by Steven Dunne
‘Oh how lovely,’ mocked Brook. ‘Did you have a piece of music in mind?’
‘Ditch the sarcasm, smart-arse,’ said Preston, raising the gun towards Brook’s head. ‘Rachel and me understand about pain.’ He smiled regretfully at her. ‘Sorry, love. Looks like you’ll have to put up with me on the journey instead.’
Caskey nodded. ‘That’s okay, Freddie. We should be going.’
‘As soon as my Janet gets here.’
‘So you’re an expert on pain,’ said Brook, to keep him talking.
‘People tell me things, yes,’ said Preston.
‘AFOs?’
‘This is where they wind down,’ nodded Preston. ‘Where they waste the bad guys they’re not allowed to shoot during the day. I’m like their priest. They tell me the stuff they’ve seen in the field. And at home. The things that hurt them.’
‘About love and loss?’ said Brook, smirking.
‘You wouldn’t understand. Tink – Sergeant Tinkerman – was a broken man when his Alison passed. Nothing I said made any difference.’ Preston smiled bitterly. ‘Well it doesn’t, does it? Words are no substitute for a soulmate’s embrace. But he tried so hard to put it behind him.’
‘He succeeded,’ said Brook. ‘People move on.’
Preston smiled pityingly. ‘Some do. Not Tink. A year ago he told me about the couple in Findern who died in each other’s arms. That really touched me. He told me how much he envied them, and that’s when I got the idea that I could really help people. Devoted couples who would rather die than suffer what I went through.’
‘And he told you about Frazer and Nolan’s party?’
‘He did.’ Preston laughed. ‘Swore me to secrecy. Well, a lot of the guys wouldn’t have understood. But I did. Love conquers all. Gay or straight, it doesn’t matter to me.’
‘So you’re an equal-opportunities serial killer,’ sneered Brook.
Preston’s expression hardened. ‘Have you got a death wish, Inspector?’
‘He has,’ declared Noble. ‘Ignore everything he says. He wants you to shoot him.’
‘Is that right?’ smiled Preston. ‘Then be careful what you wish for, matey.’
‘I’m not your mate, I’m your superior officer.’
‘None of that matters now.’ Preston looked at the door. ‘Where’s your colleague? She should be back by now.’
‘She’s not coming,’ said Brook.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I told her to raise the alarm.’
Preston glared at Brook. ‘How did you do that?’
‘I’m a telepath,’ replied Brook.
‘So what am I thinking right now?’ growled Preston, gripping the Glocks tighter. Brook didn’t answer. ‘You heard me say I’d shoot this lad if there were any tricks?’ He aimed one of the guns at Noble, but Brook stepped across his line of sight.
‘I’m afraid I can’t allow that,’ he said. ‘Out you go, John.’
‘You’ve got a fucking nerve,’ said Preston, becoming agitated. ‘Get back where you were.’
‘No,’ said Brook. ‘Go for the door, John. I’ll cover you.’
‘Why do you always do this?’ demanded Noble.
‘Out!’ commanded Brook. ‘That’s an order.’
‘See?’ said Noble. ‘Death wish.’ Using Brook as a shield, he slipped out through the door before Preston could react.
Preston was becoming agitated. ‘I want Janet,’ he shouted. ‘Bring me my Janet.’
‘Why don’t you blow your sorry brains out and go find her?’ said Brook.
Preston’s brow knitted in consternation. ‘The lad’s right. You want me to kill you.’
‘I want you to put the guns down,’ said Brook. ‘This nonsense has gone far enough.’
‘I don’t like you, Brook.’
‘Back of the queue,’ snapped Brook. He stepped adroitly in front of Caskey. ‘You’re next, Sergeant.’
‘No!’ shouted Caskey, moving from behind him. ‘I’m staying.’
Preston found his grin again. ‘Looks like you’re outvoted, Inspector.’
Brook moved back in front of Caskey, clamping his hands on her. ‘Stay there. You’re leaving.’
‘No,’ said Caskey, struggling. ‘I’m not afraid to die.’
‘Georgia won’t be waiting, Rachel,’ said Brook.
‘I’m willing to take a chance.’
‘Get away from her,’ said Preston.
‘Shut up, Sergeant,’ said Brook. ‘That’s an order.’
‘An order?’ grinned Preston. ‘Rachel and me are way past all that.’
Suddenly Brook stopped struggling with Caskey and turned to face Preston, resigned. ‘You’re right. Why am I bothering? You’re better off dead. Both of you.’
Caskey moved away, and Preston immediately raised a gun to her heart and waggled the other at Brook. ‘You can leave now, Inspector.’
Brook nodded. ‘Just a thought,’ he said. ‘But what will your Janet say when you turn up in the afterlife with an attractive younger woman by your side?’
Preston’s guns were lowered a notch and he stared at Caskey. ‘My Janet? How dare you even speak her name.’
‘You’re right,’ smiled Brook. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine about it.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Freddie.’
Preston’s breathing became laboured. ‘Sorry, love. He’s right. She wouldn’t understand.’ With no more ado, he jammed one gun under his own chin and took aim at Brook’s heart with the other. ‘At least I can do some good here.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Brook, raising his hands. ‘Don’t you want the photograph?’
Preston shook his head. ‘I remember every detail, every line on her face, every hair on her head. And next time I see her, she’ll be good as new, like she was before the cancer.’
‘No glass of bubbles before we go?’ enquired Brook.
‘It’s not chilled,’ quipped Preston, taking a deep breath and finding Brook’s eyes. To his confusion, the Inspector was smiling. ‘On my way, beautiful,’ he said as he squeezed both triggers. The dual explosion reverberated around the underground chamber like an atomic bomb.
While he was still able, Brook watched the top of Preston’s head blow away, his brains spraying out in all directions like a pan of hot jam thrown into the air.
A millisecond later, he was struck in the eye by blood as the second bullet slammed into the diving Caskey, throwing her backwards. She’d taken the full force of it in the chest, and her body, recoiling from the blast, pinned Brook to the ground.
He screamed in anguish but, temporarily deafened, could hear not a note. Acrid smoke and the flash of the discharge blinded him to everything but an ejected shell casing spinning in the air as it fell to earth.
As the shock waves died, the world was silent and Brook could believe he was dead. He liked it. It was peaceful, and a strange calm washed through him. Then, in what seemed to be slow motion, people began running through the door towards him. Brook recognised Noble through his one good eye. Banach, too. The pair hauled Caskey’s prostrate form by the arms and legs out into the range, where the oxygen was untainted.
Brook sat dazed on the floor of the locker room, his left eye stinging and sightless. He put his hand up and felt the unmistakable texture of warm blood. Noble rushed back in and helped him to his feet, and together they stumbled unsteadily through the carpet of blood and brains.
Clasping a handkerchief to his eye, Brook saw firearms instructors and uniformed officers gathering around Caskey as Banach forced oxygen into the stricken detective’s mouth through her own. Someone caught the keys from Noble and unfastened the cuffs on her wrists. Brook could see Banach shouting in between each kiss of life, but he heard not a sound. Then, from nowhere, a man appeared with an oxygen mask, which Banach duly put over Caskey’s face before clutching at her wrist to find a pulse. Noble was examining Brook’s clothing, trying to satisfy himself that he hadn’t been hit.
‘I’
m okay, I’m okay,’ screamed Brook, and he fancied he heard his words as a distant squeak. He got to his knees and forced himself closer to Caskey, her blood still in his eye. Suddenly the sound of panic rushed in and he heard Banach screeching, ‘I’ve got a pulse.’
He made a grab for Caskey’s other hand and she opened a glazed eye and fixed it on him. He squeezed her hand for want of something better to do, and reassured her with a smile. He could see her trying to mouth something at him through the mask.
‘What?’ he said, pushing his ear towards her mouth. With great difficulty she pulled the mask aside. ‘No,’ said Brook, trying to put it back. She clenched a fist to keep it from covering her face. ‘What is it? Shut up,’ shouted Brook. ‘Quiet, she’s trying to speak.’
Against the background hum of the fans, he listened intently. Caskey licked her lips. ‘Protection … for … Reardon.’
‘Reardon’s safe,’ said Brook, smiling at her slackened face. ‘Now put the mask back on.’
Caskey blinked twice at him and licked her lips before her eyes closed and she lost consciousness.
A second later, paramedics appeared, running a stretcher between them. They spent a couple of minutes examining and preparing Caskey before lifting her expertly on to the trolley and bolting up the stairs with their burden. The range emptied as officers hurried after them.
‘Sir?’ beseeched Banach. Brook waved a weary hand and Banach leapt into the ambulance as it pulled away at speed.
Some eight hours later, Brook drove away from the Royal Derby Hospital, the roads slick with winter rains and pulped leaves. He was in a daze, with little idea of the time; all he registered were the white lines of the A52 hurtling towards him like bullets fired in the night. Three words echoed around his head. Protection for Reardon. Protection for Reardon.
When he reached his cottage in Hartington, he flicked on the kettle and slumped at the kitchen table, putting his aching head in his hands. His vibrating mobile brought him round.
‘How is she?’ said Noble.
‘Still in surgery,’ answered Brook.
‘She’s a fighter,’ said Noble.
Brook grimaced. ‘Why do people always say that?’
‘Because most people cling on to life until their fingers bleed.’
‘There must be those who just say, fine, let’s get it over with.’
‘You mean like you.’
‘I mean like Caskey. She dived in front of me, John. Why would she do that? She barely knows me, and what she knows she doesn’t like.’
‘You heard Preston. She’s in pain. She had a death wish too.’
Brook sighed. ‘I don’t have a death wish, John.’
‘I was there, remember. You wanted Preston to shoot you instead.’
‘That’s different. I’m her boss, I have a duty to protect my people.’
Noble shook his head. ‘If you say so. What did Charlton say?’
‘I ducked out when he arrived.’
‘Wise move. So what now?’
‘Now? We work the case, collect the evidence on Preston and tie it up in a neat bundle so not even Charlton can lay the blame on David Fry.’
‘That won’t bring him back,’ said Noble.
‘No.’ Brook poured hot water into a mug.
‘Someone else with a death wish.’
‘Thank you, John,’ grumbled Brook. ‘I’ve got the message.’
‘You see the email from Crumpet?’
‘Cooper was telling me about it before I saw the newspaper on Preston’s desk. It’s a revised blood plan for Black Oak Farm.’
‘Important?’
Brook was thoughtful. ‘I’ll let you know.’
Brook sipped at his tea while he read Crump’s email. After a moment’s thought he retrieved all the Black Oak Farm documents from the office and isolated Reardon’s statement about events in her bedroom on the fateful day. Nothing appeared to explain her mother’s blood on the window.
From his coat he pulled the transcript of Luke Coulson’s interview in Wakefield Prison, recovered from Caskey. He read to where Coulson dealt with the killing of Jonathan Jemson in Reardon’s bedroom. Again nothing. No possible way Patricia Thorogood’s blood could have been on that window, if both statements were to be trusted.
He flicked through the rest of the transcript, pausing on a page disfigured by handwritten notes in Rachel Caskey’s hand. At some point before her arrest, Caskey had triple-underlined a couple of sentences in which Coulson described the sensation that had overwhelmed him beside the bodies of Monty and Patricia Thorogood. When I leaned over, I felt their souls leave their bodies. It’s like they went right through me to go up to Jesus. Beside it she had written Bollocks, and in capital letters in the margin, TIMELINE?
Brook pondered this, but finding no inspiration, pulled a pile of SOCO photographs towards him. It was the black-and-white pile photocopied by Terri for Reardon. He thumbed past shots of Reardon’s parents in the death pose that had so affected Caskey and Tinkerman, as well as Coulson, followed by the two photographs of the blood smears near the bedroom window. As before, the black-and-white photographs were too indistinct so he picked up the colour pictures and skimmed past the images of Patricia and Monty Thorogood and Jonathan Jemson to retrieve the corresponding shots.
The bloodstains were so insignificant. Yet somehow Brook knew they were important, because of the location at the window. He replaced the two separate piles on the table and took a sip of tea before yawning heavily. It was gone midnight and he was completely spent. He drained his tea and walked towards the stairs, but froze like a statue for several seconds before racing back to the table, scrabbling for the scene-of-crime photographs and flicking through both piles, a rising sense of excitement and trepidation overwhelming him as he stared at the picture of the dangling phone in the kitchen.
Thirty-Two
‘You just missed her,’ said Reardon.
Brook climbed the final stair to the spacious landing, the low winter sun streaming through the skylight. Reardon Thorogood held the door open for him and he stepped through into the attractive apartment. When she closed the door behind him, he could see that she looked different. Make-up for a start. And her clothes were more striking than the shapeless things he was used to seeing her in.
‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’
‘She took Sargent out for his morning gallop,’ said Reardon, smiling. ‘He’s a bit of a handful. They should be in the park if you need her right away.’
‘I don’t mind waiting. If that’s okay.’
‘Of course. Tea?’
‘Thank you.’ Brook sat on the sofa while Reardon went through to the kitchen and turned on the kettle. ‘You look well,’ he called after her.
‘Thank you,’ she shouted back before coming to the doorway. ‘After our chat, I thought long and hard about what you said. You were right. Hiding indoors like this isn’t living. So I’m making an effort.’ She smiled sweetly at him. ‘Thanks to you.’
Brook nodded. ‘Have you heard the news?’
Reardon’s expression changed to shock. ‘We saw it on TV last night. I feel terrible. We couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to report Rachel, but Terri insisted. Well, she did have a gun. How is she?’
‘She died this morning.’
‘Oh my God.’ Reardon threw a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m so sorry. Rachel was a nice person. She had her problems, I know.’ She shook her head. ‘Terrible. Just terrible.’
‘She won’t be troubling you again, if that’s what you were worried about?’
Reardon stared. ‘I wasn’t. You look tired. This thing with Rachel must have been distressing.’ She nipped back into the kitchen when the kettle clicked and returned with two mugs of tea. Brook took his mug to the fire escape door. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
He opened the door on to the sharp, cold morning. Sunlight streamed in. Reardon picked up her cigarettes and stepped on to the wrought-iron staircase, lighting up
with a sigh of pleasure.
‘So will you venture out into the great outdoors again?’
‘We’re going out to the Peaks this lunchtime,’ said Reardon. ‘Give Sargent a proper workout and maybe go to a pub. I can’t wait.’
‘Is that when you’ll tell Terri she’s outgrown her usefulness?’
Reardon studied Brook. ‘That’s very hurtful. And untrue.’
‘You’re right,’ said Brook, taking a sip of tea. ‘Technically it’ll be the second time you’ve had to cast her aside. She was useful when you first met at university. You were able to pump her for information about me, about when I took my leave, who were the other DIs in the division.’
Reardon was taken aback. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’
‘Because your farm is on the Derby border with County and, given what you and Jonathan Jemson were planning, you thought it wise to kill your parents when someone like DI Ford was on call.’
Her face went white. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘Immodest as well, I shouldn’t wonder,’ replied Brook. ‘It must have come as a shock to be confronted with a detective as skilful as Rachel Caskey. Fortunately she was emotionally vulnerable, otherwise she might have seen through the way you threw yourself at her to distract her from the investigation.’
‘I think you’ve been working too hard, Inspector,’ said Reardon.
‘I’m certain I have,’ laughed Brook. ‘That’s because you’ve been very clever. I’m impressed. Not least with your acting skills.’
‘Acting skills?’
‘Must have been a tricky balancing act, playing the victim, getting people like Rachel and Terri to devote themselves to supporting you, all the time wanting to get on with your life and spend your inheritance. Then, when you’d rid yourself of DS Caskey and were emerging from your cocoon, Terri told you about the letter I’d received and you had to drag yourself back to the world of drab clothes and unwashed hair to play the traumatised victim a little longer. That must have been galling.’
‘I think you should leave, Inspector.’
‘But you haven’t heard my news.’
