by Steven Dunne
‘And what do you think it is?’
Jeff stopped the film and reversed over it two or three times. ‘See how abrupt he is. It begins with a B or P.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘I think it’s Brook.’
Brook looked around the garden of the Ottoman house, then back at Noble who hadn’t been there for two years. Back then they’d admired the care and effort that had gone into the lawn, the path and even the condition of the gate which had once opened smoothly and without noise. But now, Noble and Brook were required to scrape the gate along the ground to gain access to the weed-encrusted, flagged path.
‘It’s hard to believe,’ said Noble.
‘That’s what being a victim does to you, John.’
There were further signs of decay. The fence had several missing and rotted pickets, and the paint on doors and windows was peeling. At one time a punctilious and well-ordered couple, the Ottomans it seemed, had succumbed to the traumas of victimhood. Brook had seen it all too often. Denise Ottoman couldn’t be the woman in Mrs North’s house. He doubted she had the courage to leave her own.
He walked across to the garage, looking for either of the two cars he remembered they owned, but it was empty. He looked towards the house. All the curtains were drawn. Either the Ottomans were away or they wanted to give that impression.
Noble stood on the step and rapped on the door again, then shrugged at Brook, who signalled him away.
‘Let’s try the school.’
The headteacher of Drayfin Primary, Mrs Grace, seemed very tight-lipped about John Ottoman’s absence. ‘I don’t know what more I can tell you, Inspector. John rang me on Monday morning to tell me, not ask, tell me he wouldn’t be in and was taking a fortnight’s leave. His wife…’ She waved her hand in the air.
‘Denise, yes, we know what happened.’
‘Of course. But it was two years ago for goodness’ sake. I suppose this latest … it’s brought it all back, what with Jason Wallis being involved again.’
‘It would,’ nodded Brook.
‘The little sod,’ she whispered under her breath. Brook and Noble were both taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, but we had the little angel here before he went off to spray his scent over the secondary school. There ought to be retrospective abortions for some children, Inspector. I shouldn’t say that, I know. But no matter what you do, there’s a minority that are irredeemable. And to think he’ll soon be starting a family of his own. We had D’Wayne Ingham here too and, honestly, he made Jason look like Martin Luther King. He was due back in from suspension this week. You should see his tutor now D’Wayne’s … you know, gone. She’s walking on air.’
‘So Mr Ottoman was here on the Friday and rang in on the Monday; you didn’t speak to him face to face?’
‘Oh, no, he telephoned. Didn’t want to see my reaction, I expect. And I can tell you something else. I think he was already a long way away.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Long distance. You can just tell, can’t you? All the noises on the line. He couldn’t ask me in person, could he?’
‘What teacher would take a leave of absence and go away in term time?’ asked Noble, manoeuvring the car out through the primary school gates and ignoring the five mile an hour speed limit.
‘One who wants to get his wife away from Jason Wallis’s picture in the paper, I guess. It can’t be easy having to face what happened all over again. But you’re right. It doesn’t look good. The Inghams are killed in the early hours of Sunday morning…’
‘…and the Ottomans are gone by the Monday. Maybe sooner. The headteacher was less than supportive.’
Brook glanced across. ‘Know any management that are ever happy when you’re ill? I had the same thing in the Met after my problems. The first thing Brass does when you go on long-term sick is mark the calendar when they can put you on half-pay. It’s all about budgets.’
Noble was heading the car back to the Drayfin Estate when Brook received a call from Grant. It was a rare occurrence and Brook, under Noble’s amused gaze, managed to locate the answer button without disconnecting.
‘Hello?’ Brook listened for a moment then rang off with a massive depression of the thumb.
‘DS Grant. Head back to St Mary’s.’
The man draped his arm around his son to comfort him, but the boy stared ahead, terrified. ‘Ravi. You must tell the police.’
The boy’s eyes began to fill again and he started to sob. Unable to close his mouth properly because of the large plaster over his cheek, the boy dribbled as he cried. His voice turned to a high-pitched wail, ‘They said not to tell no one or else.’ He turned and buried his head in his father’s chest.
His father pulled him away and forced eye contact. ‘Ravi, they’re all dead.’ Mr Singh’s choice of words provoked a glance between Grant and Brook. ‘They can’t hurt you no more. Now tell the police.’
‘Have another drink, Ravi,’ soothed Grant, easing an opened can of Fanta towards the boy. ‘The sugar will make you feel better. You can tell us everything. Your dad’s right. They can’t hurt you.’
The boy reached obediently for the soda and took a large swallow, before looking up at Brook and Grant through red-rimmed eyes. ‘One of ’em’s still about though. Him in the papers. Jason.’
‘Tell us what he did and we’ll make sure he’s put away, Ravi,’ said Brook.
‘He din’t do much. It were the other three. He kept lookout.’ ‘Tell us,’ said Grant softly.
After a deep breath, Ravi said, ‘I were off home and it were getting dark. I stayed out too long…’
‘You know not to go across the Drayfin, Ravi, you’ve been chased before…’ said his father.
‘Please, Mr Singh. Let Ravi tell us.’
‘Sorry.’
Grant nodded encouragement and Ravi continued. ‘I came back across the Drayfin and they saw me. They chased me.’
‘For the tape, Ravi, by “they” you mean Stephen Ingham, Benjamin Anderson, David Gretton, as well as Jason Wallis?’
Ravi nodded so Grant gestured with her arm. ‘Yes,’ he said at the prompt.
‘And where did they catch up with you?’ asked Brook.
‘Near the field, before the bridge.’ His lip started to wobble. ‘They just started booting me, takin’ it in turns, while the others took pictures, innit? Then that big one called Stinger…’
‘Stephen Ingham.’
‘Yeah. He told ’em to hold me down. The other two of ’em did. Then he did this.’ His eyes began to water as he gestured at his cheek and he put his hands to his face. ‘I screamed…’
‘Was Jason Wallis holding you down?’
‘No, he were keeping lookout, like I said. I think he were embarrassed, he couldn’t look at me…’
‘Why was he embarrassed?’ asked Brook.
‘’Cos he knew me. I used to go round with his sister at the primary.’
‘His sister Kylie?’
‘S’right.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, then that bloke shouted for them to stop…’
‘Bloke?’ said Brook and Grant in unison.
‘Yeah, that teacher.’
‘What teacher?’
‘I didn’t recognise him at first, all dressed in black like that.’
‘You knew him?’ said Brook.
‘Yeah, I used to go to primary like I said. He were a teacher there. I can’t remember his name ’cos I never had him.’
‘John Ottoman,’ said Brook softly.
‘That’s it. Mr Ottoman. If it hadn’t been for him…’
Chapter Eighteen
Jason Wallis woke early the next morning from a deep sleep. He sat up with a controlled sigh and yawned. He flicked on his mobile: just gone seven. He sprang out of bed and dressed in his new tracksuit and running shoes before tiptoeing downstairs. For the second night in a row, he had no need to shift his chest of drawers from behind his door.
He downed a glass of orang
e juice and pulled on a woollen hat, also new, before leaving the house. He broke into a slight jog as he headed down towards the bridges, taking the same route he had when fleeing The Reaper the day after his release. This was his second early morning and his lungs weren’t quite as bad as yesterday, though he still required frequent stops. His head felt clear after three nights without booze and tobacco.
When he reached the towpath he actually broke into a sprint for about fifty yards, finally giving in to the stabbing pains and stopping to hack up the noxious sludge lining his throat and lungs. When his pulse returned to normal he set off again, this time managing a longer stint that took him all the way to the weir, near which he’d once cowered in terror from The Reaper.
Jason smiled. The old me. He set off again, following the same path to Elvaston Castle that he had on that fateful night of terror, the night he’d finally had to face his demons, the night he’d begged The Reaper for his life, sobbing like a girl. He eased to a halt at the very spot his bowels and bladder had opened, the place where the seed of the new man had been planted. He looked around in the pale dawn light enjoying the blood pumping through his heart. He was on holy ground. He’d been resurrected here, had seen the light or heard the voice; however you put it. He was alive, his friends and family were dead. He was a survivor. He must be doing something right.
No more dreams. No more weakness. The weak died. To be a victim was to live in fear of the death that sought you out. Cowards die many times. Jason Wallis was no coward. He’d faced The Reaper time and time again and still he was here. If The Reaper couldn’t kill him, who could? He smiled and set off jogging back to Borrowash.
‘I’m ready.’
Drexler began to doze. The heating in the car was cranked up to combat the chill of sub-zero temperatures and, despite being still light, he was in no shape to resist the sedative effect. His notebook slipped from his lap and his head dropped down onto his shoulder. Soon he was snoring.
He woke up some twenty minutes later feeling refreshed. Light snow had built up on his windshield and he moved the wiper switch to clear his vision. Sorenson’s black eyes were burning into him.
Drexler stiffened, his feet kicking the fast-food cartons strewn across the floor of the car. He cursed himself for keeping his firearm in the trunk.
Sorenson grinned and his breath steamed as he mouthed something. He walked through the bank of slush to the driver’s side window. Drexler opened his window no more than a crack.
‘That is you, Special Agent. Are you lost?’ He grinned confidently at Drexler, who didn’t return his smile.
‘Just pulled over for a nap, sir. I was on my way to our satellite office.’
Sorenson’s grin remained. ‘I was just walking around the grounds and I saw you.’
‘Walking in this weather with a bad chest?’
Sorenson smiled coldly. ‘My chest’s fine. And, coming from England, this weather is normal. It’s the heat that does for me.’ Sorenson seemed to weigh his next utterance. ‘Would you care to join me? I’ve got another fifteen minutes to walk then I’ll be having a hot drink.’
Drexler nearly laughed. He was about to dismiss the invitation when he realised it was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up. ‘Sure, why not?’
Sorenson nodded, pleased, then jogged arthritically back to the wet highway to wait for Drexler to lock up his car.
After the two men passed through, the gates swung noiselessly together. Drexler looked round as they closed and Sorenson pulled a remote gleefully from his pocket. ‘You Americans. Considering the privations you suffered creating this country, it amazes me that you can’t open or close your own gates or garage doors. Dangerous to have things so easy, don’t you think? This way.’
They set off away from the house, following the boundary wall. They walked in silence for five minutes, though not, it seemed to Drexler, as a result of any detectable awkwardness.
‘How’s your case faring?’ Sorenson finally asked.
Drexler smiled. ‘I’m not at liberty to talk about ongoing investigations.’
‘Ongoing? So you still seek the killer of Caleb and Billy Ashwell? Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why do you seek the killer of two people who would never have been allowed to see decent society ever again? Assuming they escaped the death penalty.’
Drexler didn’t answer for a few moments. Finally he said, ‘The man who calls at every gas station on a highway looking for his victims has to be a cold calculating killer. No matter what happened to the Baileys and those other poor families, the man who led Billy Ashwell to the end of a rope couldn’t possibly have known he was involved in his father’s crimes. But he was prepared to execute him anyway.’
Sorenson laughed then his tone became serious, almost accusing. ‘But he was involved in the crimes.’ Drexler raised an eyebrow. Sorenson smiled now. ‘So I gather from the newspapers.’
They continued walking in silence for a few minutes before Sorenson said, ‘Do you ever dream, Mike?’
Drexler looked across at him. ‘Sometimes.’
‘An American dream? A dream of betterment?’
‘What’s your point?’
‘In Europe our dreams are different. Our governments don’t promise us happiness. But the American Dream is about being so much better than you are — as though that would make you happy. A pity then this country cannot grasp greatness, Mike. It’s there, right in front of you but always out of reach.’
‘What are you talking about, Professor?’
‘You. The FBI, the government, the ruling elite and all you represent.’
Drexler paused, trying to divine Sorenson’s meaning, without success. ‘Which is what?’
‘The enforcement of laws that, for all their high-sounding rhetoric, keep the uneasy peace in one of the most vengeful nations on the planet. You know, this country imprisons children who accidentally shoot other children with guns legally kept in the home, by “responsible” adults. Those adults are protected by the same constitution that allows children to be exposed to violent films and games that glorify these weapons. When children become fixated by these guns and accidents inevitably happen, everyone throws up their hands in horror and astonishment.
‘That’s hilarious enough, but just to make it even funnier your nation maintains the pretence that it’s the children’s fault and locks them away for years, with hardened criminals. Only in America,’ he added with a malicious grin.
‘Is there a point to this lecture, sir?’
‘Just that everyone in this nation would be happy to justify the execution of Billy Ashwell, including your partner. Everyone, it seems, except you.’
‘With respect, you don’t know what my partner thinks.’
‘She’s not accompanied you this last week, I notice. A parting of the ways?’
Drexler hesitated and turned to Sorenson. ‘She’s busy. I’m working this solo.’ He was unhappy with his answer as soon as he said it. It made him sound like a lone wolf, a misfit going off the deep end.
‘Using your vacation to persecute an innocent man?’ Sorenson couldn’t prevent a snigger.
‘What makes you think I’m on vacation?’
‘Just an impression.’
‘My partner may disagree with me, but she understands why I have to do this. We have a bond.’
‘Ah, yes. That would be the bond created at the residence of the late Reverend Hunseth.’
Drexler turned towards Sorenson’s mocking smile, feeling his fists clench. The moment passed and Sorenson’s nose remained unbroken. His thoughts swam around his head like a draining sink. Where did this old man get the confidence to goad somebody like him? It was unnerving. Sorenson played a dangerous game but played it with a confidence that made Drexler uneasy. Everything Sorenson had said felt like an assault, his words like the most invasive probe, against which he was powerless to defend himself and his country.
For an instant he imagined being under Sorenson’s po
wer and almost began to feel sorry for Caleb Ashwell. He imagined Sorenson opening his bottle of wine to drink a toast, grinning at his captives, telling them what he was going to do to them … and smiling as he did it.
After an age, Drexler’s lungs began to slow and his mind began to reassemble. But once more he was to be wrong footed.
Sorenson looked down at the ground, apparently ashamed. ‘Forgive me, Agent Drexler. I shouldn’t have flung that at you. It was crude.’
‘Who told you about Hunseth?’
‘This is America. I’m rich. And everything and everybody is for sale,’ said Sorenson. ‘But I didn’t need to pay for that information, Michael. May I call you Michael? Special Agent is so impersonal.’
‘It’s Mike.’
Sorenson nodded. ‘Mike. As you better than most must know, your government’s fantasy of a free society is maintained by a few clever gimmicks. Freedom of information is one. It’s all in the records.’
Drexler nodded. ‘But you have to know what you’re looking for, Professor.’
‘Call bme Victor. Now come and have that hot drink, Mike. You look cold.’
Brook slouched against the patrol car, sucking on one of Hudson’s cigarettes and watching a small crowd gather in the dusk. Brian Burton stood on the other side of the police tape, arguing with a uniformed constable about his right to trample all over potential evidence in the cause of free speech. Brook turned away from him and looked back towards the Ottomans’ home. He shook his head as a SOCO gingerly carried away the bloodstained mountain bike from the house.
‘Guess that’s a clincher,’ said Hudson, grinning widely. ‘It takes all sorts, Damen. You of all people…’
Brook looked up at him with a bleak smile. ‘I suppose.’
Laura Grant walked back towards them. ‘The neighbour two doors down said they set off on Sunday morning before nine o’clock. She said she hadn’t seen Denise out of the house for two years so it was a shock when she saw them loading up the car. And apparently they were having words.’
‘Okay, luv. Do us a favour and scrounge a few CID coffees off one of the neighbours, will you? Try the one two doors down. She sounds accommodating. We won’t be getting in until Forensics have strutted their stuff.’
