by Steven Dunne
‘I remember. It’s Mrs Thorogood’s blood. Transference from Coulson’s shoes, we assumed.’
‘Assumed?’
‘That was EMSOU’s analysis.’
‘It’s not an analysis,’ said Brook sharply. ‘You’re the detective. Forensics can tell you what the clues are, it’s your job to interpret them …’
Noble walked into the room and halted in surprise, flicking an instinctive glance at the clock. ‘Morning,’ he said curtly, dropping his laptop on a desk.
The monosyllabic grunts he received gave him pause. ‘Any news on Fry?’ Brook shook his head. Caskey examined the floor, appearing not to hear him. After an awkward few seconds, Noble backed out of the door again. ‘Think I’ll just nip downstairs for a Kit Kat. Anyone want anything?’
Brook and Caskey shook their heads without looking up and Noble took a lingering gaze at the two combatants then beat a hasty retreat.
Caskey turned to Brook. ‘Is there something you want to get off your chest, sir?’
Brook hesitated. Handling people with strong egos wasn’t his strong suit. ‘I’m trying to ask the questions DI Ford should’ve asked.’
‘Sir, DI Ford—’
‘Should have retired five years ago,’ interrupted Brook. ‘Two years ago he would have been pushed if you hadn’t joined his squad and started improving his clear-up. The whole division knows you were running the show for him.’
‘DI Ford was a good copper …’
‘Rubbish. If he’d been a doctor, he’d have killed someone by now. Ford hasn’t been a decent copper for years and you know it. I’ve had to clean up several of his past catastrophes, cases he could have cleared himself with a little due diligence. You papered over the cracks for a while, but you can’t be expected to smooth things over for ever.’
‘I was just—’
‘Don’t bore me with declarations of loyalty. They’re no justification for ignoring bad practice.’
‘So you don’t value loyalty, then?’ demanded Caskey, waspish now.
‘Not if it’s based on my rank,’ argued Brook. ‘Detectives in my squad are under no illusions that loyalty is all well and good, but the result is everything, and for that I want them to speak freely if colleagues aren’t doing their job, even if noses are put out of joint.’
‘And if that involves criticising you?’
‘If I’m slipping, I want people to tell me so I can pull my socks up or step aside. I’ve seen too much indifferent policing over the years to want anything less.’
Caskey’s face was like thunder and Brook blew out his cheeks with the effort of it all.
‘Look, Rachel.’ She flinched at her first name as though she’d been slapped. ‘A DI’s job is to be strategic. I ask the questions and direct the inquiry where it needs to go until every facet of the investigation makes sense, not simply nod through a speculative report from EMSOU. I’m in charge and I carry the can. Remember that when you get promoted.’
‘Fat chance of that,’ she replied. ‘People talk about inclusion and my door’s always open, but that’s just management speak, and when push comes to shove, management is all about protecting its own position.’
‘Believe me when I say I know exactly what you mean.’
‘More management double-speak,’ she seethed. ‘Please stop handling me.’
Brook smiled. ‘Fine. But trust me, I’m a lot further away from management than you are.’
‘It’s amazing they managed to accommodate you at all then,’ she retorted, with a sarcastic lift of the eyebrows. Doubt seeded her expression a second later and she looked away guiltily.
Brook stroked his chin. ‘Right again. Political correctness makes it harder than it should be to dump mentally unstable officers.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ she mumbled.
‘Yes it is.’ His expression softened into a smile. ‘But I’m virtually impossible to offend, remember.’
‘Part of the healing process?’ she mocked. Brook’s smile widened. ‘So it’s just poor policing that gets up your nose, then?’
‘Especially my own.’ There was silence for a moment as Caskey worked through the implications of all the insults she’d hurled at a senior officer. ‘You’ll make a good DI, Rachel.’ Brook met her eyes. ‘But you have to avoid the distractions.’
‘Distractions?’
‘The ones afflicting you since Black Oak Farm.’
Her expression became defensive. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve been looking at what you’ve achieved since you arrived in Derby. Before Black Oak Farm your record was flawless and Ford was the beneficiary. But since then it’s like a switch was flicked and you haven’t been the same copper.’ Caskey stared at a point behind Brook’s head. ‘The whole investigation was
a shambles. Okay, you got a partial result, but only because Coulson fell into your lap. Then five weeks ago, you stood by while Ford spouted all that nonsense about a gay sex killer, and even Charlton began to realise all was not well. Something changed in you at Black Oak Farm. What was it?’
Her expression assumed a haunted quality and she made an instinctive grab for the pendant under her shirt. ‘Nothing.’
‘This is about losing your partner, isn’t it?’
She glared at him. ‘That’s none of your business.’
Brook smiled sympathetically. ‘Yes it is. This is a police station, Rachel. Lives are at stake. If we can’t function, criminals escape and people die.’ He gestured at the pendant. ‘Tell me about the murder. What happened to George?’
Her face flushed. ‘I can’t.’
‘You have to,’ said Brook.
‘Is that right?’ she snorted.
‘If not me, then someone who can help.’
‘Help how?’
‘George was killed over two years ago,’ said Brook. ‘Then you arrived at Derby CID and hit the ground running, throwing yourself into your work.’
Caskey was tight-lipped, her answers clipped. ‘A new job. New colleagues to impress.’
‘Of course. But then something happened at Black Oak Farm that took you out of your comfort zone and back to that night. Something reminded you of George’s death, didn’t it?’
She stared at him, finally nodding as though her head didn’t work properly. ‘The victims …’
‘Mr and Mrs Thorogood.’
‘They were …’
Brook located the photograph he’d stared at the night before – the one of Mr Thorogood enfolding his dead wife in his arms. He held it up and Caskey glanced at it briefly then looked away.
‘They were together at the end,’ said Brook. ‘Is that what you wanted?’
The tears began to roll down Caskey’s face. ‘The night I came home and found George’s body, I remember I held …’ she blinked away a tear, ‘I held … his … hand. It was cold. Like marble.’
‘And you wanted to die with her so you could be together.’ Caskey’s head shot up and their eyes met. ‘Did you think we wouldn’t understand, Rachel?’
‘That I’m a lesbian,’ she croaked. ‘I just didn’t want …’
‘We have inclusion policies …’
‘Fuck the inclusion policies,’ she spat back. ‘I’m not ashamed of my sexuality.’
‘Good,’ said Brook, for once content that a swear word was appropriate. ‘Then what are you ashamed of? Weakness?’
More tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I should have died with my soulmate so we could never be parted. I even had the knife over my wrist. Instead …’ She lowered her head in shame.
‘Here, blow your nose.’ Brook handed her a tissue. ‘How I could have used your strength twenty years ago.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’re headed where I’ve been, Rachel, if you don’t get counselling.’
‘Where the monsters live?’ She dried her eyes. ‘I don’t think so. I’m just being pathetic.’
‘No, you’re not. You’ve experienced something that not many of us will have to go throu
gh. And that’s how you were all over the Champagne Killer’s profile the other day. The loss, the rawness of it.’
‘I dream about it every night, wake up drenched in sweat, panting like a schoolgirl.’
‘Been there,’ said Brook quietly. A smile began to distort his mouth. ‘Maybe not the schoolgirl bit.’
Caskey let out an explosion of short-lived mirth that cut the atmosphere, then stared into the past as though it were a book in front of her. ‘Doesn’t it get to you? The awfulness of what you’ve seen.’
‘Of course.’
‘But you got past it.’
‘After a fashion,’ said Brook. ‘You see, I realised our dreams exist to house our demons. We may not like it, but as long as we wake up in the morning, we’re fine. Yet even knowing that, I had to get help.’
‘But you always seem to be in complete control.’
‘Control is what they pay me for,’ replied Brook. ‘My team have to have faith in me. Without it, they become rudderless and can’t function. Like DI Ford’s lot until you turned up.’
Caskey loosed a groan then sat up with a deep breath. ‘Don’t worry, I’m finished crying.’
‘Thank God for that,’ quipped Brook. He fumbled in a pocket and handed her a ten-pound note. ‘You look half-starved, Rachel. There’s a chuck wagon on the corner about to open. Get bacon sandwiches for the three of us, and when you’ve eaten, call the estate agent for Black Oak Farm, then organise a forensics tech from EMSOU to swab for blood samples.’
‘Blood samples? The whole house has been gutted and refurbished, and that was after the clean-up.’
‘I know, but if I’m guessing right, there’s one particular place that might still yield a result.’
Caskey moved to the door, then turned. ‘How did you know I was a lesbian?’
Brook shrugged modestly. ‘I’m a trained detective.’
‘Seriously.’
‘Station gossip.’
Caskey was confused. ‘But there isn’t any.’
‘Exactly.’
Twenty-Four
‘You and Caskey seemed to be going at it,’ said Noble, wiping the bacon fat from his hands.
‘Just discussing anomalies in the case,’ said Brook, putting down the report he was reading. ‘Do you know any more about her story?’
‘Caskey? No. Only that she worked in the Medway and her boyfriend was murdered.’
‘George,’ said Brook, declining to elaborate.
‘Sounds like you know more than I do.’
‘Do you know about the night he died?’
‘Smee reckons Caskey discovered the body after a late shift, face bashed in, and the killer was still there.’
‘Still there?’ exclaimed Brook. ‘What happened?’
‘She took him down. Apparently the guy tried to rape her, she fought him off. He died from his injuries.’
‘Clean kill?’
‘The board cleared it,’ said Noble.
‘Do you know how she took him down?’
‘What do you mean?’
Brook frowned, turning up his palms. ‘Gun? Knife? Flamethrower? Poisoned mushrooms? Atomic device?’
Noble smiled. ‘No idea.’
‘Find out, will you?’
‘Seriously?’ Brook took the trouble to raise an eyebrow. ‘When are you not serious?’ muttered Noble, answering his own question. ‘Where is she?’
‘Arranging for a tech to go to Black Oak Farm,’ said Brook, pouring more tea from his flask.
‘Black Oak Farm!’ said Noble. ‘Would those be the anomalies you were discussing?’ No answer from Brook. ‘And there was I thinking you added Caskey to the team because she was second lead on Frazer and Nolan.’ Still no reply. ‘You wanted her on the team so you could dig around on Black Oak Farm, didn’t you?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Definitely. Haven’t we got enough to do?’
‘I’m here, doing it, John,’ said Brook, nodding at the papers on his desk.
‘Then why do you need a tech to go to the farm?’
‘To look for blood samples and a fingerprint.’
‘It’s over a year. Surely the place was bleached and steam-cleaned months ago.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘This is because of Terri, isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘Mullen, then – Black Oak Farm was closed.’
‘It shouldn’t have been,’ said Brook. ‘Gathering up Coulson and finding Ray Thorogood’s car at the airport gave Ford a nice neat bow to tie things up.’
‘It doesn’t mean there was anything else to find.’ Noble waited for a reply. ‘There are unanswered questions in every inquiry.’
‘Unanswered questions are one thing, John, legitimate lines of inquiry ignored quite another.’
‘Such as.’
‘I checked the airport film. Two people used a van to transport Ray Thorogood’s car to East Midlands Airport three days before the murders. Now why would they do that?’
Noble took a moment to ponder. ‘To make us think Ray had hopped on a plane.’
‘The car already does that, so why didn’t Ray just drive it there himself?’
‘Maybe he couldn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘He was busy?’ ventured Noble, taking little interest.
‘It was the middle of the night, John.’
‘Then perhaps he was already out of the country when his parents were being murdered and he didn’t want us to know he’d done a runner.’
‘Why not?’ replied Brook. ‘Isn’t being in a different country about the best alibi you can get? If things hadn’t gone pear-shaped at the farm, Ray’s parents and his sister would be dead and there’d be no one to point the finger. Being abroad puts him above suspicion for life, John. So if he left before the attack, he should’ve flagged that up.’
‘How sure are you that he didn’t take a plane?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘Fake passport? Disguise?’
‘No one matching Ray Thorogood’s general description left on any flight three days either side of the murders,’ said Brook. ‘He didn’t take a plane and he wasn’t trying to create an alibi for himself. All of which suggests a different agenda.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know.’
Cooper wandered over from his terminal with a wad of papers. ‘Reardon Thorogood’s car crash.’
Brook ignored the offered sheaf and raised a bloodshot eye. ‘Just give me the summary, Dave.’
‘Long story short, there was nothing suspicious about it. The garage tested the brakes and they worked perfectly. No worn discs, no loss of fluid in the chamber, no sabotage.’
‘So Caskey was right,’ muttered Brook.
‘Caskey?’
‘She looked into it six months ago. Unofficially.’
‘Then I’m sorry for wasting your time,’ said Cooper, feigning annoyance.
‘You’ve done fine work today, Dave,’ soothed Brook.
‘It didn’t earn me a bacon sandwich, though, did it?’ mumbled Cooper.
‘You wouldn’t have enjoyed it,’ said Noble, pulling a face. ‘Far too greasy.’
‘Have you checked for more film of the van at the airport, Dave?’ asked Brook. Noble’s expression tightened.
‘Fake plates as you said,’ sighed Cooper, looking for the relevant document. ‘I sifted through the traffic footage and followed the van as far as the exit on to the A453, where it turned east towards the M1.’
‘And after that?’
‘Can we have a minute, Dave?’ said Noble. Cooper grabbed his mug and stepped out of the incident room.
Brook cocked his head at Noble. ‘Problem, John?’
‘I don’t think Dave can help you.’
Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘Mind telling me why?’
‘For one thing the traffic film is over a year old,’ said Noble. ‘We’re not allowed to access ANPR data over twelve months old unless a superintendent
signs off and it’s to do with counter-terrorism.’
‘I can speak to Charlton …’
‘For another, we have an active serial killer at large who’s on a timetable.’
Brook pursed his lips. ‘And you think I should be devoting more of my energies to catching him.’
‘In a word, yes. Look, I know you like your puzzles as much as you hate loose ends, but the Champagne Killer is out there planning his next strike, and when he’s ready, two people are going to die.’
‘You said yourself he’s on a timetable,’ said Brook, with as much confidence as he could muster. ‘We’ve got three weeks until the next murder.’
‘You know as well as I do that an organised serial killer is prone to escalate between the second and fifth strikes.’
‘I do?’
‘Well that’s what you taught me,’ said Noble. ‘Remember the high they get from killing, you said. It’s like a drug, you said, and to replicate that high they’re liable to shorten time gaps between kills, you said. For all we know, he could be preparing to strike tonight.’
Brook was silent for a moment. ‘The second and fifth strikes, you said.’
‘Not me, you.’
‘I sound like a damn fine detective.’
‘So-so.’
‘You’ve a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a usable sample if there’s been an aftermath clean,’ said Don Crump, biting down on a doughnut. He unloaded a heavy box from the back of his van, checked the contents, then turned to Caskey, who stood beside him staring transfixed at the building. ‘Sergeant?’
‘Sorry?’
‘I said there’s a snowball’s chance in hell of finding bloods after cleaning. Those guys wear hazmats and hurl bleach around like it’s going out of style.’
‘We’re not fishing, Don, we’ve only got one place to look.’ She smiled. ‘Now, you’re sure you’ve got enough cotton buds?’
‘Cotton buds?’ he said, registering her mocking expression. ‘We’ve got forensic tech gags in our locker now, have we?’ He set off with his box, waddling towards the house, muttering to himself. ‘Well, wind-up merchants who think they’re funny deserve a lecture on visible wavelength hyperspectral imaging …’
Caskey stared at where the bed had been, picturing the blood that had sprayed in all directions in an arc of roughly six feet from the neck of Jonathan Jemson. Had he not already been on his knees, it could have spurted twice that distance.
