cottage to see if his lack of consideration had registered. It appeared not. Brook stepped softly onto the neighbouring drive and put his hand onto the bonnet of Drexler’s car. It was still warm.
He resisted the urge to bang on Drexler’s door and ask him why he’d been at the crime scene. Instead he crept back to his own house and poured a small whisky before heading upstairs. He fell asleep before he’d taken a sip.
Noble led the way to Pathology, Laura Grant beside him. Brook and Hudson brought up the rear, trudging in exhausted silence. They made their way to Dr Habib’s office. It was seven o’clock, barely light, and after the last twenty-four hours, no one was much in the mood for small talk.
Habib was a short stocky man, in his early sixties and wore round pebble glasses. His unlined chubby face cracked into a soft smile when he saw Noble, though the sight of Brook chilled his cheery welcome somewhat. He hadn’t fully forgiven Brook for giving him a hard time during the Wallis investigation.
However, he beamed at Laura Grant with undisguised pleasure. ‘And who is this pretty lady you’ve brought for me to meet, Sergeant?’ he said, grasping her hand and shaking it warmly. Grant, well used to the Jurassic outlook of men over a certain age, accepted his gushing with good grace.
‘This is DS Grant, DCI Hudson.’
‘Ah yes. You’ve taken over our CID, I hear,’ said Habib, finally able to let go of Grant’s hand to chortle conspiratorially.
‘It’s called liaison, Doctor,’ insisted Hudson.
Habib grinned with pleasure. ‘Indeed it is so. Let’s hope you have more luck catching this killer than we had last time,’ he added, completely oblivious to the implied insult to Brook and Noble. ‘Bad business, bad business.’
