by Steven Dunne
‘Thanks, Doctor.’ Hudson turned towards the screen as the doctor strode out of the ward. ‘Well, if he saw anything of what went on last night he could be in shock for a while.’
Brook smiled. ‘Don’t underestimate the power of self-absorption, Joshua.’ Neither Hudson nor Grant understood his meaning.
A middle-aged woman with short grey hair and sober apparel emerged from behind the screen. ‘Hello, officers. I’m Maureen Welch. The social worker,’ she added in lowered tones, looking around as though hoping no one else would hear.
‘How is he?’ asked Grant.
‘See for yourself.’ She stood aside and ushered them to Jason’s bedside.
Jason Wallis had grown since Brook had last seen him, doped up and helpless in his aunt’s house in nearby Borrowash. That wild and stormy night Brook had donned The Reaper’s mantle and confronted young Wallis, offered him a way out from under the knife. But Jason Wallis had called his bluff.
Maybe he should have arrested Jason for Annie Sewell’s murder when he had the chance. But it wasn’t his case and, after much soul-searching, he’d decided that fear of The Reaper’s return would be a more effective deterrent to Jason and his gang of teenage killers, robbing them of the peace of mind they might achieve in a locked cell. For all Jason knew The Reaper could return at any time to finish his work in Derby. Funny thing: The Reaper had returned but Jason was still breathing.
Brook looked him full in the face. His hair was a little longer than before and his face less spotty and perhaps a touch thinner. What was more striking, however, was Jason’s demeanour. Where once he was snarling and scornful, now he seemed quiet, reflective. Instead of looking up to greet his visitors with suspicion and loathing, Jason remained motionless, merely glancing up. His eyes flicked momentarily towards Hudson and Grant but when he spotted Brook, they lingered for a few seconds longer.
Brook prepared himself for accusations, for finger-pointing. But if Jason remembered that night, he showed no sign. He was sitting up in bed, his eyes open, but seemed hardly aware of his surroundings. His eyes looked glazed as he resumed his thousand-yard stare, not even flinching when Grant waved her hand in front of his face. Brook wondered if he’d been given some kind of sedative.
‘The doctor didn’t tell us he’d been doped up,’ grumbled Hudson.
‘Oh, he hasn’t,’ offered Maureen Welch. ‘They’ve given him nothing. That’s how he is.’ She moved to sit in a visitor’s chair at the side of the bed.
‘Jason. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hudson. This is Detective Sergeant Grant and this is…’
‘I’m ready.’ Jason spoke softly but his voice seemed to echo around the room like a clap of thunder. For a moment the three officers looked at each other blankly.
‘That’s what he keeps saying,’ chipped in Maureen Welch. ‘“I’m ready.” That’s what he says.’
Then Jason did the last thing Brook had expected. His face was suddenly transformed by a friendly grin. ‘Hello, Inspector Brook.’
Hudson and Grant were puzzled. Brook was surprised but managed not to show it in front of his new colleagues. He’d expected hate. He’d expected fear or babbled accusations, but not this.
‘I’d like to talk to you about what happened last night…’ continued Hudson but broke off when Jason showed no sign of having heard.
Eventually he stopped grinning at Brook and turned to Hudson. ‘Last night?’
‘You were at your friend Stephen Ingham’s house. Having a barbecue and a few drinks in the backyard, remember? Somebody killed your friend Stephen. Somebody killed your other friends too.’ No reaction. ‘Ben Anderson and David Gretton. Did you see who it was? Can you remember anything?’
‘Did somebody use your phone, Jason?’ asked Grant, holding a pencil superfluously above a virgin page of notepad. ‘Was it The Reaper?’
At this Jason blinked.
‘That’s right, Jason,’ coaxed Hudson. ‘The Reaper! Did you see him? Do you know who it was?’
Finally Jason looked down at the bed, nodding. ‘I saw him.’
Hudson and Grant exchanged a glance. ‘Did you recognise him?’ breathed Grant eagerly.
Jason’s grin returned and he looked up at Brook and nodded his head gently. ‘I recognised him.’
Grant sneaked a glance at Brook for signs of worry but he seemed equally eager for the reply.
‘Who was it?’ prompted Hudson, trying to fight the rising tide of excitement. After twenty years he was going to find The Reaper. A day on the case and one of the world’s most sought-after killers was about to be unmasked.
‘It was The Reaper.’
Hudson and Grant crowded closer in on young Wallis. ‘How do you know?’
Now Jason fixed Brook with his grin once more. ‘We’ve met before.’
‘Can you describe him?’ said Hudson.
‘Bit smaller than Inspector Brook … chubbier. Not like you at all,’ he said to Brook, with a suggestion of a tease.
To Hudson and Grant’s consternation, Brook smiled back at Jason. Jason was telling him something. Telling him he remembered. Jason remembered their last meeting, but could only drop hints. Jason was as vulnerable as Brook to exposure. He was a killer, after all. If Jason was going to accuse Brook of being The Reaper he would’ve done it already.
‘But who was it?’ asked Hudson.
Jason shook his head. ‘He wore a mask as usual. A woolly thing…’
‘Balaclava? Ski mask?’
‘S’right. It covered his face.’
‘So you can’t identify him,’ said Grant. No reply.
Jason looked down at his sheets. ‘I told you. He wore a mask.’ He hung his head in shame briefly, remembering the tears and the terror of the chase. ‘They’re all dead.’
‘I’m afraid so, Jason.’
Jason looked up. ‘No. He said they were. The Reaper. That’s what he said. I heard him. “They’re all dead”, he said.’
‘Do you know why he didn’t kill you?’ asked Hudson. ‘After all, he couldn’t be sure you wouldn’t identify him.’
Jason’s grin returned and he looked from one to the other. ‘He can’t.’
‘Can’t what?’ echoed Grant.
‘Can’t kill me. We’re squared away, see.’ Jason chuckled now.
‘Squared away?’
‘The Reaper and me. He can’t kill me now.’
‘You don’t seem worried,’ continued Grant.
Brook watched a more familiar expression, recalled from their first encounter, infect Jason’s teenage face. ‘Told you, you thick bitch. He blatantly can’t touch me. You think I’m gonna walk into a trap if…’ He stopped abruptly and returned his eyes to the bedsheets.
‘Trap?’ said Brook sharply.
‘Never mind,’ replied Jason with a cryptic smile and a dissembling touch of his nose with his finger.
Brook cracked a bitter smile and nodded. ‘You didn’t eat anything, Jason. Is that because you knew? You knew The Reaper was coming to the Ingham house, didn’t you?’
Jason became hesitant, evasive. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘How did you know, Jason?’ asked Hudson, trying to inject a little aggression into his voice.
‘The brand new barbecue,’ said Brook to Jason. ‘The Inghams won it, didn’t they? In a competition.’
‘No. Sting said they nicked it last week.’
‘Where from?’
‘Dunno.’
‘Then how did you know last night was a trap?’
‘Stinger texted me. They won stuff – a load of burgers and sausages and shit. Booze too,’ replied Jason after a pause. ‘They was having a party with it.’
‘And you knew, didn’t you, Jason? You made the connection.’ Brook stood back from the bed, now a little more animated. ‘Just like the pizzas your mum and dad won two years ago. It was a gift from The Reaper to get access. And you knew he was coming but you said nothing.’
Jason’s grin returned. ‘I told you. He can’t touch
me.’
‘But what about your friends?’ asked Hudson. ‘Why didn’t you warn them? Why didn’t you tell the police?’
He snorted. ‘Tell the leng? Tell them what? I don’t know nothin’. Anyway, it’s not like they didn’t deserve it.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jason turned to Brook with a taunt in his eye. ‘What they done. They told me. Stinger, Grets, Banger. They ’fessed up. Two years ago. They said they done some old woman over. Croaked her.’
Brook’s jaw tightened.
‘Old woman?’ asked Grant. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘They strangled her in her flat. They told me about it. Same night as mi mum and dad and our Kylie.’
Hudson turned to Brook and shook his head. ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’ Brook was either unable or unwilling to speak.
‘He knows,’ Jason nodded at Brook. ‘Ask him. Annie something. Same night, weren’t it, Inspector?’
Brook nodded imperceptibly, finally able to comprehend what he was hearing. So there it was. The pay-off. Six lives lost to clear the slate for Jason. Three murderers, Jason’s friends, were dead, unable to drag their accomplice down with them, with Brook, hands tied, unable to put the record straight. Neat. And Brook had thought him stupid.
‘Annie Sewell,’ he finally said.
‘That’s her,’ nodded Jason cockily.
‘Well, this is unexpected,’ said Hudson, shaking out a cigarette. Then, remembering he was in a hospital, he slid it quickly behind his ear. ‘And it looks like we’ve found a reason for The Reaper’s visit…’
‘You don’t even know her name. You should at least know that.’ Brook looked at the floor, unable to meet the triumph in Jason’s eyes. ‘Stephen’s mum died too,’ added Brook, trying to pick at a vestige of conscience.
‘She weren’t no MILF – a right sket, she were,’ replied Jason.
‘What about her young boy?’ Brook spoke wearily, aware of the futility of his question and his search for a dormant indignation.
‘Okay, Damen, it’s not our job to judge…’
‘Yeah an’ he weren’t no saint neither,’ added Jason with a shrug. ‘Worst o’ the lot.’
‘Nine years old,’ said Brook.
‘Still had an ASBO, din’ he?’ Jason sneered back.
Brook rose from his chair. ‘He was hung by the neck.’
Hudson stood in front of him, assuming imminent violence. ‘Okay, Inspector. Go and get some air. That’s an order. We’ll take it from here.’
Brook blinked at Hudson, Grant hovering behind him, aware that his body language was causing concern. He smiled faintly, mimicking Jason’s faraway stare.
‘Sure.’
Outside in the corridor, Grant allowed Brook to walk ahead of her and walked in front of Hudson to slow him down. She engaged her boss with a raised eyebrow.
‘Well, guv, one day on the case and we’re already in credit,’ she said softly.
Hudson shrugged and stepped after Brook. ‘We’re not here to solve bungled burglaries, Laura.’ He caught up to Brook. ‘Well, Damen. What’s the story on this Annie Sewell?’
‘You heard Jason. He was pretty clear.’
‘So she was killed the same night as the Wallis family?’
‘That’s right. But she got lost in The Reaper maelstrom.’
Hudson nodded. ‘I can see how she might. Could those lads have killed her?’
Brook came to a halt and looked into Hudson’s eyes. ‘It wasn’t my case. But yes, those lads could’ve done it.’
‘Well, that’s some measure of justice then,’ said Hudson. ‘That’s a comfort.’
Brook smiled bleakly. ‘Right. Three cheers for The Reaper.’
‘What are we looking for, Mike?’
‘You got me, Ed. Maybe I’ll know when I see it.’ Drexler shone the flashlight around the cabin, consciously avoiding the bloody writing on the wall. Wandering around at night at a deserted crime scene that had offered up over twenty corpses was good reason not to crank up the atmosphere any further.
‘It’s late,’ said McQuarry, resolutely confining her own flashlight to watching her step.
‘There must be something to connect, Ed. Assuming the Dodge is at the bottom of a lake, or burned out on some forest track, we can’t tie the Ashwells to Sorenson. So we have to tie Sorenson to this cabin. If we can put him here then…’
‘Then what?’
‘…we can sweat him.’
‘Thought you said he was made of ice,’ retorted McQuarry. ‘Look, Mike, Latent have been all over this place. They got Sorenson’s prints from the garage but no matches in here, none on the wine bottle, nothing. He would’ve worn gloves. He’s not stupid. We got no saliva in the wine, hell, he didn’t even leave a glass. There are no footprints we can find, no fibres and no hairs.’
‘He doesn’t have hair.’ Drexler shone his flashlight under the worn sofa then stood upright. He moved into the hall and opened the door to the third bedroom. The smell hit them like a wall of sewage, rancid and sour, and they puckered under its assault.
Drexler ran his fingers over the bolt on the door. ‘This feels like it’s been forced.’
McQuarry peered at it. ‘Maybe Sorenson ransacked the place.’
‘Looking for what?’
Drexler shook his head and swept the light around the windowless cell. The thin blanket and dank mattress were at Quantico and had delivered up their grisly secrets. The DNA of the Bailey girls was abundant in this room but nowhere else in the cabin – this had been their prison. Blood, hair, saliva, tears, urine and even traces of excrement were all found on the mattress. Two related females had spent time in this room, the mother, Tania, was not one of them – she’d been raped and then murdered in the clearing, probably in front of her family, according to the profiler. Young Sally had joined her parents a month or so later. They still hadn’t found Nicole’s grave. They probably never would.
The Ashwells had spent time here too. Their body fluids were all over the bedding, chiefly semen and saliva. Young Billy had evidently been fully initiated into the family pastime. It didn’t paint a pretty picture but at least the fact leavened the agents’ horror at the memory of Billy’s feet scrabbling for solid ground as he dangled from the noose in the garage.
But there was something more. According to Forensics it wasn’t just Caleb and Billy who’d been in the room: there were three different sets of DNA, all from the same family. A third male had been present, though less frequently it would seem, and Caleb and Billy’s only next-of-kin was Caleb’s brother, Jacob Ashwell. It seemed reasonable to assume he was the other participant and a bulletin was issued on him.
Inquiries had found Jacob’s last known address in Las Vegas but he’d since fled. And the fact that he hadn’t come forward despite the media attention was telling. The gas station – while no gold mine – was a merchantable piece of real estate and Jacob Ashwell was the sole heir now that the corpse of Caleb’s wife Mandy-Sue had been positively identified from her dental records.
Finally Drexler closed the door on the chamber of horrors and continued his tour. He unfolded the Forensics report from his back pocket and read it for the hundredth time. He went into the bathroom and opened the rickety bathroom cabinet with its cracked mirror.
‘What are you looking for, Mike?’
‘The drugs.’
McQuarry sighed. ‘The CSIs went over this place twenty-four/seven for three days, Mike. If they didn’t find the drugs then they’re not here.’
Drexler looked at the sheet again. ‘Billy Ashwell had coffee before he died, laced with hyoscine and traces of morphine. The combination depresses the central nervous system and causes paralysis and amnesia. George and Tania Bailey both received a similar cocktail of drugs before they died.’
‘I read the report, Mike. But there’s nothing here.’
Drexler sighed. ‘Know what I’m thinking? Maybe Sorenson took it … for future projects.’
> ‘Good luck getting a search warrant. It’s past nine, Mike. I’d like to have some dinner and maybe a drink before I go back and collapse in my welcoming motel room.’
Drexler rubbed a hand over his face, then smiled. ‘Sorry, Ed, you’re right. Let’s get out of here. Dinner’s on me.’
‘Damn right.’
They closed and locked the cabin door and walked back towards the darkened garage on the highway, Drexler swinging his flashlight and McQuarry greedily lighting a cigarette.
The noise of the forest was deafening and, but for their one pyramid of torchlight, the darkness total.
‘It sure is lonely out here, Ed. I can’t imagine anyone wanting…’ Drexler halted in his tracks and swung his flashlight at the scrub on the side of the dirt track. He retraced his steps and got down on his haunches to examine something on the ground.
‘What is it, Mike?’
‘This hole. It looks freshly dug.’ Drexler swung his flashlight over the hole. It was about a foot deep and six inches in diameter. He fingered the soil inside it. ‘What do you suppose was buried in there?’
Drexler stepped back and swung his flashlight from side to side. There was a line, an avenue almost, of half a dozen small saplings planted equidistant from each other. The end tree was now missing. He approached the sapling nearest to the hole. The deep green leaves were large and oily, and horn-shaped creamy white flowers drooped towards the ground.
‘Unusual. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a tree like this. Know what genus that is?’
‘Gee, Mike, is it a Californian Redwood?’
Drexler laughed. ‘Sorry, Ed. I’m used to you knowing everything.’
‘I know my stomach is grumbling.’
‘I wonder what happened to this end tree.’
‘There’s been heavy traffic on the site, Mike. Maybe one of the ambulances or tow trucks knocked it over.’
He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’
It was cold, dark and beginning to rain by the time Brook, Hudson and Grant arrived back at the Ingham house. For that reason the crime scene was not as besieged as it might have been. There were still a few gawping locals hanging around the taped-off area, and media organisations were still represented, but the weather and the lateness of the hour had thinned out the crowd.
