by Steven Dunne
Adele’s expression betrayed the preparation of further defiance but she side-stepped it. ‘This is silly,’ she said and made for the door. Watson moved to block her way.
‘Answer me.’
‘Answer you what?’
‘He’s got an expensive car.’
‘Is that a question?’
Watson sneered at his beautiful daughter. ‘Don’t take that high hand or you’ll know my wrath. Who is he?’
‘He’s a friend,’ she answered coyly, after a few seconds.
‘A friend?’ he snorted back. ‘You have a friend who drives an expensive car and you haven’t mentioned him to us.’
Adele sighed, her eyes searching for a way to the stairs. ‘Dad, I’m tired.’
‘With a car like that, he must be a lot older than you, Ade.’
‘Dad . . .’
‘And I know what that means. You think I don’t? Men like him – I know what he wants. I know what he expects . . .’ He tailed off, unable to say the words.
‘And what’s that?’ Adele flashed back, her dark eyes now smouldering into his.
Watson flinched as the blackest thoughts in his mind sought the right words. Eventually, sanitised, they emerged. ‘Older men with money want certain things from beautiful girls. Am I right?’
Adele hesitated. She knew the information he was seeking but also knew it was better to withhold it. ‘He’s not that much older,’ she lied. She saw him take a crumb of comfort but was sickened by her own weakness. Tell him you’re in love. Tell him about the sex. Tell him you’re no longer a virgin. She looked hard at her father, almost enjoying his anguish suddenly. ‘Besides, I’m a woman now. I can make my own choices.’
Watson clenched a fist as his face contorted and Adele took a step back. ‘Tell me who he is,’ he seethed, but still with the presence of mind to keep the volume down.
‘No.’ Adele made to move around him but he grabbed her shoulders and shook her.
‘Tell me,’ he repeated, this time with a half-turn to the door behind him to ensure continued privacy.
Adele looked angrily at her father. ‘You’re hurting me.’
‘Tell me who he is.’
She wriggled from his grasp and backed away but Watson followed her and trapped her against the kitchen sink. ‘Tell me,’ he insisted, grabbing her wrists and looking down at her full figure pushing against the fabric of her low-cut T-shirt.
‘Please, Dad.’
Watson moved his body against her and forced her back against the cold steel of the drainer. ‘Then tell me. Who is he?’
‘He’s not you,’ she hissed, her face contorted into the expression of contempt, well-grooved on teenage faces.
As though physically slapped, Watson’s head flew back and his grip slackened. Adele was able to push him away. ‘What does that mean, Ade? I’m your father. I love you. I only want the best for you.’
‘The best? I’ve seen the way—’ Adele broke off and trained her gaze to the linoleum to avoid further confrontation, then looked to the door to close the conversation. ‘I’m tired,’ she said again.
‘You’re tired?’ Watson snapped back at her, laughing, ready to fling more vitriol. ‘What right have you got to be tired? You’ve never done a day’s work in your life. Sitting around in classrooms, writing poems – that’s not work. I work all God’s hours to provide for you and your mother and not a word of thanks. Money for your A-level books, money for your university courses next year, no doubt. More books, more expense.’ Again he ran his eye over her well-endowed figure adorned by designer T-shirt and jeans, tan leather Chelsea boots on her feet. She blanched under his gaze. ‘Even the clothes you wear belong to me and your mother, and don’t you forget it.’
Adele’s discomfort turned to sudden anger and her eyes started to water. ‘You want them back? Here.’ She began to pull the T-shirt over her head, exposing her bra.
‘Stop that.’ He grabbed her arm to prevent the T-shirt revealing more flesh. ‘Have you no shame before God?’
‘Shame?’ She laughed bitterly in his face. ‘Hell, yes, I’ve got plenty of that, Dad.’
Watson’s face creased in pain and he couldn’t look at her. ‘Don’t be like that, angel. I don’t want the clothes off your back.’
‘Then what do you want? Tell me what I owe you. Give me a bill. You’ll get every penny back.’
Watson’s voice softened and he held his arms wide. ‘Baby, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just, you’re so young, so vulnerable and yet you’re becoming . . . soon you’re not gonna need your old dad any more. What’ll I do then?’
‘You’ll still have Mum.’
‘And don’t I know it.’ He smiled weakly at her. ‘How about a hug for your old man?’
‘I told you – I’m really tired, Dad. I’ve got college tomorrow.’ A sliver of doubt crossed her features for a second. Can I face it now?
‘What’s one little hug between Daddy and daughter? We used to have plenty of hugs.’ Adele looked away. ‘Is your boy-friend the only one you can hug these days?’ Watson sneered.
‘He’s not my boyfriend any more, Dad.’ Adele looked at him through her tears. The tears turned to sobs, and as she stood shaking in the cruel light, Watson gathered her into his arms and pressed her head on to his shoulder.
‘There, there,’ he whispered, rubbing her back, unable to keep the smile from his lips. ‘It’s all right. That bastard’s not fit to lick your boots. No one is. I’m here, baby.’ He stroked her hair. ‘Your dad understands. You stick with your old man. I’ll always be here.’ Watson put his hands on her shoulders and held her away from him to lock his eyes on to hers. ‘We don’t need anyone else, do we?’
‘What time do you call this, young lady?’ said a gravelled voice from the door.
Father and daughter were both startled and Adele stepped away from him. She tried to smile at her mother to mollify her, but it was a weak effort. Her father didn’t turn to face his wife but merely straightened, tight-lipped, and lifted his eyes to the ceiling.
Roz Watson seemed even smaller and more withered standing in the doorway, wiping the sleep from her grey face. She glared at the back of her husband’s head through piercing little eyes, despite directing the enquiry at her daughter.
‘Well?’
‘Sorry, Mum. I was just going up.’ Adele made for the door but her mum caught her wrist.
‘Have you been crying?’ Adele nodded without reply. ‘What have you done, Jim?’ she flashed at her husband. Adele made to speak but was halted by her mother’s raised hand.
Watson finally turned. ‘Nothing.’ He looked at her defiantly and for a moment their eyes met.
‘Mum, it’s nothing like that.’
‘Nothing like what?’ said her mum. Adele looked around the room seeking an answer but was cut off before she could summon it. ‘Bed.’
Adele rushed gratefully to the stairs and Roz Watson darted a final look of disgust at her husband before turning to follow.
‘She’s broken up with her boyfriend,’ said Watson, to her shrivelled back. ‘That’s why she was crying.’
‘I’m going up,’ she said, but making no move. Instead, she paused, turned from the door and walked up to him. She smiled up into his face and grabbed his crotch, kneading his manhood in her thin papyrus hand. ‘How’s my favourite soldier? Ready to leave the barracks?’ She pulled her robe aside and pouted up at him. ‘See anything you like, lover?’
Watson smiled weakly back, his lips not parting.
She laughed and scuttled through the door to the stairwell. ‘Don’t be long,’ she breathed invitingly over her shoulder.
When she left, Watson trudged back to sit in front of the TV. No power in heaven or on earth could make him bring forward the horror of their Sunday dry hump to midweek.
Adele sat on her bed in the dark, her face framed against the reflected glow of her laptop. She loaded Facebook and clicked on her personal details. A tear rolled down her cheek as she amen
ded her relationship status to single. She then clicked to see who of her friends was chatting live at that godless hour.
Becky and Fern were chatting but then they always were. They shared a love of the trivial into which Adele had never been able to tap. They didn’t care about the homeless. They didn’t care about the environment. They weren’t even vegetarians. If she wanted to talk about boys or clothes, she knew where to turn. She’d known them both since primary school but had never felt able to call them close. Even now, at college together, they had little more in common than a couple of classes. And whatever friendship they had, it always took second place to Becky’s countless boyfriends.
Boyfriends – the thought returned her to the end of her relationship. She looked at the time. Half past one. Less than an hour ago, she’d been happy. Less than an hour ago she’d been in love.
‘Correction. I’m still in love,’ she muttered. ‘And it hurts.’ Not two hours ago he’d made love to her on a blanket in a field. He said he didn’t have enough petrol to drive all the way out to the cottage. She should have guessed then – he just wanted a final quickie. Then she’d asked him if he loved her. A pause while he pulled his trousers back up. Of course I do. That was her second clue. Then say it. I love you but I think we’ve taken this as far as it can go, Ade. You’re going off to university. You’re young and beautiful. You’ll meet somebody else.
She roused herself to forget and returned her gaze to Facebook. She scrolled down the list of chatting friends. There were at least a dozen online at that moment. She scanned the names, poised to click. A few seconds later, her hand released the mouse. Facebook friends. With a sinking heart she realised that she barely knew any of them, not really, not enough to pour out her deepest fears and emotions. A bit of goss and the odd social engagement was all she could ever share with them. She sighed then wet a finger and rubbed it over the dry salt round her eyes and on her soft cheeks. She cast her eyes around for a pen. She could tell Di. Di would listen. Di was her best friend.
A floorboard creaked outside her bedroom and Adele glared at the door.
‘Adele.’ Her father’s voice, hushed but urgent.
The girl didn’t answer. She pulled down the lid of her computer to extinguish all light and fixed her gaze on the door handle. It began to turn. Adele held her breath as the handle finished its rotation and the door was pushed to open. It caught on the back of the chair propped under the handle and remained closed.
‘Adele.’ She picked up the rising tide of anger in her father’s voice but knew better than to reply. From deep within the house, Adele heard her mother’s voice, but too indistinct to decipher. The door snapped back on to the latch and the handle was still. Her father paused motionless on the landing then managed a cheery, ‘Night, Ade,’ before she heard him padding back to his own bed.
Adele let out a long breath and raised the lid of her laptop again. She was about to exit Facebook when she spotted a new name had joined the online list. She highlighted the name but hesitated over the mouse. It was a big step. A second later she clicked on the name and typed a smiley face in the dialogue box. It was time.
Four
Thursday, 19 May
DETECTIVE INSPECTOR DAMEN BROOK WOKE to the sound of a barn owl hooting nearby. He still had his recently acquired reading glasses perched on the end of his nose so he pulled them off and laid them next to the reading lamp, still burning beside his bed. He inhaled the soft summer air nuzzling at his curtains and dozed for another minute, listening to the breeze ruffle the trees in the churchyard. Nothing else in the village stirred.
Brook felt the weight on his stomach and lifted the upturned copy of In Search of The Reaper from the duvet. He bent down a page and closed it before tossing it on to the polished floorboards. Local journalist Brian Burton’s book documenting Brook’s failure to catch the notorious serial killer was a few years out of date and so completely off the track that Brook had only persisted with it from a sense of twisted amusement – and the added bonus that it put him to sleep quickly.
He dragged himself out of bed and padded down the rickety stairs of his cottage, wearing only T-shirt and underpants. He flicked at the full kettle and sat at the kitchen table, his eyes wedged shut. As usual the cup and tea bag sat ready for this nightly ritual so Brook could postpone opening his eyes and engaging his brain. The fact that he’d learned to disengage his brain at all was a profound blessing and it was not to be curtailed until absolutely necessary.
For many years Brook had been rudely awoken, drenched in sweat, by visions of old cases, rotting corpses and mumbling half-forgotten names as he stirred. As the years passed, the dreams of ravenous rats devouring decaying flesh had faded as Brook had left his past in London behind. At the age of fifty he’d made some kind of peace with himself, and although his solitary life was no richer, he could at least wake up in dry sheets.
The kettle clicked off and Brook waved goodbye to semi-consciousness. He felt around in the dark for his cigarettes but realised with a sinking heart that, in the unlikely event that his resolve to quit smoking might weaken, he’d left his last pack in his station locker.
On his first sip of tea, the phone rang and Brook squinted at the kitchen clock as he picked it from its cradle. Nearly four o’clock in the morning.
‘Brook.’ He listened without enquiry to Detective Sergeant John Noble, looked sightlessly into the distance to get his bearings then rang off with, ‘I’ll be about an hour.’
Brook pulled his coat tighter and stared longingly at the welcoming disc of dawn creeping over the horizon, unseen birds heralding its arrival as nature began to shake a leg. He closed his eyes, blocking out the noise of activity behind him, and wondered how many millennia this little scene had been enacted. Man, vulnerable and reverent, mouth slackened by awe, gazing to the heavens to greet the sun’s approach, inspired and soothed by its promise of light and comfort.
Too often Brook’s insomnia ensured he was as familiar with this ancient ritual as the primitive cave dwellers of Stonehenge or Avebury, dancing, praying or sacrificing their way into the goodwill of the gods. But for once Brook wasn’t sitting on the bench in his cottage garden, nursing a tea and a smoke. Dawn found him shivering in the dank, misty fields to the east of Derby, awaiting the recovery of a body from the River Derwent.
He hated this part of the job – the wasted hours kicking his heels just to sign off on a suicide or a lone fisherman who’d waded in too far and been surprised by a deceptive current. Or maybe it was a show-off kid, swinging into the murky waters from a Tarzan rope and unable to clamber back up the slippery bank. Then more wasted hours, informing disbelieving relatives and ploughing through the paperwork.
Brook turned grudgingly back to the darkness of the river bank, itself burnished by the flashing orange suns of the emergency vehicles. He glanced resentfully across at DS Noble pulling on a Marlboro Light. Part of Brook’s own dawn ritual involved a cigarette but he’d made the mistake of giving up three weeks ago. Again.
He debated whether to cave in and ask his DS for a smoke. After all, it was his only vice. He wasn’t a womaniser or a heavy drinker like many in the job. He lived a sober, monastic life and did his work without complaint. He deserved to cut himself a little slack.
‘Christ,’ he muttered through a half-laugh and a shake of the head. The justifications for having a cigarette were kicking in early.
A shout from the river pierced the early morning mist and the two CID officers moved off the adjacent cycle path and closer to the water’s edge. Despite protective overshoes, their socks and trousers were already sopping wet in the heavy dew. A figure wearing waders and a bright yellow safety bib emerged from the gloom and splashed across to Brook and Noble through the boggy earth.
He waved to the two ambulancemen sitting in the warmth of their cab and made the hand signal for the gurney. ‘It’s a body all right,’ said the man. ‘Male Caucasian, fifty to sixty years of age. Been in a couple of days, I’d guess. Got c
aught on a fallen tree. They’ve got the harness on. They’ll have him out in a few minutes.’
‘Okay. Thanks . . .’ Brook hesitated, an expression of panic invading his tired features.
‘Keith,’ finished the man with a sharp look at first Noble, then back at Brook. ‘Keith Pullin. We’ve met several times before at refuse collections.’
‘Of course. Sorry, Keith. It’s late.’ Brook had been caught off-guard, forgetting to take Noble aside and ask for the names he never remembered. He smiled weakly at Pullin but the damage was done and he was already stomping back towards the river.
‘Technically it’s early,’ grinned DS Noble, tossing his cigarette butt into a puddle and pulling out a fresh one.
Brook shrugged then caught the luxuriant scent of Noble, igniting another cigarette. Unable to stand it, he set off towards his car. ‘Give me a shout when they get him out, John.’
Noble watched as Keith Pullin, the portly, forty-year-old Special Constable, walked back over to him, sneering all the while towards DI Brook’s shabby BMW.
‘How’s it going, Tom?’
‘Very funny,’ spat Keith Pullin, without a trace of amusement. ‘Seriously though, how can you stand working with that knob?’
Noble shrugged. ‘He’s not a morning person, Keith.’
‘Fuck off – he’s not an afternoon or an evening person either.’
‘Okay. You got me there,’ admitted Noble. ‘Let’s just say he’s a little distracted.’
‘Why do you always defend him?’
Noble looked unswervingly back at Pullin but said nothing. Failing to get his answer, Pullin grunted and trudged sullenly back to the water’s edge, muttering obscenities all the way.
Noble pulled heavily on his cigarette and sighed. He was used to the barbs aimed at his DI and once he might have joined in, but the longer he’d worked with Brook, the more he felt the need to provide a little balance to offset the abuse that flowed his way.
This little rite was a common occurrence in the field. Brook’s inability to bond with fellow officers and the emergency workers they encountered – some Brook had known for several years – was always a source of mild amusement. But to the dozens working in D Division who’d gone unrecognised by Brook down the years, it remained a cause for deep resentment.
