by Steven Dunne
There was silence for a while as Brook’s words sunk in, then Charlton and Hudson drew things to a close and the room became a hub of noise and activity as officers renewed their coffees or snuck out for cigarettes. Only Brook remained unmoving at the eye of the hurricane, staring into the distance. Noble had seen this before and broke away from briefing DC Bull to speak to him. Laura Grant was there a second before him.
‘Inspector Brook?’ she said, laying a hand on his shoulder.
Noble joined the intervention. ‘Sir?’ No reaction. Noble and Grant looked at each other, both unsure what to do.
Before they could ponder their next step, Brook spoke softly, to no one. ‘They’re all dead.’
‘Sir?’
Brook looked up and saw the two sergeants in attendance. He smiled as though noticing them for the first time. ‘“They’re all dead.” That’s what the voice said. Jason heard him. We heard him.’
‘So?’ prompted Noble.
Brook’s smile faded and he shook his head. ‘But they weren’t, were they?’
Chapter Fifteen
Brook and Grant walked through the drizzle, eyes fixed to the floor to avoid the potholes and puddles. A splenetic pit bull marked their progress as they passed one house, yelping and straining at its chain. Brook checked Noble’s text message, with Grant’s amused assistance, and surveyed the small, redbrick semi. He had the correct address. Number 197 had a paved front yard and a simple wooden fence that was in a better state of repair than that of most of its neighbours. The barrenness of the yard was counterbalanced by the throng of multicoloured figurines on the sill of the front bay window – an area that could reflect the artistic expression of the household without fear of theft or vandalism. Brook could see several porcelain horses, dogs, ballerinas, cars and an amusing series featuring the same dishevelled leprechaun fishing, sleeping under a tree or leaning inebriated against a lamppost.
‘I’ll have five pounds on dogs playing snooker,’ said Grant, mysteriously.
Brook had no idea what she was talking about but smiled anyway. He lifted the latch on the gate and walked towards the side door, which was slightly ajar. Steam drifted through the crack and the smell of boiled cabbage wafted across the divide to assault their nostrils. The door was opened further at their approach and a stout woman, well into her pensionable years, beckoned them in. She had a small wiry goatee and a full head of wild grey hair swept back in a purple scarf.
‘Come in, sir. Come in, sir.’
‘Mrs Petras? I’m DI Brook, this is DS Grant. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Mrs North.’
‘Yes, yes, come in, sir, come in.’
Despite the lack of a personal invitation, Grant followed Brook into the tiny kitchen. She wasn’t offended by her nonexistence; it happened a lot with the older generation. They always addressed Hudson when they were on a call in Sussex and would often not speak directly to Grant at all. Mrs Petras was not only old school but old country – Ukrainian in fact – and men came first.
‘Hello, hello,’ smiled Mrs Petras, offering her hand to Brook and shaking his hand briefly. ‘Please go through to sitting room. I bring coffee.’
‘There’s no need…’ began Grant but was interrupted by Brook.
‘Thank you, Mrs Petras. We’d love a cup,’ said Brook. He was keen to escape the kitchen which was stifling from the steam carrying the last of the cabbage’s flavour. He turned to follow Mrs Petras’s direction towards a small back room with a table and four padded chairs. In the main room at the front of the house sat a frail old man, who either couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge their presence. He sat in pyjamas and slippers and had a blanket wrapped around his legs, in spite of the electric fire glowing from the hearth. Gaze unbroken and chin on chest he was staring at a TV with pictures but no sound. Several people in a TV studio were pushing and shoving each other above the caption: ‘My partner’s mum is having my baby.’
‘Hello, sir.’ There was not a flicker of response to Brook’s greeting.
Mrs Petras pushed past them and pulled the door of the front room closed. ‘Please sit. No mind Jan. He not hear you. Just back from hospital.’ She pulled her apron up to her eye and wiped away a speck of moisture, then gestured to them once more to sit. They went through to the tiny sitting room in which there was barely room to pull back the chairs, but Brook and Grant just about managed to slide their way onto a seat.
There was an ashtray in the middle of the table with several torn up cigarettes and unwrapped filters. Brook recalled his university days when his limited finances had meant he’d been forced to smoke rollups of old dog ends. He took out his own nearly full pack and looked up at the wall behind Grant. It was covered in a mixture of bright little trinkets and sepia photographs of stern-looking men and women. The largest picture was a print of several dogs sitting at a poker table, green visors on heads, playing cards. He indicated it to Grant with a flick of the head.
‘You owe me five pounds,’ he said softly.
She smiled. Something about the place made them feel they had to communicate in mime and whispers, and she was trying to communicate her reluctance to sit drinking coffee when Mrs Petras came in with a tray of cups filled with a tar-like black liquid.
Being the inferior, Grant was served first and she smiled her thanks. When Brook had received his cup he refused her offer of a pink cake from a plate of fancies, took out a cigarette and offered one to Mrs Petras. She accepted his offer eagerly and, after Brook had lit both their cigarettes, inhaled with a sigh of pleasure. The tiny room was instantly awash with smoke and Grant wafted her hand to fight for some unpolluted oxygen.
‘You talk about Dottie,’ said Mrs Petras, taking a gargantuan pull on her cigarette. ‘She good woman. Keep me company, have tea when Jan…’ She broke off to keep her emotions in check.
‘She’s gone away,’ prompted Brook.
‘Yes. Australie. I very pleased for her. She not seen her brudder sixty year. He in Sydney. She win competition…’ She pulled urgently on the cigarette again.
Brook’s eyes narrowed. ‘Competition?’
‘Yes. Someone come see. Say she win flight to Australie. All spends. Very nice. No pay a penny.’
Brook looked over at Grant. ‘Do you know who came to see her?’
‘No. People. She win competition and they look after house. Pay for taxi Manchester. All spends. She deserve. Very happy.’
‘So these people. How many were there?’
‘Not know. Not see. Maybe one, maybe two. Very happy.’ She took a final pull on her cigarette then delicately stubbed it out in the ashtray for future consumption.
‘But they took Mrs North’s keys?’ said Grant.
‘Yes. They look after house. Part of prize. I do but for Jan. Need me here.’
Brook drained his coffee and prepared to leave.
‘Do you have a spare set of keys to Dottie’s house, Mrs Petras?’ asked Grant.
‘Yes. I get,’ Mrs Petras answered, addressing Brook much to his amusement. ‘Glad she away. Horrible things happen. Tank God horrible people die.’ She looked around for somewhere to spit but thought better of it and instead made the sign of the cross. ‘Must not say. All from God. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Brook. When she went to fetch the keys he added, ‘Nobody else is.’
After phoning Noble to update him about Mrs North, Brook and Grant walked back towards the crime scene.
‘So the house opposite the Inghams is empty for a reason,’ said Grant.
‘So much for luck and coincidence,’ replied Brook. ‘It’s all been arranged well in advance.’
Grant nodded. ‘I’m beginning to see why The Reaper’s been at large for so long. The scope of this is breathtaking. Not to mention the resources behind it.’
Brook stood by the gatepost of Mrs North’s house waiting for Forensics to arrive. He patted his coat pocket for his cigarettes.
‘You left them at Mrs Petras’s house, Inspector. I saw you dr
op them under the table.’
‘Did I?’
‘If you felt that sorry for her, why not just offer them some money?’ inquired Grant.
‘They’re not kids standing outside an off-licence Laura,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want her to lose her dignity.’
Laura Grant smiled and held her eyes on the back of Brook’s head as he turned towards the Scientific Support van pulling up outside Mrs North’s house. Noble approached them from the Ingham house, his mobile in his hand.
‘It’s legit, sir. Dorothy North did get on a plane to Sydney two weeks ago. The return flight is due back in a month. The ticket was bought in her name on a prepaid credit card assigned to a Mr Peter Hera – our old friend The Reaper using his anagram again.’
Brook smiled at Grant and explained. ‘Two years ago The Reaper used that name to hire a van. He turned back to Noble. ‘How much was the ticket?’
‘Three grand.’
‘Christ,’ said Grant. ‘What the hell are we dealing with here?’
Brook said nothing. If he didn’t know that Sorenson was already dead…
‘If she’s in the way, wouldn’t it have been easier to just bump her off?’ shrugged Noble.
For some reason Brook took umbrage at this. ‘An innocent old lady. The Reaper would never stoop to something like that.’ Brook examined the house keys given him by Mrs Petras. ‘This looks like the one.’ He handed them to the lead Scene of Crime Officer. ‘Quick as you can, Colin.’ He missed the look of reproach from beneath Colin’s protective mask.
‘What are we looking at?’ asked Brook, bending down to peer at the stain at the rear of Mrs North’s house.
‘Oil,’ said Colin, through his mask. ‘Two different spots. Here and here,’ he said pointing. ‘It’s Three in One.’
Brook looked around the backyard. They were on a small pathway culminating at the kitchen drain. Beyond that, the yard was paved around a bordering flower bed with a few desultory plants trying to survive. There was no shed. ‘From what?’
‘Best guess – mountain bikes.’
Brook nodded. ‘Two separate stains, maybe two bikes propped side by side. Perfect getaway. How do we know they’re mountain bikes?’
Colin pointed at a colleague a few yards away preparing a bucket of plaster of Paris. ‘We’ve got a tyre impression near that bush.’
Brook nodded and stood upright. ‘How long before I can get in the house?’
‘Half an hour.’ Colin walked away.
‘Okay. Good work, Colin,’ Brook said after him, a second later. ‘Thank your team for me.’ A raised latex hand was the only acknowledgement. Brook turned to see Grant’s smile. ‘What?’
‘Two bikes, two perps,’ nodded Hudson, sipping his tea in Charlton’s office. ‘You were right, Laura. Nice catch.’ Charlton, Brook and Noble nodded in agreement.
‘So assuming Mrs North isn’t The Reaper and is unlikely to own a mountain bike, let alone two, where are we?’ asked Charlton, seated behind his desk. His eyes alighted on the four detectives one by one.
‘We’re in awe, sir. That’s where,’ said Grant finally.
‘Why so?’
Brook took a deep breath. ‘The scale of the planning that’s gone into this is so meticulous that it almost makes me begin to doubt that we’re dealing with a copycat. Leaving aside the elementary blunder of leaving us a fingerprint and the traces of his DNA from the fence panel, I’d say this was planned as thoroughly as any previous Reaper killing. If not more so.’ ‘Go on.’
‘Two weeks before the Inghams die, the killer or killers spend a small fortune persuading Mrs North, an elderly widow, to move out of her house and go to Australia for six weeks. All expenses paid. Somehow they know she had a brother in Sydney that she hasn’t seen in years. The house is to be looked after as part of the prize and they take a set of keys. It’s perfect. They have time to prepare and quietly amass all they need in Mrs North’s house, so they didn’t need to risk storing things like the rope and the barbecue in the derelict Wallis house.’
‘I thought the Inghams stole the barbecue?’ interrupted Charlton.
‘They did and they didn’t,’ said Grant. ‘Explain.’
‘It’s so simple, sir, it makes me want to cry with admiration,’ she continued. ‘SOCO found the box and all the packaging for the Weber in Mrs North’s house. So instead of wheeling it round to the Ingham house or risk being seen delivering it, they just let them have it.’
‘I don’t follow,’ said Charlton.
‘What’s the best way to get something nicked on the Drayfin, sir?’ asked Noble.
Charlton thought for a minute then shook his head. ‘Tell me,’ he said with a hint of shame in his voice.
‘Carelessness. They just left it out in the backyard in plain sight – probably the week before the murder, I’d say,’ said Brook. ‘Mrs North’s yard backs onto the Inghams’…’ He shrugged as though the rest were too obvious for words.
‘…and all they had to do was wait for one of the boys to see it, knowing they’d just help themselves,’ concluded Grant.
‘They probably even watched from an upstairs room to make sure,’ said Noble.
‘It’s brilliant,’ conceded Charlton.
‘And when the Inghams won the meat from the phoney competition, the killers knew the Inghams would have something to cook it on…’
‘And, as they’re watching, they can see when they’re going to cook it,’ added Hudson.
Charlton nodded. ‘Okay, I’m impressed.’
‘It gets better,’ said Grant. ‘We found plastic wrappers for a tray of premium cider in Mrs North’s house.’
‘So…’
‘We have a theory why no one saw any deliveries of food and drink,’ said Brook. ‘The killers have bought everything in advance, long before it was needed and transported it to Mrs North’s house. The day before the murder, we know from Stephen’s text to Jason that the Inghams had won a competition and were expecting a delivery, let’s say sometime later that evening or the next day. Now The Reaper knows for sure someone’s going to be at home waiting for their winnings. When it’s darker, the killer or killers carry all the stuff from Mrs North’s front room to the bottom of their yard. The Reaper knocks on their door. Or maybe even waits in the yard for someone to come outside, then calls over the fence. “Hey, are you expecting a delivery of meat and booze because it seems to have been delivered here by mistake?” Then they just hand it over.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ agreed Hudson.
‘Wouldn’t they be suspicious of a neighbour handing over this stuff? Especially someone they don’t know,’ asked Charlton.
‘Not enough to refuse them,’ said Grant. ‘They’re on benefits after all. And the killer or killers could easily pass themselves off as relatives looking after Mrs North’s house.’
‘Don’t forget people like the Inghams think all honest people are stupid,’ observed Hudson. ‘They wouldn’t be suspicious of anyone. They’d probably have contempt for them. They certainly wouldn’t be afraid.’
‘So everything’s in place,’ nodded Charlton.
‘Now all they have to do is watch and wait,’ said Brook draining his coffee. ‘The Inghams fire up the barbecue the next night and our killers start to prepare. They fill their syringes and prepare the rope. They’re wearing some kind of protective clothing, gloves, overshoes, hairnets – assuming they have hair.’
‘Like our own Scene of Crime clothing?’ asked Charlton.
‘Very likely,’ agreed Brook. ‘As a further precaution, key rooms in the house are covered with sheets to collect hair and fibres just in case. They touch nothing without gloves on and never put on a light.’
‘Hang on. If the killers have access to Mrs North’s house for two weeks, why don’t they practise the hanging in her bedroom?’ asked Noble.
‘Mrs North’s away and her next-door neighbour knows it,’ replied Brook. ‘Any noise could end up with the police being called. If anyone hears them
in the Wallis house they’ll think it’s just kids.’ Noble nodded. ‘Now as soon as the barbecue is lit they spring into action and move down to the kitchen. They bring all the sheets down and carefully fold them into two backpacks or something they can carry with them and still cycle.’
‘How do you know they put down sheets if they took them away?’ asked Charlton.
‘They left a new one behind in the kitchen, still in the plastic,’ said Noble.
Charlton nodded. He wondered fleetingly whether to ask if they’d checked the wheelie bin outside but managed to stop himself. ‘What then?’
‘The bikes were kept in the living room – there’s a small trace of oil on the carpet there. When all’s quiet they wheel them outside, leave them out of sight from the road for a quick getaway. They wait for the boys to pass out. They lock the house and climb over the fence to the Ingham house. The rap music should cover any noise. And maybe they put a sheet on top of the fence as an added precaution…’
‘Then why have we got fibres and DNA from it?’ asked Noble.
‘I don’t know. Maybe something went wrong and they had to hurry, but that’s what I’d have done.’ Brook remembered the few seconds after arriving at the crime scene. The feeling of being watched, coldly, scientifically, like a lab rat caught in a maze.
