R3 Deity

by Steven Dunne

  Noble wasn’t sure how much Brook’s time in London had shaped his behaviour towards colleagues, but since his move to the Peak District, Brook’s mind always seemed to be elsewhere – and forgetting people’s names was the most recurrent symptom. Twenty years had passed since Brook had started hunting The Reaper in London, as one of the rising stars of the Met. But according to all reports, the case had broken him, with years of failure taking their toll and finally forcing him from active duty.

  His breakdown quickly became public knowledge when Brook transferred to Derby Division, eight years ago. Sergeant Harry Hendrickson, a curmudgeonly old desk jockey in uniform branch, had taken a peek at his file and gleefully reported the facts to anyone who’d listen. And when Noble had drawn the short straw and been assigned to work with Brook, everyone had sympathised with him.

  But then The Reaper had struck in Derby, slaughtering two families in their own homes, and Noble had found himself in the eye of the hurricane. At close quarters, Noble was able to observe Brook’s extraordinary skills as a detective, in addition to the toll such a high-profile investigation took on him – especially as The Reaper remained at large.

  ‘Eight years,’ mumbled Noble, thinking back over their shared history. ‘I deserve a medal.’ He smiled at a memory of his early years working with Brook and his fruitless attempts to get to know him. He’d found out pretty quickly that Brook didn’t do small talk, on or off a case. Unlike most people, Brook never mentioned his past and never spoke about his private life. And just to maintain consistency, he’d never enquired about the lives of his new colleagues in return.

  At first, Noble had felt awkward during the silences and would instigate conversation, mentioning something topical from the news or the TV. But he’d quickly learned to expect a blank expression from Brook and soon gave up trying, realising that many of the events that people used as common currency in conversation were completely unknown to Brook. He just wasn’t interested and often didn’t speak at all unless it was required. Even his daily greeting consisted of little more than a nod.

  As a consequence, people thought Brook cold and distant, sometimes downright rude, especially those who rarely had a chance to work with him. It didn’t help that Brook wouldn’t attend official functions, didn’t socialise or go to parties, didn’t even go to pubs as far as Noble was aware – not with colleagues, at least – even after a big case had been cracked.

  More often than not he’d turn up to work, do his job then just wander off after his shift to his little cottage in Hartington where he . . . well, Noble wasn’t sure, even after eight years. He knew Brook liked to read, which probably accounted for his freakish intelligence. He also liked to hike, and Noble had discovered two or three years earlier that most of Brook’s holidays were spent marching around the Peak National Park surrounding his village.

  Other aspects of Brook’s life were still as unknown as the day they’d first met. He didn’t seem to have a sex life, certainly not one that involved relationships, though there were rumours he’d had a fling with a WPC a few years back. That, and the fact that Brook was divorced with a twenty-year-old daughter meant he probably wasn’t gay – a conclusion his home furnishings would seem to support.

  Not that Noble had ever been to Brook’s cottage: he’d never been invited. But just before his move out to the Peak District, Brook had lived in a grubby rented flat off the Uttoxeter Road in central Derby, and Noble had been forced to call round when Brook had been suspended. To his astonishment, Noble had discovered that his DI was living in the sort of hovel normally associated with squatters or junkies. No garden, no oven, no computer, not even a TV.

  And yet, despite an unpromising start to their working relationship, their partnership had begun to flourish and a mutual respect had developed. Unknown to most, Brook generously underplayed his own role in an enquiry, going out of his way to give credit to subordinates for breakthroughs. And, although some colleagues persisted in thinking Brook arrogant, Noble had found the opposite to be true. Brook seemed to have no ego at all. He made absolutely no effort to make himself more popular and didn’t seem to care what people thought of him. Consequently, he was deeply disliked and even hated in some parts of the Division, the more so because he was such a damn good detective.

  Further, Noble had discovered that Brook had a dark but undeniable sense of humour, dry and cutting and, what’s more, would actively encourage Noble to make fun of superior officers.

  Perhaps the only thing that everyone admired about Brook was the hard moral position he took about police work and how it should be conducted. And if anyone deviated from his position, even his superiors, Brook was quick to take them to task. He had got himself into trouble several times for criticising Chief Superintendent Charlton to his face for his failure to see the value of a line of enquiry or for putting budgetary constraints above the correct course of action on a case.

  Noble took a last pull on his cigarette and threw it in the same puddle as the first.

  Brook clambered into the driver’s seat, pushing in the cigarette lighter out of habit. He closed his dry eyes to ease the sting of too little sleep and happily lost consciousness almost immediately.

  He woke to the sound of Noble tapping on his window and stepped out of the car. Only ten minutes had passed yet he felt refreshed. The sun was higher now and Brook was able to walk across the drying ground, placing his damp feet with more confidence. They walked towards the still scowling Pullin and the other two Scientific Support Officers in their protective clothing, as they worked around the corpse, now laid out on a plastic sheet. Brook and Noble pulled on their protective gloves as they approached the pale cadaver, face up and completely naked.

  ‘No clothing,’ observed Brook.

  ‘Unlikely to be an angler then,’ retorted Noble with a wry grin.

  ‘A missing angler would have been reported,’ said Pullin, missing the joke. ‘This bloke’s been in the water a couple of days, I’d say. Any longer an’ he’d have started to bloat from the body gases. Could be an accident, could be suicide.’

  ‘Not usual for a suicide to undress,’ answered Brook.

  ‘Not unknown either,’ snapped back Pullin, ready to take further offence.

  ‘Anyone looking for clothes along the banks?’

  ‘We’ve got a couple of people walking upriver. Nothing yet.’

  ‘Where’s he gone in?’ asked Noble. ‘The bridge?’

  ‘That’s favourite,’ replied Brook.

  ‘Any clothes on the bridge?’

  ‘Not a stitch, Sergeant,’ said Pullin. ‘But if it was a couple of days ago, maybe someone moved them. Still, he must have gone in the water nearby. There’s a weir a quarter mile up there.’ He indicated west with a nod of his head. ‘And the river’s not swollen this spring, so he’s not come downriver from the city centre or he’d have been caught on the barrier.’

  ‘So he’s definitely gone in between here and the weir,’ nodded Noble, looking round at the bridge.

  There was a crackle on Pullin’s radio. He listened for a second then replied, ‘Okay, work your way back. Keep looking.’ He turned to Brook. ‘My people are at the weir. No abandoned fishing gear. No sign of clothing.’

  ‘He’s not going to travel here naked,’ said Brook. ‘And if he’s a suicide, in my experience, he wouldn’t undress without leaving his clothes where they could be found, maybe with a note in the pocket . . .’

  ‘Goodbye cruel world,’ added Noble.

  ‘Okay, so maybe not a suicide,’ conceded Pullin.

  ‘Could be a skinny-dipper,’ offered one of the ambulance crew.

  ‘A swimmer?’ Brook looked down at the bleached corpse then bent to look at the deceased’s hands. They were open and empty. ‘No, he’s not a swimmer or a suicide for that matter. His hands are wrong.’ He looked back to the bridge.

  ‘The hands?’ asked Noble.

  ‘I’ve seen a couple of drownings, John. Even suicides jumping into the water will
try and grab hold of something when they go under. They can’t help it. It’s a reflex.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Pullin said reluctantly. ‘Their hands usually clench tight with the effort to hold on to something. Any-one drowning in a river will have stones or weeds locked in their fists.’

  ‘And this guy’s hands are open.’ Noble nodded.

  ‘Is this even a swimming spot?’ asked Brook, darting a look at Pullin.

  ‘Hell, no. Far too dangerous,’ replied Pullin. ‘The current’s not slow and the bank’s too steep to be sure of getting out. Even kids won’t risk it.’

  ‘Someone might if they were drunk,’ added Noble.

  ‘But they’d still be able to struggle and grab on to things in the water,’ said Brook.

  ‘Maybe he dived off the bridge for a swim and was knocked unconscious,’ ventured Noble. ‘He wouldn’t be struggling then.’

  Brook pointed to the cadaver’s wasted left arm. ‘He doesn’t look like any kind of swimmer to me. Not with that physique.’ The torso was almost skeletal and the muscle tone underdeveloped. ‘And look at these needle-marks. This looks like a drug abuser to me. Probably a heavy drinker too.’

  ‘Right. Face and hands,’ agreed Noble, turning over a pale dead hand. The face was covered with blotches and cracked blood vessels. Several old cuts and abrasions on the hands and knees as well as the face, added to the impression that here was a man who injured himself regularly. They’d both seen the signs before. The extremities of the heavy drinker took the brunt of damage from falls and fights, befitting the lifestyle of those who derived nourishment from a bottle and a needle.

  ‘Some of these injuries could have occurred in the water though,’ said Noble, indicating other scrapes and grazes.

  Brook examined two vertical cuts descending from each nostril of the man’s swollen and bent nose, clearly broken in the past. ‘These wounds below his nose look post mortem, maybe from sharp stones or discarded metal in the river.’ Something caught Brook’s eye. ‘Look at these marks on his neck.’ He leaned in for a better look at two small puncture wounds, one on each side of the windpipe.

  ‘Maybe we’re looking for a vampire.’ Noble grinned.

  Brook glanced up without amusement then turned his attention to the corpse’s various tattoos. They were of poor quality and all in the same washed-out blue. ‘Flower of Scotland,’ Brook read from one.

  ‘Guess he’s from Scotland,’ observed Noble, with a straight face.

  Brook must have been light-headed from lack of sleep because now he smiled though he made sure Noble didn’t see it. ‘Good spot, John,’ he said drily. ‘These tattoos don’t look professional to me.’

  ‘Prison ink, I’d say,’ replied Noble. ‘Might give us a lead with ID.’

  Brook turned over the man’s now bagged right hand after a glance at one of the Support Officers for approval. The knuckles had love tattooed on them, one letter on each knuckle. ‘No doubt he’s got hate on the other hand.’ He stood off his haunches.

  ‘Why not just tattoo criminal on their foreheads and have done with it?’ said Noble, to a few appreciative chuckles.

  Brook looked at Pullin. ‘Couple of days, you say – Keith.’

  Keith Pullin was a man who didn’t give his opinion lightly; he gazed at the corpse, rubbing his chin. ‘I reckon,’ he answered finally. ‘There’s no rigor mortis though – which muddies the waters a bit. It all depends whether he died before he went in or not. Given the hands, I’m thinking maybe he was dumped, already dead, in the water. There’s no foam around the nostrils and mouth either, which you’d expect from a drowning.’

  Brook knelt again to turn the icy palm back up. Even through the protective plastic, the bagged hand told a story. Like the back of his hand, there were many of the scars from battles with the hard walls and pavements of modern city life.

  ‘Looks like we can still get prints,’ observed Noble. ‘He’s likely to be in the system for something.’

  Brook nodded absentmindedly. He ran his latex fingers through the man’s hair and sniffed his own hand then stroked the cold face with the back of his hand and sniffed again.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Noble.

  Brook touched his fingers on the man’s smoothly shaved cheek. Then he rubbed them together and held them to his nose. ‘I don’t know. I think he’s had something applied to his face.’ He offered his hand to Noble. ‘Can you smell that?’

  Noble sniffed then shook his head. ‘Can’t smell a thing – I’m a smoker.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ Brook had one last sniff. ‘Make-up? Maybe someone’s tried to make our friend look a little more lifelike, cover all the blemishes and broken blood vessels, probably post mortem.’ He dropped his hand and looked at the head of the corpse. ‘And see the hair? Look how well groomed it is – as if it was cut recently.’

  ‘And the face is shaved as well. Think he’s been tarted up for the coffin?’

  Brook glanced across at Noble. ‘Let’s hope it’s that.’ Noble returned a grim smile.

  Brook stood up and looked again at the bridge 150 yards away. The road across headed north into Borrowash village. ‘Let’s have a look over the bridge, just to tick it off. Is the Police Surgeon on his way?’

  Pullin nodded. ‘Keep your eyes peeled for those clothes,’ he added.

  Noble looked up expectantly as Brook turned back to Pullin with the briefest tic of annoyance. But instead of thanking him for a lesson in basic detection, Brook managed to dredge up a strained smile.

  ‘Good idea, Keith,’ he said, catching Noble’s approving glance. Clearly he was trying to mend fences. Pullin’s demeanour, however, remained sullen. Either he was still annoyed with Brook or had succumbed to the solemnity of standing over a life ended.

  ‘When we’ve seen the bridge, let’s find a café, John. I’m gagging for a cup of tea.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the PS?’

  ‘We’ll be back.’ Brook made to walk away but then turned back. ‘What’s that?’ He knelt to point at something in the dead man’s side. ‘There.’

  Everyone gathered to follow Brook’s finger indicating an area almost hidden underneath the body.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Pullin, peering closely at it. ‘Looks like a bit of thread or string. Give us a hand,’ he said to a colleague, and they rolled the corpse on to its side. The thread was visible now, the end of half a dozen large overlapping stitches along a five- to six-inch wound. The assembled officers narrowed their eyes to examine them.

  ‘That looks like a serious wound,’ offered Noble. ‘And very recent.’

  ‘Have you ever seen a wound with stitches like that?’ asked Brook. He looked around the assembled team, opening the question to all comers.

  ‘Looks like something you might see on a blanket or a sail,’ said one.

  ‘Or a tent,’ said Pullin. ‘I’ve never seen anything that loose on a wound of that size. Unless it’s a DIY – maybe he did it himself after a fight or something.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Brook moved closer to examine the wound. On an impulse he prodded the corpse on the chest. Next he felt along his stomach. ‘Well, well. That should make the post mortem more interesting, though I’m guessing our friend here may be no stranger to the process.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Noble.

  At that moment, the two men holding the corpse let it roll back into position and as it settled, watery red liquid, viscera and, strangest of all, what looked like a couple of small leaves gushed noisily from the wound, causing all but Brook to jump away in shock.

  ‘Shit!’ shouted Noble, forgetting one of only three rules Brook had laid down to him when they started working together. ‘Don’t swear in my presence, John. It betrays a mind that’s not under control. Speak proper English if you know any. Oh, and one more thing, don’t ever call me Guv.’

  Brook laid a hand on Noble’s shoulder. ‘Easy, John. We’re not in the Met.’

  ‘Sorry,’ replied Noble. ‘But you saw that?’ />
  Brook looked at his DS. ‘I saw. And this is no drowning.’ He stood gazing at the bridge and began to walk down the path towards it.

  ‘Why so sure?’ asked Noble, moving to follow.

  Brook turned and smiled back at his DS. ‘Because he hasn’t got any lungs.’

  Brook stood on the bridge and looked over each wall in turn, down to the river bank on either side.

  ‘What are we looking for?’ Noble finally asked.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘But you’re sure the body was dumped from here.’

  ‘A man with no clothes and no lungs has to be dead before he hits the water. Someone’s transported him to the river and this bridge has to be the easiest spot to dump the body.’

  They looked down at the undergrowth on either side of the river for any sign of disturbance but could see nothing. Nor could they spot any clothing or bundles that might contain clothes. The two uniformed officers returning from the weir continued the search at ground level but Brook and Noble were unable to direct them to anything of interest.

  Across the fields their colleagues were working around the pale carcass on the plastic sheet, scraping, photographing and bagging head and feet. Another officer was erecting a screen to shield their activities from the occasional early morning jogger and dog walker.

  As time wore on, traffic began to increase and cars passed them in rotation on the single track road, depending on the traffic lights either side of the two bridges. On one rotation, Dr Higginbottom, the duty Police Surgeon, drove towards them and slowed down when he saw them. Noble indicated the dirt track which would take the doctor to the scene and he continued on with a wave.

  ‘Busy road,’ said Noble.

  ‘During the day,’ replied Brook.

  ‘But even if it was the middle of the night, assuming our John Doe was dumped from this bridge, someone took a massive gamble on not being seen by a passing car – especially if they were actually parked up on the bridge. I mean, it’s not wide.’