Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  Ford’s anger gave way to dismay and Brook saw defeat in his eyes. ‘But this is my case. I’m a good copper. I closed that Black Oak Farm mess last year when you were on leave.’

  Brook hesitated. ‘I remember. Look, this isn’t a slur on your record, Frank. The Chief Super wants continuity, and you can’t provide that from your armchair.’

  ‘But how will it look, me being yanked off my last case?’

  ‘It’ll look like what it is – a graceful handing-over of the reins, one good copper to another.’

  Ford was taken aback at this and his features seemed to soften. ‘You haven’t always been so … respectful, Brook.’

  ‘Neither of us has,’ replied Brook, unwilling to let Ford have it too easy. ‘But we no longer need to fight these battles.’

  Ford lowered his head, quieter now. ‘I thought you were on leave.’

  ‘Back today,’ Brook lied.

  The rain started to pick up. ‘Is it the same MO? If it’s another pair of benders—’

  ‘Go home, Frank,’ said Brook. ‘Make some lunch and have a glass of wine.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ snapped Ford, looking for offence.

  ‘That’s what retired people do, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’m not retired yet.’

  Brook had run out of palliatives for soothing Ford’s damaged ego. ‘No.’

  ‘You want my advice, Brook, you’re looking for a pair of jilted arse bandits. There’s your killers.’

  Brook bit down on what Ford could do with his advice. He noticed Banach staring at him, willing him to use his rank to object to Ford’s language. But as usual the demands of the case trumped all. ‘What do you mean, a pair?’

  Ford’s yellow grin wasn’t a pleasant sight. ‘Didn’t know that, did you?’ he said smugly. ‘We got the ballistics report back and it says the two benders in Breadsall were killed by different guns. You’re looking for two killers.’

  Brook saw Banach open her mouth to speak. ‘Benders?’ he repeated before she could say anything. ‘You know we have standing protocols about using inappropriate language to disparage minority groups.’

  ‘Fuck your protocols,’ sneered Ford defiantly.

  ‘For the last time, stop swearing at me,’ said Brook, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Or else?’

  Brook took a deep breath, his fists balling, before saying quietly, ‘Or else you’re liable to get struck.’

  Ford straightened as though he had been hit. He looked across at Banach. ‘Did you hear that, Constable? DI Brook just threatened me. You heard him, didn’t you?’

  ‘I …’ began Banach, her colour rising.

  ‘Go home, Frank,’ said Brook. ‘Now.’

  ‘You threatened me,’ said Ford, agitated. He grinned maliciously. ‘You can’t do that. I’ll have your job.’

  ‘No, Frank, I’ll have your pension when I tell the disciplinary panel that I’m gay and you provoked me. Now get off my crime scene before I have you escorted off.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘You’re gay?’

  ‘Does it matter? I’m a middle-aged, divorced copper living on his own, so who’s to say I’m not.’ Brook smiled with that excessive bonhomie that drove his enemies to distraction, and Ford stood with his mouth open, too shocked to speak, unsure whether to be insulted or amazed. ‘Now go home and make sure I get full access to your reports and anything that’s not already on the database. You can start with the ballistics report. Is that clear?’ Ford looked as though he were preparing an objection, so Brook sealed the deal. ‘Then we can benefit from your fine groundwork.’

  Ford hesitated, searching for sarcasm. Finally he nodded and his eyes found the floor. Resigned, he shuffled towards his car.

  ‘Wow!’ said Banach quietly, staring after him.

  ‘I know,’ said Brook. ‘Two killers. Unexpected.’ He watched Burton’s photographer taking pictures of Ford as the reporter interviewed him on the other side of the perimeter. He wondered whether to wander across to make sure Ford stayed on message but decided against it. He had history with Burton, who’d made it his business to attack Brook and his work at every opportunity just because he wasn’t a local man. Burton was the kind of journalist who always knew the right buttons to press, and Brook’s shallow reserves of diplomacy were spent.

  ‘You’d think with a month to go he’d be glad to be shot of it,’ said Banach, following his gaze.

  ‘You’re too young to understand,’ said Brook, eyes firmly on Ford. ‘In a few weeks Frank stops being a somebody with power and purpose and starts being a nobody living on memories, sitting in a chair, waiting for death.’

  Banach stared at Brook’s blank features, waiting for a glimpse of levity that didn’t arrive. ‘Might be a good idea to give his retirement bash a miss,’ she remarked.

  Six

  Matthew Gibson sat in the interview room in a white paper jump suit, face drawn, eyes glazed, clutching a polystyrene cup. His personal effects were in a plastic evidence bag on the table – watch, wallet, driving licence, loose change, handkerchief – having been removed from his civilian clothes, now gone for forensic exam.

  Brook introduced himself, took a second to check the contents of Gibson’s cup then glanced hopefully across at Noble, who stepped outside briefly to order more tea. When he returned, he started the interview tape and cautioned Gibson about his rights before naming those present.

  ‘Firstly we’re sorry for your loss, Mr Gibson,’ said Brook.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Gibson. ‘Shouldn’t I have my solicitor here?’

  ‘You’re entitled to be represented,’ said Brook, a little surprised. ‘However, that might delay the investigation. You’re here as a witness at this time. I just have a few questions. If you agree to waive counsel but then don’t wish to answer any or all of them, or feel the need to stop proceedings at any time, we’ll postpone and you can leave. Fair enough?’

  ‘Fine, but I don’t know what else I can add.’

  ‘We just need to get a few things clear.’

  ‘To see if I contradict my earlier statement, you mean.’ Noble and Brook exchanged a glance. ‘When can I get my clothes back?’

  ‘You entered a crime scene, Mr Gibson,’ said Brook.

  ‘There are certain tests,’ explained Noble.

  ‘You mean like gunshot residue?’ Brook raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘My hands were swabbed.’

  ‘Your parents were shot,’ said Brook. ‘It’s just procedure.’

  ‘Then let me save you some time. I hold a valid firearms certificate and I’m a member of Swadlincote Shooting Club. I own several small-bore rifles, which I fire regularly at the club. From time to time I also fire other members’ handguns, so gunshot residue is likely.’

  ‘But you don’t own a handgun.’

  ‘I have a deactivated Glock 19.’

  ‘We’ll need to see that gun.’

  ‘It’s deactivated – it can’t be fired.’

  ‘Your parents were shot with a semi-automatic handgun, so we need to examine it,’ said Noble.

  Gibson’s face soured. ‘You don’t dress it up, do you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Brook. ‘But this is a murder inquiry and the immediate aftermath is the best time for gathering hard facts.’

  ‘And deactivated weapons can be reactivated, I suppose,’ nodded Gibson. ‘I’ll bring it in.’

  Brook smiled indulgently. ‘We’ll send someone home with you to collect it. Presumably it’s at your house.’

  ‘In a drawer.’

  ‘A locked drawer?’

  ‘No, why would it be? It doesn’t fire.’ Sensing disapproval, Gibson added, ‘It’s little more than a toy.’

  A constable entered with three mugs of hot tea and set them on the table, and Brook glimpsed Gibson’s hand reaching for one, fingers still grimy from the fingerprint ink.

  ‘What time did you arrive at your parents’ house this
morning?’

  ‘As I told the other detective, a few minutes before six,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Define a few,’ said Noble.

  ‘About five.’

  ‘Why so early?’

  ‘Like a lot of old people, my parents are early risers.’ He stopped cold. ‘Were early risers. I like to get in and out before rush hour when I’m busy.’

  ‘I thought you were retired.’

  ‘From work, yes. But I own several properties around the city that I rent out. Today is rent day. Or should have been.’

  ‘Rent day,’ echoed Brook. ‘So it wasn’t a social visit.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And when was the last time you saw your parents alive?’

  Gibson hesitated. ‘A month ago.’

  ‘You sound very certain.’

  ‘I am.’ He took a sip of his tea.

  ‘Would that be when you last collected their rent?’

  Gibson caught Brook’s eye, searching for a judgement. ‘That’s right. Every first of the month.’

  ‘No visits apart from that?’

  ‘Not this month, no. Like I said, I’ve been busy. I’ve got an ongoing building project.’

  ‘When you arrived, what did you do?’

  ‘I knocked on the door and waited.’

  ‘Is that usual?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And there was no answer.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I could hear music.’

  ‘You heard it from outside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did your parents routinely play music at that hour?’ asked Noble.

  ‘Yes, but not that loud,’ said Gibson. ‘I wouldn’t normally hear it until I was in the house.’

  ‘And you thought hearing music at the door was odd.’

  ‘Unconsciously, I suppose.’

  ‘What type of music?’

  ‘Classical.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I knocked again.’

  ‘You didn’t try to use your key to let yourself in?’

  ‘No. My parents are … were tenants. And tenants have a right to privacy.’

  ‘So formal with your own parents?’

  ‘I’m a landlord,’ said Gibson. ‘It pays to treat everyone equally so they know where they stand.’

  ‘Does that mean if they didn’t pay their rent they could be evicted?’ asked Noble.

  Gibson’s sigh carried a hint of resentment. ‘My parents were comfortable, Inspector. They could have bought a house but didn’t want the hassle of maintenance so they lived in one of my properties. I charged them a peppercorn rent to cover my costs, no more, and they always paid on time.’

  ‘And in cash,’ said Brook. Gibson hesitated. ‘Most tenants pay by direct debit, don’t they?’ Again Gibson declined to answer. ‘The reason I ask is that there was four hundred pounds in an envelope in the bedroom. Was that the rent money, do you mind me asking?’

  Gibson came to a decision. ‘As a matter of fact, I do mind.’

  Brook paused to let Gibson sweat before nodding. He made a note in his pad. ‘No doubt we’ll find out from their records. Old people do like to keep track of their bills, don’t they?’

  Gibson glared now. ‘I’m not sure I like where this is going, Inspector. My parents have just been murdered.’

  ‘And here you are worrying about undeclared income,’ observed Noble.

  Gibson pushed back his chair to stand. ‘I’d like to leave now.’

  ‘After the second knock went unanswered, what did you do?’ Gibson glared at Brook. ‘It’s important, Mr Gibson.’

  Gibson grudgingly dropped back on to his chair. ‘I tried the handle. The door was unlocked. That was unusual.’

  ‘Your parents always kept it locked.’

  ‘Of course. They were old.’

  ‘Where did they keep the key?’

  ‘They always locked the door and left the key in the lock,’ said Gibson. ‘So it couldn’t be misplaced, Dad said.’

  ‘Which meant you couldn’t unlock the door from the outside if there was an emergency.’

  ‘Exactly. I told Dad not to do it because I might need to gain access, but … they were set in their ways.’

  Brook nodded. ‘Old people can be aggravating, can’t they?’

  ‘God, yes,’ he said before he had time to think. ‘That didn’t mean I had any less affection for them,’ he added, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘Why take keys to your parents’ house if you were routinely unable to use them?’ asked Noble.

  Gibson regarded him with derision. ‘I’d look pretty silly if they finally paid attention and started removing the key and I couldn’t get in because I’d left mine at home.’

  ‘Old people and security,’ sympathised Brook. ‘It’s a trade-off between locking the doors and being able to get out quickly if there’s a fire.’

  ‘Fat lot of good it did them, unlocking the door to a killer.’

  ‘They may not have been careless,’ said Noble. ‘The murderer had a gun, after all.’

  Gibson lowered his head. ‘Of course. Will I get the keys back soon?’

  ‘We’re going to need them for a while, but as soon as it’s practical, yes,’ said Brook. ‘Is it a problem?’

  ‘I just need to know,’ said Gibson.

  ‘So you can re-let.’

  ‘After this? No, it can go on the market as soon as you’ve finished your tests. I want nothing to do with the place.’

  ‘Understandable. What happened after you entered the house?’

  ‘The music was loud so I called out to let them know I was there. But even before I got to the lounge, I knew something was wrong. That terrible smell …’ Gibson’s eyes glazed over and he took a sip of tea to gather himself. ‘Then …’

  ‘You saw them.’ Gibson nodded. ‘Did you take a pulse?’

  ‘I didn’t need to.’

  ‘So you didn’t touch the bodies at all.’ Gibson’s mouth dropped open at the memory. ‘Mr Gibson?’ persisted Brook.

  ‘No. They were clearly gone.’

  ‘And the music?’

  ‘I turned it off,’ said Gibson, after a pause.

  ‘Any particular track playing?’

  ‘Pardon.’

  ‘The track playing, you knew it, didn’t you?’

  Gibson looked up in surprise. ‘Actually, yes – it was Barber’s Adagio.’

  ‘And that was their favourite.’

  Gibson nodded. ‘Yes, it was. It finished and then started again. It must have been on repeat. I shouldn’t have turned it off, should I?’

  ‘Not if you knew they were dead, no.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I was in shock and struggling to think straight.’

  ‘Understandable in the circumstances,’ said Brook, resurrecting a more sympathetic tone. ‘You told Sergeant Morton your parents weren’t champagne drinkers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you saw the champagne in the kitchen.’

  ‘I saw it.’

  ‘So you went in there.’

  ‘My parents had been murdered,’ said Gibson, narrowing his eyes. ‘I thought someone must have broken in so I went to check if the back door had been forced. The intruder, the killer, might still have been in the house.’

  ‘But the front door was unlocked,’ said Brook.

  ‘That doesn’t mean the killer came in that way. He may just have left by the front door.’

  ‘Pretty clear thinking,’ said Noble.

  ‘If I’d been thinking clearly, Sergeant, I would have realised the killer was long gone from the state of my parents’ bodies.’

  ‘Fair point,’ conceded Brook. ‘Did you search the rest of the house?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If you thought the killer might still be on the premises, you might think it a good idea to search the house.’

  Gibson nodded. ‘You’re right, I did.’

  ‘You went into the bedroom.�
�

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You saw the envelope with the cash in it.’

  Gibson’s gaze dropped. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you touch the money?’ Gibson examined his hands. ‘Mr Gibson?’

  Barely audible, Gibson answered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Louder for the tape, please,’ said Brook.

  Gibson looked up but was unable to meet their eyes. ‘Yes. But … it was just there. I’m their eldest son, they were living in my property. I figured—’

  ‘You figured with your parents dead the money was yours anyway,’ nodded Brook.

  ‘More mine than some light-fingered police officer’s,’ growled Gibson.

  Brook took a leisurely sip of tea. ‘You have a pretty low opinion of us, Mr Gibson. Any reason for that?’ No answer.

  ‘Touching the money compromised a crime scene,’ said Noble.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And we have to wonder why you did that.’

  ‘It was a mistake. When I realised, I put it back.’

  ‘After contaminating evidence,’ continued Noble.

  ‘I know. I was in shock, remember.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, it’s unlikely the killer would have touched the money without taking it,’ said Brook. Gibson nodded, his features leavened by a measure of relief. ‘Did you touch anything else?’

  ‘No.’ He looked up. ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘You mentioned you were the eldest son. Are there other surviving siblings?’

  ‘My younger brother, Pete, and his wife Jeanie,’ said Gibson finally. ‘They went to Australia with the children.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Michael and Jessie.’

  ‘Would those be the ones in the picture frames your parents had on their laps?’ Gibson nodded. ‘For the tape, please.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When officers entered the scene, the photographs were face down,’ said Noble.

  ‘I didn’t touch them, if that’s what you’re suggesting,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Then how did you know which photographs they were?’

  ‘I recognised the frames. They were usually on the mantelpiece.’

  ‘We didn’t notice any pictures of you in the house, Mr Gibson,’ said Noble.

  Gibson hesitated. ‘Pete … I never had children. Michael and Jessie were their only grandchildren.’