R3 Deity

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Who’s Miranda?’

  ‘She’s a character in the film. She disappears with her friends.’ Brook looked around at all the furrowed brows. ‘Exactly. Sergeant Noble and I will be watching it tonight. Anyone else who hasn’t seen it should do so after us.’

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Charlton. His voice had been rising steadily. ‘I can’t start waffling about some old film to the press.’

  ‘We don’t know what’s going on because we’re not supposed to,’ said Brook softly. ‘They’ve created an enigma for us and we have to find them to understand it.’

  ‘I don’t get it. You mean this Rifkind . . .’

  ‘Rifkind’s a fall guy. He’s not the brains behind this.’

  ‘Then who is?’ demanded Charlton.

  Brook turned to look at the photo array. He gazed into the dark passionate eyes peering out from under a heavy fringe. ‘My money would be on Adele Watson. She’s the writer. She’s the one with the imagination. She’s also the one with access to Rifkind’s wallet and credit cards while they were seeing each other.’

  ‘Wouldn’t Rifkind spot if he’s paid for a website he knows nothing about?’ objected Noble.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Brook. ‘How much was it?’

  ‘Ninety-nine pounds for the year,’ replied Cooper.

  ‘I don’t go through every item on my credit-card bill,’ conceded Morton. ‘As long as the total looks right and no one’s bought a bunch of computers in Rawalpindi.’

  Brook shrugged. ‘We can ask Rifkind at college tomorrow. But the thing to remember is that Adele has disappeared and the two people we’re looking at are her ex-boyfriend and her father – one man who’s jilted her and the other . . .’ Brook held out his hands. ‘Coincidence? I don’t think so. Whatever’s happening has been meticulously planned.’

  ‘Think that was Adele’s voice on the website?’ asked Cooper.

  ‘I do,’ replied Brook.

  ‘And she’s using the website to give us clues,’ said Noble, looking at his watch, ‘which means, according to the count-down, we get our next lead at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘It’s an enigma, remember,’ said Brook. ‘I’m guessing they’re going to string us along for a while, so tomorrow’s broadcast will likely throw up more questions than answers.’

  ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Charlton. ‘I need something for the briefing.’

  ‘Just treat it as a normal “missing persons”,’ advised Brook. ‘We’re on to the legwork. First thing tomorrow we blitz the college and re-interview Rifkind and his Media Studies students – Jake McKenzie especially. He was in the Kennedy film. There’s also a character called Wilson Woodrow who had a go at Kyle Kennedy in college. Maybe he took part in the assault.

  ‘We’ll be going door-to-door on Kennedy’s street, see if we can find out how the four of them left the party. Did they get a lift, a cab, walk, bicycle, helicopter or what? Did they go together or separately? We check CCTV, appeal for witnesses on the Brisbane Estate between eleven p.m. Friday, and six a.m.

  ‘That’s a bit vague.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that, sir. Alice Kennedy didn’t get home on Saturday. I’m talking about six a.m. on Sunday.’

  ‘Of course!’ exclaimed Noble. ‘They could have kept a low profile in her house on Saturday and left anytime before Sunday morning.’

  ‘She got home at six a.m.?’ said Cooper. ‘From a weekend break?’

  ‘No,’ said Brook. ‘But the sun would be up around then and if they’re trying to disappear, I’m guessing they wouldn’t leave in daylight.’

  ‘So that gives them a massive window,’ said Charlton. He was becoming more incredulous by the minute but he cast around for a straw to clutch. ‘You mentioned passports. Are they out of the country?’

  ‘Not officially. For now we assume they’re here, even local. If they’re messing with our heads, they’re going to want to see us chasing around.’

  ‘By God, if this is a hoax, we’ll throw the book at them,’ growled Charlton. ‘This is going to cost a fortune. They’ll wish they were . . .’

  Brook smiled and raised an eyebrow at him.

  Oz tightened the vice and picked up his file again. He adjusted his surgical headlamp and continued to work away at the brass rod held in the vice, shaping and coaxing the hook at the end. When he was satisfied, he wiped away the sharp burr and set about smoothing the blade with the file and a piece of emery cloth. Eventually he stepped away and unfastened the vice, delicately picking out the sharp instrument with two fingers. He walked across to the nearest white-tiled slab on which lay Jock’s creased and slackened corpse.

  His bloodless body was white and waxy from the germicides and ointments massaged into his skin. Their perfumes mingled with the bleaching agents Oz had used to try to cover the yellowed bruises dotted around the corpse. For now, Jock’s myriad cuts and abrasions were barely visible under the make-up.

  ‘You’ve certainly had a time of it, haven’t you, my friend? Well, your own mother won’t recognise you soon. You’ll be back to your best.’

  Oz grinned at the chalky face from under his green face mask then knelt to examine the wound at the side of the abdominal cavity. He pressed a finger against the pale skin, nodding in satisfaction when it resisted his pressure. He giggled with pleasure. The new cavity stuffing held nicely – such a simple solution and so in keeping with the project. And, he had to admit, the sliced loaf was much easier to work with than the uncut. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.

  He set about suturing the wound. When he’d finished his rough stitching, he re-covered the body with a surgical sheet and bent over the head with his newly fashioned tool. ‘Okay, Jock. Here goes.’ Adjusting the surgical light for maximum illumination, he positioned the honed end of the brass instrument up the cadaver’s right nostril and pushed it up as far as it would go, then just as carefully pulled it back down. He examined the skin on the upper lip. No damage.

  Now he reached under his gown to a tool belt and pulled out a ball pein hammer. He inserted the brass rod back up the nostril and, with more force this time, pushed the sharp blade through the resistance of the cartilage. After a brief check that he still wasn’t breaking the skin on the face, he manoeuvred the hook into position and steadied the hammer against the base of the rod and gave it a sharp tap.

  There was a sudden pop and an object flew out of the man’s eye-socket and bounced across the floor with the tat-tat-tat of glass on ceramic. Oz cursed and scuttled after the glass eye which had settled under the exsanguinations tank. He retrieved it, spat on it to clean off any dirt and, after polishing it on his gown, returned to the slab and forced the eye back into the socket, accompanied by a loud sucking noise.

  He took a different grip on the brass rod still protruding from the nose and picked up the hammer again. Settling on a slightly altered angle of trajectory, he gave the base of the rod another sharp tap and this time a squelching noise like a bubble of gas in hot mud induced a satisfied nod. He withdrew the brass rod, being ultra-careful not to slice through the upper lip as he extracted it. He wiped the clear slimy liquid from the hook against his apron and placed a pair of triangular wooden props under one side of the corpse to allow the brain fluid to drain away through the now punctured membrane and out through the nose on to the slab.

  Brook sat motionless on the raised stage of the briefing room while Charlton sat under the lights next to Alice Kennedy – no Len Poole – and fiddled with the prepared statement. The room was half-empty as most national media weren’t interested in four young adults who had disappeared together, especially as there were no signs of foul play.

  The local radio and TV stations were represented though, as well as the local newspapers. Brian Burton, Crime Correspondent of the Derby Telegraph, stood ready with his photographer and at one point snaked a lingering malevolent glance in Brook’s direction.

  Brook kept his eyes to the fron
t. He wasn’t going to be drawn into swapping insults with Burton and risk deflecting attention from the appeal. He was pleased to be sitting next to Charlton, who would politely field all questions from a journalist who had spent an inordinate amount of time trying to wreck Brook’s career. Burton had long-held ties with local coppers and he shared their opinions about Brook’s fallibilities. His book about The Reaper, who had slaughtered two families in the city, had been as much about criticising Brook’s failure to catch him, as profiling the activities of the serial killer.

  After a heartfelt plea from Alice Kennedy, Charlton took over. ‘At this stage in proceedings, it’s important to stress that we are not treating this incident as abduction. It appears that all four young people willingly left their homes and their lives behind. This involved an amount of planning and premeditation which leads us to believe that these four young people are, very probably, safe and well.

  ‘The fact that Adele, Becky, Kyle and Russell all have passports in their possession suggests that they may intend to leave the country. However, all the information we’ve received from Border Controls and the British Transport Police indicates that they have not yet done so.

  ‘Wherever they are, we would urge them, if they are listening to these broadcasts or reading the papers, to contact a family member or the police as soon as possible. They may be unaware that their departure has created such interest and may worry about the consequences of their disappearance. Let me say now that no action will be taken against you. The only action that interests the police here in Derby is that four young people are returned to their families so that we can all get back to normality.

  ‘Whatever problems may have prompted their decision to leave, we want them to bear in mind that there are many, many people here in Derby who cherish them and want to help them. Thank you.’

  The Q&A began. Chief Superintendent Charlton fielded the first question from a Radio Derby journalist but Brook could feel Brian Burton preparing his question and knew it would be aimed in his direction.

  ‘Inspector Brook,’ began Burton a moment later. ‘Given your failure to identify a single suspect in the killings of two Derby families, how confident are you that you can now find four missing individuals?’

  Brook stared ahead without expression while Charlton glared at Burton. ‘I’ll answer that, Brian. First of all, those killings are not recent – the Wallis family were attacked five years ago – and that line of questioning is unproductive and an insult to Mrs Kennedy and the other parents who are worried about their children right now. Furthermore, in my service, we do not apportion blame to individual officers, working within a team, for the failure of an inquiry. Some criminals are more resourceful than others and bringing them to justice is not straightforward. That said, do not think The Reaper can rest easy. Two families were brutally murdered in our city and until The Reaper is brought to justice, those cases remain open.

  ‘DI Brook is an experienced and talented detective and part of a highly capable team and I’m in no doubt that, with the help of our friends in the media, these young people will be found and returned to their families.’ Charlton motioned Brook to stand, which he did. Alice Kennedy followed suit.

  ‘Just a minute . . .’ began Burton.

  ‘No,’ said Charlton firmly. ‘We have work to do, and if there are no relevant questions about the current inquiry, it would be better for all concerned if we got on with our jobs.’

  The camcorder was trained on the television screen. The uniformed Chief Superintendent was spouting his spiel but the lens rested on his face for just a moment before moving to film the Detective Inspector in charge of the search. His face was impassive and controlled. The camcorder zoomed in further when a local reporter asked a question about the hunt for a serial killer some years before. The Inspector’s eyes betrayed barely a flicker of emotion. Still the camcorder stored his image, only being lowered when the press conference drew to a close.

  The three police cars and Brook’s BMW made their way in convoy across the city and arrived on the Brisbane Estate.

  In her habitual dressing-gown, the diminutive Roz Watson opened the front door to PC Crainey and DS Noble, who explained the reason for the visit. Under Brook’s instruction, the warrant was to be a last resort in case a voluntary search was refused.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. Her husband joined her at the door as Brook arrived.

  ‘We can’t go into details but we think Adele may have hidden her laptop somewhere in the house and we’d like your permission to search for it,’ said Brook, locking eyes with Watson.

  ‘Do we have a choice?’ he asked. Noble readied the warrant.

  ‘Not if you want to help us find your daughter,’ replied Brook.

  The Watsons stood aside to let Brook and his team search the premises.

  Five minutes later, Jim Watson sat on the sofa next to his wife. He stared at the floor taking no interest in proceedings. PC Crainey, the Family Liaison Officer, sat on a chair opposite them both, staring at the same spot on the floor and avoiding Mrs Watson’s gaze as her eyes pierced him with her swelling anger. The rest of the team swarmed over the house.

  ‘Are we suspects?’ spat Mrs Watson in PC Crainey’s direction.

  ‘It’s just routine.’ He looked away as he spoke which Roz Watson took as confirmation.

  ‘Bastards,’ she said to her husband’s frozen face. She shook her lank grey locks at him. ‘Are you just going to sit there? They think we did something to our daughter.’ He glanced briefly in her direction but said nothing.

  For the next few minutes the three kept silent during the scuffs and bangs of beds, chairs and other objects being inspected, emptied, moved and put back again. Occasionally they could hear the exchange of information between the searching officers.

  ‘Bastards,’ the woman said again.

  Finally Watson spoke without lifting his eyes. ‘Don’t let them get to you, Roz. That’s what they want.’

  ‘They’re just doing their jobs,’ said Crainey to Roz, as though he wasn’t a member of the same invading force currently rifling through the Watsons’ home.

  Seconds later, the steps groaned under the dual footfall of Brook and Noble and the door to the living room opened.

  ‘Shed key?’ asked Noble.

  ‘On the hook by the back door,’ said Watson.

  Brook studied Watson’s face to gauge stress-levels. He seemed relaxed and Brook began to worry that they were too late, or worse, that he’d misread the situation. A shout rang out from above and the stairs once again complained under the assault of descending officers.

  DS Morton entered the room. ‘Bathroom – under loose floorboards.’ He held out two books in his latex-covered hands, both bound in shiny black. Brook took one gingerly in his gloved hands and opened it. Noble took the other.

  ‘Adele’s notebook,’ said Brook, skimming through before stopping at a particular page. ‘ “The Night Walker”,’ he read.

  ‘He comes at night, The Night Walker

  When the house sleeps and sighs

  I feel him in my bones

  I see him with my eyes.

  ‘He comes at night, The Night Walker

  When the dark is on the rise

  I feel him on my bed

  I feel him by my side.’

  Brook looked over at Watson, who was maintaining his vacant expression.

  His wife also fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘What are her poems doing under the floor, Jim?’

  Watson grunted. ‘Maybe she put them there. For safekeeping.’

  ‘This is Adele’s diary,’ said Noble, flicking through the other tome.

  ‘Save us some time and tell us where the laptop is, Mr Watson,’ said Brook softly.

  ‘The laptop?’ shouted Mrs Watson. ‘What’s going on, Jim?’

  Watson was about to plead ignorance when something shifted in his mood. He turned to his wife then looked over to Brook, seeking understanding. ‘Behind the boiler, wrap
ped in towels. There’s a false backboard.’ Morton hurried back upstairs.

  Brook nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Jim.’

  He looked back at his wife without expression. It was over. He could be himself. ‘My life is over. Time to make it official.’

  ‘What do you mean? What have you done?’

  Watson stared flatly back at her. ‘I could’ve had my pick.’

  Brook and Noble dropped the two books into evidence bags and turned to go.

  ‘You’re not leaving me here,’ pleaded Watson suddenly. ‘With her.’

  ‘Jim?’ She stood now, her head darting around searching for answers.

  Brook studied him. ‘Of course not. We’d like you to come to the station and assist with our enquiries.’

  ‘Gladly – just get me out of here,’ said Watson.

  Brook looked over at Crainey who took out his handcuffs and bade Watson to stand. The man turned to allow Crainey to snap the cuffs into place.

  ‘What are you doing? Jim?’ said his wife, moving towards him. Brook held her away but the barrier merely increased the wiry little woman’s urgency and she reached past Brook to grab at her husband.

  Watson ignored her and pulled against the impassive steel without success. He smiled. ‘Free at last.’

  Mrs Watson seemed about to tip over into hysteria so Brook signalled Noble to move her husband outside quickly.

  ‘PC Crainey will give you a receipt for the exhibits and talk you through what’s going to happen,’ said Brook, moving away.

  ‘You’re taking him? You’re taking my husband?’

  ‘Speak to PC Crainey.’

  ‘But why have you handcuffed him? What will the neighbours say?’

  ‘It’s just a precaution. For his own safety,’ said Crainey as Noble and Brook guided Watson towards the front door.

  PC Crainey stood between Mrs Watson and her departing husband. ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘Jim?’ she shouted.

  Outside, Watson heaved a sigh of relief as he reached the squad car. But as Noble eased Watson’s head safely into the vehicle, a camera flashed and Brook found himself face to face with Brian Burton.