by Steven Dunne
‘Sounds like a plan,’ added Hudson. ‘There’s still life in this then.’
‘We’re in better shape than the Wallis investigation. If we can identify a suspect at least we can prove it one way or the other.’
‘Didn’t you have any suspects at all apart from Victor Sorenson?’ asked Grant.
‘We worked on the theory that Jason’s sexual assault of his teacher caught The Reaper’s eye,’ said Noble. ‘So we interviewed her and her husband. But that was it.’
Brook nodded. ‘It did cross our minds briefly that John Ottoman could have done it. He was Kylie Wallis’s primary school teacher; he had motive and the necessary intelligence.’
‘We should at least have another talk with them,’ nodded Noble.
‘Agreed,’ said Hudson.
‘I think John and I should do it,’ said Brook. ‘Familiar faces,’ he said to Grant, who shrugged. ‘We’ll do it to tick it off, but they’re not involved.’
‘You’re very sure.’
‘Jason Wallis survived. His sister Kylie died. Ottoman would have had that the other way round.’
‘It could be he panicked,’ offered DS Gadd.
Brook rubbed his hand over his face. ‘I don’t think panic is in The Reaper’s lexicon, Jane. We’ve got to understand. The Reaper slayings are not ordinary crimes. The MO is unique. Motiveless, cold-blooded, multiple executions are usually the stuff of organised crime. But even a gangland hit is carried out with some venom, because it has to send a message to others. And killing children rarely sends the right message. There’s just no profile that fits what The Reaper does. Finding a suspect on that basis has proved impossible.’
‘But you found Sorenson. He fitted the profile,’ said Hudson.
‘Yes and no. He found me and he virtually had to tell me he was The Reaper to keep me on the hook.’
‘But you don’t think he killed the Wallis family two years ago?’ asked Noble.
Brook looked over at him. ‘Sorenson was dying of cancer when Jason’s family were killed. At the time, yes, I thought it was possible he might have stretched himself for one last hurrah … but you know what? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just set it up or maybe he had help. Two Reapers. That tallies with our thinking on the Inghams. Two killers, not one. The only question now is…’
‘Who stepped into Sorenson’s shoes?’ nodded Grant.
Mike Drexler pulled his Audi A6 out of the parking lot of the Lakeside Motel and drove west on US 50, feeling refreshed after his shower. He looked out over Tahoe as the wind ruffled the waters. No boats were out this morning; summer was long gone. Squally snow drove across the water, up the stony beach and swirled around the exposed highway. In two weeks the ski season would start and Drexler’s motel would be fully occupied. For now he was the only resident and had the best apartment with a view of the deserted lake. It cost him sixty-nine dollars a night but what the hell, he was on vacation.
He smiled and looked in the driver’s mirror. The bags under his eyes told their own tale. He’d been at the motel three nights already, but the bed had still not been slept in.
When Drexler reached the intersection he turned onto 89 but, instead of heading west for Sorenson’s house, he turned south towards the airport. An hour later he reached the gas station and parked. He took out his new camera and wandered up the path at the back of the station to take pictures of the saplings he’d noticed during his nocturnal search of the cabin.
He wasn’t the only visitor. Any car that passed the station made a point of stopping. Sometimes the people wouldn’t get out but just talk and point at the decaying slab of a building. Other times the occupants would get out for a few minutes to take pictures. They rarely moved too far from the car though, and never turned off their engines.
Half an hour later Drexler shook hands with Andy Dupree at the Police Department building in Markleeville.
‘Good to see you, Mike,’ said Dupree, holding onto Drexler’s hand long enough to keep his attention. ‘Vacation, you said? I sure hope this one’s not under your skin, amigo.’ Drexler just smiled in response. ‘Like the lady said, it’s squared away. Save your ulcers for the deserving.’
‘The Ashwell deaths are unsolved, Andy.’ Dupree shook his head, then gestured Drexler into the building. ‘Any trace of Ashwell’s brother yet?’
‘Not a one. Guess he knows what’s waiting if he puts his head above the trench.’
‘Any other developments?’
‘Nothing. ’Cept this one here.’
The wind had freshened by midmorning and officers were hunched against the spitting, driving rain. The streets around Drayfin weren’t nearly as full of police vehicles as they had been on previous days, but this morning the pavements were well lined with officers asking the questions about the North house that had been generated by inquiries so far.
Brook and Grant were coordinating visits on Mrs North’s side of the block while Hudson and Noble banged on doors on the Wallis/Ingham side. Noble and Hudson approached a house eight doors away from the Ingham house and Noble’s knock was greeted by a pretty young Asian girl in an orange sari. ‘Sorry to bother you, Miss…’
‘Dhoni. And it’s Mrs Dhoni as of two weeks ago,’ she said with an air of something close to disbelief. ‘Mrs Dhoni.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Hudson, smiling.
‘You’ve come about the pictures, have you, officers?’
Hudson and Noble looked at each other. ‘Er, yes,’ nodded Noble with more confidence than he felt. ‘The pictures.’
‘Well, we knew you’d be along for them sooner or later, as soon as you found out about the wedding. I would have brought them in myself but I’ve had quite a job collecting them from everyone. Now they’re digital, so would you like them on a memory stick or should I just email them somewhere?’
‘Depends how many there are, Miss…’
‘Mrs Dhoni,’ she giggled. ‘At least three hundred. Some are just family portraits but there are plenty of others that show the houses.’
‘Houses?’
‘Yes. The Ingham house and the Wallis house beyond. Where all those people were killed. Horrible people. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but to have a wedding reception and have to listen to the abuse from those … animals. But we have our duty to do. My grandparents would be livid if we didn’t help. They came to this country to be full citizens and … well, you know.’
‘Yes, we do know, Mrs Dhoni,’ beamed Inspector Hudson, ‘and a memory stick would be great if you can spare it.’
‘I’ll just go and get it.’ She returned and handed it to Noble. She hesitated for a second. ‘You know, I’ve got to say. Over the last two years, nine people have been murdered in houses that we can see from our back garden. But the funny thing is we’ve never felt safer than this last week. My husband and I have done our duty but, honestly,’ she paused over the words, ‘I hope you don’t catch him.’
Brook stood in Mrs North’s back bedroom looking out over the Ingham yard. The room was tiny, but still fussily furnished and the smell of damp was a background note that a pensioner with dwindling senses might not detect. The view over the killing ground was stunning, however, and details in several rooms of the Ingham household were easily visible.
Brook sat on the mattress, the sheets having been removed for fruitless tests, seeking a good viewing position. When he had settled on the best spot, he began to look around to see if anything had been missed. He was about to return to Grant in the kitchen when he spotted something on the floor, underneath the curtain. He kneeled down to pull the curtain aside then rubbed a finger over the carpet. There was a small indentation on the fabric, as though something had been placed there over a period of time. He pushed the bed back a few feet and stroked the carpet in wide sweeps with his hands. He found two other small indentations.
‘Say cheese.’
He returned the bed to its proper position and trotted back down to the kitchen. ‘I think they had some kind of tripod s
et up in the back bedroom.’
‘What for?’
‘Hard to tell. Binoculars maybe? Though my money would be on a camera. I think if I were The New Reaper I might want some souvenirs.’ Brook looked at his watch. ‘Must be nearly time.’
Grant nodded and stepped outside. Brook was about to follow when something began to nag at him. He looked around the kitchen, trying to draw it out, but failed and followed Grant to the front gate.
A few doors down, the postman was talking to a uniformed constable who pointed towards the two CID officers. The postman nodded and walked towards them, smiling. A few yards away, he put up a single digit and jogged down the path of a neighbouring house and out of sight.
‘Cheeky sod,’ said Grant. ‘We should have asked him down to the station.’
Brook smiled at her. ‘Patience, Laura. If he’s got anything for us he’ll remember it better on location.’
When he re-emerged, the postman jogged towards them, panting. He was about forty, thin with long bleached blond hair and an unnatural tan. He sported LOVE and HATE tattoos on each hand and wore frayed denim shorts, despite the winter bite. The ear studs augmented the impression of a self-appointed ladies’ man. ‘Sorry to keep you,’ he said. ‘Bad luck to retrace your steps.’
‘How unlucky is it to get arrested for wasting police time?’ asked Grant.
‘I said I was sorry. I’m here, aren’t I?’ the postman countered.
‘DS Grant’s just pulling your leg, Mr…’ said Brook.
‘Blake, but just call me Tommy,’ he grinned.
‘Tommy. You know why we’re here?’
‘Those murders obviously.’
‘Right.’
‘Terrible. Those Ingham boys were right rogues, no two ways, but they were good kids deep down. And their mother…’ A private grin invaded his features, in spite of his attempts to suppress it. ‘Well, enough said.’ Grant’s stony gaze wiped the grin from Tommy’s face. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘Simple,’ said Brook. ‘We want to know if you’ve seen anyone in and around Mrs North’s house since she’s been away. That’s up to two weeks before the murders happened.’
‘Mrs N’s. No, I can’t say I have. I mean, I knew she was going away, she told me. I like to keep a lookout for people, you know, sift out all the flyers and junk, so callers don’t realise the house is empty. All part of the service, mind — though it don’t hurt round Christmas,’ he added with a wink. ‘But Mrs N had some people looking after the place so the mail didn’t pile up.’
‘People?’ repeated Grant. ‘Did you see any of these people?’
‘You know, not once.’
‘Okay, thanks anyway.’
‘She’s back in a few weeks. She can tell you herself. Six people.’ Blake shook his head. ‘She’s got a shock coming when she rolls up in that car.’
‘Car? What car?’
‘The car that picked her up. It weren’t no taxi. I assumed it was a relative.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Well, early on that Saturday. I was on my way to work. It would’ve been before six in the morning.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t a cab?’
‘I didn’t see any licence or nothing. And if the driver ain’t a…’ Grant raised an eyebrow ‘…an Asian.’ He shrugged. ‘It just looked like a private car,’ he finished, looking at the ground.
‘What kind of car?’
‘It was dark. I’m not Jeremy Clarkson, you know. More of a Harley man myself,’ he sniffed, glancing at Grant to see if she was impressed.
‘Think. What about colour?’
‘Black, I think. Or dark blue.’
‘And you couldn’t have a guess at make and model?’
‘A saloon. If I had to guess, I’d say foreign.’
‘BMW?’ asked Grant. Brook gave her a sidelong glance.
‘Maybe. No. I don’t know. Something powerful.’
‘And the driver was white?’
‘Oh, yeah. Not only that…’
Brook and Grant marched into Hudson’s temporary office. He and Noble were having a lunchtime sandwich and staring intently at the monitor of a laptop. Before Brook or Grant could get a word in, Hudson grinned up at them. ‘We’ve caught a break. We’ve got photographs of the North house the week before the killings. We may have one of our doers on film and you’ll never guess…’
Brook’s expression never wavered. ‘Is it a woman by any chance?’
Hudson’s grin faded but Noble managed a smile. ‘We think so. How did you know?’
‘Postman Pratt saw Mrs North getting picked up by a car,’ said Grant. ‘He said he thought the driver was a woman.’
‘Any description?’
‘He only got a glimpse. He got as far as petite, then he saw she was older than him and stopped looking.’
‘He and Laura hit it right off,’ said Brook.
Hudson smiled and turned the laptop round to them. Brook and Grant leaned into the monitor. The happy smiles of the wedding party took up most of the screen but there in the background was the North house. And, just as clearly, there was a figure in the back bedroom window, sitting on the bed in the exact same position Brook had been sitting earlier that morning. The face was a ghostly blur but it was possible to discern medium-length grey hair parted in the middle and a Caucasian face. The figure was turned towards the Ingham house, oblivious to the festivities taking place in the neighbouring garden.
‘It’s not very clear,’ said Grant. ‘I don’t know how you conclude that’s a woman. The hair maybe.’
‘Can we get the boffins on to it? Get it cleaned up.’
‘Just where we were going,’ said Hudson. ‘There’s something else.’ He clicked through several pictures and stopped at one, then turned the monitor back to Brook and Grant. Behind the brightly clothed revellers, sitting astride the shiplap fence, a young boy was clearly visible, mouth open to shout something and holding two fingers aloft to the photographer.
‘D’Wayne Ingham in all his glory,’ said Brook.
‘And getting maximum use of his fingers while he still could,’ observed Grant, inducing a round of bleak laughs.
‘And this one.’ The angle was slightly different but D’Wayne Ingham was still on the fence, looking not at the party but down into the backyard of Mrs North’s property. Hudson picked up a pencil and indicated a partially obscured round shape. ‘Could that be the barbecue?’ Brook nodded. ‘And this was taken three hours later.’ Several clicks stopped at an ensemble picture, which the photographer had obviously taken from a first-floor window. All the revellers stood in their vivid finery, waving happily to the camera. Hudson’s pencil indicated what could only be the Weber barbecue, but this time it was sitting up against the back wall of the Ingham house.
Hudson leaned back on his chair, hands behind his head. ‘So, a middle-aged woman. Do we know any middle-aged women connected to the inquiry, Damen?’
Brook and Noble headed for the car park. As they passed Brook’s office, Noble nodded towards a manila folder on the desk.
‘Michael Drexler, FBI. Sounds like an interesting guy.’ Brook picked up the folder and looked up at Noble. Noble shook his head. ‘No. The prints on the bottle don’t match the print on Jason’s phone.’
Brook nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks, John.’
‘Did you expect they would?’
‘I don’t know.’ He smiled at Noble. ‘But, honestly, I’m pleased they don’t. And you’re right. He is an interesting guy.’ But, he had to admit, so was Sorenson.
‘Nice to meet you, Jeff.’ Drexler shook the young man’s hand but stole a look at Sheriff Dupree, who returned it with an inscrutable shrug.
‘It’s okay, Special Agent,’ said Jeff. ‘I know I look young to be doing this.’
‘You look like you should be surfing in Hawaii,’ smiled Drexler, examining his bleach-blond curls and designer stubble.
‘My fee today will get me some of the way,’ he laughed. ‘My
sister was born deaf so, although I’m only twenty-eight, I’ve been around this most of my life.’
‘Okay,’ nodded Drexler.
They turned into an office and Jeff continued. ‘I’ve had a couple of runs through it and I’ve got to say there doesn’t seem an awful lot there of interest. The guy buys ten dollars’ worth of gas and that’s pretty much it.’
‘Then you get an easy paycheck, son,’ said Dupree. ‘You sure it was ten dollars?’
‘No question,’ replied Jeff.
‘Mmmm.’
‘Is that significant, Andy?’ asked Drexler.
‘You can’t fill an empty tank with ten bucks’ worth of gas, Mike. Know what I think? I think Mr Sorenson stopped at every station on the way to Tahoe.’
Drexler nodded. ‘So it was no accident he happened to stop at Caleb’s. Why?’
‘Because he didn’t know who killed George Bailey. He took a stab at what might have happened and went out there looking until he got the vibe.’
‘The hunter hunting — could be. At least now we know he’s not superhuman.’
‘I already knew that, Mike.’
They sat down at a large monitor and Jeff took up a sheaf of notes. The CCTV footage of Sorenson entering the Ashwells’ gas station flickered onto the screen. ‘Okay, the guy called Caleb is welcoming him to Alpine County and telling him his name. Pretty friendly. The bald man says “Evening”, and asks if he’s on the road to Markleeville. Caleb says yes, you’re on 89 and asks where he’s headed. Then he tries to get the customer’s name. Caleb calls him Mister and waits for the customer to fill in the blank. You can see the guy thinking about it. Then he replies and says he’s headed for South Lake Tahoe.’
‘What does he say his name is?’
‘It’s very short. I made a list of possibles.’
‘His real name is Sorenson,’ said Drexler. ‘Victor Sorenson.’
Jeff shook his head. ‘That’s not what he said. It’s one syllable.’
