by Steven Dunne
‘And so?’
‘And so ever since the Wallis investigation I’ve been … surfing the net’ – Noble couldn’t resist a grin at Brook’s awkwardness with the language – ‘to find cases in the US that might have a connection with Sorenson. So far without luck.’
‘You’ve Googled Twilight Sleep?’
‘…and scopolamine and Victor Sorenson and “SAVED”. I’ve tried everything, John. Nothing.’
‘And now?’
‘And now, I don’t know. I start getting emails from a dead man. Then a retired FBI agent from California moves next door to me and another family is slaughtered – coincidence? I don’t think so. He’s also written a book, The Ghost Road Killers, about a serial killing he investigated near Lake Tahoe. Where Sorenson lived.’
‘You should get a copy.’
‘He gave me one. There’s something else. I saw him in the crowd at the Ingham crime scene.’
Noble nodded finally. ‘I’ll get onto it straight after briefing.’ They turned to go back into the Incident Room. ‘I doubt you’ll find Twilight Sleep mentioned in the US by the way.’
‘Oh?’
‘The phrase was coined by the British in the First World War in the battlefield trenches.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m a professional detective,’ said Noble, a grin forming. Brook pursed his lips in mock annoyance. ‘And did you Google the American names for scopolamine?’
McQuarry caught up with the Toyota and they dutifully followed Sorenson back to his home. At twenty minutes past midnight Sorenson turned back into his driveway and activated the electric gate.
McQuarry looked at Drexler and shook her head. ‘What the fuck? What a royal waste of time. I’m heading back, Mike.’
‘You don’t think we should do another hour?’
‘I don’t think we should do another minute.’
Drexler looked over at her. She seemed exhausted. ‘Okay. Let’s call it a night.’
They travelled in silence for ten minutes until Drexler broke it. ‘What do you think about the Golden Nugget? Weird or what?’
McQuarry put a hand up to her face and rubbed her eyes.
‘Mike, right now I don’t give a fuck if he’s planning to kill Clinton, I’m going back to our motel, having a swim and a couple of Jacks and grabbing some shuteye. I’ve had it and so have you.’
‘I think he’s setting it all up, Ed. He times the journey and books all the rooms at the motel, so he’s unlikely to get disturbed. He scopes out the cabin farthest from the office…’
‘So what, Mike? Who cares?’ McQuarry snapped. A moment later she sighed. ‘We can’t keep doing this.’
‘But if we…’
‘No, Mike. Tomorrow I’m going to get up round ten o’clock and have some waffles then I’m going to pack my bags and drive up to Markleeville and shake Andy Dupree’s hand. Then I’m heading home.’
‘We’re giving this up?’
‘Hell yes, we’re giving this up. We’ve been out here for nearly two months, Mike. The Ghost Road Killers are in the ground, the paperwork’s done, we’ve been up Sorenson’s ass for nearly a month and, even assuming he killed Caleb and Billy Ashwell, we got precisely buttkiss for evidence. We can’t get a search warrant and we got no PC…’
‘Who needs probable cause? You know he did it.’
McQuarry sighed. ‘Know what, Mike? Even if I did know, I’m caring less and less…’
‘Don’t you care about Sorenson’s arrogance, that he wanted us to know…?’
‘No. Because, you know what, the reason he wanted us to know was so we could tie ourselves in knots, exactly like we’re doing. As far as proof is concerned, Mike, he’s squeaky clean. And if he’s lining up another lowlife like Ashwell to put in the ground then I might just be chipping in for a medal with Andy. Now I’m the lead in this and I’m telling you, it’s out of juice.’
Drexler nodded and was silent for several minutes as McQuarry drove back to the motel. ‘Suit yourself. I’ve got some vacation time coming up.’
McQuarry looked across at him in disbelief. She was about to speak, then thought better of it.
The briefing was a short affair consisting primarily of a discussion about whether it was feasible to DNA-test every adult male in Derby. Genetic material had been obtained from the fence panel but, as with the partial print, it had produced no matches from the database. Everything else had been done.
The Forensics teams had been at breaking point with three separate houses to process. The Wallis house had produced exhibits but no leads. The rope, the old mannequin, the wine bottle and glasses carried no prints, DNA or saliva. The old mattress contained about a dozen samples of DNA, which was not surprising in a derelict house. All were too degraded for sampling, suggesting they’d been deposited a long time before the Ingham murders. Other artefacts from the Wallis house had also yielded nothing.
In the North house Forensic officers were still working, but the house had been kept scrupulously clean by the killers. The tyre track found in the backyard was from a very common twenty-six-inch tyre available at hundreds of outlets nationwide. Its size and width suggested a tyre for a standard-sized mountain bike. The set of keys used to gain entry to the house hadn’t been found and searches of the surrounding area had produced nothing.
In the Ingham house only DNA material and fingerprints belonging to the victims had been collected. The footprints issue was no clearer: maybe sports shoes had been worn, maybe the prints showed two pairs of feet – one size 7 and one size 9. The fact that protective overshoes could have created prints of both sizes from one suspect further confused the issue.
The Family Liaison Officer, DC Keys, went through the background of both Ingham boys, Ben Anderson and David Gretton again. Although no angels, nothing they had ever done seemed sufficient cause to provoke such violence against them. However, the unsubstantiated allegations about the murder of Annie Sewell were still pending, as all Scientific Support services were critically overstretched.
As far as other relatives were concerned, most members of both families had given each other alibis, not surprisingly, given the time of day their sons/nephews had been killed. Nevertheless they had been printed and swabbed after assurance from Chief Superintendent Charlton that their samples would be destroyed after comparison and they were in the clear.
The final item for the briefing was the assault – the happy slapping – of the Asian boy. He still hadn’t come forward and it was decided to release the photograph for the Derby Telegraph front page. A television appeal had been mooted by Charlton but, as the incident may have had nothing to do with the eventual murders, it was deemed excessive for the time being.
After the briefing, Hudson and Brook decided that senior detectives should meet to determine future actions, so they gathered in Hudson’s borrowed office with the four detective sergeants. It was still early and Gadd, Morton, Grant, Noble and Hudson all grabbed a coffee before traipsing into Hudson’s temporary office
‘Okay, people. Leads are going nowhere and things are starting to peter out. Any suggestions?’ asked Hudson. ‘Damen, I assume you’ve reached this point in a Reaper inquiry before. What now?’
‘We do the only thing we can do. Get back on the doorsteps. The good news is that learning about the time spent by the killers in preparation at the North house means we’ve got different questions and a different time frame to ask about. Even if the killers snuck in and out of there at night, someone may have seen them. We get onto the utilities, paper boys, postmen – anybody who might have had business there in the two weeks previous. See if they noticed anything. Also get back to the local taxi firms. Mrs North didn’t walk to the airport. If that was part of the prize, one of our suspects may have arranged it in person.’ Hudson motioned Morton to make a note while Brook continued.
‘We show the pictures of the assault. Maybe someone knows the victim. We know when but someone else might know where it happened. And
remember, the lad is not a suspect but a witness at this stage. We have to stress that – possibly why he hasn’t come forward before now. Also, we talk to Jason again. He’s seen one of these men. And, no matter his condition, we may get a better description.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ added Hudson. ‘There’s still life in this then.’
‘We’re in better shape than the Wallis investigation. If we can identify a suspect at least we can prove it one way or the other.’
‘Didn’t you have any suspects at all apart from Victor Sorenson?’ asked Grant.
‘We worked on the theory that Jason’s sexual assault of his teacher caught The Reaper’s eye,’ said Noble. ‘So we interviewed her and her husband. But that was it.’
Brook nodded. ‘It did cross our minds briefly that John Ottoman could have done it. He was Kylie Wallis’s primary school teacher; he had motive and the necessary intelligence.’
‘We should at least have another talk with them,’ nodded Noble.
‘Agreed,’ said Hudson.
‘I think John and I should do it,’ said Brook. ‘Familiar faces,’ he said to Grant, who shrugged. ‘We’ll do it to tick it off, but they’re not involved.’
‘You’re very sure.’
‘Jason Wallis survived. His sister Kylie died. Ottoman would have had that the other way round.’
‘It could be he panicked,’ offered DS Gadd.
Brook rubbed his hand over his face. ‘I don’t think panic is in The Reaper’s lexicon, Jane. We’ve got to understand. The Reaper slayings are not ordinary crimes. The MO is unique. Motiveless, cold-blooded, multiple executions are usually the stuff of organised crime. But even a gangland hit is carried out with some venom, because it has to send a message to others. And killing children rarely sends the right message. There’s just no profile that fits what The Reaper does. Finding a suspect on that basis has proved impossible.’
‘But you found Sorenson. He fitted the profile,’ said Hudson.
‘Yes and no. He found me and he virtually had to tell me he was The Reaper to keep me on the hook.’
‘But you don’t think he killed the Wallis family two years ago?’ asked Noble.
Brook looked over at him. ‘Sorenson was dying of cancer when Jason’s family were killed. At the time, yes, I thought it was possible he might have stretched himself for one last hurrah … but you know what? Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just set it up or maybe he had help. Two Reapers. That tallies with our thinking on the Inghams. Two killers, not one. The only question now is…’
‘Who stepped into Sorenson’s shoes?’ nodded Grant.
Mike Drexler pulled his Audi A6 out of the parking lot of the Lakeside Motel and drove west on US 50, feeling refreshed after his shower. He looked out over Tahoe as the wind ruffled the waters. No boats were out this morning; summer was long gone. Squally snow drove across the water, up the stony beach and swirled around the exposed highway. In two weeks the ski season would start and Drexler’s motel would be fully occupied. For now he was the only resident and had the best apartment with a view of the deserted lake. It cost him sixty-nine dollars a night but what the hell, he was on vacation.
He smiled and looked in the driver’s mirror. The bags under his eyes told their own tale. He’d been at the motel three nights already, but the bed had still not been slept in.
When Drexler reached the intersection he turned onto 89 but, instead of heading west for Sorenson’s house, he turned south towards the airport. An hour later he reached the gas station and parked. He took out his new camera and wandered up the path at the back of the station to take pictures of the saplings he’d noticed during his nocturnal search of the cabin.
He wasn’t the only visitor. Any car that passed the station made a point of stopping. Sometimes the people wouldn’t get out but just talk and point at the decaying slab of a building. Other times the occupants would get out for a few minutes to take pictures. They rarely moved too far from the car though, and never turned off their engines.
Half an hour later Drexler shook hands with Andy Dupree at the Police Department building in Markleeville.
‘Good to see you, Mike,’ said Dupree, holding onto Drexler’s hand long enough to keep his attention. ‘Vacation, you said? I sure hope this one’s not under your skin, amigo.’ Drexler just smiled in response. ‘Like the lady said, it’s squared away. Save your ulcers for the deserving.’
‘The Ashwell deaths are unsolved, Andy.’ Dupree shook his head, then gestured Drexler into the building. ‘Any trace of Ashwell’s brother yet?’
‘Not a one. Guess he knows what’s waiting if he puts his head above the trench.’
‘Any other developments?’
‘Nothing. ’Cept this one here.’
The wind had freshened by midmorning and officers were hunched against the spitting, driving rain. The streets around Drayfin weren’t nearly as full of police vehicles as they had been on previous days, but this morning the pavements were well lined with officers asking the questions about the North house that had been generated by inquiries so far.
Brook and Grant were coordinating visits on Mrs North’s side of the block while Hudson and Noble banged on doors on the Wallis/Ingham side. Noble and Hudson approached a house eight doors away from the Ingham house and Noble’s knock was greeted by a pretty young Asian girl in an orange sari. ‘Sorry to bother you, Miss…’
‘Dhoni. And it’s Mrs Dhoni as of two weeks ago,’ she said with an air of something close to disbelief. ‘Mrs Dhoni.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Hudson, smiling.
‘You’ve come about the pictures, have you, officers?’
Hudson and Noble looked at each other. ‘Er, yes,’ nodded Noble with more confidence than he felt. ‘The pictures.’
‘Well, we knew you’d be along for them sooner or later, as soon as you found out about the wedding. I would have brought them in myself but I’ve had quite a job collecting them from everyone. Now they’re digital, so would you like them on a memory stick or should I just email them somewhere?’
‘Depends how many there are, Miss…’
‘Mrs Dhoni,’ she giggled. ‘At least three hundred. Some are just family portraits but there are plenty of others that show the houses.’
‘Houses?’
‘Yes. The Ingham house and the Wallis house beyond. Where all those people were killed. Horrible people. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but to have a wedding reception and have to listen to the abuse from those … animals. But we have our duty to do. My grandparents would be livid if we didn’t help. They came to this country to be full citizens and … well, you know.’
‘Yes, we do know, Mrs Dhoni,’ beamed Inspector Hudson, ‘and a memory stick would be great if you can spare it.’
‘I’ll just go and get it.’ She returned and handed it to Noble. She hesitated for a second. ‘You know, I’ve got to say. Over the last two years, nine people have been murdered in houses that we can see from our back garden. But the funny thing is we’ve never felt safer than this last week. My husband and I have done our duty but, honestly,’ she paused over the words, ‘I hope you don’t catch him.’
* * *
Brook stood in Mrs North’s back bedroom looking out over the Ingham yard. The room was tiny, but still fussily furnished and the smell of damp was a background note that a pensioner with dwindling senses might not detect. The view over the killing ground was stunning, however, and details in several rooms of the Ingham household were easily visible.
Brook sat on the mattress, the sheets having been removed for fruitless tests, seeking a good viewing position. When he had settled on the best spot, he began to look around to see if anything had been missed. He was about to return to Grant in the kitchen when he spotted something on the floor, underneath the curtain. He kneeled down to pull the curtain aside then rubbed a finger over the carpet. There was a small indentation on the fabric, as though something had been placed there over a period of time. He pushed the
bed back a few feet and stroked the carpet in wide sweeps with his hands. He found two other small indentations.
‘Say cheese.’
He returned the bed to its proper position and trotted back down to the kitchen. ‘I think they had some kind of tripod set up in the back bedroom.’
‘What for?’
‘Hard to tell. Binoculars maybe? Though my money would be on a camera. I think if I were The New Reaper I might want some souvenirs.’ Brook looked at his watch. ‘Must be nearly time.’
Grant nodded and stepped outside. Brook was about to follow when something began to nag at him. He looked around the kitchen, trying to draw it out, but failed and followed Grant to the front gate.
A few doors down, the postman was talking to a uniformed constable who pointed towards the two CID officers. The postman nodded and walked towards them, smiling. A few yards away, he put up a single digit and jogged down the path of a neighbouring house and out of sight.
‘Cheeky sod,’ said Grant. ‘We should have asked him down to the station.’
Brook smiled at her. ‘Patience, Laura. If he’s got anything for us he’ll remember it better on location.’
When he re-emerged, the postman jogged towards them, panting. He was about forty, thin with long bleached blond hair and an unnatural tan. He sported LOVE and HATE tattoos on each hand and wore frayed denim shorts, despite the winter bite. The ear studs augmented the impression of a self-appointed ladies’ man. ‘Sorry to keep you,’ he said. ‘Bad luck to retrace your steps.’
‘How unlucky is it to get arrested for wasting police time?’ asked Grant.
‘I said I was sorry. I’m here, aren’t I?’ the postman countered.
‘DS Grant’s just pulling your leg, Mr…’ said Brook.
‘Blake, but just call me Tommy,’ he grinned.
‘Tommy. You know why we’re here?’
‘Those murders obviously.’
