by Steven Dunne
‘What we see and what we seem
Is but a dream, a dream within a dream’
Brook stopped in his tracks and turned back to the giant screen. A beautiful young girl with long blond hair was lying on a bed.
‘We’ve seen this bit,’ called one of the students. Whoever was in charge of the remote control returned the DVD to the main menu.
‘Picnic at Hanging Rock,’ said Brook under his breath before following Rifkind out of the suite.
‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘You can tell me what it’s like driving a Porsche,’ Brook smiled. Rifkind narrowed his eyes at him. ‘I saw it outside. The security desk told me it was yours.’
Still Rifkind eyed him, saying nothing. Finally he shrugged. ‘It gets me from A to B,’ he said, with a smugness that unexpectedly raised Brook’s hackles. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’d like to hear about your relationship with Adele Watson.’
The double-edged nature of the request gave Rifkind pause but he sidestepped the trap without difficulty. ‘Certainly. She’s a very able girl, very bright – my star Literature student, in fact.’ He looked coolly at Brook. ‘She’s going to Cambridge next year if she achieves her expected grades. And thanks to me, she will.’
Brook smiled politely to crank up Rifkind’s discomfort. ‘And she’s a very pretty girl.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, Inspector. I’m a happily married man.’
‘Not according to her diary.’ Brook paused. ‘Unless Adele’s having an affair with another Adam Rifkind who teaches here.’
Rifkind seemed suddenly out of breath. The walls finally crumbled and he looked around to be sure no one was watching his carefully constructed self-assurance being dismantled. He made to speak but stopped himself. At last he managed, ‘She’s eighteen. We . . . didn’t do anything illegal.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ answered Brook. ‘But it may not tally with the Sexual Offences Act, Section 16, subsection (c) on Abuse of a Position of Trust.’ He smiled again to quicken Rifkind’s heart-rate. ‘Where is she?’
Rifkind’s head snapped back. ‘I’ve no idea. You must believe me. I didn’t even know she was missing until now.’
‘You haven’t tried to contact her?’
‘No. We . . . broke it off.’
‘When?’
‘Over a week ago. And I haven’t seen her since this time last Thursday.’
Brook nodded. ‘So she dumped you.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Rifkind indignantly. ‘I took the decision that we should . . .’ He glared at Brook.
‘Was she upset?’ asked Brook.
‘Why are you asking, if you know already?’ Then Rifkind closed his eyes in self-reproach. ‘You haven’t read her diary, have you?’ he added bitterly.
‘I never said I had,’ replied Brook, with an unnerving grin. Normally he disliked applying the thumb-screws, but he’d taken an instant dislike to Rifkind. He reminded Brook of Terri’s stepfather, Tony Harvey-Ellis, the smooth-talking Public Relations manager who had taken Terri’s virginity when she was just fifteen.
‘Listen, Inspector—’
‘Mr Rifkind. I don’t have any evidence of wrongdoing yet. Right now I’m only concerned with Adele’s whereabouts.’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’
‘Any friends or old boyfriends she might turn to for solace?’
‘I don’t think so. Adele is a one-off. She prefers her own company.’ He smiled weakly. ‘We writers usually do.’
‘If she gets in touch . . .’
‘I’ll let you know immediately, I promise,’ the man replied hurriedly.
Brook nodded. Rifkind was scared. That’s where he wanted him. ‘And your Porsche . . .’
‘What about it?’
‘It might be a good idea to leave it at home for a while.’
‘Why?’
‘Jim Watson saw his daughter getting out of a Porsche a couple of nights before she disappeared. If he turns up at college . . .’
Rifkind nodded. ‘Ade was scared of her father.’
‘Was she? Any idea why?’
‘He could be very jealous of anyone seeing her. She never told him we were,’ Rifkind assayed a vague hand gesture, ‘you know.’
‘Quite. Who’s Miranda? A friend of Adele’s?’
‘Miranda? I don’t know. I never heard her mention the name.’
‘She wrote Miranda in a Poe anthology left in her room.’
‘Oh, she’s the main character in a film we started watching last week. There’s a version of a quote from Poe at the start. Typical of Adele to pick up on that.’
‘Picnic at Hanging Rock?’
‘Right. In fact, Adele and a few others were so taken with it they stayed through lunch to watch the rest.’
‘Others?’
‘Fern, Becky, Kyle and Rusty.’ Rifkind’s mouth fell open. ‘Oh my God.’
‘And what happens to Miranda – in the film?’
Rifkind was puzzled for a moment then said, ‘She disappears.’
Brook nodded. ‘Did Adele suggest watching it?’
‘Er, no, it was Rusty, Russell Thomson. He’s the film buff. Otherwise Wilson would’ve had us watching Saw IV.’
‘Wilson Woodrow?’
‘That’s right.’ Rifkind managed a smile at last. ‘Not the sharpest knife in the box. There was a row about it and Wilson stormed out after having a go at Kyle.’
‘Why did he have a go at Kyle?’
‘Why do bullies have a go at anyone?’ Rifkind shrugged. ‘Anyway, it was Rusty’s turn to choose so we watched Picnic.’
‘I see. One final thing – which way to the Principal’s office?’ Rifkind’s face fell. Brook smiled, but this time felt a twinge of guilt. ‘I’ll need to inform him or her about the inquiry.’
Brook dropped Yvette Thomson back at her house only when he was sure she was okay. She had no relatives and few acquaintances who could stay with her, and she spurned any attempt by Brook to get a FLO to stay with her. Instead, Brook took her phone number and promised to call round at the earliest opportunity.
He paused over the next question. ‘Have you something with Russell’s DNA on it? A comb maybe.’
She looked at the floor. ‘In case you find . . .’ Then: ‘No, he doesn’t use a comb.’
‘It’s just procedure,’ said Brook hastily. ‘Nothing to worry about, only I noticed there was only one toothbrush in the bathroom.’
She looked at him curiously for a second then bounded up the stairs. She returned empty-handed. ‘It’s my new one. Rusty’s toothbrush has gone.’
‘Maybe that’s a good sign,’ said Brook quietly.
Her face brightened. ‘Yes.’
‘Never mind. It’s possible Forensics will find something in his room, if you could keep it locked . . .’
Brook pulled the BMW on to Leopold Street a little after midday and walked into the bare outer office of the funeral parlour. He pushed a button on the counter then turned to look at the derelict house across the road. Everything seemed quiet.
A tall, stooped man glided from beyond a curtain with a sympathetic smile already fixed on his face. He looked up and down Brook’s physique in a flash. Slab happy.
‘Welcome to Duxbury and Duxbury. I’m Lionel Duxbury. How may I be of service?’ he asked in a voice of pure treacle.
Brook held his warrant card in front of the man’s hooked nose. He gazed balefully at it.
‘Inspector Brook. Why, yes, we currently offer a ten per cent discount for all members of the emergency services – even the ambulance crews and paramedics who attempt to whittle away at our profit margins.’ He allowed himself a self-congratulatory simper. ‘Your loved one would be in good hands for the final journey.’
‘I’m only interested in the corpses you process.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t cater for such appetites.’
‘Knock it off. You were contacted a few days ago by DS Morton, Derby
CID, about recent employee turnover.’
Duxbury screwed his small eyes towards the ceiling. ‘We were?’
‘You were. We’re looking for somebody who may have worked for a funeral parlour as an undertaker or mortician.’
‘May have?’ enquired Duxbury.
‘Maybe he still does. His name might be Oz or Ozzy.’
Duxbury took a sharp intake of breath and tried to disguise it. Then he said weakly, ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Funny, if that bell in your head had rung much louder, I’d need ear plugs.’
Duxbury looked at Brook but said nothing. Brook just waited – it would come.
‘Someone’s complained?’
As no one had complained, Brook raised an eyebrow. What do you think? ‘What’s he done now?’ asked Duxbury eventually.
‘Just tell me who and where he is.’
‘About a year ago Oz worked for us for two weeks as a hearse driver.’
‘Not to work on the bodies?’
‘No. We had an illness and were shorthanded so I reluctantly took him on.’
‘But you let him go.’
‘Two weeks later. We had to. He wouldn’t give us a National Insurance number, kept asking for cash in hand. Well, payroll were having none of that, obviously.’
‘So you don’t have an address?’
‘No. He kept promising us his details but we never got them.’
‘Full name?’
‘Ozzy Reece.’
‘Description?’
‘Well-built, about forty, brown eyes, cropped hair.’
‘Any tattoos, distinguishing marks?’
‘I never saw anything.’
‘Local accent?’
Duxbury nodded. ‘I think so. But maybe from further north. He could be quite broad sometimes.’
‘You said you didn’t get an address.’
‘No, but I think he lived near Shardlow.’
Brook looked up sharply from his notebook ‘Why Shardlow?’
‘He must have mentioned it once.’
‘Did you take any pictures of him?’ asked Brook.
‘What on earth for?’
‘ID badges, computerised records, that sort of thing.’
‘I told you . . .’
‘You don’t have any records of him. I think I’m getting it.’ Brook pointed at the derelict house across the road. ‘Did he ever take an interest in that house?’
Duxbury looked at Brook as though he were a genius. ‘Yes, he did,’ he replied. ‘Always going over to that window to look in, sometimes even talking to the tramps inside. Once I asked him why he was so interested.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He just laughed and said he was drumming up business.’
‘Was he friendly with any of your other staff?’
‘Not at all. He wasn’t the type to fit in.’
‘Did he have a locker or any place unique to him that might give us a DNA sample or a fingerprint?’
‘No. There’s the hearse, but he hasn’t been with us for over a year, so . . .’
‘And how did he turn up for work?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Clothes? Transport?’
‘We gave him the suit to take away with him. He turned up in that.’
‘Where is it?’
‘He never gave it back.’
‘And how did he get to work?’
Duxbury shrugged. ‘I assumed public transport. If he had a car, I never saw it.’
Brook snapped his notebook shut after tearing out a page to write his number on. ‘Anything else you remember about him, call me. For now, I want a list of current and ex-employees who would’ve known him. Round your current staff up now, we’re going to need to interview them all.’
Brook stared at Duxbury until he started looking for paper and pencil, before ringing Noble. ‘John, we’ve got a lead on Ozzy Reece. Get DS Gadd and a couple of other officers over to Duxbury’s Funeral Parlour on Leopold Street. And see if you can rustle up a composite artist to come with them. Yes, now.’ He rang off and flipped round Duxbury’s completed list. ‘Only four people?’
‘Yes. And they’re all current. There’s not a high turnover in our industry.’ Duxbury coughed. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
Brook nodded. ‘So what did Ozzy do?’
‘Do?’
‘That might make people complain.’
Duxbury looked away. ‘It’s a bit . . . weird,’ he finally said.
‘I can handle it.’
‘Well, I walked into the Slumber Room one morning and Oz was in there.’ Duxbury hesitated.
‘Yes?’
‘He was interfering with a corpse.’ He seemed reluctant to elaborate.
‘Go on,’ urged Brook.
‘Well, he’d undressed the deceased and removed the padding from the abdominal cavity.’
‘Padding? To keep the natural body shape?’
‘In the absence of internal organs, yes. Well, he was trying to force something else into the cavity.’
‘What was it?’ demanded Brook.
Fifteen
TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE BRIEFING, BROOK was arranging photographs of the four missing students on a display board, having managed to obtain a photograph of Russell Thomson from the college. DS Gadd was writing up a report on the interviews at Duxbury & Duxbury. Noble walked into the Incident Room carrying two teas. He gave one to Brook, smiling an apology at Gadd then pulled out a sheaf of papers from his jacket. ‘One search-warrant for the Watson house. And the Chief’s on his way back. You were right – he was out of the door as soon as I mentioned the press conference.’
PC Patel knocked and walked into the Incident Room. She handed Brook an HMV bag and a two-pound coin and headed for the entrance.
Brook extracted two DVDs of Picnic at Hanging Rock, an Edgar Allan Poe anthology and a packet of cigarettes from the bag and stared at her. ‘I gave you fifty pounds.’
‘The receipts are in there, sir,’ she said in mock disbelief. ‘The DVDs were eighteen quid each.’ She shook her head and rolled her eyes as she left.
Noble picked up one of the DVDs. ‘Any joy at the funeral parlour?’
‘Our man worked there briefly a year ago,’ said Brook, pocketing his change.
‘So he’d know about the tramps in the squat.’
‘All over it, apparently.’
‘So what are we waiting for? Let’s go get him.’
‘He was off the books, John. We didn’t get an address though Duxbury thinks he might have lived near Shardlow.’
‘Convenient for both dump sites,’ said Noble.
‘Very. Our suspect’s name is Oz or Ozzy Reece. Very much the lone wolf. Nobody got to know him and he didn’t give out any personal details, formal or informal. We’ve got an artist working up a composite.’
‘Ozzy Reece. That’s a name to get noticed,’ observed Noble. ‘Sounds phony.’
‘It is,’ said Gadd. ‘No hits.’
‘Odd to choose something so unusual.’
Gadd smiled slyly at Brook. ‘It wasn’t his name that got him noticed at the funeral parlour, John. There was a particular fetish which caught the attention.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Noble.
‘He got caught stuffing a loaf of bread into a corpse’s body cavity. That’s why they let him go.’
Noble chuckled briefly but stopped when neither of his colleagues joined in. He looked from one to the other. ‘White or brown?’ he finally said.
Brook shrugged.
‘You’re kidding, right.’
‘Strange, but true, John,’ said Brook. ‘But when someone’s already interfering with corpses, nothing surprises.’
‘Any hits on the databases?’
‘Not one. Nothing on the PNC or HOLMES,’ said Gadd.
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Noble. ‘That’s one unique signature. Do we know if he did that to McTiernan and Kirk?’
‘The lab’s checki
ng McTiernan again,’ said Gadd. ‘Kirk was in the water too long.’ She shrugged. ‘At least it’s a lead. I’m nowhere on the booze. Nobody seems to stock barley wine any more and, of course, everyone stocks whisky. I’ll have to plough through all the bulk sales. Unless . . .’ She looked over at Brook.
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless I look for some empties outside the house.’ And as Brook prepared to voice an objection, ‘I’ll be careful, sir. It’s our only chance of getting a batch number to follow back to point of sale. And even then . . .’
Brook nodded. ‘Be careful.’
‘I will.’ Gadd headed for the door. ‘I’m off to canvass all the local bakeries.’ Brook and Noble turned. ‘Joke,’ she grinned as she left.
Noble yawned.
‘You okay?’ asked Brook.
‘As long as I don’t pull another duty tonight.’ Noble stared at Brook, waiting for a reassurance that didn’t arrive. ‘Right.’
‘The house is our best lead, John. I know it’s tough so we’re switching to solo two-hour shifts tonight. Jane’s on first. You relieve her at midnight.’
Noble blew out his cheeks and nodded. ‘Who’s after me?’
‘Rob Morton’s on two to four,’ said Brook. ‘Then it’s me. I’ll talk to the Chief about extra bodies when he gets back. We can’t work both cases. They’re too labour intensive.’
Noble took a sullen sip of tea and eyed the photo array. ‘That our new student?’
‘Russell Thomson, Rusty to friends. Last seen the day before Kyle’s party.’
‘Bedroom tidy . . .’
‘. . . and phone and leaflet on the bed. No SIM card. The technicians are picking up his laptop.’
‘And the mother only notices her son missing when you call to tell her. Unbelievable.’
‘Well, she works nights, John. When you start a family . . .’
‘Me? No chance. I like my independence too much.’
Brook smiled thinly at him. ‘It’s overrated.’
‘Want me to add his mother to the parental background check?’
Brook nodded thoughtfully. ‘I do. Yvette Thomson – single parent. You’ve got the address. She’s a bit over-familiar and seems nice enough, but I want to know about a mother who can’t produce a single photograph of her son.’ Brook broke into a sudden grin. ‘Speaking of single parents, my daughter has come to stay for a couple of weeks.’
