by Steven Dunne
‘But he leaves Wallis alive?’ queried Charlton.
Noble shrugged. ‘We can’t explain it.’ He paused, waiting for further interventions before continuing. ‘After he kills the three teenagers he heads up to the main bedroom with the rope. Even though both the kid and the mother have been drinking, they would be unlikely to have drunk as much as the men so, probably as a precaution, the killer drugged them. But unlike two years ago he injected the victims directly into the neck, so obviously he has a syringe, maybe two.
‘He covers Chelsea Ingham’s mouth with his hand and injects her with a mixture of scopolamine and morphine, the same combination of drugs used to disable the Wallis family two years ago. It’s a powerful and toxic narcotic that would have subdued her almost immediately.
‘The dose is enough to kill her within half an hour if he wants to just leave her to die. Then he moves around the bed and cuts Ryan Harper’s throat, this time with a backhand slash across the windpipe — he can’t get behind him because the bed’s up against the wall. While Harper’s dying the killer goes into the boy’s bedroom. He injects a lethal dose of the same cocktail of drugs into D’Wayne Ingham’s neck and leaves him while he goes back to the main bedroom to set up the rope.
‘He uses a chair, and/or possibly an accomplice, to help him climb into the loft space and tie the rope around a beam. The noose is already tied and the rope is just the right length because the killer has already tested his method in the derelict Wallis house.
‘He goes back to the boy’s bedroom and carries him through to the main bedroom and hoists him into the noose. According to Dr Habib, the boy was dead or on the point of death when he was strung up so The Reaper can do what he likes. He cuts off the boy’s index and forefinger and puts them in a breast pocket, in a copy of the MO used in Harlesden, the first Reaper killing in 1990.’
‘Why copy the MO in that killing?’ asked Gadd. ‘With the rope it makes it much harder. Why not copy the later murders?
They were more polished.’
Brook looked up wearily. ‘Harlesden was the first. I think that’s why.’
Charlton’s brow furrowed. ‘I don’t understand.’
Brook caught his eye. ‘Whoever’s doing this wants to tell us something.’
‘What?’ replied Charlton with a hint of exasperation in his voice. ‘That The Reaper is starting again,’ nodded Grant. ‘That this could be the first of many.’
‘Christ.’ Charlton looked aghast.
Brook nodded at Noble.
‘With the boy now in the noose, The Reaper replaces the chair against the wall then cuts Chelsea Ingham’s throat, to pre-empt the drugs that would have killed her…’
‘Why bother?’ asked Morton.
‘For effect,’ answered Brook for Noble. ‘It’s what he does. The adults are more responsible. They deserve the humiliation and their corpses have to be defiled.’
‘You seem very sure of that, Inspector,’ Charlton said. ‘But I suppose you’ve been carrying his profile around for twenty years, so we’ll bow to your psychological insight.’ Brook declined to thank him for the endorsement. ‘What then?’
‘Then he’s back down to the kitchen. He uses Stephen Ingham’s blood to write “SAVED” on the wall,’ continued Noble. ‘There are smudged marks around his neck to suggest someone dipping fingers into the wound. He places the scalpel under Jason’s hand…’
‘To frame him?’ asked Jane Gadd.
‘We can’t think of any other reason, but it does seem a pretty lame attempt,’ answered Brook. ‘It took us about two minutes to clear Wallis.’
‘But speaking to Wallis last night, we do now have a possible motive for the murders and an idea as to why Wallis was spared,’ said Hudson. Brook pursed his lips and stared at the floor. ‘Jason told us last night that the three teenage victims were responsible for the murder of an Annie Sewell two years ago, the night Jason’s family were murdered. We’re arranging for a DNA profile from the three lads and will look into it.’
‘It doesn’t explain why The Reaper didn’t kill Jason as well,’ said Noble. ‘He’s still a potential witness.’
‘He’s being kept alive,’ said Laura Grant. Brook looked up at her. He gave her a half-smile of approval, which she noted with a glance.
‘Why?’ asked Charlton.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Grant. ‘But that’s twice he’s been saved despite being at The Reaper’s mercy.’
‘Is that what the blood message refers to?’ said Charlton.
Brook considered the value of sharing information exclusive to him and decided it could do no harm. ‘I don’t think so, sir. “SAVED” refers to us, the community. The Reaper sees himself as a soldier of sorts. He’s killing families like the Inghams to save us from them. And he seems to have found his audience. There isn’t a resident on the estate who hasn’t expressed pleasure, or at least relief, that the Inghams are dead.’
‘Scum in fear, The Reaper’s near,’ chipped in Hudson. Charlton turned to stare at him. ‘Not my words, Chief Superintendent, a group of residents who were at the scene. They were chanting it at us last night.’
‘When they weren’t booing us,’ added Noble.
‘I see,’ said Charlton, tight-lipped. ‘Well, if those residents want to share their feelings with the world that’s their business but I don’t want to hear of any member of this division repeating that little ditty or they’ll answer to me. Understood?’ The whole room nodded as one. ‘Move on.’
‘Finally,’ resumed Brook, ‘the killer finds Jason’s mobile phone and breaks with all previous Reaper method by using it to call 999 — and he does it within earshot of Jason.’
‘He does?’ asked Noble.
‘When we spoke to Jason he said he heard what was said. “They’re all dead”,’ said Brook softly.
‘Christ. It must have put the shits up him,’ observed Morton. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he added in response to Charlton’s glare.
Brook decided not to correct Morton. Jason’s almost casual reaction and subsequent behaviour was something he hadn’t yet been able to work out. A thought popped into Brook’s head and his brow creased in sudden confusion. It was such an obvious anomaly, yet it hadn’t occurred to him until now.
‘Anything else, Sergeant?’ asked Charlton.
‘Only the exit route. Our killer doesn’t leave the Ingham property by the front but climbs over the shiplap fence panel separating the Ingham house from the adjoining property. The house belonging to a Mrs North is unoccupied and there were no signs of forced entry so we assume the killer ran through to the adjoining street, Drayfin Park Avenue, to make his escape. He leaves blood transference from some of the victims on top of the fence and fibre from his clothing. We’re hoping for his genetic material but nothing so far.’
‘Why did he go out over the fence and leave us all this evidence?’ asked Gadd. ‘That’s a young man’s getaway.’
‘Having called emergency services and left the line open he has to think the cavalry are on their way,’ answered Noble, deciding not to mention Brook’s arrival. He looked over at Grant, who seemed aware of the omission, and they both looked over at Brook. He seemed lost in thought.
‘What other leads do we have?’ asked Charlton, glancing at his watch.
‘There are some indistinct bloody footmarks on the carpets and the kitchen lino, sir,’ continued Noble.
‘Footmarks not footprints,’ said Charlton.
‘Yes, sir. We’re assuming the killer wore plastic overshoes. We might still get a shoe type and size but it will be more difficult. The boffins are working on it. Provisionally they believe the suspect wore some kind of sports shoes, size between 7 and 9.’
‘If there are two of them, maybe it’s both sizes,’ observed Jane Gadd to another round of silent nodding. ‘That it?’ asked Charlton.
‘No, sir. From the Wallis house, we have a bottle of wine, freshly opened but not drunk. As DS Grant mentioned it’s the exact same vintage and source as t
he wine used two years ago. Nuits St Georges from Burgundy. In France,’ Noble added for the benefit of the detective constables. ‘No prints on the bottle or the glasses; also none on the empty picture frame, the mannequin, candle or anything in the Wallis house. They’re still working though.’
‘Anything on the food and drink from the Ingham house?’ asked Charlton.
‘We tracked down several of the alcohol batch numbers to a cash and carry in Leicester which supplies various off-licences and corner shops in Derby. The booze was bought in small quantities from at least five of these outlets over a period of time, making it impossible to trace purchases. Another pointer to a local killer. No luck at the butcher’s, nobody remembers the purchase and no receipts match exactly so it’s the same story as the alcohol.’
‘Anything else, Sergeant?’
‘Only that according to our sequence of events, Miss Ingham couldn’t have watched her son die. Inspector Brook and I believe that to be significant.’
‘Oh? Inspector Brook?’ All heads turned to Brook.
Brook seemed lost in thought still. From somewhere the question materialised in his mind and he roused himself to answer. He spoke slowly, deliberately. ‘Two years ago the Wallis parents had been drugged, but were revived to see their daughter murdered. They cried, knowing they were next. The same applied to Sammy Elphick and his wife in Harlesden, even though they’d been tied up. We found the salt track marks on their cheeks. It’s a Reaper signature.
‘In Brixton, Floyd Wrigley and his…. girlfriend were pumped full of heroin so they couldn’t know what was happening to them or their daughter. They couldn’t cry so the girl was killed without ceremony.’ After a pause Brook added, ‘The parents too. But usually The Reaper wants the parents to suffer for the misery they’ve caused, the dysfunctional example they’ve set their offspring. He wants them to know that they and their family will be wiped off the face of the earth. But as they die he gives them a gift, a sight or sound of something which represents the very best of what mankind has to offer — a great piece of art or a beautiful piece of music. Like Clair de Lune or Beethoven’s Ninth or a Van Gogh print — something to tell them what they should have aspired to. But Miss Ingham and her partner were killed without being made to face either the son’s death or the consequences of their actions in life. They didn’t know they were about to die so there were no tears. That’s why I believe it’s a copycat.’
There was silence for a while as Brook’s words sunk in, then Charlton and Hudson drew things to a close and the room became a hub of noise and activity as officers renewed their coffees or snuck out for cigarettes. Only Brook remained unmoving at the eye of the hurricane, staring into the distance. Noble had seen this before and broke away from briefing DC Bull to speak to him. Laura Grant was there a second before him.
‘Inspector Brook?’ she said, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Noble joined the intervention. ‘Sir?’ No reaction. Noble and Grant looked at each other, both unsure what to do.
Before they could ponder their next step, Brook spoke softly, to no one. ‘They’re all dead.’
‘Sir?’
Brook looked up and saw the two sergeants in attendance. He smiled as though noticing them for the first time. ‘“They’re all dead.” That’s what the voice said. Jason heard him. We heard him.’
‘So?’ prompted Noble.
Brook’s smile faded and he shook his head. ‘But they weren’t, were they?’
Chapter Fifteen
Brook and Grant walked through the drizzle, eyes fixed to the floor to avoid the potholes and puddles. A splenetic pit bull marked their progress as they passed one house, yelping and straining at its chain. Brook checked Noble’s text message, with Grant’s amused assistance, and surveyed the small, redbrick semi. He had the correct address. Number 197 had a paved front yard and a simple wooden fence that was in a better state of repair than that of most of its neighbours. The barrenness of the yard was counterbalanced by the throng of multicoloured figurines on the sill of the front bay window — an area that could reflect the artistic expression of the household without fear of theft or vandalism. Brook could see several porcelain horses, dogs, ballerinas, cars and an amusing series featuring the same dishevelled leprechaun fishing, sleeping under a tree or leaning inebriated against a lamppost.
‘I’ll have five pounds on dogs playing snooker,’ said Grant, mysteriously.
Brook had no idea what she was talking about but smiled anyway. He lifted the latch on the gate and walked towards the side door, which was slightly ajar. Steam drifted through the crack and the smell of boiled cabbage wafted across the divide to assault their nostrils. The door was opened further at their approach and a stout woman, well into her pensionable years, beckoned them in. She had a small wiry goatee and a full head of wild grey hair swept back in a purple scarf.
‘Come in, sir. Come in, sir.’
‘Mrs Petras? I’m DI Brook, this is DS Grant. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Mrs North.’
‘Yes, yes, come in, sir, come in.’
Despite the lack of a personal invitation, Grant followed Brook into the tiny kitchen. She wasn’t offended by her nonexistence; it happened a lot with the older generation. They always addressed Hudson when they were on a call in Sussex and would often not speak directly to Grant at all. Mrs Petras was not only old school but old country — Ukrainian in fact — and men came first.
‘Hello, hello,’ smiled Mrs Petras, offering her hand to Brook and shaking his hand briefly. ‘Please go through to sitting room. I bring coffee.’
‘There’s no need…’ began Grant but was interrupted by Brook.
‘Thank you, Mrs Petras. We’d love a cup,’ said Brook. He was keen to escape the kitchen which was stifling from the steam carrying the last of the cabbage’s flavour. He turned to follow Mrs Petras’s direction towards a small back room with a table and four padded chairs. In the main room at the front of the house sat a frail old man, who either couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge their presence. He sat in pyjamas and slippers and had a blanket wrapped around his legs, in spite of the electric fire glowing from the hearth. Gaze unbroken and chin on chest he was staring at a TV with pictures but no sound. Several people in a TV studio were pushing and shoving each other above the caption: ‘My partner’s mum is having my baby.’
‘Hello, sir.’ There was not a flicker of response to Brook’s greeting.
Mrs Petras pushed past them and pulled the door of the front room closed. ‘Please sit. No mind Jan. He not hear you. Just back from hospital.’ She pulled her apron up to her eye and wiped away a speck of moisture, then gestured to them once more to sit. They went through to the tiny sitting room in which there was barely room to pull back the chairs, but Brook and Grant just about managed to slide their way onto a seat.
There was an ashtray in the middle of the table with several torn up cigarettes and unwrapped filters. Brook recalled his university days when his limited finances had meant he’d been forced to smoke rollups of old dog ends. He took out his own nearly full pack and looked up at the wall behind Grant. It was covered in a mixture of bright little trinkets and sepia photographs of stern-looking men and women. The largest picture was a print of several dogs sitting at a poker table, green visors on heads, playing cards. He indicated it to Grant with a flick of the head.
‘You owe me five pounds,’ he said softly.
She smiled. Something about the place made them feel they had to communicate in mime and whispers, and she was trying to communicate her reluctance to sit drinking coffee when Mrs Petras came in with a tray of cups filled with a tar-like black liquid.
Being the inferior, Grant was served first and she smiled her thanks. When Brook had received his cup he refused her offer of a pink cake from a plate of fancies, took out a cigarette and offered one to Mrs Petras. She accepted his offer eagerly and, after Brook had lit both their cigarettes, inhaled with a sigh of pleasure. The tiny room was instantly awash
with smoke and Grant wafted her hand to fight for some unpolluted oxygen.
‘You talk about Dottie,’ said Mrs Petras, taking a gargantuan pull on her cigarette. ‘She good woman. Keep me company, have tea when Jan…’ She broke off to keep her emotions in check.
‘She’s gone away,’ prompted Brook.
‘Yes. Australie. I very pleased for her. She not seen her brudder sixty year. He in Sydney. She win competition…’ She pulled urgently on the cigarette again.
Brook’s eyes narrowed. ‘Competition?’
‘Yes. Someone come see. Say she win flight to Australie. All spends. Very nice. No pay a penny.’
Brook looked over at Grant. ‘Do you know who came to see her?’
‘No. People. She win competition and they look after house. Pay for taxi Manchester. All spends. She deserve. Very happy.’
‘So these people. How many were there?’
‘Not know. Not see. Maybe one, maybe two. Very happy.’ She took a final pull on her cigarette then delicately stubbed it out in the ashtray for future consumption.
‘But they took Mrs North’s keys?’ said Grant.
‘Yes. They look after house. Part of prize. I do but for Jan. Need me here.’
Brook drained his coffee and prepared to leave.
‘Do you have a spare set of keys to Dottie’s house, Mrs Petras?’ asked Grant.
‘Yes. I get,’ Mrs Petras answered, addressing Brook much to his amusement. ‘Glad she away. Horrible things happen. Tank God horrible people die.’ She looked around for somewhere to spit but thought better of it and instead made the sign of the cross. ‘Must not say. All from God. Sorry.’
