The Disciple didb-2

by Steven Dunne

  In the anteroom, Brook was nodding. That’s why Jason had gone to the barbecue. He’d known it was a trap but, thinking he’d made a pact with The Reaper to spare his life, had gone anyway.

  ‘Tell us about the Inghams.’

  Ottoman nodded and looked away. ‘That night, after that poor Asian lad got beat up, I hung around at the front of the Ingham house waiting for Jason. To teach him a lesson, give him a proper scare. They were having a party, I could hear the music. Thud, thud, thud — very loud. Anyway, time wore on until it got really late. The music had stopped, or so I thought, and I began to think Wallis wasn’t going to leave, so I crept closer to see what was happening. That’s when I saw her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘A woman I think, climbing over the fence. I only saw her for a second.’

  ‘Did she see you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it this woman?’ asked Grant, slapping down a picture of the middle-aged woman from the North house.

  ‘I can’t tell. She had her head and face covered like me.’

  ‘Then why think it was a woman?’

  Ottoman stared into the distance and shook his head. ‘I don’t know. The way she moved, maybe.’

  ‘You didn’t see two people? A man with her.’

  ‘No. Just the woman.’

  Brook nodded. ‘Her partner would’ve been manning the camera at this point,’ he whispered to Charlton.

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘Dark overalls and a balaclava or ski mask like me. She had blood all over her but it was going on the sheet…’

  ‘Sheet?’

  ‘There was a sheet thrown over the fence. She dropped over the other side and pulled it over. And then she was gone. I didn’t know what was happening or what to think. I heard the music, only this time it was soft. Classical. Then I saw the Ingham lad.’ He shook his head. ‘Terrible. All that blood. I looked round for Jason and…’

  ‘You saw the scalpel on the ground,’ prompted Grant. Ottoman nodded. ‘Why did you put it under his hand?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight. I saw the phone and I realised what I had to do. But I didn’t know what to say.’

  ‘You said “They’re all dead.” You thought Wallis was dead?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I? There was blood everywhere. Even on my clothes by now. Then it hit me, what I was seeing, and I started to fall apart. When Jason came round I just froze.’

  ‘Jason was conscious?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Something strange.’ Ottoman shook his head and his eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘He looked at me. I think he might even have smiled. He said “I’m ready” then passed out again.’

  ‘I’m ready?’ Hudson nodded. ‘What do you think he meant?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I got scared. I thought I heard someone coming so I left the same way the woman left — over the fence. When I got down I saw there were two bikes. I took one. The next day we…’ Ottoman took a deep breath. ‘What about my wife?’

  ‘She’ll be on her way home soon, Mr Ottoman,’ said Hudson. ‘Trust us.’

  ‘Trust you. Like I trusted you to deal with Wallis after he assaulted my wife.’ Ottoman hung his head.

  ‘This is different, John. Six people are dead.’

  Ottoman’s head lifted like a hunted deer. ‘Six? What do you mean?’

  Hudson glanced at Grant. ‘Three people died in an upstairs bedroom, Mrs Ingham and her boy among them. It was all over the news.’

  ‘I didn’t know. The last thing we wanted was to listen to the news or read a paper. Six? Oh God. I didn’t kill them. You must believe me.’

  Both Grant and Hudson stared at the mirror through to Brook and Charlton. Hudson nodded.

  ‘We believe you.’

  ‘It’s fine, love. They believe us, I think. I just need to stay a bit longer.’ Ottoman pressed his hands into the knots of tension in his wife’s back then held her away and looked at her tear-streaked face. ‘You go with this officer. He’ll take you home. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Don’t be long,’ she whimpered.

  Brook opened his eyes and lifted his head from the desk and yawned. He looked at his watch and had to rub his eyes to see properly. It was past midnight. He hadn’t been this tired for two years and he was unlikely to get much rest any time soon. His hunch about Ottoman having come good, he was back on the team. Charlton had already held a press conference to ‘de-emphasise’ — his very word — the significance of the arrests and to insist the Ottomans were witnesses not suspects. Denise Ottoman had been taken home and her husband would probably be released tomorrow after another interview.

  Brook stood and walked around for a few minutes to stretch his legs, having already decided not to go home. Being in the house next door to Mike Drexler made him edgy and he had resolved to keep away from Hartington as much as possible until he had gone.

  He sat back down at the desk and shook his flask. There was a little tea left in it so he poured it out and took a swig. It was cold.

  He looked around the room and his bleary eye fell on the photo array on the boards. The sky had cleared and a full moon had cast its light onto the ghostly image of the middle-aged woman sitting in Dottie North’s bedroom — the picture that had erroneously led them to Denise Ottoman. Brook picked up his pencil and looked at the anagram again. This time he looked for a female name among the letters. After ten minutes he’d come up with only three — Pat, Rae and Petra.

  One at a time, he mangled all the remaining letters into unlikely sounding surnames and one by one typed all the options into the search bar for the electoral roll on the computer. He expected nothing and wasn’t disappointed when he found nothing. However, after a dozen or so attempts, Brook keyed in ‘Petra Heer’ and was surprised to be rewarded with an address — 1b Magnet House, Derby.

  His pulse began to quicken. 1b suggested a flat and Magnet House suggested a larger building. He reached for an A-Z and looked up the address. Magnet House was just down the road from the railway station and the Midland Hotel. In fact he must have passed it on his nocturnal ramble with Laura Grant.

  He hastily wrote a note: Everything you can get on a Petra Heer if she exists. Birth certificate, nationality, passport, picture of any kind, etc. DIB.

  He dropped it on DS Gadd’s desk, gathered up his car keys and hurried out of the door.

  Sorenson drove away from the motel, crossing 395 back towards Tahoe. Drexler reached for the keys.

  ‘I say we wait, Mike.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘There’s somebody still in that cabin and I’d kinda like to know who.’ Drexler hesitated, poised to spark the ignition. ‘And I’m guessing Sorenson’s headed home. It’s way past his bedtime.’

  Drexler exhaled and sat back. ‘Okay. We wait.’

  McQuarry pulled out her cigarettes and lit up. She looked over at Drexler and on an impulse offered the pack. Drexler hesitated then plucked a cigarette and put it shamefacedly into his mouth. McQuarry lit it for him and he inhaled and exhaled like it was his first kiss.

  ‘Taste good?’ grinned McQuarry, opening her window. Drexler smiled back a little sheepishly. ‘I’ve not seen you like this, Mike. Not since the shooting.’ He looked over at her. ‘You really want this one, don’t you?’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Why?’

  Drexler thought for a minute. ‘The wreckage.’

  ‘What wreckage?’

  ‘The wreckage of families. My family. The Campbells. The Baileys. Even the Ashwells. I thought when I killed Hunseth I was done with it.’ He took a large pull on the cigarette and scowled at the taste. When he exhaled he looked over at his partner. ‘I killed him, you know, Ed.’

  ‘I know, Mike. I was there.’

  ‘I didn’t have to…’

  ‘You saved my life.’

  ‘But I could have brought him
down alive. Somehow Sorenson knew that. I don’t know how.’

  ‘You were cleared, Mike. It was a good shoot.’

  ‘I was cleared by the Board, Ed. I haven’t cleared myself. Sorenson’s a smart man. He told me I shot my father when I killed Hunseth. He was right. I saw Hunseth as I’d seen my father so many times, staggering drunk, carrying that bat around looking for my mom, looking for me, spitting rage and the Bible between slugs of moonshine. And Sorenson knew that, like he just reached into my mind and pulled it all out.’

  ‘How could he know?’

  ‘He just does.’

  McQuarry tossed her butt into the night. ‘It’s in the past. Let’s leave it there. You had an off day.’

  ‘We both did.’

  McQuarry looked up at Drexler. ‘What do you mean?’

  Drexler looked back at her and shrugged. ‘You got careless, Ed. You got too close. And you got cut. Hard to believe, you of all people…’

  ‘Mike!’

  Just then, the night manager came out of his office and walked down the row of cabins to the end room. He knocked on the door and waited. Nobody opened the door. A moment later the portly bedraggled man turned the handle and slipped inside.

  Magnet House was no more than five minutes from St Mary’s at that time of day. A quick trip round the inner ring road and Brook was soon pulling up next to it, the building looming up out of Pride Park, the now-deserted industrial zone to the east of Derby. It was a perfect location. As well as its proximity to the train network, the area was sparsely populated and foot traffic at night would usually be minimal, most of the bars and pubs being located half a mile to the west in the city centre.

  Brook drove past the redbrick structure, unable to keep his eyes from it, and parked in the forecourt of the railway station, some four hundred yards further on. He rummaged in the boot for his small torch and a pair of protective gloves. He also extracted a bunch of keys, the size of a small hedgehog, liberated from a serial housebreaker many years before, and set off towards the building. He wondered briefly whether to call in at the Midland and wake Grant, but decided against it. She’d had a wretched twenty-four hours travelling the length of England and might not appreciate a visit at nearly one in the morning.

  As he neared the darkened building he was disturbed by a noise behind him. Without breaking stride or turning, he continued walking until an unkempt hedge provided cover. He pressed himself into the body of the hedge and scrutinised the ground to his rear. It was a clear night and he was able to train his gaze on the doorways and few parked cars all the way back to the station, but he could discern no movement, not even an animal. He waited a little longer then continued on past the dilapidated buildings on his right, towards Magnet House.

  He stood in the shadows of the entrance, looking up at the building. To one side there was a security gate barring admittance to the car park, which evidently snaked around the back of the block. Brook trotted over to it but couldn’t see any vehicles. The parking bays were probably under the building. He turned back to the entrance stairwell. There was a solid door and a steel grill with four shiny new buzzers at the side of a microphone. The name tag of the top buzzer was ‘PH’.

  Brook stood back again. Four flats in what looked like two storeys, so two flats per floor. Assuming the top buttons were for the flats on the top floor, he pressed the bottom buzzer. Several minutes and several attempts later a female voice answered.

  ‘Inspector Brook, Derby CID,’ barked Brook. After a brief hesitation the buzzer sounded and Brook made his way into the entrance hall. An inside door was opened as far as a chain would allow and a young girl ran a sleepy eye over Brook’s ID.

  ‘Miss Jane Gadd?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Are you Miss Jane Gadd?’

  The girl let out a huge sigh. ‘No.’

  ‘My mistake. I’ll see myself out,’ he smiled, apologetically.

  ‘Thanks a fucking bundle,’ she said and slammed her door.

  Brook returned to the stairs and climbed to the next floor. The second door of two had ‘PH’ on its nameplate. He looked at the crack below the door but couldn’t see a light. Then he rang the bell. No answer. No sound or movement that he could detect. No shadow falling over the peephole. After a few minutes he took out his bunch of keys and selected one, then another, then another. The fourth master key turned and Brook pushed back the door and stepped over the threshold, closing the door softly behind him.

  Carlson stood inside the doorway, listening in the dark. There was music coming from somewhere near the bed. Classical stuff, playing softly. Quite nice if you liked that sort of shit. He was more of a Bluegrass man.

  He was tempted to turn on the light but thought better of it. Roofies or not, the girl might be half-conscious and manage to store a memory of him. Instead he took off his clothes until he stood naked in the blackness, listening for the sound of his early Christmas present sleeping. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom now and he tossed his grimy clothing on a chair and sniffed under his fetid armpit. Not great but not bad enough to waste time showering. Not with a boner like this to drain.

  He had his party hat in his hand and pulled it over his fat penis with a twinge of regret. He usually preferred to ride bareback but he didn’t want to leave behind his DNA in case the girl ever worked out she’d been screwed — which was highly likely with his massive tool. Bitch may not walk for a week, he chuckled.

  He moved over to the bed, following the sound of shallow breathing and sat on the edge.

  ‘I hope you got plenty of the sweet stuff left for Uncle Jake, honey,’ he chuckled again. No reply. This bitch was out cold. He hesitated, assessing the risk. Fuck it. He had to see what he was drilling, made it sweeter. He leaned over and flicked on the bedside lamp and turned to the girl. He liked what he saw. Long hair, slim but with tits and young, soft skin. Her eyes were firmly closed and her firm young body was clad only in bra and panties. He climbed on the bed and prepared to remove her underclothes and mount her.

  ‘Oh honey chile, Uncle Jake’s gonna light you up like Christmas.’ He grinned at her motionless face, but then his mouth slackened suddenly. He pulled the blanket and narrowed his eyes at her. ‘Wait a minute. I know you.’

  The girl’s eyes opened and her right fist emerged from the bedding and plunged onto Jake’s throat. He fell back, clutching his neck and a second later pulled the empty hypodermic from his flesh, gasping as he tried to steady himself. He glanced at the hypodermic long enough to see the plunger was fully depressed and the chamber empty. He flung it away.

  He moved back towards the bed and the girl screamed but Jake staggered on the threadbare carpet and fell to his knees, sweat pouring out of him in an effort to reach her.

  ‘You … fucking … little … whore … I’m…’ He sagged onto his vast stomach, one arm propped on the bed. The girl had wrapped a sheet around her and cowered against the head of the bed, legs pulled up, watching him grind out every word.

  The door flew open and the two agents barked ‘FBI!’ in unison. Drexler flicked on the main light and was through the door first.

  ‘Get on the ground,’ he shouted superfluously at Carlson, whose head was already sinking onto the floor. The two agents stared at the barrel of a man, rambling incoherently, unable to move.

  ‘Off the bed,’ shouted McQuarry to the girl. ‘Face the wall.’ The girl did as she was told, still clinging to the sheet to preserve her modesty.

  McQuarry checked behind the door — ‘Clear’ — as Drexler headed for the bathroom. ‘You okay, honey?’ asked McQuarry to the girl, looking all around, both hands on her gun.

  ‘Clear,’ she heard her partner shout and he returned to the bedroom clipping his firearm back into his belt.

  The girl nodded, her face set in a grimace of fear, her cheeks beginning to run with tears.

  ‘The girl’s clean,’ said McQuarry, holstering her own gun.

  Drexler removed a pair of cuffs from his belt and went acro
ss to Jake. He placed the cuffs on him and turned him over, throwing a towel over his shrivelling manhood. The man groaned and Drexler helped him over to the wall and sat him up with some difficulty.

  ‘What happened here, honey?’ said Drexler to the girl. ‘Why did Sorenson bring you here? Why’d he leave you?’

  The girl turned from the wall pulling the sheet tight. She was calmer now and looked back at McQuarry, who was busy rifling through Carlson’s clothes. Drexler could see she was no more than sixteen, possibly younger. She raised her chin but lowered her eyes.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Mike,’ shouted McQuarry. She stood by the chair where Jake had tossed his clothes. She examined a wallet in her hand. ‘That’s Caleb’s brother. This son of a bitch is Jacob Ashwell.’

  Drexler looked over at the man still groaning, blank eyes open and glassy. ‘You sure?’

  ‘There’s a picture of him with Caleb in the wallet. And here’s his driver’s licence.’ McQuarry handed him the dogeared snap of the two brothers, both holding guns, in front of the line of wrecked motor homes in the bowl near the Ashwell garage.

  Brook tried the light switch. Nothing. He switched on his torch and swung it around the room, pausing on the lone mountain bike. It was identical to John Ottoman’s bike, though the saddle and frame sported no discernible blood stains. One of the killers had been able to use it to get back to the flat — presumably the one with the greater need to be visible the next morning. Brook nodded. He knew now who that was.