by Steven Dunne
‘I’ll escort you to the barrier.’ He turned to see Dr Marshall appear at his side. ‘By the way, how did you do that?’
‘What?’
‘My officer says Coulson was singing like a bird.’
‘He didn’t really tell me anything I didn’t know,’ said Brook.
‘But he was talking at least. And it couldn’t just be the Mars bars. You realise my staff don’t have the time or the resources to dig so deep into all my inmates’ psyches.’
Brook smiled to placate. ‘I had the advantage, Doctor. I know it.’
‘You did. Nevertheless, I gather you handled Coulson impeccably. I look forward to hearing the interview.’ Brook looked quizzically at him. ‘We record everything too. For clinical reasons, you understand.’
‘And you don’t mention it in case it’s inhibiting.’
‘You have a good grounding in psychology, Inspector. You didn’t judge Coulson and you didn’t patronise him.’
‘It’s the only way to invite the monster inside to come out and talk.’
‘Mullen, on the other hand, needed no second invitation, I noticed,’ said Marshall.
‘We have a special relationship,’ retorted Brook.
‘The port tells me that much,’ replied Marshall. ‘Of course, you know what he’s got to say about you? That many years ago you killed a man named Floyd Wrigley. A man who’d raped and murdered a young woman, according to Mullen.’
Brook’s blood was running cold and he barely heard himself speak. ‘Floyd Wrigley and his family died at the hands of the Reaper. It’s all in the record.’
Marshall smiled. ‘Forgive me. Of course murderers cry foul against their captors all the time.’
‘That’s what comes of being insane.’
‘And yet Mullen was sufficiently lucid to be able to function in society for years while he harvested his victims.’
‘The only times he managed to venture out of the house,’ said Brook. ‘And he had considerable help when it came to evading capture, don’t forget.’
‘Nevertheless, a very intriguing case, this Reaper. A disinterested serial killer is so rare.’
‘Disinterested?’
‘The victims were strangers to him. They died quickly and the Reaper appeared to take little pleasure or profit from their deaths, sexual or otherwise. Very unusual.’
‘You sound like you’ve done some research.’
‘A little background, perhaps.’
‘Brian Burton’s book?’
Marshall allowed himself a little laugh. ‘I’ve skimmed through it, but I prefer hard facts to the kind of sensationalism employed by that seedy hack with his petty grudges – particularly against you, Inspector.’
‘We share an opinion then, Doctor.’
‘I’d like to share more than that, Brook. I’ve been studying what I can find on the Reaper killings and I’m thinking of writing a paper on the case.’
‘Are you now?’
‘And since you were the lead detective in London and the SIO in Derby, I’d love to pick your brains about it.’
Brook hesitated. ‘I can’t discuss an open case.’
‘You don’t really believe it’s still open, do you, Inspector?’
Brook was taken aback. ‘Why wouldn’t I? It’s unsolved.’
‘But my sources in the Met tell me your prime suspect, a Scandinavian industrialist, died some years ago.’
Brook tried to hold the governor’s penetrating stare. ‘You’re well-informed, Doctor.’ Marshall accepted the acknowledgement with a dip of the head. ‘And he was my prime suspect, nobody else’s. But you’re forgetting the Reaper murdered a family in Derby after that particular suspect’s death.’
Marshall smiled. ‘Ah, yes. Careless of me.’
Fry shivered over the small camp stove, cupping his hands above the blue flame that was helping to drive the cold and damp from the lock-up. When his hands were warmer, he busied himself repacking his belongings. His lightweight camouflage tent and sleeping bag were already in the body of the rucksack, so he filled the side pockets, starting with the rolled-up plastic wallet housing his array of hand-made German hunting knives. Finally he loaded cans of Irish stew from a cash-and-carry pallet into every remaining space that he could manage.
Finishing his cup of black tea, he changed the canister on his mini-stove and, after stowing it securely in the top flap, bound the rucksack to the back of his old Norton motorbike, then knelt to examine the small black stain underneath the engine. ‘You’ll have to do, Graham.’
He unlocked the padlock on the double doors and pulled the chain through, peeking out into the cold night air before turning back and glancing across at the jumble of stained decorating sheets piled high on a filthy old armchair. After a pause, he knelt to retrieve a small box from under the sheets and opened it.
For a moment he stared at the Glock, then he picked it up, unloaded the magazine and, seeing that it was full, rammed it home again, making sure the safety was back on.
Slipping the gun into a pocket of his combat jacket, he pushed the front wheel of the Norton against the door, forcing it open, then rolled the bike into the night. He retrieved the chain, threading it through both handles before fixing the padlock.
The street was cold and dark in this post-industrial slice of the city. If the street lights worked at all, they were pale and not fit for purpose, and even the desultory sex workers were elsewhere on such a forbidding winter’s night.
Fry swung his leg over the bike, jumped down hard to kick-start the engine and roared off into the darkness.
After a full day, Brook tried to switch off on the long drive back to Hartington. It helped that the rush-hour traffic had receded and progress was swift along the M1. But as soon as he turned off towards Chesterfield and home, he was forced to abandon his ruminations and focus on the dark and twisting country roads, slick with winter rains. Shortly after pulling out of the village of Rowsley, his mobile began to vibrate, and in case it was Terri, he pulled into a convenient lay-by to answer.
‘Where are you?’ said Noble.
‘In the car.’
‘Terri with you?’
Brook hesitated. ‘Yes, we’re just setting out to eat.’
‘Great. Let me say hi.’
‘She just nipped back into the cottage for cigarettes.’
There was a pause at the other end. ‘Okay, give her my best.’
‘I will. Something urgent?’
‘Not if you’re on your way out.’
‘Any sign of Fry?’
‘None.’
‘I’ll be in early tomorrow to pick things up.’
‘See you then.’
Noble threw his mobile on the passenger seat then stepped out of his car. He walked up the flagged path of Brook’s cottage, a bottle of red wine in hand, and opened the porch door of the darkened building. He placed the bottle of wine on a shelf and propped the card for Terri against it before heading thoughtfully back to his vehicle.
Eighteen
Friday 4 November
At six the next morning, Brook pushed through into the entrance foyer of St Mary’s Wharf to be met by a malicious grin from Sergeant Hendrickson, yet another of ex-DI Ford’s oldest friends in the division, standing behind the polished wood counter.
‘Inspector,’ said Hendrickson with a sneer.
‘Sergeant,’ replied Brook through barely opened mouth, surprised to be the target of the man’s malevolent attentions after a run-in a couple of years before had culminated in Hendrickson being severely reprimanded. He’d sworn at Brook in front of the Chief Superintendent, and whatever Charlton’s other faults, his unbending confidence in the chain of command meant that Hendrickson’s act of insubordination was dealt with rigorously. In fact he’d only avoided dismissal by the skin of his teeth, and from that day on had handled his encounters with Brook using kid gloves. But today something had clearly changed.
When Brook had rounded the corner, Hendrickson picked up
the phone and pressed a button. ‘He’s here.’
Opening the door to his office, Brook laid laptop and flask on the desk. Noble didn’t look up from the report he was reading, so Brook poured himself tea while he worked out what to say.
‘Thank you for the wine, John.’
Noble didn’t look up. ‘No problem.’
‘And the card.’
‘Did she like it?’
Brook waited for Noble to crack. He didn’t. ‘Terri left a couple of days ago, but I expect you worked that out.’
Noble looked up. ‘I knew you were unlikely to go for a meal in two cars. Two days, you say?’
‘I should’ve told you.’
‘You don’t have to tell me anything,’ said Noble. ‘You were on a week’s leave until three days ago, and thanks to Charlton, you got dragged into Ford’s investigation against your will. And I went along with it just so I wouldn’t have to work with Frank, so I take my share of the blame.’
‘John …’
‘In fact you’re still on leave, so go home if you want. You and Terri are obviously having problems, and if you need to sort them out, I’ll cover for you until Monday.’
‘I wish it were that simple, John.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The less I tell you, the less you’ll have to lie when the proverbial hits the fan.’
‘What are you talking about? Where is she?’
‘I don’t know. We haven’t spoken.’ Brook hesitated. ‘She broke the law.’
‘Terri broke the law? How?’
‘I can’t tell you. Suffice to say, it’s my fault.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ snorted Noble. ‘The amount of law-bending you get up to, it’s in the poor girl’s DNA.’
‘It’s not a laughing matter, John.’
‘I’m not joking.’
‘John …’
‘What did she do?’ asked Noble.
‘Don’t worry, no one got hurt.’
‘Then tell me.’
Brook sat down heavily and took a swig of tea. ‘Black Oak Farm.’
Noble’s brow furrowed. ‘Last year’s triple in Findern. Ford’s case,’ he added after Brook’s confirmation. ‘What about it?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. Three days ago, I got a letter from Mullen.’
‘Edward Mullen, serial killer?’ Brook’s dip of the eyes confirmed it. ‘What about him?’
‘You know how we play chess.’
Noble frowned. ‘Still? I’ve told you. Cut him loose. You owe him nothing.’
‘I gave my word, John.’
‘Just tell me,’ said Noble with a sigh.
‘Three days ago, he sent his usual envelope with his moves in. But this time there was a letter about Luke Coulson as well.’
‘Luke Coulson?’
‘He’s serving life for the Black Oak Farm murders.’
‘I know. What of it?’
‘In the letter, Mullen claimed Coulson was innocent.’
Noble stared for a moment. ‘You didn’t actually take it seriously, did you?’
‘Give me some credit.’
‘How does Mullen know anything about Coulson?’
‘They’re in the same block at Wakefield Prison.’
‘Monster Mansion?’ Noble thought it through. ‘Three days ago. That’s the day I dragged you to the Gibson murder.’
‘I left the letter on my desk, and when I got home, Terri had read it and started quizzing me about it.’
‘What did it say?’
‘Just that Luke Coulson was innocent of two of the Black Oak Farm killings.’
‘Based on what?’ said Noble. When Brook didn’t answer, Noble reached his own conclusion and shook his head. ‘Based on Mullen’s lunatic notion that he can see the dead. What did you tell Terri?’
‘That he was insane and to forget it.’
‘But she didn’t.’
‘Apparently not. That night between us was strained. The next morning when I snuck out to the station, she cleared out her things. What I didn’t realise until later was that she’d logged on to the PNC and photocopied everything on file about Black Oak Farm.’
‘How did she manage that?’ Brook looked away and Noble folded his arms in disapproval. ‘Don’t tell me. You write all your passwords down and leave them where they can be found.’
‘Something like that.’
‘Scribbled Post-it notes stuck to the monitor?’
‘Close enough,’ said Brook quietly. ‘This stays between us, John. If there’s any flak, I’ll take it. It’s my footprint on the file after all.’
‘That still doesn’t explain her interest in Black Oak Farm.’
‘No,’ agreed Brook. ‘But there is a possible connection. The girl who was attacked – Reardon Thorogood …’
Noble racked his brain. ‘The daughter?’
‘She was at Manchester University with Terri.’
‘And you think she asked Terri to have a butcher’s and see where we’re at?’
‘I don’t rule it out.’
‘You say you haven’t spoken to Terri.’
‘Her mobile is switched off,’ said Brook.
‘You can’t ring her at home?’
‘That’s the other thing. She moved out of her flat in Manchester. Months ago. Lock, stock and barrel. Without so much as a word.’
Noble was hesitant. ‘Have you spoken to her mother?’
‘I’ve not had a chance.’
‘Why not?’ Brook didn’t answer. ‘Why not?’ persisted Noble. ‘You’ve had your afternoons free at least.’
Brook’s reply was barely audible. ‘Actually, I haven’t. I’ve been reinvestigating the Black Oak Farm case.’
‘Oh God.’ Noble stared at him before casting around for justification. ‘I suppose, if you looked at a few files …’
‘I spoke to Reardon Thorogood yesterday afternoon.’
Noble’s expression was weary. ‘Great. That it?’
‘Afterwards I drove up to Wakefield to interview Coulson.’
Noble was incredulous. ‘You drove up to Monster Mansion? I don’t believe it.’
‘I was coming home last night when you rang.’
‘Learn anything?’ demanded Noble sarcastically.
‘Enough to know there are unanswered questions.’
‘Of course there are,’ scoffed Noble. ‘Coulson didn’t make a statement or offer up a defence, as I remember. That doesn’t mean he isn’t guilty as sin.’ Brook was silent. ‘How’s it going to look, you reinvestigating a closed case on the say-so of a deranged serial killer?’
‘Bad,’ conceded Brook. ‘But there is something wrong, something missing.’
‘You mean the brother.’
‘Amongst other things.’
‘And you think Coulson is innocent.’
‘No, that’s just it,’ retorted Brook. ‘He’s a killer and belongs in prison, no question. But something’s nagging at me.’
‘And when Charlton finds out?’
‘I suspect he already has. Hendrickson just gave me the high hat at the front desk. He hasn’t done that in a while.’
‘You think Hendrickson knows.’
‘I’d say so. He looked very pleased to see me.’
‘You’re paranoid. Charlton’s not going to keep that old fossil in the loop, and anyway, how could the Chief find out so quickly?’
‘The Wakefield governor is an old friend of Frank’s,’ said Brook. ‘He promised to ring to wish him a happy retirement.’
‘That would do it. You think you’re for the high jump?’
‘I’m not worried about Charlton. He’s going to look pretty incompetent suspending the man who took over from the other DI he suspended.’
‘It doesn’t mean he won’t throw the book at you down the line.’
The phone rang. Glancing at his watch, Noble picked up. He listened before raising his eyes.
‘Yes, he’s here, sir,’ he said, staring at B
rook. ‘We’ll be right there.’ He put the phone down. ‘He wants us.’ He stood, pulling on his jacket.
‘There is no us here, John,’ said Brook. ‘He wants me, not you.’
‘Don’t even bother,’ replied Noble, holding the door open.
Outside Chief Superintendent Charlton’s office, Brook put his arm across Noble. ‘John, I can handle this.’
‘Forget it,’ flashed back Noble. ‘It’s my fault you’re not at home with your feet up.’
Brook managed a smile. ‘Is that really how you picture me on leave?’
‘Well …’
The door opened and DC Cooper emerged. He glanced apologetically at Brook and hurried away in the direction of the incident room.
‘Come in,’ said Charlton. His voice was quiet, modulated, revelling in the full majesty of his rank. Brook entered, followed by Noble. ‘You don’t need to be here, Sergeant.’
‘With respect, sir, I think I do.’
Charlton hesitated. ‘Very well. Sit.’
Brook and Noble both paused when they spotted DS Caskey in a chair next to Charlton’s desk. Facing their chairs. She avoided eye contact.
‘I expect you know why I asked you in, Brook,’ said Charlton.
‘New initiative, sir?’ replied Brook. ‘That scrap-metal crackdown was a masterstroke.’
Charlton eyed him spitefully, resisting the temptation to rebuke. ‘It’s come to my attention that you’ve been spending your time reinvestigating one of DI Ford and DS Caskey’s old cases. A case that was closed over a year ago and went to trial six months later.’
‘You mean Black Oak Farm,’ answered Brook. Caskey’s head shot up at the admission and she glanced across at Charlton before resuming the inspection of her knees.
‘Thank you for your candour, at least,’ said Charlton.
Brook flicked a glance at Caskey. ‘What brought my enquiries to your attention, sir?’
‘We received reports of a prowler at the farm,’ explained Charlton. ‘And being a well-to-do area, a man walking his dog jotted down your number plate and phoned it in.’
‘A prowler?’ said Brook. ‘I was visiting a crime scene.’
‘In the middle of the night?’ queried Caskey, cautious but insistent, adroitly steering clear of the full-frontal aggression to which Ford would have resorted.
