Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

  ‘And absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ suggested Brook.

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Did you move the wheelie bin into the street?’

  Gibson looked surprised at this change of tack. ‘Er … no. There’s an elderly neighbour. Heather Sampson. Whoever’s up first puts out the bins. Dad sometimes forgot. Didn’t you ask her?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Noble. ‘She’s under sedation for shock.’

  ‘Poor old girl. Yes, she’s a bit frail. Going deaf, too. I doubt she’ll be much help.’

  ‘Did you notice the clothes your parents were wearing?’ said Noble.

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘They were dressed quite smartly for a weekday morning.’

  ‘They weren’t students, Sergeant. My parents were always well turned out.’

  ‘Your father routinely wore a tie?’

  ‘Not around the house, but they were attentive to their appearance. They had old-fashioned standards.’

  ‘Is it possible they might have been dressed for a special occasion over the weekend?’

  ‘Is that when they were killed?’ said Gibson.

  Noble hesitated, glanced across at Brook, who shook his head. ‘We haven’t determined that yet.’

  ‘Well they rarely went out,’ said Gibson. ‘And certainly not at night. There’s nowhere to go in Boulton Moor. It’s in the back of beyond. You need a car, but Dad didn’t want one because his eyes were bad. I think Mum sometimes hankered to get out and about a bit more. But usually they just walked across the fields in the afternoon if it was fine. And in the evenings they had each other for company. They’d read and listen to music, then go to bed early. That’s how they liked it. Normal for their age.’

  ‘And alcohol?’

  ‘The occasional glass of sherry, as I told the other officer, but never more than one.’

  ‘What about the champagne flutes?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Did they belong to your parents?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ Seeing Brook’s confusion, he added quickly, ‘I like a glass of champagne if we have a celebration, so I bought them proper glasses so I wouldn’t have to drink from a sherry glass whenever I went over with a bottle. They never used them, though.’

  ‘But the bottle in the kitchen wasn’t one of yours.’

  ‘No. I never took them a bottle that I didn’t drink myself.’

  ‘Would they have joined you?’

  ‘Mum was happy to have a glass. Dad would take one but only have a sip if there was a toast.’

  ‘When was the last time you went round with champagne?’

  ‘August the twenty-fifth.’

  ‘For their wedding anniversary?’

  ‘Correct,’ said Gibson, impressed in spite of himself.

  ‘Was there another significant anniversary over the weekend, something that might have caused them to celebrate?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  ‘Maybe the date they met.’

  ‘They met at school,’ said Gibson. ‘So I assume that would be sometime around the start of September. And they wouldn’t have bought champagne to celebrate either way.’

  ‘Did they have any regular visitors?’ asked Noble. ‘Social services, meals on wheels, that sort of thing.’

  ‘No, they were still pretty independent. And proud of it. Though Dad was beginning to slip.’

  Brook read down the list of medications recovered from the house. ‘I notice your father was taking Angiomax. He had heart disease?’

  ‘Angina, yes. But as far as I’m aware it was under control. Mum had high blood pressure. She took tablets for it and seemed fine. They were just old people with all the problems that can bring.’

  ‘Would they have told you if one of them was terminally ill?’

  ‘Are you implying this was some kind of suicide pact?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Brook. ‘They were indisputably killed by a third party or parties but their valuables were left untouched, so we’re looking for a viable motive. Your parents weren’t subjected to any form of violence other than the bullets that killed them. We recovered a dozen bottles of medication from the house, so their deaths don’t appear to be drug-related—’

  ‘Drug-related?’ exclaimed Gibson.

  ‘Addicts don’t discriminate,’ said Noble. ‘They’re equal-opportunity thieves and, when the situation demands, killers. They don’t check labels at the scene because they have a working knowledge of amateur chemistry. They’ll bag any medication they can find and sort through it later to work up a cocktail that gets them where they want to be.’

  ‘But wouldn’t they have taken the cash?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ said Brook. ‘So for the moment we’re struggling on motive. But if we confirm champagne in your parents’ bloodstream, we’re forced to consider the possibility of some kind of mercy killing.’ He stared unflinchingly at Gibson. ‘You know, go at a time of their own choosing and all that. As a couple.’

  ‘And perhaps people who have decided to die might consider vintage champagne a suitable celebration of their lives,’ said Noble. ‘Before someone puts them out of their misery.’

  The colour drained from Gibson’s face. ‘And usually that someone is a person who knew and loved them,’ he said softly.

  ‘Usually,’ confirmed Brook. ‘Any other close relatives?’

  ‘In the northern hemisphere, just me,’ said Gibson.

  ‘Then we need to know where you were on Saturday and Sunday,’ said Brook.

  ‘I was at home.’

  ‘That would be at your address in Ticknall,’ said Noble, checking a page of Morton’s notes.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The whole weekend?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t venture into Derby at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or visit your parents.’

  ‘I didn’t drive anywhere at the weekend. I went for a walk both mornings. On Saturday I watched the rugby in the afternoon then made dinner. Same on Sunday.’

  ‘Where did you walk?’

  ‘There are plenty of footpaths and trails around Ticknall. It’s very beautiful. I walk every morning if I can. Keeps me fit.’

  ‘Except on rent day,’ ventured Brook.

  ‘Except on rent day.’

  ‘Are you married?’ said Noble.

  Gibson didn’t answer for a moment. ‘What has that to do with anything?’

  ‘Just background,’ smiled Brook. ‘And of course your wife would be able to help verify your movements.’

  Gibson pondered for a moment. ‘I prefer not to answer that at this time.’

  Brook and Noble exchanged another glance. ‘Mind telling us why?’

  Gibson stared coldly at Brook. ‘Yes.’

  ‘You heard me say the bit about anything you fail to mention but later rely on in court,’ prompted Noble.

  ‘I’ve not done anything wrong so I won’t be going to court,’ said Gibson. ‘And I think I’d like to leave now.’

  Noble was about to press the point but Brook shook his head minutely. He stopped the tape and ushered Gibson from the interview room, then turned back to Noble. ‘Send someone with him to pick up the gun and get him to fill out a surrender form, then have it checked out. And ask Cooper to contact the gun people to check Gibson’s certificates.’

  ‘The gun people?’ smiled Noble. ‘You mean the National Firearms Licensing System?’

  ‘Like I said. And while he’s at it, tell him to check if Gibson has form.’

  ‘He’s a retired accountant,’ said Noble.

  ‘Whose first instinct was to ask for his solicitor,’ retorted Brook.

  ‘Think there’s something he’s not telling us?’

  ‘Aside from his marital status? Definitely.’ Brook drained his mug of tea. ‘Do you love your parents, John?’

  ‘As opposed to feeling affection for them?’

  ‘You noticed.’


  ‘That and Gibson housing his parents out of a sense of obligation. And he only calls round to see them on rent day. It doesn’t mean he killed them, though.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ agreed Brook. ‘I don’t think he’s our killer, so no need to push him into a corner just yet. We’ll find out soon enough.’

  Seven

  Brook pulled up outside the cottage just past noon. The rain was coming down hard and there’d be no walking today. In the kitchen, Terri was cocooned in the same blanket Brook had used for warmth earlier that morning. She cuddled a mug of hot coffee like it was a newborn baby, cigarette smoke drifting up into her vacant face from a saucer. Brook stubbed out the spent cigarette end and took the makeshift ashtray to the porch, opening a window for good measure.

  ‘Sorry, I forgot,’ she said, her voice husky with booze and tar, running a bloodshot eye over his worn jacket and trousers.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ smiled Brook.

  ‘I thought you were out walking.’

  ‘Not without you, love.’ He flicked on the kettle. ‘How long have you been up?’

  ‘Long enough,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Where’ve you been then?’

  Brook noticed that the empty wine bottles had vanished and two fresh bottles of red had been opened to breathe for the evening. ‘I had to nip out and see John.’

  ‘John Noble? I thought you were between cases.’

  ‘I am,’ said Brook. ‘He wanted some advice, that’s all.’

  ‘You know I took a week off specially to come and see you.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I could’ve gone to Jersey for the week, or—’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, Terri.’

  ‘Not glad enough to leave work alone.’

  ‘Sorry. But he rang early, and in three days you haven’t been up before twelve.’

  ‘I need the rest,’ she protested.

  ‘I wasn’t criticising. I can imagine how hard teaching must be these days.’

  ‘It is,’ she mumbled.

  ‘I just thought I had time to pop out and see him.’

  Terri hesitated. ‘Is it about this Black Oak Farm business?’

  Brook turned from filling the teapot. ‘What do you know about Black Oak Farm?’

  ‘Are you joking, Dad? It was a big deal in all the papers.’ She looked away under Brook’s gaze. ‘And I knew that poor girl, Reardon Thorogood, the one who was attacked and her parents murdered.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘She was at Manchester in my last year.’ She shrugged. ‘And of course it was on your patch, so I followed it pretty closely, thinking you might be on the case …’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Were you involved, Dad? You never mentioned it and I didn’t see your name in the papers.’

  Brook’s gaze burned into her. ‘Where is it?’ Her face reddened, and from beneath the blanket she produced the letter Brook had received that morning. ‘Terri, that’s private correspondence.’ He held out a hand and Terri reluctantly passed the sheets across the table.

  ‘It was just lying around.’

  ‘Lying around in my office,’ corrected Brook.

  ‘I was looking for matches.’ Terri’s expression betrayed injury. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve invaded your space. If you tell me which parts of your home are out of bounds …’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Do you want me to leave? I can—’

  ‘No, Terri, I’m sorry. It’s my fault. You’re right. I shouldn’t have left it out. John rang and I got distracted.’

  There was silence for a moment while Terri processed his apology. ‘So was it your case?’

  ‘No, I was on leave – camping around the Peaks. I invited you, remember?’

  Terri nodded. ‘I remember.’

  ‘If I’d known the Thorogood girl was at university with you, I’d have said something.’

  ‘So you know the background to the case.’

  ‘Only bare details,’ said Brook.

  ‘Then why is this guy writing to you from prison?’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Brook plonked down a mug of a tea on the table. ‘How much did you read?’

  ‘All of it.’

  Brook sat down opposite her. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. The last thing you need – that anybody needs – is the ravings of a mass murderer bouncing around inside your head.’

  ‘Mass murderer,’ echoed Terri. She stared at the paper in his hand. ‘Really? He sounds—’

  ‘Of course he does,’ cut in Brook. ‘That’s what organised serial killers try to sound like. They work hard to appear normal. They want you to think them intelligent and lucid. And in some ways they are. Their crimes are often methodically planned and carefully executed.’

  ‘But they still get caught.’

  ‘Of course. Their strengths are also their weaknesses. They obsess about what they do and it makes them vain and attention-seeking and completely lacking in empathy. And that breeds carelessness. But until we catch them, if you fit their victim profile they’ll smile while they kill you then masturbate over the look on your face as you die.’

  Terri was suitably shocked. ‘Nice. So why is he writing to you?’

  ‘He’s not writing to me. I agreed to play postal chess in exchange for his confession.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Terri. ‘You give too much of yourself, Dad. It damages you.’

  ‘It’s just chess. He sends me his moves, I send mine back.’

  She pointed at the letter. ‘That isn’t just chess.’

  ‘He’s not done that before.’

  ‘Dad—’

  ‘The families needed closure. At the time it seemed a small price to pay.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It’s irksome but I can cope.’ He smiled to reassure.

  ‘That’s not what Mum said – she told me all about the Reaper all those years ago. She said that was how your problems started. Getting too close to these people.’

  ‘That’s all in the past.’ Brook took a sip of tea and folded the letter into his jacket pocket. ‘I’m better now, take things in my stride.’

  ‘That letter was pretty familiar,’ said Terri. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Forget him, Terri.’

  ‘But what if he’s right about the case?’

  ‘He isn’t.’

  ‘But what if he is? What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘About Black Oak Farm? Not a thing. The case is closed.’

  ‘But an innocent man might be languishing in jail.’

  ‘If you’ve read the letter properly, you’ll notice that not once does he say Coulson is innocent. That’s part of the serial killer’s sleight of hand. All it claims is that he didn’t kill Mr and Mrs Thorogood.’

  ‘But he’s still gone down for their murder.’

  ‘You’ve heard of joint enterprise, Terri. Luke Coulson was a co-conspirator. He was there with Jemson and possibly Reardon’s missing brother. So even if he didn’t actually kill anybody, which he did, he’s still guilty of murder.’

  ‘As I remember it, the only person Coulson’s barrister said he’d killed was that guy Jemson, and that was to stop the attack on Reardon.’

  Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘As you remember it?’

  Terri looked sheepish. ‘I had a quick refresher on the internet.’

  ‘In which case, you might also remember that Coulson never denied killing the parents.’

  ‘He didn’t admit it, either.’

  ‘Coulson was there. He’s guilty.’

  ‘But he admitted to killing Jemson. Why would he do that and not admit to murdering the parents?’

  ‘Because Jemson was a co-conspirator. He sexually assaulted Reardon. Having Coulson admit to the murder of Jemson is his brief’s subtle way of casting his client as a protector of one of the victims.’

  ‘But if he didn’t kill the parents …’

  ‘There were three of them, Terri. Jonat
han Jemson, Coulson and the brother …’ He cast around for the name.

  ‘Ray.’

  ‘Right. Coulson has a low IQ. He may not have been the instigator, but he went willingly to Black Oak Farm. There was security film of him brandishing the knife that killed Jemson and the Thorogoods, and a wealth of evidence to show that Ray Thorogood hated his parents and organised the attack. It was about money, pure and simple. As I remember it, Ray and Jemson knew Coulson was fixated on Reardon because all three had been at school together. And Jemson was an ex-boyfriend dumped by Reardon so he had his own grudge against her. Ray and Jemson planned the attack and Coulson was supposed to be the fall guy, only he deviated from the script when he stabbed Jemson. Coulson’s conviction was cast iron.’

  ‘Then why is this guy writing to you about it and why are you letting him get inside your head?’

  ‘He’s not getting inside my head, Terri, though he seems to be getting inside yours. He enjoys pushing people’s buttons because he’s got time on his hands. It’s a game to him. He’s insane, which you should know having read the letter in full.’

  Terri’s eyes dropped. ‘Where he says he can see the ghosts of a killer’s victims.’

  ‘Exactly. And the only proof he offers that Coulson didn’t kill the Thorogoods is that he can’t see their ghosts standing next to him.’

  ‘In which case a fruit loop like that shouldn’t be your pen pal,’ said Terri.

  ‘We play chess,’ retorted Brook. ‘Nothing more.’

  ‘What does he mean by “your own special companion”?’ Brook stared at her, not knowing whether to answer or try to shut the conversation down. ‘He mentions it in the letter.’

  ‘I’ve read it.’

  ‘Then who is he? Someone you knew?’

  ‘Button-pushing, Terri. Remember.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Brook didn’t want to reopen this dark seam into his past but decided it was better to lance the boil before it became a sore point. ‘He’s talking about one of the Reaper’s victims in 1991. Floyd Wrigley. In London.’

  ‘When you had your … thing.’

  ‘My breakdown,’ corrected Brook. ‘I found his body after the Reaper had paid a visit. A couple of years ago, when I went after Edward Mullen, he did some research into my past and concocted a story that I’d actually killed this Floyd. He assumed that having been a medium at one time, people might believe him. When I got too close, he hoped I’d back off if he threatened to expose me.’ Brook shrugged. ‘When I arrested him, he made the accusation.’