The Disciple

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Terrible. Those Ingham boys were right rogues, no two ways, but they were good kids deep down. And their mother…’ A private grin invaded his features, in spite of his attempts to suppress it. ‘Well, enough said.’ Grant’s stony gaze wiped the grin from Tommy’s face. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Simple,’ said Brook. ‘We want to know if you’ve seen anyone in and around Mrs North’s house since she’s been away. That’s up to two weeks before the murders happened.’

  ‘Mrs N’s. No, I can’t say I have. I mean, I knew she was going away, she told me. I like to keep a lookout for people, you know, sift out all the flyers and junk, so callers don’t realise the house is empty. All part of the service, mind – though it don’t hurt round Christmas,’ he added with a wink. ‘But Mrs N had some people looking after the place so the mail didn’t pile up.’

  ‘People?’ repeated Grant. ‘Did you see any of these people?’

  ‘You know, not once.’

  ‘Okay, thanks anyway.’

  ‘She’s back in a few weeks. She can tell you herself. Six people.’ Blake shook his head. ‘She’s got a shock coming when she rolls up in that car.’

  ‘Car? What car?’

  ‘The car that picked her up. It weren’t no taxi. I assumed it was a relative.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  ‘Well, early on that Saturday. I was on my way to work. It would’ve been before six in the morning.’

  ‘How do you know it wasn’t a cab?’

  ‘I didn’t see any licence or nothing. And if the driver ain’t a…’ Grant raised an eyebrow ‘…an Asian.’ He shrugged. ‘It just looked like a private car,’ he finished, looking at the ground.

  ‘What kind of car?’

  ‘It was dark. I’m not Jeremy Clarkson, you know. More of a Harley man myself,’ he sniffed, glancing at Grant to see if she was impressed.

  ‘Think. What about colour?’

  ‘Black, I think. Or dark blue.’

  ‘And you couldn’t have a guess at make and model?’

  ‘A saloon. If I had to guess, I’d say foreign.’

  ‘BMW?’ asked Grant. Brook gave her a sidelong glance.

  ‘Maybe. No. I don’t know. Something powerful.’

  ‘And the driver was white?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Not only that…’

  Brook and Grant marched into Hudson’s temporary office. He and Noble were having a lunchtime sandwich and staring intently at the monitor of a laptop. Before Brook or Grant could get a word in, Hudson grinned up at them. ‘We’ve caught a break. We’ve got photographs of the North house the week before the killings. We may have one of our doers on film and you’ll never guess…’

  Brook’s expression never wavered. ‘Is it a woman by any chance?’

  Hudson’s grin faded but Noble managed a smile. ‘We think so. How did you know?’

  ‘Postman Pratt saw Mrs North getting picked up by a car,’ said Grant. ‘He said he thought the driver was a woman.’

  ‘Any description?’

  ‘He only got a glimpse. He got as far as petite, then he saw she was older than him and stopped looking.’

  ‘He and Laura hit it right off,’ said Brook.

  Hudson smiled and turned the laptop round to them. Brook and Grant leaned into the monitor. The happy smiles of the wedding party took up most of the screen but there in the background was the North house. And, just as clearly, there was a figure in the back bedroom window, sitting on the bed in the exact same position Brook had been sitting earlier that morning. The face was a ghostly blur but it was possible to discern medium-length grey hair parted in the middle and a Caucasian face. The figure was turned towards the Ingham house, oblivious to the festivities taking place in the neighbouring garden.

  ‘It’s not very clear,’ said Grant. ‘I don’t know how you conclude that’s a woman. The hair maybe.’

  ‘Can we get the boffins on to it? Get it cleaned up.’

  ‘Just where we were going,’ said Hudson. ‘There’s something else.’ He clicked through several pictures and stopped at one, then turned the monitor back to Brook and Grant. Behind the brightly clothed revellers, sitting astride the shiplap fence, a young boy was clearly visible, mouth open to shout something and holding two fingers aloft to the photographer.

  ‘D’Wayne Ingham in all his glory,’ said Brook.

  ‘And getting maximum use of his fingers while he still could,’ observed Grant, inducing a round of bleak laughs.

  ‘And this one.’ The angle was slightly different but D’Wayne Ingham was still on the fence, looking not at the party but down into the backyard of Mrs North’s property. Hudson picked up a pencil and indicated a partially obscured round shape. ‘Could that be the barbecue?’ Brook nodded. ‘And this was taken three hours later.’ Several clicks stopped at an ensemble picture, which the photographer had obviously taken from a first-floor window. All the revellers stood in their vivid finery, waving happily to the camera. Hudson’s pencil indicated what could only be the Weber barbecue, but this time it was sitting up against the back wall of the Ingham house.

  Hudson leaned back on his chair, hands behind his head. ‘So, a middle-aged woman. Do we know any middle-aged women connected to the inquiry, Damen?’

  Brook and Noble headed for the car park. As they passed Brook’s office, Noble nodded towards a manila folder on the desk.

  ‘Michael Drexler, FBI. Sounds like an interesting guy.’ Brook picked up the folder and looked up at Noble. Noble shook his head. ‘No. The prints on the bottle don’t match the print on Jason’s phone.’

  Brook nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks, John.’

  ‘Did you expect they would?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He smiled at Noble. ‘But, honestly, I’m pleased they don’t. And you’re right. He is an interesting guy.’ But, he had to admit, so was Sorenson.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jeff.’ Drexler shook the young man’s hand but stole a look at Sheriff Dupree, who returned it with an inscrutable shrug.

  ‘It’s okay, Special Agent,’ said Jeff. ‘I know I look young to be doing this.’

  ‘You look like you should be surfing in Hawaii,’ smiled Drexler, examining his bleach-blond curls and designer stubble.

  ‘My fee today will get me some of the way,’ he laughed. ‘My sister was born deaf so, although I’m only twenty-eight, I’ve been around this most of my life.’

  ‘Okay,’ nodded Drexler.

  They turned into an office and Jeff continued. ‘I’ve had a couple of runs through it and I’ve got to say there doesn’t seem an awful lot there of interest. The guy buys ten dollars’ worth of gas and that’s pretty much it.’

  ‘Then you get an easy paycheck, son,’ said Dupree. ‘You sure it was ten dollars?’

  ‘No question,’ replied Jeff.

  ‘Mmmm.’

  ‘Is that significant, Andy?’ asked Drexler.

  ‘You can’t fill an empty tank with ten bucks’ worth of gas, Mike. Know what I think? I think Mr Sorenson stopped at every station on the way to Tahoe.’

  Drexler nodded. ‘So it was no accident he happened to stop at Caleb’s. Why?’

  ‘Because he didn’t know who killed George Bailey. He took a stab at what might have happened and went out there looking until he got the vibe.’

  ‘The hunter hunting – could be. At least now we know he’s not superhuman.’

  ‘I already knew that, Mike.’

  They sat down at a large monitor and Jeff took up a sheaf of notes. The CCTV footage of Sorenson entering the Ashwells’ gas station flickered onto the screen. ‘Okay, the guy called Caleb is welcoming him to Alpine County and telling him his name. Pretty friendly. The bald man says “Evening”, and asks if he’s on the road to Markleeville. Caleb says yes, you’re on 89 and asks where he’s headed. Then he tries to get the customer’s name. Caleb calls him Mister and waits for the customer to fill in the blank. You can see the guy thinking about it. Then he repli
es and says he’s headed for South Lake Tahoe.’

  ‘What does he say his name is?’

  ‘It’s very short. I made a list of possibles.’

  ‘His real name is Sorenson,’ said Drexler. ‘Victor Sorenson.’

  Jeff shook his head. ‘That’s not what he said. It’s one syllable.’

  ‘And what do you think it is?’

  Jeff stopped the film and reversed over it two or three times. ‘See how abrupt he is. It begins with a B or P.’

  ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘I think it’s Brook.’

  Brook looked around the garden of the Ottoman house, then back at Noble who hadn’t been there for two years. Back then they’d admired the care and effort that had gone into the lawn, the path and even the condition of the gate which had once opened smoothly and without noise. But now, Noble and Brook were required to scrape the gate along the ground to gain access to the weed-encrusted, flagged path.

  ‘It’s hard to believe,’ said Noble.

  ‘That’s what being a victim does to you, John.’

  There were further signs of decay. The fence had several missing and rotted pickets, and the paint on doors and windows was peeling. At one time a punctilious and well-ordered couple, the Ottomans it seemed, had succumbed to the traumas of victimhood. Brook had seen it all too often. Denise Ottoman couldn’t be the woman in Mrs North’s house. He doubted she had the courage to leave her own.

  He walked across to the garage, looking for either of the two cars he remembered they owned, but it was empty. He looked towards the house. All the curtains were drawn. Either the Ottomans were away or they wanted to give that impression.

  Noble stood on the step and rapped on the door again, then shrugged at Brook, who signalled him away.

  ‘Let’s try the school.’

  The headteacher of Drayfin Primary, Mrs Grace, seemed very tight-lipped about John Ottoman’s absence. ‘I don’t know what more I can tell you, Inspector. John rang me on Monday morning to tell me, not ask, tell me he wouldn’t be in and was taking a fortnight’s leave. His wife…’ She waved her hand in the air.

  ‘Denise, yes, we know what happened.’

  ‘Of course. But it was two years ago for goodness’ sake. I suppose this latest … it’s brought it all back, what with Jason Wallis being involved again.’

  ‘It would,’ nodded Brook.

  ‘The little sod,’ she whispered under her breath. Brook and Noble were both taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, but we had the little angel here before he went off to spray his scent over the secondary school. There ought to be retrospective abortions for some children, Inspector. I shouldn’t say that, I know. But no matter what you do, there’s a minority that are irredeemable. And to think he’ll soon be starting a family of his own. We had D’Wayne Ingham here too and, honestly, he made Jason look like Martin Luther King. He was due back in from suspension this week. You should see his tutor now D’Wayne’s … you know, gone. She’s walking on air.’

  ‘So Mr Ottoman was here on the Friday and rang in on the Monday; you didn’t speak to him face to face?’

  ‘Oh, no, he telephoned. Didn’t want to see my reaction, I expect. And I can tell you something else. I think he was already a long way away.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Long distance. You can just tell, can’t you? All the noises on the line. He couldn’t ask me in person, could he?’

  ‘What teacher would take a leave of absence and go away in term time?’ asked Noble, manoeuvring the car out through the primary school gates and ignoring the five mile an hour speed limit.

  ‘One who wants to get his wife away from Jason Wallis’s picture in the paper, I guess. It can’t be easy having to face what happened all over again. But you’re right. It doesn’t look good. The Inghams are killed in the early hours of Sunday morning…’

  ‘…and the Ottomans are gone by the Monday. Maybe sooner. The headteacher was less than supportive.’

  Brook glanced across. ‘Know any management that are ever happy when you’re ill? I had the same thing in the Met after my problems. The first thing Brass does when you go on long-term sick is mark the calendar when they can put you on half-pay. It’s all about budgets.’

  Noble was heading the car back to the Drayfin Estate when Brook received a call from Grant. It was a rare occurrence and Brook, under Noble’s amused gaze, managed to locate the answer button without disconnecting.

  ‘Hello?’ Brook listened for a moment then rang off with a massive depression of the thumb.

  ‘DS Grant. Head back to St Mary’s.’

  The man draped his arm around his son to comfort him, but the boy stared ahead, terrified. ‘Ravi. You must tell the police.’

  The boy’s eyes began to fill again and he started to sob. Unable to close his mouth properly because of the large plaster over his cheek, the boy dribbled as he cried. His voice turned to a high-pitched wail, ‘They said not to tell no one or else.’ He turned and buried his head in his father’s chest.

  His father pulled him away and forced eye contact. ‘Ravi, they’re all dead.’ Mr Singh’s choice of words provoked a glance between Grant and Brook. ‘They can’t hurt you no more. Now tell the police.’

  ‘Have another drink, Ravi,’ soothed Grant, easing an opened can of Fanta towards the boy. ‘The sugar will make you feel better. You can tell us everything. Your dad’s right. They can’t hurt you.’

  The boy reached obediently for the soda and took a large swallow, before looking up at Brook and Grant through red-rimmed eyes. ‘One of ’em’s still about though. Him in the papers. Jason.’

  ‘Tell us what he did and we’ll make sure he’s put away, Ravi,’ said Brook.

  ‘He din’t do much. It were the other three. He kept lookout.’ ‘Tell us,’ said Grant softly.

  After a deep breath, Ravi said, ‘I were off home and it were getting dark. I stayed out too long…’

  ‘You know not to go across the Drayfin, Ravi, you’ve been chased before…’ said his father.

  ‘Please, Mr Singh. Let Ravi tell us.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Grant nodded encouragement and Ravi continued. ‘I came back across the Drayfin and they saw me. They chased me.’

  ‘For the tape, Ravi, by “they” you mean Stephen Ingham, Benjamin Anderson, David Gretton, as well as Jason Wallis?’

  Ravi nodded so Grant gestured with her arm. ‘Yes,’ he said at the prompt.

  ‘And where did they catch up with you?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Near the field, before the bridge.’ His lip started to wobble. ‘They just started booting me, takin’ it in turns, while the others took pictures, innit? Then that big one called Stinger…’

  ‘Stephen Ingham.’

  ‘Yeah. He told ’em to hold me down. The other two of ’em did. Then he did this.’ His eyes began to water as he gestured at his cheek and he put his hands to his face. ‘I screamed…’

  ‘Was Jason Wallis holding you down?’

  ‘No, he were keeping lookout, like I said. I think he were embarrassed, he couldn’t look at me…’

  ‘Why was he embarrassed?’ asked Brook.

  ‘’Cos he knew me. I used to go round with his sister at the primary.’

  ‘His sister Kylie?’

  ‘S’right.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, then that bloke shouted for them to stop…’

  ‘Bloke?’ said Brook and Grant in unison.

  ‘Yeah, that teacher.’

  ‘What teacher?’

  ‘I didn’t recognise him at first, all dressed in black like that.’

  ‘You knew him?’ said Brook.

  ‘Yeah, I used to go to primary like I said. He were a teacher there. I can’t remember his name ’cos I never had him.’

  ‘John Ottoman,’ said Brook softly.

  ‘That’s it. Mr Ottoman. If it hadn’t been for him…’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jason Wallis woke early the next
morning from a deep sleep. He sat up with a controlled sigh and yawned. He flicked on his mobile: just gone seven. He sprang out of bed and dressed in his new tracksuit and running shoes before tiptoeing downstairs. For the second night in a row, he had no need to shift his chest of drawers from behind his door.

  He downed a glass of orange juice and pulled on a woollen hat, also new, before leaving the house. He broke into a slight jog as he headed down towards the bridges, taking the same route he had when fleeing The Reaper the day after his release. This was his second early morning and his lungs weren’t quite as bad as yesterday, though he still required frequent stops. His head felt clear after three nights without booze and tobacco.

  When he reached the towpath he actually broke into a sprint for about fifty yards, finally giving in to the stabbing pains and stopping to hack up the noxious sludge lining his throat and lungs. When his pulse returned to normal he set off again, this time managing a longer stint that took him all the way to the weir, near which he’d once cowered in terror from The Reaper.

  Jason smiled. The old me. He set off again, following the same path to Elvaston Castle that he had on that fateful night of terror, the night he’d finally had to face his demons, the night he’d begged The Reaper for his life, sobbing like a girl. He eased to a halt at the very spot his bowels and bladder had opened, the place where the seed of the new man had been planted. He looked around in the pale dawn light enjoying the blood pumping through his heart. He was on holy ground. He’d been resurrected here, had seen the light or heard the voice; however you put it. He was alive, his friends and family were dead. He was a survivor. He must be doing something right.

  No more dreams. No more weakness. The weak died. To be a victim was to live in fear of the death that sought you out. Cowards die many times. Jason Wallis was no coward. He’d faced The Reaper time and time again and still he was here. If The Reaper couldn’t kill him, who could? He smiled and set off jogging back to Borrowash.