The Disciple

by Steven Dunne

  As Brook pulled the car into the nearest parking space, a few lights and cameras swung in its direction. A few friendly cries hoping to elicit an interview could be heard above the drone of the generators.

  ‘Inspector. What progress are you making, if any?’

  Brook turned to see Brian Burton grinning at him. ‘No comment at this time.’

  ‘Should I ask the Senior Investigating Officer?’ Burton added with a leer. If Burton had been expecting a reaction from Brook, he was disappointed. ‘Had a chance to read my book yet, Inspector?’

  ‘I don’t read fiction, Brian,’ Brook replied coolly and the throng of Burton’s colleagues bellowed with laughter. Brook walked calmly past the clutch of journalists and ducked under the tape, following Hudson and Grant to the crime scene. Cameras flashed behind him and Brook was halted in his tracks. Mike Drexler stood at the back of the crowd. He’d only caught a glimpse as the camera flash died, but he was sure it was him. He was standing some way off behind a knot of onlookers and seemed to be smiling in Brook’s direction.

  Brook stood and waited for the next camera flash. When it came a few seconds later there was no sign of Drexler.

  The sound of booing erupting from a small huddle of people beyond the tape distracted Brook’s attention. He turned to the group of no more than four people gathered in the dark, at least one of which was an elderly woman.

  Hudson and Grant halted and came back towards him. ‘What is it?’ asked Grant.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Brook. ‘Are they booing us?’

  Grant narrowed her eyes against the slanting rain. ‘I think they are.’

  Seeing the three detectives now paying attention to them, the small group of people became more voluble. One shouted, ‘Let The Reaper alone. If you can’t keep the streets safe, let someone else do it for yer.’

  Another shouted, ‘Good riddance to the scum. Long live The Reaper.’

  And yet another chanted, ‘Scum in fear. The Reaper’s near. Scum in fear. The Reaper’s near.’ The chant was taken up by the others.

  ‘Fuck me!’ said Hudson, throwing a cigarette into his mouth and continuing towards the house. ‘That’s a first. Three cheers for The Reaper? You weren’t wrong, Damen.’ Brook merely grunted.

  Once inside the relative comfort of the police marquee, the detectives were joined by Noble.

  ‘I take it you heard the Neighbourhood Watch out there?’ asked Noble.

  ‘Hell, yes,’ answered Hudson. ‘Bizarre.’

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t find it so bizarre if you had to live next to the Inghams, guv,’ observed Grant.

  ‘She’s right, sir. Door to door all round the estate, everyone we spoke to told us they lived in fear. Seems they were a constant nuisance and worse. The noise, the loud music at all hours, routine thefts, threats. They behaved like they owned the estate. Apparently the little kid was the worst. He was even put up for an ASBO. Nobody would raise their face to them, never mind a hand. And nobody went out without leaving lights and the TV on.’

  ‘So good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?’ nodded Hudson.

  ‘It fits The Reaper’s MO, guv. Target the troublemakers, the petty criminals,’ added Grant. ‘Maybe people are seeing the connection now.’

  ‘Connection?’ said Brook, fixing her with a look.

  ‘The pattern. After five of these, people are starting to realise that if they’re minding their own business and behaving themselves, they’re safe. A few less villains on the street – who cares?’

  Brook smiled. She caught on quickly. Under his breath he said, ‘Nobody cares.’

  Only Grant heard him above the background hum of the generators and she turned to him for the first time without hostility, giving him a bleak smile in return.

  ‘Maybe we should piss off back to Brighton then, Laura. Let someone turn this road into a Reaper theme park,’ Hudson observed, to his own amusement. ‘Thought not. Bring us up to speed, John.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Call me guv, will you, John? Sir makes me sound like a fucking teacher.’ Noble looked over at Brook, who affected disinterest. ‘What about the bodies?’

  ‘All gone and Dr Habib says he’ll have something preliminary first thing in the morning. Forensics too.’

  Hudson looked at his watch. ‘Hopefully that’ll give us something to chew on at briefing.’

  ‘And you know the good news,’ said Noble with a glance at Brook. ‘We’ve got a clear thumbprint from the mobile phone. There are a few other smudged marks which are partials of Jason’s. But the thumb isn’t his. It doesn’t match any print on the database. Criminal or internal!’ he said, with more than sufficient emphasis. But, as if he were addressing first-day cadets, he felt compelled to add, ‘DI Brook is in the clear. If there was any doubt.’ Noble looked pointedly at Grant, who nodded.

  ‘We never doubted it, did we, Laura?’ said Hudson, encouraging his sergeant with a look.

  ‘Not for a second, guv,’ she answered in a monotone.

  ‘And did we get anything useful from the street, Sergeant?’

  Noble nodded. ‘One lead – Mrs Patel, our nosy neighbour from two years ago, said she saw someone standing outside her house, watching the Ingham house. All the streetlights round here have been vandalised so she couldn’t give us anything more than she thinks it was a man.’

  ‘Doing what?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Like I said – just standing, watching.’

  ‘Sounds promising. What time?’

  ‘Around ten. She watched him for a few minutes and then he moved away.’

  ‘That’s a long time to hang around waiting for his opportunity,’ said Hudson. ‘Risky.’

  ‘May not be our guy,’ said Grant.

  ‘If he moved off towards the Wallis house, it might still be him,’ said Brook. ‘But I agree. If he’s using the Wallis house as cover, why stand in the road getting noticed? Anything else, John?’

  ‘Just background. No other witnesses. Every curtain, every blind facing the Ingham house seems to be permanently drawn. Everybody on the Drayfin just wanted to block them out. Getting nosy invited trouble. And it was past one in the morning. Too late for most.’

  ‘Did people hear the music?’ said Brook.

  ‘Everybody close by heard it but nobody looked at their clock. It was normal and people were used to tuning it out. One minute it was pounding out, the next morning it had stopped.’

  ‘Pounding?’ said Hudson.

  ‘Some kind of rap music was on. Nobody heard the Chair de Lune.’

  Brook smiled. ‘The Moon Chair, John? No, they wouldn’t have. The rap was for the neighbours. Debussy was only for the victims.’

  ‘We found melted plastic in the oil drum. It’s probably the CD the Ingham boy had on. My guess is that once they were out cold, The Reaper takes it off, tosses it in the fire and puts his own stuff on.’

  ‘Did you find a case for it, John?’

  ‘For the Debussy, no – could have been on the fire as well. But there’s an empty case for a gangsta rapper on the kitchen table.’

  ‘What about clothing? Anything dumped nearby?’ asked Grant. ‘Not that we’ve found. So far we’ve got some clear footprints round the barbecue but they match up with the victims’ shoes.’

  ‘What about the path and the gate?’ said Brook, nodding at the darkened house that backed onto the Ingham house.

  ‘If that’s how he got away he left no sign and no one in the next street saw anything either,’ replied Noble. ‘They’ve taken the gate away for further tests.’

  ‘No footprints or marks of any kind? With all that blood on him?’

  Noble shrugged. ‘Not that they can find. There’s been some rain.’

  ‘Maybe the killer left the Ingham house at the front?’ offered Hudson.

  ‘Then why the blood on the fence at the back?’ persisted Brook. ‘Did you find out who lives there?’

  ‘Mrs Dorothy North. A pensioner. Lives alone.’

  ‘D
id she see or hear anything, anyone in her garden?’ asked Grant.

  ‘She’s away. That’s why the house has been dark through all this.’

  ‘Any idea where?’

  ‘No. Her next-door neighbour,’ Noble indicated the house to the left, ‘knows only that she’s away for six weeks and left two weeks ago.’

  ‘Okay, John. Get Cooper to re-canvass the entire block – both streets. Mrs North might have other friends in the street, so look for people nearer her own age. And check for any relatives. Find someone who knows where she went.’

  ‘Is it important, Damen?’ queried Hudson.

  ‘Maybe not. But it’s the house backing onto the Inghams and the woman who lives there is away. With The Reaper I tend to be suspicious of helpful coincidence.’

  ‘I thought this was a copycat,’ offered Grant, almost smiling.

  Brook looked across at her. ‘Either way.’

  ‘Is this usual, Damen?’ asked Hudson. ‘As Reaper crime scenes go.’

  ‘The Reaper always likes to mix it up. Assuming it is The Reaper,’ he added with emphasis for Grant’s sake.

  ‘You still say it’s a copycat?’

  ‘Method can be copied Joshua. And yes, I shall say it’s a copy.’ Sorenson’s dead. ‘There are too many differences and too much evidence.’ And Sorenson’s dead.

  ‘I mean the phone call for one. The Reaper would never do that.’ And did I mention Sorenson’s dead?

  ‘We’ll need to hear more on that in the morning. Okay, let’s walk through again.’

  For the next half hour the four detectives re-enacted the crime for their own benefit, arguing over a detail here and miming an action there.

  Brook, who knew from experience how things had probably played out, watched Hudson and Grant go about their business. He had to admit he was impressed. They seemed well matched, each with differing talents that complemented the other’s. They picked up on the significance of certain details and together sometimes came up with ideas that surprised or intrigued Brook. One such idea came to DS Grant as she had stood underneath the skylight in the bedroom ceiling. The rope that had hung the young boy was no longer in situ, having gone to the laboratories along with all the other evidence.

  Brook noticed her as she stood gazing up into the roof space for several minutes, a finger twirling a few stray hairs.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  Eventually she broke her reverie and looked at Brook. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But that rope seems desperately random,’ she added with a smile that suddenly softened her features.

  ‘How so?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Well, you say The Reaper’s MO is to kill the child in front of the parents?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘But why a rope?’ she said. ‘He didn’t need one to tie the parents up.’

  ‘I don’t follow, luv,’ put in Hudson, walking over to them on the now bare floorboards.

  ‘Why did he bring a rope?’ It seemed a simple question, the significance of which had escaped Hudson and Noble.

  Brook’s brow, however, creased in thought. ‘Why did he bring a rope?’ he echoed, as though to hear the question again would help.

  ‘What are you getting at?’ asked Hudson.

  ‘Well, you say he has a fairly fluid MO,’ Grant reminded Brook, who nodded. ‘In Harlesden the parents were tied up and the boy was strangled before being hung from a light fitting. He’d taken rope for the parents, so he already had it there for the kid. That sounds improvised to me. In Brixton a year later the daughter was tied up as well and had her throat cut. He may have taken rope for the parents but didn’t need it because they were drugged.’ She looked at Brook for confirmation.

  ‘Heroin,’ nodded Brook.

  ‘Okay. There was no kid in the Leeds killings – not one that had been born anyway – and the Wallis girl was poisoned and her throat was cut.’

  ‘You’ve done your homework,’ said Brook, starting to see where this was going. ‘And you’re right. There was no rope at the Wallis house. The drugs did everything the rope could and more.’

  ‘So?’ asked Noble.

  ‘So follow the pattern, John. Different MOs in each case.’

  ‘To fool the profilers, you said,’ replied Noble.

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Grant. ‘But look at how The Reaper’s polished his act, how he’s evolved. Harlesden and Brixton were twenty years ago, when he was younger and stronger.’

  ‘He’s making life easier for himself each time,’ nodded Hudson. ‘The physical effort required gets harder over the years, so he changes things.’

  ‘But not this time, don’t you see?’ exclaimed Grant, warming to her subject. ‘This time he’s back to the rope, lots of physical effort, even brute strength is needed – which would seem to back up Inspector Brook’s theory of a copycat.’

  ‘So there’s a younger healthier Reaper out there,’ said Hudson. ‘A disciple.’

  Grant smiled and nodded at him. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Seems to make sense,’ agreed Noble.

  Grant frowned suddenly. ‘But even so, why not copycat the later killings? Even for a young guy, a rope isn’t that easy to carry to the scene, especially if you don’t know how much to bring. And another thing. How did he know he could get access to the roof space to tie it off? Unless…’

  Brook looked excitedly at Grant. ‘You think …?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Grant, catching the mood.

  Hudson and Noble could only look at each other.

  Brook led the way out of the Inghams’ master bedroom, down the bare stairs and through the brightly lit backyard to the street. He marched towards the derelict Wallis house, Grant at his shoulder, Hudson and Noble trailing along in their wake.

  The uniformed officer on duty outside the Wallis house stiffened and hastily hid the cigarette behind his back as the four detectives approached.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘Constable…’

  ‘Hopkin, sir.’

  ‘Miserable duty, Constable,’ said Brook without evident sympathy. ‘Sorry you got lumbered. Why don’t you finish your ciggy?’

  PC Hopkin wasn’t sure how to react. He’d only been in the Force for a year and didn’t know Brook very well, but what he’d heard had all been bad. ‘Sir, I…’

  Brook smiled. ‘I mean it. Stand easy and enjoy your cigarette.’ He made a play to look around at the deserted streets now that all the spectators and journalists had packed in for the night. ‘Who’s going to know?’ With that, Brook and Grant eased past him and made for the front entrance of the Wallis house. The chipboard from the previous night had been removed by Forensics in the hope of finding some latent prints and Brook disappeared inside first, Grant following.

  Hopkin’s cigarette remained firmly behind his back until all four CID officers were safely inside the house.

  Brook’s eyes swept round the sparse but now well-lit room where he’d waited for The Reaper the previous night. But instead of the mock-up of the Maples girl’s miserable squat, the room was now completely bare, apart from the crime scene lighting and a single wooden chair. The mattress had been removed for further examination by Forensics officers. The picture frame, candle, stove and unopened cans of food had gone to the laboratories too, as had the wine bottle and the glasses from downstairs.

  ‘So there was a mattress here,’ said Grant, waving a hand at the bare floorboards, ‘and an empty picture frame on top.’

  Brook nodded.

  ‘But no picture in it. Why?’ She looked expectantly at him.

  Brook shook his head, remaining mute. Over the last few hours he was being forced to react to all sorts of information that had once belonged only to him. He wasn’t about to open another seam into his past and produce the picture of the girl who had once haunted his dreams … not even for Laura Maples’s namesake.

  Hudson and Noble arrived at the top of the stairs and crowded into the derelict bedroom. ‘Why all the excitement?’ said Hud
son.

  Brook and Grant looked around. They both saw the stout wooden chair off in one corner and Grant picked it up to place in the middle of the room.

  ‘The houses on this street are identical, Joshua,’ said Brook, watching Grant climb onto the chair. ‘That has to help with planning.’

  Hudson and Noble turned to follow Brook’s gaze and watch Grant lift her latex-gloved hand to the ceiling. She clenched it into a fist and gave the trapdoor a solid jab. At once the board fell on top of her, pushed down by the weight of something lying in the loft space above. She emitted a startled scream, lost her balance and tumbled off the chair, falling towards the floor. Fortunately Brook was well positioned and managed to catch her. He held his hands under her armpits and lowered her to the floor, their eyes locking briefly as her face passed his. Then they all turned to look into the roof space.

  A rope tied to a rafter in identical fashion to the one used in the Ingham house had fallen into the bedroom. It swayed through the air gently and, at the business end of the rope, another young boy swung stiffly from side to side, his feet no more than five feet above the floor.

  ‘Fuck me.’ Hudson held out a hand to halt the motion of the body, as the noise of everyone’s quickened breathing began to ease. He turned the form round and stared into the face with its sightless open eyes, abnormally red cheeks and happy grin. Hudson smiled back at the boy and tapped on his plastic mannequin’s head with a knuckle.

  ‘He did a dry run,’ said Noble, now able to manage a relieved grin. Brook smiled back at him and Grant joined in. ‘That’s how he knew how much rope to bring.’

  ‘The clever bastard,’ nodded Hudson.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was gone midnight when Brook pulled up outside the Midland Hotel to drop off the weary Hudson and Grant. It had been a long day – two days in Brook’s case. They exchanged goodnights and Brook pulled away from the entrance and into the deserted streets. A moment later, he turned into a parking bay beside a line of former railway workers’ terraced houses and turned off the engine. It was cold and a light rain was in the air again. Winter was on its way.