Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  Noble strode away, reaching for his radio. ‘Angie. Get the canvass to ask specifically if the Gibsons were problem neighbours, any antisocial activity or small-scale offending, the sort that might not be reported to us.’ Her response crackled. ‘I don’t know. Disputes about parking a car, cutting a hedge or late-night noise. You know the drill.’

  Five

  Higginbottom snapped his bag closed and stepped away from the two corpses, glancing at Brook before leaving the room. Brook accepted the invitation and followed the doctor towards the relative cheer of the street.

  Back in the cold pale light, Noble wandered over, rummaging under his protective suit for his cigarettes, lighting up as the three men came to a halt at Higginbottom’s car.

  ‘Good to see you, Brook.’

  ‘Doctor,’ acknowledged Brook. ‘How long?’

  ‘Judging from rigor and lividity, between forty-eight and seventy-two hours.’

  ‘Sometime at the weekend,’ nodded Brook. ‘Big window.’

  ‘It is what it is,’ said Higginbottom. ‘And at least it would have been quick. Dead in seconds. No obvious molestation. Not much more to say.’

  Brook nodded. ‘Did you get the call last month?’

  ‘You mean the gay sex killer of Breadsall,’ snorted Higginbottom, shaking his head. ‘Don’t get me started on Ford.’

  ‘Was he really heading off in that direction?’asked Noble.

  ‘In as much as DI Ford ever has a direction for his investigations.’

  ‘You disagreed,’ said Brook.

  ‘As strongly as I dared, but he’s not the type to listen to opinions that don’t match his own. Stephen Frazer and Iain Nolan were two reputable middle-aged men living together who just happened to be gay,’ continued Higginbottom. ‘Ultra-respectable, successful businessmen and pillars of the community. Also one of the first gay couples to take advantage of the new legislation and get married.’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about them,’ said Brook.

  ‘They were on the front of the Derby Telegraph, Inspector. You must have seen it – even made the odd national.’

  ‘I don’t read the papers.’

  ‘Then take my word,’ said Higginbottom. ‘It was news.’

  ‘That kind of exposure can infuriate all sorts of malcontents,’ said Brook. ‘Homophobes, religious extremists.’

  ‘After their murder, the coverage in the local rag was bad,’ said Noble. ‘Brian Burton really did a number on the victims.’

  ‘It wasn’t bad, it was obscene, Sergeant,’ said Higginbottom. ‘That greasy little excuse for a journalist with all that sneering innuendo about sexual perversion just because they were tied up. Disgusting.’

  ‘How did he get a detail like that?’ demanded Brook, glancing at Noble.

  ‘The word is Ford briefed him on his kinky sex killer theory, so Burton drenched the whole story in smut.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’ said Brook.

  ‘Ford’s a dinosaur and belongs in Jurassic Park,’ continued Higginbottom. ‘He figured it as a sex crime from minute one. Between them, he and Burton have set back gay rights in Derby by thirty years. And I made a point of saying so to your superior.’

  ‘You spoke to Charlton?’ said Brook, fighting his own smile. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Don’t smirk, Brook,’ chided Higginbottom. ‘I realise he’s no Terrence Higgins, but in spite of his religious views, he gave me a fair hearing and I got the impression that my thoughts on Ford’s competence chimed with his own. Frank should’ve been pensioned off five years ago.’

  ‘So you’re responsible for getting me this plum job,’ observed Brook.

  Higginbottom smiled. ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Just as well he’s retiring next month,’ said Noble.

  ‘And not a moment too soon,’ boomed Higginbottom. ‘I don’t envy him the professional embarrassment of being pulled off a case, but he’ll get over it when he sobers up.’

  ‘It’s the poisoned well he leaves behind that bothers me,’ said Brook. ‘His sergeant was already giving me the Medusa treatment.’

  ‘Caskey?’ said Higginbottom. ‘She’s better off without him. And from what I hear, she’s been carrying Ford for the last two years.’

  ‘Was there any evidence in Breadsall to support Frank’s theory?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Nothing to indicate a sexual motive of any kind.’

  ‘As far as you were able to determine from your brief exam.’

  Higginbottom conceded with a shrug. ‘Fine, but it’s been a month and the forensic reports will back me up. Talk to Frank if you think it’s worth it, but take a large pinch of salt with you. As far as he was concerned, being gay was sufficient motive for their deaths.’

  ‘Which would indicate a hate crime,’ suggested Noble.

  ‘Except there wasn’t any hate on display at the scene,’ replied Higginbottom. ‘And the same applies here.’

  ‘But if DS Caskey has been carrying Frank for so long, how come she signed off on his sex killer theory?’ enquired Brook.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ answered Higginbottom. ‘I suppose she can only do so much.’

  ‘Frank must have been a decent copper once,’ retorted Brook.

  Higginbottom shook his head. ‘Why do you defend him? He doesn’t have a good word to say about you.’

  ‘Because one day I’ll be a pathetic burnout too,’ said Brook. ‘And when I am, I hope someone will find something good to say about me.’

  ‘People in the know rate you highly, Brook,’ said Higginbottom. ‘No one’s ever said that about Ford.’

  ‘People in the know have short memories,’ snapped Brook. ‘Now is there anything else on the Gibsons I can use?’

  ‘It’s the same killer as Breadsall,’ said Higginbottom.

  ‘In your opinion.’

  Higginbottom counted out on his fingers. ‘Both victims were killed by a single bullet to the heart. No sign of struggle. Death as close to instant as makes no difference.’

  ‘But the Gibsons aren’t gay,’ observed Noble. Higginbottom acknowledged him with a shrug.

  ‘No evidence of sexual activity,’ pressed Brook.

  ‘Without detailed examination it’s impossible to be one hundred percent certain, but clothing is intact and seems unblemished by semen, so in my opinion, everything points away from a sexual motive, yes.’

  ‘And presentation of the victims?’

  ‘Very similar to Breadsall,’ said Higginbottom. ‘The Gibsons didn’t or couldn’t contest their fate, so no restraints. You know about the handcuffs?’

  Brook nodded. ‘Frazer and Nolan were younger and fitter …’

  ‘… so the killer handcuffed them, then, after they were tied and gagged, removed the cuffs.’

  ‘Presumably they resisted.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ The doctor threw his bag into the boot of the Mercedes, stifling a yawn. Brook didn’t answer. ‘And that’s me done. I’ll email the main points tomorrow.’ He climbed into the car and drove away.

  ‘I had no idea Higginbottom was such a passionate advocate of gay rights.’

  ‘His son’s gay,’ said Noble. ‘He’s at Oxford now but there was some harassment at school a few years back.’ Brook looked up. ‘I have conversations with people. You find out about them that way.’

  ‘Sounds exhausting,’ said Brook, accepting the rebuke.

  ‘And Higginbottom’s right. Ford doesn’t understand alternative lifestyles. Last month would’ve taken him out of his comfort zone. Some of the stuff he fed to Burton was way over the top. You should read it.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of Burton’s toxic world view to last me a lifetime, John.’

  ‘The disc in the CD player?’ repeated the scene-of-crime officer through his mask. He flicked through a row of evidence bags waiting to be carried out and held one up, allowing Brook to see it.

  ‘Classical Favourites,’ read Brook.

  Noble returned to the crowded lounge now
bathed in the powerful glare of arc lights. ‘The Gibsons don’t have any history with us and neighbours say they were good as gold.’

  ‘What do we know about the son?’

  Noble gestured at DS Morton.

  ‘Gibson, Matthew,’ said Morton, reaching for his notes. ‘Retired accountant and professional landlord. Fifty-four years old.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘He was cagey about that. Told me to mind my own business.’ Brook raised an eyebrow. Morton shrugged. ‘Given the circumstances, I didn’t push it.’

  ‘What time did he find the bodies?’

  DS Morton flipped to the right page. ‘This morning just before six.’

  ‘So early?’ said Noble.

  ‘He says he came to collect the rent,’ said Morton.

  ‘Rent from his parents,’ remarked Brook. ‘What a prince!’

  ‘Might explain the four hundred in cash,’ said Noble.

  ‘What about his house keys?’ asked Brook.

  ‘He had them with him,’ confirmed Morton, rustling in a pocket and drawing out a plastic bag containing a pair of keys. ‘He never needed them but always brought them just in case. Says he knocked a couple of times and when he didn’t get a response he tried the door. It was unlocked and he walked in.’

  A SOCO approached with the bagged unwashed champagne flutes. ‘No obvious grains in the bottom of the glasses but we’ll test for drugs obviously.’ Brook nodded his thanks.

  ‘Why would the killer drug them?’ asked Morton. ‘At their age, they’d be pretty docile.’

  ‘A little something to make it easier on them, maybe,’ suggested Brook. ‘From what I see, the killer didn’t hate the victims. In fact the champagne makes it look less like an execution …’

  ‘… and more of a fond farewell,’ nodded Morton.

  ‘A mercy killing,’ suggested Noble. ‘It’s an angle.’

  ‘Beats flying to Switzerland,’ quipped Morton.

  ‘On that note,’ prompted Noble.

  ‘Smee’s collating all medications in the house and is chasing down their doctor to find out if one or both of them was terminal.’

  ‘We’re all terminal, Rob,’ said Brook, absently. Morton and Noble exchanged a look. ‘Did you ask Gibson about the champagne?’

  ‘He says he didn’t bring it,’ said Morton. ‘Claims his parents hardly drank apart from the occasional sherry, and even then it took them six months to get through a bottle.’

  ‘And the champagne flutes?’ said Brook.

  Morton grimaced apologetically. ‘You’re right. They don’t really belong, do they? Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Rob, we’ll ask him at the station,’ said Noble.

  ‘You think Gibson’s in the frame?’ said Morton.

  ‘If this were a one-off, yes,’ said Brook. ‘But if it’s part of a series, then I don’t see it. Any prints?’

  ‘Plenty on the two dirty glasses, but they likely belong to the vics,’ said Morton. ‘Nothing obvious on the bottle, the washed glass or the CD.’

  ‘What about the cash and envelope?’

  ‘Gone off to the lab for tests,’ said Morton. ‘But if the doer didn’t pocket the loot, he’s unlikely to have fingered it.’

  Brook shot him a glance. ‘DNA?’

  ‘Nothing visible to the naked eye on the vics, and the carpet looks clear,’ replied Morton. ‘Doesn’t look like our guy pulled one off while they croaked, though you can never tell until SOCO get the spray out.’ He winked slyly at the grinning Noble.

  ‘Pulled one off?’ repeated Brook with distaste. ‘Fingered? Whoever bought The Sweeney box set, can they stop passing it around the squad, please?’

  ‘Sir?’ said Morton, trying to keep a straight face.

  Brook glanced at his watch, determined not to rise to the bait. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘Do you need to be off?’ asked Noble.

  ‘Not without interviewing Gibson.’

  ‘Sorry about your holiday.’

  ‘Not sorry enough to let Ford and Caskey run the inquiry,’ replied Brook. ‘Why didn’t DI Gadd get the poisoned chalice?’

  ‘Jane’s at the Policing and Partnerships Conference in London.’

  ‘I didn’t draw the short straw at least. Any more highlights from last month’s murder book?’

  ‘Until we get back to St Mary’s, I’m working off what Read and Smee tell me,’ said Noble. ‘Neither of them remembers champagne or classical music. But we’ll have a comparison on the bullets at least.’

  ‘Ballistics could take a couple of days, until which time we won’t know whether we’re looking for a serial killer or not.’

  ‘I’ll ask Charlton to put the squeeze on,’ said Noble.

  ‘Get everything on the database from last month organised for briefing, and if you can, find any snippets Ford’s people haven’t had time to commit to the record.’

  ‘Not sure Ford’s people will be rushing to help, judging by Caskey’s reaction.’

  ‘Can’t blame her,’ retorted Brook. ‘What’s her background?’

  ‘Worked her way up to sergeant in the Medway, where she was an AFO. Made the switch to CID and transferred to D Division two years ago.’

  ‘She’s an ex-firearms officer?’ exclaimed Brook. ‘Could be handy on a gun crime.’

  ‘Thinking of getting her on board?’ enquired Noble.

  ‘She knows the ins and outs of Breadsall.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean she’ll co-operate after what’s happened to Frank.’

  ‘She’ll get over it if she’s smart,’ said Brook. ‘And hopefully the Chief Super will be smoothing things over. As for Frank, let’s hope he can be professional about it.’

  ‘Good luck with that. Ford’s been a liability for years. If this is a series, we’re better off starting from scratch and drawing our own conclusions.’

  ‘Has Gibson gone to the station?’ Morton nodded. Brook checked his watch again and looked back at the property adjoining the Gibson house. ‘You’ve not mentioned the neighbour.’

  ‘We haven’t spoken to her yet. Heather Sampson – Miss. She’s in shock and went to hospital for a check-up. She’s seventy-three years old, lives alone and, like most of her generation, is early to bed and early to rise.’

  ‘Best part of the day,’ declared Brook. He strolled to the grey plastic wheelie bin outside the Gibson house and lifted the lid with a latex-covered hand. ‘And just in time to put out the bins.’

  ‘I cancelled the collection for surrounding streets,’ said Noble, unbidden. ‘Uniform are lifting bin lids and grates in the unlikely event the killer dumped the weapon, or better yet, a bloodstained driving licence.’

  ‘If only,’ said Brook, managing a smile. ‘And the Gibsons’ bin?’

  ‘SOCO are aware.’

  ‘Are they aware who put it out for collection?’ said Brook. Noble was puzzled. ‘Well the Gibsons didn’t, and I’d be amazed if their son did after finding their bodies.’

  ‘See what you mean. He might have done it before he knocked.’

  ‘Check with the neighbour and get a statement. She may have heard something to help us narrow our time frame.’

  ‘Even if she heard the gunshots, she’d likely think they were fireworks this time of year.’

  ‘Ask the question, at least.’ Brook yawned. ‘I’ve seen enough. Get a post-mortem slot, preferably for tomorrow morning so I can attend, though it’s unlikely to tell us more than we already know. And send everything on file to my email so I can get up to speed tonight.’

  Noble stared disconsolately over Brook’s shoulder towards the crime-scene tape. ‘Better yet, you could ask Frank in person.’

  Brook turned to see a car pulling up. ‘Great!’ DI Ford, small and wiry with grey hair, leapt out and ducked under the tape before making a beeline for Brook and Noble. ‘I wouldn’t have to deal with him. That what you said, John?’

  ‘Do you want me to … ?’

  ‘Too late,’ mumbled Brook through gritted te
eth. ‘Here to help, Frank?’ he enquired loudly when Ford was in earshot.

  ‘Help? What the fuck. I just heard from Caskey.’ He waved his arms, his face puce with anger. ‘Couldn’t believe my fucking ears.’

  ‘Control yourself, Frank.’

  ‘This is my fucking inquiry, Brook.’

  ‘Don’t swear at me,’ warned Brook. ‘Didn’t Charlton speak to you?’

  ‘Oh, he spoke to me all right, but only after I rang him.’

  ‘I’m sorry you had to hear like that. Truly.’

  Noble nudged Brook, flicked his head towards the perimeter tape. Brian Burton from the Derby Telegraph was showing his credentials to the officer on duty, a photographer in tow, arguing that he should be allowed access to the site.

  ‘The fuck you’re sorry,’ growled Ford.

  ‘Go make sure Burton doesn’t grease his way in, John,’ muttered Brook, behind a hand. Noble stepped away, aiming an apologetic shrug at him behind Ford’s back.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Brook?’ bellowed Ford.

  ‘Unfortunately.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have believed a fellow officer would do the fucking dirty—’

  ‘I’m following instructions from a senior officer, Frank. That’s the job.’

  ‘Don’t tell me about the job.’ Ford jabbed a finger towards him. ‘I was nicking villains when you were in short pants.’

  ‘I hear most of them got off on appeal.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Keep it down,’ said Brook. ‘We’re in the public gaze.’

  ‘This is my case,’ shouted Ford.

  ‘I didn’t ask for it, Frank.’

  ‘The fuck you didn’t.’ Brook leaned away from breath laced with last night’s alcohol. ‘Where’s the rest of my squad?’

  ‘No idea,’ replied Brook.

  ‘They were stood down, sir,’ said Banach, joining them. ‘Chief Super’s orders.’

  ‘Chief Superintendent Charlton?’ said Brook, beaming at Ford. ‘That’s our boss, isn’t it?’

  Ford glared. ‘You’re a real prick, you know that, Brook?’

  ‘Better than anyone,’ answered Brook, his manner softening. ‘Look, Frank, we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but you’re retiring in a month.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So why all the drama? Enjoy your lap of honour and leave the dirty work to us. An unsolved series is no way to bow out, believe me. That’s how I left the Met.’