Death Do Us Part (DI Damen Brook 6)

by Steven Dunne

‘Because Ray is missing and not dead.’

  ‘Right. It’s complicated. The lawyer has to apply for some kind of order so he can distribute funds in Ray’s absence.’

  ‘A Benjamin Order?’

  ‘A Benjamin Order,’ she repeated. ‘I don’t understand the ins and outs.’

  ‘It indemnifies your legal people, allowing them to divide the estate between surviving family, even if one of the heirs is not officially dead.’

  She shrugged and Brook could see she was wishing him gone.

  ‘Changing the subject, apparently you were at Manchester University with my daughter,’ said Brook, watching her face for a reaction. ‘Terri.’

  Reardon narrowed her eyes to concentrate. ‘Terri Brook?’ she said, shaking her head.

  ‘She’d be using Harvey-Ellis as her surname.’

  Reardon’s face lit up in recognition. ‘Yes. I know Terri. American literature, right? How is she?’

  Despite the simplicity of the question, Brook was always unprepared for it and had to think for a second. ‘She’s fine,’ he lied, eschewing the response that first entered his head. As damaged as you.

  ‘Give her my best,’ smiled Reardon. Brook nodded and turned to the stairwell. ‘Inspector!’ He turned. ‘I’ll think about what you said. About living my life. Really I will.’

  He smiled back and set off down the stairs.

  Out in the rapidly cooling afternoon, Brook unlocked the car and glanced up at the first-floor window. Reardon Thorogood peered down at him like a ghost in a haunted house – statuesque, other-worldly. Her pale, expressionless features reminded him of Terri four or five years ago, when the memory of her abuser was at its keenest. Dealing with the traumas she’d suffered had left Terri confused, her emotions in tatters, and the only course for a while had been to withdraw behind the drawbridge of a blank face. That was Reardon’s face now.

  Seventeen

  Three hours later, Brook was ushered into an office that appeared to have been modelled on the set of Dial M for Murder – plush leather seats, a solid oak desk in front of large sash windows. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves along one wall contained multiple volumes on criminology. The spaciousness and decor were at odds with the functional prison building through which Brook had just been escorted by a monosyllabic prison officer.

  Dr Trevor Marshall, a middle-aged man with a monk’s tonsure, sat behind the desk, radiating a vague air of academia. His bald dome was freckled and shiny, his ear-high fringe grey and cut tight to the skull, yet his dark suit was dotted with specks of dandruff across the padded shoulders.

  Marshall stood, his hand extended across the desk, and Brook returned a firm handshake, knowing how much significance some attributed to such things.

  ‘Welcome to Monster Mansion,’ said Marshall with a dry smirk. Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, we’re under no illusions about what we do here at Wakefield Prison, Inspector Brook. It’s a supermax facility for a reason, and we house the baddest of the bad so that people can sleep soundly in their beds.’ He narrowed his eyes as though reminding himself of some ephemera he’d once known well. ‘Brook,’ he muttered cryptically. He gestured to a chair and sat down behind his desk, flicking open a manila folder and checking its contents against a flat monitor blinking at him. ‘This is rather short notice, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ replied Brook, sitting. ‘A recent development.’

  Marshall nodded, waiting in vain for Brook to elaborate. ‘You’re the chap who sends vintage port to one of our guests every Christmas.’

  ‘Edward Mullen,’ confirmed Brook, reaching out with his left hand to place a half-bottle of port on the desk and steeling himself for the derision to come. ‘Thought I’d save myself the postage this year.’

  Marshall’s grin was laced with a hint of scorn. ‘My catering people love the problems that causes, not to mention the precedent.’

  ‘Somehow I don’t see Mullen getting drunk and giving the game away.’

  Marshall conceded with a lift of his eyes. ‘Tell me, how on earth does a child killer get a deal like that?’

  ‘It was the coldest case on our books,’ replied Brook. ‘The victim’s families wanted closure, I made concessions to get it.’

  ‘But jumping through a hoop like that …’

  ‘We didn’t think a few sips of Christmas port from a plastic cup too high a price to put away an active serial killer.’

  Marshall’s smile was icy. ‘It amazes me how everyone’s an expert on what prisons can and can’t handle when managing dangerous criminals.’

  ‘Try managing them without a locked door between you,’ retorted Brook. Marshall’s eyes glazed and Brook reproached himself. Ruffling the feathers of a prison governor was not going to get him in to see Coulson. His face creased into a smile. ‘But you’re right, Doctor. Even in my job, it’s impossible to appreciate the unique problems you must face in a facility like Wakefield – until you actually visit one, that is.’ He looked around theatrically. ‘I’m impressed.’

  Marshall returned his gaze to the monitor, apparently mollified. ‘Thank you. Usually nobody pays us any mind until we screw up, and then the public and politicians are all over us like a rash. What do they expect?’

  ‘Miracles on a shoestring budget,’ nodded Brook sympathetically.

  ‘Exactly!’ said Marshall, warming to his theme. ‘Though there’s only so much we can achieve on the resources they provide.’

  ‘Whatever you do, I’m sure it’s never good enough for the Home Office,’ continued Brook, shaking his head, trying not to overdo the smarm.

  ‘No.’ Marshall clicked at his mouse. ‘Luke Coulson, Luke Coulson.’ His eyes flicked from side to side. ‘By all accounts not one of our scariest monsters – or the brightest spark.’ He read from the screen, ‘“Subject is quiet, well-behaved, respectful to staff but easily led by other inmates. Responds negatively to aggression and becomes tearful when verbally bullied. Clearly vulnerable. Recommend restricted circulation.” Not one of life’s alpha males,’ he concluded, with a grin to imply his own membership. ‘And in here that puts him at risk from those happy to manipulate and intimidate. Of whom we have an abundance.’

  ‘Anyone in particular getting into his head?’

  ‘We have our suspicions,’ said Marshall.

  ‘Mullen?’

  ‘No,’ said Marshall emphatically. ‘Not his style, for one thing. They’re both on the isolation block and we don’t allow Mullen near other inmates. This may be where monsters live, but there are still those who think they’re superior to the child killers.’

  ‘But Coulson’s not a child killer. Has something happened?’

  ‘He got badly cut on the face when he first arrived but wouldn’t say who did it. As he had no privileges earned, I had nothing with which to threaten him, so we isolated him for a while.’

  ‘Doesn’t a reluctance to point the finger earn respect from other inmates?’

  ‘Not as often as you’d hope,’ replied Marshall. ‘Certainly not in Coulson’s case, and certainly not here. Frankly, Coulson’s a bit dim and hasn’t adapted. He has no idea how to behave or carry himself, which makes him a sitting duck, and we moved him out of general pop for his own safety. Inmates here have their own cells anyway, so it wasn’t a huge upheaval.’

  Again Brook glanced at the criminology texts in the bookcase. He spotted The Criminal Mind, by Dr Trevor Marshall, prominently displayed. It was well-thumbed. Nearby, to his surprise, he noticed Brian Burton’s book In Search of the Reaper – a badly written, badly researched hatchet job of Brook’s efforts to catch the serial killer operating in London in the early nineties, and many years later in Derby, after Brook’s move north. ‘Then maybe he did know how to carry himself.’

  Marshall gazed at Brook as though trying to figure him out. ‘That’s an intelligent observation, Inspector.’

  Brook smiled. ‘Should I be writing a book?’

  Marshall couldn’t prevent an appreciative laugh.
He returned his gaze to the screen, then back to Brook. ‘Black Oak Farm. Triple homicide. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that Frank Ford’s case?’

  Brook’s heart sank. ‘You know Frank?’

  ‘We go back a way. I did a ten stretch at Sudbury.’ Marshall’s lips twitched with satisfaction at his pun. ‘How is the old devil?’

  ‘Frank’s fine,’ smiled Brook, his eyes unable to join in.

  ‘Any reason why he’s not here to reinterview?’

  ‘He retired last week.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said Marshall, surprised. ‘He’s in good health?’

  ‘Fit as a fiddle. Just had enough of red tape and unsocial hours.’

  ‘Copy that,’ nodded Marshall, depressing an intercom button. ‘I must ring and wish him well.’ Brook maintained his beaming smile, but it was beginning to hurt. ‘Coulson hasn’t said anything but yes-sir-no-sir since he arrived. What makes you think he’ll talk to you?’

  ‘He likely won’t, but with a new lead, I have to try.’

  The same prison officer who’d escorted Brook to the governor’s office entered with a carrier bag. He handed a note to Marshall, then showed him the contents of the bag.

  ‘Makes a change from cigarettes,’ observed Marshall, nodding at the prison officer.

  Coulson shuffled over to the table, eyes cast down, baggy sweatshirt billowing, low-slung jeans hindering his movements. Brook noticed a recent vivid scar running the length of his left cheek.

  The prison officer stepped ahead of him and pulled out a plastic bucket chair. After a brief glance at Brook, Coulson slumped down opposite him and resumed his examination of the floor.

  Brook introduced himself and asked permission to record their conversation – help me with my notes – but received no reaction. Not even a meeting of eyes.

  ‘I’d like to ask you some questions about Black Oak Farm and the deaths of Mr and Mrs Thorogood.’ Deliberately refusing to apportion responsibility, he paused to see if Coulson reacted. Nothing. ‘And your friend Jonathan Jemson.’ No movement, no eye contact. ‘Jonathan was your friend, wasn’t he?’ Still nothing. Brook wasn’t discouraged. He knew how to play this game, how to keep chipping away until he hit the mother lode of self-justification buried deep inside every criminal. Patience was the key.

  ‘Ray Thorogood was your friend too. The three of you were at school together.’

  Coulson dug his hands further into his jeans pockets and glared sulkily down at the tabletop.

  Brook decided it was time to play a high-value card. ‘Four, if you include Reardon.’ He noticed a brief flicker of eyelash and followed up. ‘I saw her this morning.’

  Coulson’s head lifted momentarily, but a second later he resumed his stare. Too late – Brook had seen the ripple of emotion coursing across his features. The affectation of nonchalance was a facade. Brook had found his pressure point.

  ‘It’s fine, Luke,’ he continued. ‘You don’t need to tell me how much you like Reardon. You’re the man that saved her from JJ and her brother. They were going to kill her. She appreciates that and she’s grateful for what you did.’

  This time a glare from Coulson, his face hot and bothered. Now it was Brook’s turn to let Coulson stew for a few minutes, part of the push and pull of working his man, keeping him off balance.

  ‘She told me as much …’ he checked his watch, ‘four hours ago.’

  Coulson resumed his sulky stare but threw in a couple of malevolent glances.

  ‘I’ve been reading your school reports, Luke. Do you know what I discovered?’ he asked, not expecting an answer. ‘I discovered that other pupils thought it was funny to bully you. They bullied you at primary school, they bullied you at secondary school. I don’t like bullies, Luke. I never have. It happened to me when I was at school. I was an only child, like you, and it used to bother me until I worked out that all they wanted was a reaction. After that, I stopped reacting even when they badmouthed my parents. I never talked to them, never sought their friendship. Nothing. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. They loved to see me get angry and aggressive, but I soon realised that when that happened they laughed and taunted me all the more. That’s what they enjoyed. That’s when they won. So I ignored them until they got bored and moved on to someone else.’

  He sat back, eyed Coulson. ‘We have that in common, Luke. That’s how you handle bullies too, isn’t it? Never react. Treat them like they don’t exist, pretend you can’t hear the hurtful things they’re saying. Make them feel that talking to you is a waste of their time. And, most importantly, don’t ever tell on them, because if you do, they’ll know they’ve hurt you.

  ‘But you didn’t tell, Luke. Even when someone cut you recently. I admire that. At school, people said hurtful things to you. About your mum. About the way you speak.’ Brook moved his hands in a dismissive gesture. ‘No reaction. Even when someone spat in your face, you ignored it. You could’ve hit out. You could’ve told. But you didn’t. You wouldn’t let them win.’

  Luke’s thousand-yard stare became less of a defence mechanism and more of a conduit back to the past. His expression was no longer blank as his mind’s eye replayed real events, and Brook could see the consequences manifested on his face. Events that had damaged him, pushed him deeper inside himself so no one could see the hurt. Brook watched him for several minutes until he was convinced his past had finished cascading through his consciousness and he’d returned to the present.

  ‘Did DI Ford bully you, Luke?’ he said. ‘Did he threaten you when you wouldn’t speak? If he did, I’m sorry. If it helps, you won’t be seeing DI Ford again. Ever. I’ve taken over the case.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ said Coulson softly, his voice hoarse and rasping with a slight inability to fully sound out the consonants. A mixture of surprise and respect invaded the watching prison officer’s face. Brook barely registered it as he considered his response, not wanting to rush Coulson, not wanting to say the wrong thing. ‘Retired.’

  Coulson nodded, though his expression betrayed a search for meaning. ‘He was old.’

  Brook gestured to the prison officer standing, hands behind his back, at the wall. He marched forward revealing the carrier bag and deposited it on the table. Brook extracted a soft drink and placed it in front of Coulson. Then he tipped out the rest of the contents – three packs of fun-size Mars bars. Coulson’s eyes gorged on the sugary treats.

  Brook pushed a bag of chocolate towards him. ‘Go ahead.’ Coulson hesitated, but after a few seconds he opened the can and took a deep swig of the sugary drink, then tore into the pack of chocolate bars. He ripped the wrapper from one Mars bar after another, gobbling down five with barely a pause for breath.

  Panting, he took another swallow from the can before sitting back, satisfied. A loud belch followed and he smiled guiltily before considering Brook. ‘I like Mars bars.’

  ‘I know,’ smiled Brook. ‘You had Dr Pepper and Mars bars on the passenger seat when they arrested you.’

  Coulson stared at him. ‘Clever.’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘And now you think I’m gonna start telling you stuff just ’cos you brung me chocolate.’ He peered at Brook. ‘Stuff about what me and JJ done.’

  Brook shrugged. ‘That’s up to you.’

  ‘Wasting your time. I’m a killer. I’m where I belong.’ He folded his arms – a classic mental and physical barrier. Defensive. Protective. ‘Why’d you even bother?’

  Brook considered the answer to a question he’d thought about on the drive up to Yorkshire, preparing the response he’d need when Chief Superintendent Charlton eventually found out about his visit and posed it himself.

  ‘Ray Thorogood is still at large,’ he said. ‘For Reardon’s sake, we’d like to find him.’

  ‘What’s Ray got to do with it?’

  ‘The attack was Ray’s idea,’ said Brook. ‘His and JJ’s.’

  Coulson glared at Brook. ‘I was at the trial. I ain’t deaf.’

&nbs
p; ‘Then you know they planned to use you, Luke.’

  He shrugged. ‘Seems like it. Don’t change what I done.’

  ‘And you don’t mind if Ray gets away with it?’

  ‘Looks like he already has.’

  ‘Reardon will be disappointed,’ said Brook. ‘She’s scared stiff. She’s hoping we can find Ray so she can start living her life again.’

  Coulson was brooding now, his voice clipped. ‘You won’t find him.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Coulson thought about his next answer, then seemed pleased with his choice. ‘Because he’s too smart for you.’

  ‘Not that smart,’ answered Brook. ‘His plan failed. Reardon was supposed to die, Luke. And if things had gone to plan, so were you. Jemson was preparing to kill you and make it look like Reardon did it in self-defence. He was just waiting until your DNA was all over Reardon.’ He paused for effect. ‘Or better yet, inside her.’

  Coulson stood in a rage, shooting his chair behind him. ‘Don’t be disgusting.’

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered the prison officer, at Coulson’s shoulder with the chair in a trice, his hands lightly pressing him down on to it. Coulson stood for a second longer, his eyes burning malevolently into Brook’s, before he finally sat down, his face glowering.

  ‘You’re dirty, you,’ he said, panting, the worst of his sudden rush of anger subsiding. ‘I wouldn’t never do that with Reardon ’less she wanted me to and we was married. You’re just dirty.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Brook, holding up his hands. ‘Ray and JJ. Their plan. And with you and Reardon dead, Ray inherits his parents’ estate and Jemson gets paid handsomely for his troubles. If that had happened, we’d be none the wiser and the case would’ve been closed. To the police it would look like victims and killer were dead – end of story. But that didn’t happen, Luke. The plan failed because of you.’ No reaction. Brook pressed on. ‘Ray and JJ underestimated your feelings for Reardon. That’s why he wasn’t smart.’

  ‘Well if he’s so dumb, how come you ain’t found him?’ leered Coulson.

  ‘I didn’t say he was dumb,’ said Brook. ‘Just that he underestimated you. You spoiled everything, Luke. You saved Reardon’s life.’