R3 Deity

by Steven Dunne

  Still no reply. Jake opened the front door and sprinted upstairs to his room.

  DS Morton held his warrant card to the crack in the door. The door closed and the chain was removed. The heavily pregnant Mrs Rifkind looked about sixteen to Morton. She opened the door with one hand, using the other to support her unborn baby. She looked nervously beyond Morton.

  ‘Sorry, Officer, I thought you were a reporter.’

  ‘Reporter?’

  ‘Somebody found out that Watson bitch stole Adam’s credit card to set up that website. They’ve been hanging round, trying to get an interview.’

  ‘Is your husband here?’

  ‘It’s half-term. He’s up at the cottage working on his novel and getting away from all this shit.’

  ‘Where is that?’ asked Morton.

  ‘In the Peaks. Alstonefield.’

  Morton ran his eye over her huge belly and wondered what sort of man left his pregnant wife alone to face the press while he worked on a novel. ‘Does he have his computer and mobile phone with him?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this about? He’s told you all he knows.’

  ‘We’ll need the address.’

  Morton closed his notebook and walked back to his car, not noticing the curtain pulled aside briefly in an upstairs window.

  He jumped into the driver’s seat and threw his notebook on top of Fern Stretton’s laptop and mobile phone, both shrouded in plastic.

  Morton smiled, remembering her reaction – first excitement then consternation. She was important now. She was involved in the investigation. Police had ‘raided’ her home.

  What a lot she’d have to tell her friends. She’d be the centre of attention. It was only when she realised she’d have no means of communicating with them that her excitement had turned to despair.

  DC Cooper peered over the shoulder of the technician sat at the computer. Brook, Noble and Morton waited patiently in the darkened Incident Room, staring up at the grey square on the whiteboard. Eventually Cooper gave the thumbs up.

  ‘Okay. We’re going to see a piece of film. It’s digital quality, and as you can see from the display, it was taken on the nineteenth of May at a quarter to midnight.’

  ‘That’s the night before the party,’ said Morton.

  ‘And just a couple of hours after the assault on Kyle Kennedy,’ added Brook.

  The film began with a view from the Council House across the weir to the river wall of the Derwent. A figure emerged from the darkness of the small triangular public garden wedged between Meadow Road and Exeter Place.

  ‘It’s the guy from the first Deity film,’ said Cooper. ‘The one who laid out Kyle.’

  ‘Wilson Woodrow,’ said Brook. ‘Yvette Thomson was right.’

  ‘He looks the worse for wear,’ said Cooper. ‘Was he on something?’

  ‘It’s likely but we don’t know yet,’ replied Noble.

  The burly figure strolled unsteadily to the river wall and placed something on it. Then he returned to the gloom of the gardens and reappeared a few seconds later to repeat the process.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Can we zoom in?’

  Before the technician could obey, Brook said, ‘He’s fetching the stones.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Morton. ‘He jumped.’

  The team of experienced officers continued to watch in horrified fascination. There was no other sound, no movement, not even the gulp of an Adam’s apple. After the second delivery of stones, Wilson clambered on to the river wall and began to fill his pockets with them. A second later he stepped off and disappeared under the water. The detectives watched a little longer but gradually movement and conversation returned.

  ‘Why didn’t the controllers pick up on this before. . . ?’ asked Brook, clicking his fingers as if a name was on the tip of his tongue.

  ‘Rhys,’ answered the technician. ‘Well, there are a hundred and seventy cameras, sir, so it’s not simple to police. At that time of night, most operatives will be watching the city-centre monitors for anti-social behaviour but, if something happens, we do respond to requests for time and place. Like now.’

  Brook nodded, looking at his watch as he yawned. It felt like mid-afternoon but was only ten o’clock. ‘Run it again.’

  Noble’s phone began to croak. He answered and listened intently. ‘Which hospital?’ He rang off. ‘The squad car that went to pick up McKenzie found him unconscious. They think he took an overdose.’

  ‘Alive?’

  Noble nodded. ‘They’ve taken him to the Royal.’

  ‘Another suicide,’ muttered Brook.

  ‘Two from the same peer group,’ said Noble. ‘Bit of a coincidence.’

  Rhys restarted the film and they sat through it again, this time a little less mesmerised.

  ‘Can we enhance Wilson, standing on the wall?’ asked Brook.

  A couple of clicks later and Wilson’s face loomed large and the film resumed.

  ‘He’s talking,’ said Cooper.

  ‘Who to?’ muttered Morton.

  ‘He could be talking to himself, keeping his focus. Drugs can do that,’ said Noble.

  ‘Maybe.’ Brook nodded. ‘Do we have a lipreader on the books?’ He lifted the last of his cold tea to his lips but his hand froze in mid-air. ‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘Go back.’

  The technician rewound and replayed the film.

  ‘There.’ Brook leaped up to show him. ‘Next to that tree.’

  The film was rewound and paused. Brook pointed to a tiny red dot emanating from the darkness of the gardens.

  ‘I see it,’ said Cooper.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Morton.

  ‘Somebody’s filming it,’ said Noble.

  ‘And maybe egging him on,’ added Morton. ‘Of all the coldblooded . . .’

  Before Brook could ask, Rhys the technician enhanced the picture around the red dot. Behind the red dot the officers could make out the silhouette of an arm. A hood was over the face but a few large letters were visible on the chest.

  ‘G-something-A-R.’

  ‘Pity it’s not in colour,’ began Cooper.

  ‘Blue,’ said Brook. ‘It’s blue. That’s Kyle Kennedy’s G-Star hoodie. He was wearing it when he disappeared.’

  Noble entered the Incident Room and raised a thumb. ‘Okay. Two o’clock. Full briefing ahead of the next Deity broadcast. Charlton, Jane and her two DCs will be there too.’

  ‘Any news from Pullin?’

  ‘Yeah, no more bodies at the weir.’

  ‘Are you sure they were thorough, John?’

  Noble raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t ask that question. But if you feel you must . . .’

  Brook hesitated. ‘Maybe I should just take his word.’

  Noble smiled patronisingly. ‘You’re making so much progress.’

  Brook emitted a one-note laugh. ‘What about Exeter Bridge?’

  ‘Rhys is sending it over now.’

  ‘Mine or yours?’

  ‘Yours.’

  Brook’s features betrayed a tic of annoyance – another stranger with his email address. He logged on to his internal account and clicked Play on the attachment while Noble turned on the ceiling-mounted projector with the remote. That morning’s CCTV footage of Exeter Bridge appeared at once.

  ‘How good are these pictures?’ said Brook.

  ‘The cameras were upgraded three years ago,’ said Noble. ‘What’s our time slot?’

  ‘What time did I get to the river?’

  ‘Just after six.’

  ‘Okay. Yvette arrived ten minutes after me so, assuming she phoned a cab immediately someone tipped her off, it would take half an hour at the most between phoning and getting into town at that time of day. Say five-fifteen to be sure.’

  Noble teed up the film to that time and set it running. The bridge, the best vantage-point to watch the recovery of Wilson’s body, was deserted. But as time wore on, more people began
to cross into the city centre, and the crowd watching the emergency services grew.

  ‘Who alerted us to the body?’

  ‘A security guard at the Council House saw the head bobbing and phoned it in.’

  ‘Time?’

  Noble checked his notebook. ‘Dispatch took the call just after three.’ Brook continued to watch the film at normal speed. ‘Whoever tipped off Yvette didn’t need to be on the bridge.’

  Brook nodded. ‘I know. It’s just a hunch. Wilson’s death has been staged and a good director would want to—’

  ‘There!’ Noble interrupted. Brook followed his digit. ‘Jeans, blue hoodie, sunglasses, scarf around the face. Caucasian male?’

  ‘Hard to be sure,’ replied Brook. ‘Walks like a man.’ He peered at the screen. ‘But unless my eyes are failing me, that does say G-STAR on his chest, doesn’t it?’

  Noble froze the film and zoomed in. The brand was clearly visible across a white slash on the chest. ‘That’s Kyle’s hoodie, all right.’

  ‘Or we’re meant to think it is,’ said Brook.

  ‘Messing with our heads.’ Noble nodded.

  ‘What’s that in his hand?’

  The film played on. The figure in the hoodie turned away from the CCTV camera mounted high on the Council building, to lean on the bridge wall. He watched the opposite bank where, off camera, Wilson Woodrow’s body was being recovered. A moment later he stood erect and lifted a camcorder to his right eye.

  ‘You were right. He filmed us. Cheeky sod.’

  ‘Did we see what direction he came in from?’ Brook asked.

  Noble reviewed the images until they could make out the figure strolling past the Brewery Tap at the north end of the bridge, towards the city centre and the CCTV camera perched on the Council House. He kept his head bowed all the way, as though he expected to be filmed.

  The film continued and the two detectives watched closely, hoping to glimpse a face under the hood but the figure never removed it, or the scarf and sunglasses, and the camcorder was rarely lowered from the face. Just after six thirty, the figure stopped filming, pulled out a mobile phone and thumbed at it for a few moments.

  ‘He’s texting,’ said Brook.

  ‘Yvette Thomson said someone phoned her.’

  ‘Text or call, it wasn’t him, John. Look at the time.’

  ‘Six thirty.’ Noble nodded. ‘She was already at the river.’

  ‘Check with the mobile operators. Maybe that phone belonged to one of our students. Start with Kyle’s.’

  A second later, the hooded figure sauntered back up Derwent Street and out of sight.

  ‘Whoever that was, he didn’t tip off Yvette Thomson,’ said Noble.

  ‘Not in our time-frame at least,’ agreed Brook.

  ‘Then who did?’

  Brook narrowed his eyes. ‘Somebody who knows her and has contacts in the Force. There’s no other explanation.’

  ‘A journalist?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past Brian Burton to be greasing the wheels, but if he did get a whisper from an inside contact, he wouldn’t be phoning Yvette Thomson.’

  ‘And he’d have been at the scene before us, being a pain in the backside,’ conceded Noble. ‘Who then?’

  Brook smiled faintly. ‘How about somebody with a stake in our investigation, somebody with money who can be trusted to reward a heads-up, who used to be in the business and keeps in touch with some of the old guard.’

  Noble nodded now. ‘Len Poole.’

  ‘There’s no one else. And if we make the connection, it proves they knew each other before they came to Derby.’

  Twenty

  BROOK STARED AT THE MAP of Derby on the wall. Cooper had added a second pin, this time south of the city in Pear Tree, nowhere near the first location in Allestree. The uploads to the Deity website were being carried out in seemingly random areas using wireless technology. No connection between the homeowners. The fact the addresses were both in residential areas also put paid to their chances of CCTV.

  Noble walked in and handed Brook a sheaf of papers.

  ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘School assessment reports for Russell Thomson. “Ysgols” in Welsh.’

  Brook counted the pages. ‘He certainly went to a lot of ysgols.’

  ‘And that’s not all of them.’

  Brook read quickly. The first school was Ysgol Emrys Williams near Rhyl in North Wales. Russell stayed there for only six weeks when he was twelve.

  Russell is a timid boy with an unfortunate manner. He is easily led and even more easily provoked. He becomes distressed at even the mildest teasing and has become an easy target for those bullies seeking quick gratification. He doesn’t fight back and is quick to cry and has threatened self-harm. Suggest Russell works in smaller groups where he will have to deal with fewer students and can be monitored properly.

  The next school was Ysgol Bryn Towyn near Holywell. It said much the same as the first school. Russell was there for three months when he was thirteen and taken out when the bullying became too much.

  ‘He and Yvette really moved around,’ observed Brook. He skimmed through the rest of the reports.

  ‘Now skip forward to 2008 when he was fifteen.’

  Brook found the assessment from Ruthin Road High School near Chester.

  22 February 2008

  Subject – Russell Thomson

  Following various unpleasant incidents as well as complaints by several upset parents, we have carried out a full investigation into the allegations against Russell Thomson. Although he denies sending the emails or taking the pictures, we are satisfied that he is indeed the culprit and that to discourage this form of cyber-bullying, we recommend a fixed exclusion of four weeks.

  The police have been informed and Russell’s mother has agreed to our course of action.

  Brook looked up at Noble. ‘Russell was the cyber-bully, not the other way round.’

  ‘I know,’ said Noble.

  ‘It’s like he’s two different people.’

  ‘And now we know why Russell felt able to have a Facebook account.’

  Brook knocked softly on the glass panel and entered. Donald Crump turned his unshaven, heavily jowled face towards Brook, a length of sticky tape held in his hands.

  ‘Inspector Brook,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘What brings you down to the vault?’ He turned back to the piece of clothing and continued dabbing it with the sticky side of the tape.

  ‘Don. Just thought I’d come and see how you were getting on,’ replied Brook, aware that his sickly grin wasn’t his best effort. ‘We’ve given you quite a workload, the last week or so.’

  Donald Crump turned to Brook, his mouth opening to say something but he evidently thought better of it. He turned back to his work. ‘Aye, well, things generally pick up this time of year – all that summer drinking. If the twats aren’t driving into trees, they’re glassing each other over a funny look. Keeps us in a job, mind.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Brook, panting with the effort of pleasantry. What reminds me? What am I talking about? ‘I ran into an old friend of yours. Len Poole.’

  Crump turned a sagging, red-rimmed eye to Brook. ‘Yeah, he’s back, I know. And I think you’ll find his full name is Len Fucking Poole and he’s no friend of mine so keep him out of my way if you know what’s good for him.’

  Brook was taken aback. ‘DS Noble mentioned you’d spoken to him.’

  ‘I didn’t have a lot of choice. I’ve not seen the twat for years and he waltzes in here like he’s still in charge. I didn’t even know he was back in Derby until Gordon Grey mentioned it.’

  ‘So you two aren’t friends.’

  Crump turned in open-mouthed horror. ‘I wouldn’t give that Welsh windbag the steam off my shit and you can tell him that from me.’

  Brook grimaced. ‘I don’t think I will.’

  Crump curled his lip at Brook. ‘Did you want something, Inspector, ’cos I’ve got a lot on?’


  ‘No, Don. I think I’ve got what I came for.’ Brook turned to leave, the fake smile still distorting his face.

  ‘I’m so pleased. And Inspector, the next time you run into Poole, use your car. Maybe that’ll stop him sniffing around me for favours he should know I can’t do.’

  Brook turned back at this, his smile gone. ‘Favours?’

  ‘Damen.’ Yvette Thomson looked searchingly at Brook. His face was grim.

  ‘Miss Thomson. This is Detective Sergeant Noble.’

  She smiled at Noble, holding her gaze on him.

  ‘Come in, Sergeant. Would you like coffee?’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ replied Brook. ‘We don’t have time.’ They sat down in the spare, unkempt living room. A large TV that Brook hadn’t noticed before was on but the sound was turned down. Yvette picked up the remote, searching for the right button to turn it off.

  ‘I was waiting for the local news,’ said Yvette, as though her viewing habits needed justification. She alternated her gaze between the floor and Noble.

  ‘How are you feeling after this morning?’ asked Brook.

  Yvette managed to find Brook’s eyes now but lowered hers straight away. ‘Not bad. Better knowing it wasn’t Rusty . . .’

  Her knuckles tightened around her knees. ‘But I keep seeing that poor boy. Was it Wilson?’

  ‘His grandmother identified him half an hour ago,’ said Brook. ‘They’re double-checking his dental records to be certain.’

  ‘His own grandmother didn’t know him?’

  ‘She knew him,’ said Noble. ‘But death changes things so we like to double-check. Even the recently deceased don’t look right to relatives.’

  ‘Poor Wilson – I wonder how long he was in the water.’

  ‘I can tell you exactly, if you’d like.’ Yvette stared at Brook, uncomprehending. ‘CCTV cameras filmed him jumping in,’ he explained. ‘And they have the time and date.’

  She shot a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, how horrible.’

  ‘It was. But you can watch it on tonight’s news if you want to be sure.’

  ‘He was only eighteen,’ said Yvette, not picking up Brook’s tone.

  ‘And he always will be,’ replied Brook. ‘He’s immortalised on film forever but he’s far from beautiful now.’