by Steven Dunne
‘Could be.’
Soon after the lonely road entered a more populated area, Sorenson turned east onto US 50, towards downtown Tahoe and the state line. A few minutes later, the high-rise hotels and buildings on the Nevada side of the line rose up like teeth in a shark’s mouth and the garish lights adorning each casino left no one in any doubt as to where they should come to part company with their cash.
On they travelled into the night and back into the enveloping darkness, following US 50 along the lakeshore, past Elk Point and Zephyr Cove and towards Glenbrook where the road headed inland towards Carson City.
Some forty minutes later, Sorenson came to an intersection and turned north onto US 395. He pulled off the highway into a lot and parked in a bay outside an unremarkable, low building with a sign that said ‘Golden Nugget Motel’.
McQuarry and Drexler pulled in just before the exit and watched their target step out of his vehicle. Sorenson seemed to examine his watch in the gloom. It had taken just over an hour to get here. He spent five minutes walking up and down the front of the motel, lingering for a moment outside the room farthest from reception. He appeared to write something in a notebook then walked back to the bright lights of the office. He disappeared for a moment then re-emerged, returned to his car and crossed the highway back towards Tahoe.
McQuarry pulled out to follow but as she drew level with the office, Drexler jumped out of the car.
‘Back in a minute, Ed.’
* * *
Brook drew up outside his cottage before midnight. He parked with some difficulty as Drexler’s recycling bin was out on the street for tomorrow’s collection. His neighbour was home and, judging from the lights, clearly still up. Brook resisted the urge to call and trudged into his house. The whisky he’d poured for himself yesterday evening was the only thing in the fridge, save a half-pint of milk and an opened can of beans. He examined the beans but plopped the rusted tin in the bin and closed the door.
‘First impressions, Damen,’ he muttered to himself, his mantra since the Wallis investigation when his blossoming relationship with PC Wendy Jones had been threatened by his inability to see how out of control his life had become. For Brook, an empty fridge was the litmus test of a mind in turmoil, and he vowed to set matters right the next day.
And he was hungry. That was a good thing. At the height of his obsession with work, his stomach had never grumbled and Brook had needed reminders to take on food. He wagered that Josh Hudson’s life never became so chaotic that he forgot to eat.
Brook sat down in his armchair and flicked on a small lamp. He pulled out the photocopy of Laura Maples’s picture that he’d removed from the Wallis house and unfolded it. He looked into the clear eyes of the schoolgirl, now dead nearly twenty years, the thin necklace with the heart-shaped links winking up at him. He placed the picture reverentially in a drawer.
He took a sip of his chilled whisky and looked across at his neighbour’s house, remembering the delicious burger of a few nights ago. He flicked the lamp back off and sat motionless in the dark, eyes closed, enjoying the momentary sensory deprivation. It didn’t last. The sight of the Ingham boy was upon him before he could slam the sluice gates on the flood of gore – stretched out before him, head pulled back, throat twisted like a gargoyle. He saw the other boys as well, smelled them, reeking of blood and fresh, steaming urine and excrement. Finally Brook saw Drexler’s face in the dying flash of the camera at the crime scene. He opened his eyes, downed his whisky, left the house and walked down the side path of Rose Cottage.
‘Hi there.’ Drexler stole a glance at a folded handwritten sign on the desk – T.J. Carlson, Night Manager. ‘Say, Mr Carlson, did I just see my old buddy Vic leave a second ago?’
The manager looked up evenly at Drexler, removing a well-chewed cigar butt from his mouth but showing no inclination to answer. He was an overweight figure with grey whiskered jowls and a mass of unkempt greying hair swept incongruously into a minute ponytail at the back of his neck. He scratched at a flabby bare arm. ‘Do you need a room, fella? It’s thirty dollars for the hour or forty-five for the night.’ He returned his gaze to a small TV, showing a college football game.
‘So that wasn’t Vic?’ Carlson returned his disinterested eyes back to Drexler and cocked his head. The penny dropped and Drexler fumbled in his trousers for a five-dollar bill and handed it over. ‘See, he’s my best man and he’s cooking up something for my bachelor night and I’d as soon know what it was.’
‘Took a card. Wanted to know what our quietest night of the week was.’
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Tuesday.’ ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. He wanted to know if I’d be working Tuesdays because he wanted someone he could rely on. Someone with discretion.’
‘That all?’
The manager gave Drexler a cryptic smile. Drexler fished in his pocket for another five-dollar bill.
‘He gave me a twenty.’
‘That’s what I got, friend.’
Carlson shrugged and wrapped his podgy fingers around the money. ‘I told your friend I’m on every Tuesday. He booked all the cabins for a week Tuesday.’
‘All of them? He say what for?’
‘Nope. And I didn’t ask. I got…’
‘Discretion. I get it.’ Drexler turned to leave.
‘For another fi’ dollars I can tell you his name.’
Drexler turned. ‘It wasn’t Victor?’ The manager returned his interest to the football. Drexler pulled out his diminishing roll of bills. ‘All I got is three ones.’
The manager glared at him and muttered something which sounded like ‘Cheap motherfucker’, then gestured with his chubby hand. Drexler handed him the notes which he pocketed before answering.
‘Reservation’s under the name Hera. Peter Hera.’
The small pot-bellied stove was still giving out heat but the embers were dying. The kitchen door was open and Drexler was sitting at the tiny kitchen table, cigarette in hand, looking at a bunch of papers strewn across the surface. Brook watched him from the shadows, debating whether to turn on his heel.
Suddenly Drexler looked up and for a split second Brook imagined he saw fear there.
Brook stepped out of the dark. ‘Mike. I saw you were up.’
Drexler found his Californian grin and stood, casting a sly glance around his tabletop as if to check the sensitivity of the documents, before coming outside. He closed the door behind him, extinguishing much of the light.
‘Damen. Quite the stranger.’ He gestured towards a chair in the garden and brought out a pair of blankets, tossing one to Brook. He then busied himself feeding wood and newspaper into the small stove; the air was distinctly chilly now and both men were glad of the flames that began to catch.
‘Work, I’m afraid.’
‘I’ve been reading the papers. Six people. I won’t ask you about the case. I’m guessing you need to get away from it.’
‘You can ask me.’
Drexler studied him for a moment, but let the opportunity pass. ‘So what can I do for you?’
Brook hesitated, a little embarrassed to be scrounging for food. ‘I saw the light.’
‘God be praised!’ grinned Drexler, throwing his arms in the air.
Brook smiled politely. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’
Drexler’s smile disappeared. ‘Yes.’
Brook decided to deflect him until he was ready. ‘Your book for one thing.’
‘I thought you’d have questions. Hungry?’
Brook nodded, as if to suggest the idea hadn’t occurred to him. ‘I could eat.’
Drexler returned to the kitchen and Brook fancied he was using the time to hide his papers. But it also allowed more time for Brook to finalise his side of the ensuing conversation. Drexler returned with a ham salad sandwich and two bottles of beer. They clinked bottles and Brook ate in silence as Drexler chugged on his bottle.
‘That was good. Thanks.’
&
nbsp; Drexler nodded, but his good humour had dissipated. He stared into the fire, waiting, but Brook wouldn’t be hurried.
Finally Brook was ready. ‘When did you arrive in England, Mike?’
Drexler stared into the fire. A moment later, he said, ‘Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. An interview technique my old FBI tutor taught me. I guess you had a similar mentor.’ Brook waited, his eyes piercing Drexler. ‘About a month ago.’
Brook nodded. ‘Then why tell Tom you’d just flown in from Boston when he picked you up last week?’
‘I flew to Manchester from Heathrow. I told Tom I live in Boston and he assumed the rest.’
‘But you didn’t bother to put Tom straight?’
‘I didn’t lie.’
‘So telling me you had jetlag wasn’t a lie?’
‘Actually I think I asked you if you had jetlag.’
Again Brook was silent, assessing Drexler, who didn’t appear to be flustered at all. In fact he seemed calm and untroubled.
‘And Brighton?’ Drexler’s eyebrow shot up. ‘There was a train ticket, which dropped out of your passport.’
Drexler nodded, sombre now. ‘I can see I’m going to have to beef up security round here. I didn’t have Hartington down as Sin City.’
Brook felt a pinprick of shame. ‘I’m sorry. I called round and your door was open.’
‘Was my passport open too?’ The two men stared into each other’s eyes, neither willing to be the first to drop his gaze. Drexler found his grin again. ‘No harm no foul, Damen. I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘Lucky you. You haven’t answered my question.’
Drexler’s grin eased but a smile remained. ‘I went to Brighton to look up an old friend.’
‘This old friend wouldn’t happen to be called Tony Harvey-Ellis, would he?’
‘No. Who’s that?’
Brook was studying him for signs of deceit, but Drexler was a tough read. ‘Never mind.’ He took a final swig from his bottle of beer. ‘And why are you really in Derbyshire, Mike?’
‘I told you. I’m writing a book.’
‘I’ve read your book, Mike.’
‘All of it?’
‘No. I’ve been busy. But enough – enough to know the case was solved. It says as much on the sleeve, yet you say you’re writing a sequel.’
‘I am. But it’s nothing to do with solving the case.’
‘You’ll have to explain that.’
Drexler took a long pull on his beer and stared into the fire. ‘You’re a cop. You must have seen it, Damen. The aftermath. The effort that goes into explaining – the press, the TV, the psychiatrists, the writers, even the fucking clairvoyants get a piece.’ Drexler looked over at him. ‘I got tired of books about the killers, Damen. It sickened me how much people wrote about the upbringing which caused them to kill, about the psychology behind the murders, about how we need to understand the killing to correct our society. About what they had for fucking breakfast.
‘We’ve got to the stage where killers are so famous that we’ve got schoolkids taking weapons into school to kill their classmates. Sure, they do a little dance, make a videotape, upload something on to YouTube to say why they did it. The music made me. I’ve been bullied. I can’t get girls. My teacher gave me an F in English.’ Drexler laughed now. ‘Stupid little fuckers! Like we don’t know the real reason. Like we don’t know they’re just lazy and desperate. Desperate for fame. No one notices me. Gimme a gun. Success through hard work? Fuck that. Gimme a gun.
‘I’m ashamed of that first book, Damen. It’s about the killers. It’s about turning pieces of shit into historical figures. So I’m correcting that. I’m writing a book about the victims, about the families destroyed by those butchers. I’m giving them back their lives. Not the way the news media do it. To me the victims aren’t just names, dates and addresses, end of story. They’re people who lived and loved and dreamed. And died before they were supposed to. That’s why I’m in Derbyshire, Damen. I’m speaking for the dead.’
‘In Derbyshire?’
‘You haven’t read that far, have you? The last victim was George Bailey and his family. He was a chemical engineer, originally from Ashbourne, Derbyshire. He’d only been in the States for a couple of years. He was murdered. His wife was raped and murdered. His youngest daughter Sally was drugged, then tortured, then raped and then murdered. Shot in the head when her usefulness was at an end.’ He took another drink of his beer. ‘They weren’t even buried in the same hole. Even in death they could never be a family again. I’m doing a book for them and the other victims, Damen. To correct the balance. You of all people should understand that.’
‘Is that why you were on the Drayfin Estate the other night?’
Drexler smiled. ‘So you did see me. Yes, I took an interest. I’m a writer. But don’t worry. From what I hear these vics had it coming.’
Brook nodded but said nothing. His final question was left unasked. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. It didn’t feel like the right time. Besides, if Drexler had been the copycat Reaper or, worse, had been recruited by Sorenson, he was hardly likely to confess it. He looked at his watch and finished his beer. ‘It’s late.’ He stood to leave but turned back to Drexler. ‘I’m sorry about going through your stuff. The door was open…’
‘Forget it. We’re cops. It’s what we do. Like I said, I’ve nothing to hide. Tell you what, put these empties in the recycling and we’ll call it quits.’
‘Fair enough.’ They said their good nights and Brook set off for home. He paused at the recycling bin, flipped the lid up and dropped in his bottle with as much noise as he could manage. He returned to his kitchen with Drexler’s bottle, peeled off an evidence bag from a stack in a drawer, and slid the bottle in.
Ten minutes later he was in bed with Drexler’s book. His eyes were already starting to close and he soon dropped the book onto the floorboards, but not before turning to the index and the glossary to check out the three key phrases he’d used in countless internet searches – ‘Victor Sorenson’, ‘Twilight Sleep’ and ‘scopolamine’. His search was in vain.
Chapter Seventeen
DCI Hudson drained his sweet tea and picked at a piece of bacon stuck in his teeth with a fingernail. It was a cold morning and the sun was slanting in low through the windows of the Midland’s breakfast room. Even on a weekday, when the hotel was close to fully booked, the pair ate alone, so early were they up and about.
Hudson looked over at Grant, who was nursing her black coffee and yawning.
‘You should eat something, luv.’
Grant opened her eyes and shielded them with a hand. ‘It’s the middle of the night, guv.’
‘You should still eat something. Most important meal of the day, breakfast. Besides…’
Grant held up a hand. ‘I know, guv, but I’m sick of hotel food, restaurants too. Exes or not. I miss the sea and I miss my flat. I wouldn’t mind working a sixteen-hour day if I had something better than a trouser press to welcome me home.’
‘You’re missing a man in your life. Like Damen Brook, maybe.’ Grant stared at him. Hudson laughed. ‘Come on. Don’t pretend you haven’t softened towards him big time. La-ura.’
Grant refilled her coffee cup and took a sip. ‘Okay, guv. He’s not what I expected. There’s something … sad and gentle about him. And he didn’t kill the Inghams, I’m with you there.’
‘And Harvey-Ellis?’
Grant considered for a couple of minutes. ‘I’m less sure than I was.’ She decided against telling her boss about Brook’s invitation to his cottage. Hudson was a true dinosaur and wouldn’t view it as a chance to get closer, as she did. ‘We’ll see where the evidence takes us but you’re right about something else, guv.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Catching The Reaper is the bigger prize.’
Brook was also up early to see Noble before the morning briefing. He handed over an evidence bag.
‘A
beer bottle? Where’s that from?’ Brook didn’t answer and Noble understood the look. ‘What do you need?’
‘You remember the US fingerprint database?’
‘IAFIS?’
‘Did you check the print on the phone against it?’ ‘Still going through channels.’
‘Here’s a shortcut. There’s a set of prints on the bottle. Compare them with the print on the phone. There should be plenty for comparison and …er, there may also be some of mine.’
Noble eyed him, thin-lipped. ‘Any other news? Besides you going out on the town with The Reaper?’
Brook emitted a one-note laugh but Noble wasn’t to be placated. ‘Even if they’re not a match, I want all the details you can get about their owner. Cases he worked, partners he worked with, places…’
‘Hang on. You already know whose prints they are?’
Brook sighed and looked around the briefing room. He led Noble out by the arm. ‘Look, I know it’s irregular but I have good reason.’ Noble did not move, maintaining a deadpan face. ‘He’s a retired FBI agent from California. He’s renting the cottage next to mine for the winter.’ Still no reaction from Noble. ‘Okay. Victor Sorenson lived in California when…’
‘I remember him. Apparently he was the chief suspect in The Reaper Inquiry, wasn’t he?’
Brook paused. He led Noble further from the briefing, which was now due to start. ‘I deserve this, John. You’ve every right. I never told you about Sorenson because…’
‘Because … ?’ Noble lifted his eyebrows to turn the screw.
‘Here’s the thing. He moved to California after the Leeds killings in ′93. Business reasons. I know he lived in Los Angeles and also had a house on the edge of Lake Tahoe. He told me he continued his work in America. His work – that’s what he called it. I didn’t see him again until the Wallis investigation when I went to London, to satisfy myself that he couldn’t be The Reaper.’
‘And did you? Satisfy yourself?’
Noble wasn’t making this easy. Brook was unsure now how to continue. He settled for, ‘He was very frail. He had terminal cancer.’ Brook barely glanced at Noble, hoping he’d said enough.
