The Disciple

by Steven Dunne

  Five minutes later Brook removed keys from his pocket and opened the side door of Mrs North’s house. It opened directly into the kitchen in which Brook had previously stood, trying to turn a nagging feeling into a solid fact. Brook opened her fridge. It was empty and spotlessly clean.

  This time Brook opened the small freezer compartment. It took some doing as it was frozen solid. When he finally did manage to prise open the flap, the tiny space contained what could have been a tray of ice cubes. There was no room for anything else. There could be no doubt. Nothing had been stored in that compartment for months, if not years.

  Whoever had committed murder at the Ingham house had prepared long in advance, had bought meat long before it was needed and stored it, then defrosted it before offering it up to the Inghams. To do so they’d need access to a freezer. But where?

  Drexler’s eyes had not left the office door all the time that Sorenson had been inside the office. McQuarry had readied her night-vision field glasses and was scanning the surrounding area for any activity. There was none.

  When Sorenson re-emerged he returned to the Toyota and drove it across the lot to the farthest darkest corner, parking outside the end cabin. When the vehicle’s lights went out, Drexler found it hard to see what Sorenson was doing and nudged McQuarry for a look through the field glasses, an instruction that she ignored. Eventually the driver’s door opened and Sorenson stepped out of the vehicle, framed by the safety light, and opened the rear door.

  ‘There’s somebody else with him,’ said McQuarry.

  ‘There can’t be. We’d have seen.’ Drexler squinted across the ground. He saw a figure emerge from the rear of the car and close the door behind, extinguishing all light again. ‘You’re right. There are two of them.’

  ‘There must have been someone hiding in the back seat,’ said McQuarry.

  ‘Could it be a hostage or another victim? Drugged maybe.’

  ‘Can’t see any signs of it, Mike.’

  ‘Then maybe it’s an accomplice.’ Drexler thought for a second. ‘Maybe there are two Reapers.’

  McQuarry lowered the glasses and looked over at him. ‘You might be right.’

  There was silence apart from intermittent gusts of wind. The car park was empty. Even the highway was near deserted. ‘What can you see?’ asked Drexler, laying his hand on McQuarry’s shoulder. The tension had pitched his voice a semitone higher.

  ‘See for yourself,’ she said, nodding towards the cabin.

  At that moment the door opened and Drexler was able to see Sorenson illuminated against the bright room. The other person was already inside, carrying something in either hand. Maybe a small case. Drexler didn’t get a look as Sorenson closed the door behind him.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Drexler, a wave of frustration washing over him. He looked across at McQuarry’s arched eyebrow as she removed her binoculars.

  ‘We wait.’

  Drexler opened the door. ‘I’m going in. He could be slaughtering someone as we speak…’

  ‘Mike! We wait,’ insisted McQuarry.

  After a few seconds’ hesitation, Drexler pulled the door closed.

  As Brook switched on the computer back in the Incident Room, a sense of dread began to overtake him. Two years ago The Reaper had murdered the Wallis family. The preparations were thorough and Brook had concluded that Sorenson must have spent time in the area. But, try as they might, they’d never discovered where the killer might have stayed. They’d scoured the local hotels and B&Bs but found no trace.

  Eventually Brook had concluded that Sorenson had probably stayed somewhere out of town. After Brook was suspended from the inquiry, the question hadn’t been pursued and certainly had never been answered. But now the knot in Brook’s stomach was telling him that Sorenson had property in Derby. Rented or otherwise, it would explain so much about the preparations for both Reaper killings in the city.

  He started with estate agents, listing then emailing all those he could find on the internet. He asked about rentals and purchases pertaining to the name Sorenson. Then he noted down as many telephone numbers as he could find for follow-up in the morning.

  But two years ago Sorenson had been using a false identity. He’d shown a driver’s licence in the name of Peter Hera when hiring a van to deliver pizzas to the Wallis home. So Brook emailed the estate agents, again asking the same question but with the new name.

  Brook had an idea. If a property had been purchased before the Wallis murders, the name might have found its way onto the voters’ register. He searched for the electoral roll and fed the same two names into the search bar. Nothing. As usual, Sorenson wasn’t making things easy for him.

  He tried again, this time using Drexler’s name. Still nothing. Disheartened, he turned the computer off. He got up to go but found Chief Superintendent Charlton blocking the doorway.

  ‘Sergeant Hendrickson said you were here.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was just on my way to see you, sir.’

  ‘I’ll bet you were – despite being too busy to answer your phone.’

  ‘Have you been ringing me, sir? It’s been out of order for some time.’

  Charlton eyed him with studied contempt. ‘Modern policing is all about communication, Brook, but I can see I’m not getting through to you.’

  Brook noted the absence of his title and tried not to smile. ‘Sir?’

  Charlton looked up at Brook, trying to inject some swagger into his voice. ‘I suppose you’ve heard by now.’ Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘The Ottomans were arrested in France this evening. They’ll be on a flight to East Midlands Airport tomorrow afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass that titbit on to Brian Burton, no matter how many drinks he offers you.’

  Brook stiffened. He could hold his hand up to mistakes, but corruption was a different matter and for a second he wondered whether to put Charlton on the floor. It passed swiftly but Charlton must have detected the change in Brook’s demeanour because his manner became hesitant.

  ‘Well. Suffice to say you’re not going to be involved with the case any further. Take a week off. Don’t come to the Incident Room again. Don’t talk to other officers on the inquiry. Clear?’

  Brook nodded, declining to speak. His placid response stirred Charlton’s superiority complex once more and his lip curled. ‘You know, I was warned about you, Brook. There’s no future for your kind in the Force, certainly not in a division I’m running. Think on that.’ He turned smartly on his heel.

  ‘Where were the Ottomans arrested, sir?’

  Charlton half turned. ‘In Paris – they were spotted in an Irish pub by some ex-pats.’ Brook couldn’t suppress his amusement this time. ‘Something funny?’

  ‘An Irish pub,’ Brook nodded. ‘Right. If I was a hunted serial killer, that’s where I’d go.’

  Twenty minutes later, the door to the cabin opened. Drexler nudged McQuarry who sat up and opened her eyes. They watched intently. This time Drexler had the night-vision glasses. Sorenson emerged from the cabin alone. He still had on the overcoat and gloves he had been wearing when he’d arrived. There didn’t seem to be any sign of blood. He looked around before flicking off the light and pulling the door closed. As far as the agents could discern, he did not say anything to whoever remained inside.

  Sorenson returned to the Toyota and started the ignition. Drexler reached for the keys but found McQuarry’s hand on his.

  ‘Let’s wait a while.’

  Drexler looked at her, saw the sense in her suggestion and sank back onto his seat, breathing deeply.

  ‘You gotta take it easy, Mike. It’ll happen. You can’t force these things.’

  Sorenson drove to the reception office and pulled up. He stepped out and strolled into the building.

  Chapter Twenty

  Brook got home late again that night. For once he’d stopped at the Coach and Horses and just managed to catch last orders. He sat in the snug there, nursing a pint, thinking about the Ottomans. He remembered Laura
Grant asking him why Ottoman had spared Jason. An even more difficult question, he thought to himself, was why had he, Brook, spared him? The little thug had killed his cat. Smashed its head to a pulp and left the little mite for Brook to find. And there he was in the Inghams’ yard, helpless before him. Why hadn’t he done it? He didn’t know. The Reaper had slaughtered everyone else. There was no one to stop him.

  The Reaper. Brook nodded. This was no copycat. Even from beyond the grave this carried Sorenson’s mark. No copycat would have lured Brook to the scene and left young Wallis for him to finish.

  Half an hour later he pulled up outside his cottage. To his relief Drexler’s car was nowhere to be seen. Brook knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep so he made a cup of tea and fell into a chair, pulling out a notepad. A couple of minutes later Brook heard a car and pulled the curtain aside.

  Drexler extinguished the headlights, locked his car and walked to his side door, unhurried and without the briefest glance over at Brook’s house.

  Brook picked up his pen and tried to put himself in Sorenson’s shoes. If the professor had wanted a safe house in Derby how would he go about it, given his almost limitless finance? Brook made a list:

  Purchase property in cash. Rented accommodation may involve landlord visits.

  No mortgage arrangements so less ID needed.

  All bills on direct debit to account with appropriately large balance.

  Low maintenance. No garden, etc.

  Probably a flat. Secure/secluded parking space required.

  Good security required because of infrequent use. Possibly upmarket block with janitor, entry phone, etc.

  Cant be on ground floor or lack of occupancy easily noticed. Some kind of high rise?

  Close to railway station and/or M1.

  Brook crossed out M1. It was miles away. If it was too far from Derby, journeys to the Drayfin would become more hazardous. So instead he wrote:

  Flat needs to be central and anonymous.

  Brook sat back and examined his list. Then he wrote down some of the problems he might encounter if he owned such a property:

  Utilities need annual access to meters.

  Council tax requires entry onto electoral roll.

  Unforeseen, e.g. burst pipe.

  He fell asleep in the chair, still trying to think of number 4.

  * * *

  Brook woke at six the next morning, still in the same chair. Without changing his clothes, he made a flask of tea and put it in his backpack along with the notes he’d made the night before and the folder on Mike Drexler. He drove through the darkness to St Mary’s Wharf and entered the deserted Incident Room before seven. Charlton wouldn’t be around until mid-morning, not that Brook cared about disobeying orders. He poured tea and began to distil some of his notes in order to create a profile of likely properties to send to estate agents. After sending out the emails, he sat back to rub his eyes. It was still too early for any response to his inquiries from last night or this morning so he clicked on his Hotmail inbox to read the sole email waiting for him. It was from The Reaper.

  Whether it was frustration with the case, or lack of sleep, or both, Brook felt a rare anger bubble up through him. When would this stop? What did they want from him? This constant prodding – was this his life now? What did he have to do to be left alone? Kill Jason Wallis? Would that stop it or did they want more murders, more victims?

  Brook walked around the room to calm down. He returned to the computer and clicked on the email. It was blank but a file was attached. He clicked on the attachment and after a few seconds a film began to play. It was poor quality and badly lit, but Brook knew at once it was the yard at the Ingham house. There was no doubt. In the bedroom of Mrs North, one of the killers had set up a camcorder on a tripod and filmed the crime scene. The fire in the oil drum still blazed and provided sufficient light to pick out the faint outline of bodies on the two sofas. Brook watched mesmerised, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom either side of the fire. He stared at the side of the Ingham house by the drive, waiting for his own arrival. It never came.

  Instead another figure appeared from the same spot, dressed head to toe in black, wearing some kind of mask of the same colour. He – it looked like a man – crept towards the warmth of the fire but seemed to be staring towards Mrs North’s house. A moment later he turned and approached the bodies. A few feet away the figure seemed to recoil as though in horror. Hands went to head and he was rooted to the spot for several minutes. Eventually the figure moved away towards where Brook knew Jason had been sitting.

  ‘Ottoman.’

  The man bent down to the ground, as though to pick something up, and moved towards the boy. Brook could only guess what was happening as the shadows hid the man’s actions, but a few seconds later he could see the figure remove a glove then put something to his ear. After a minute or so the man threw what Brook assumed was Jason’s mobile, onto Wallis’s lap. His movements became jerky and his limbs seemed to have trouble obeying their master. Knowledge was starting to bite and panic would follow. A second later the man sprinted towards the shiplap fence and vaulted onto the top, climbing clumsily over. The film ended.

  Brook was initially pleased – this could clear John Ottoman. But then he began to feel uneasy. Perhaps his own appearance had been filmed but had been edited out for later release. He wondered what it would show. According to the time and date display, the man (Ottoman?) had entered the crime scene some fifteen minutes before Brook. It seemed about right. And the fire would have been much dimmer when Brook arrived, making it even harder to see the action. Brook shook his head. He couldn’t worry about that. He clicked off the film and logged off.

  One thing was certain. If Ottoman’s account tallied with the actions of the man in the film, he could be in the clear.

  Brook stayed in the Incident Room most of the morning, hoping not to be noticed. At intervals the room began to fill up with CID who noted his presence but, unusually, said nothing. News of his disgrace was clearly on the grapevine.

  Noble arrived at ten o’clock and smiled at Brook. ‘Morning, sir. Back on the case?’

  ‘Not exactly, John. Just here to see justice done. Pretend I’m not here.’

  Noble nodded. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem – though you might be better in your office.’

  ‘I haven’t got my computer back. Where’s Charlton?’

  ‘Gone to the airport to pick up the Ottomans. DCI Hudson and DS Grant are driving straight there too.’

  Brook nodded and resumed his work. When DS Gadd arrived to finish off some paperwork, Brook passed her some papers and began to brief her about phoning the estate agents. She looked over at Noble, who nodded, and she was able to listen more attentively before getting to work.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ asked Noble.

  ‘I think Sorenson has a safe house in Derby.’

  ‘Sorenson’s dead.’

  ‘But the house remains, John. And somebody used it to store the meat for the barbecue. And everything else probably.’

  Noble didn’t seem excited by this theory so Brook returned to his notes. After half an hour he began doodling to soothe his overheating brain. He wrote ‘The Reaper’ at the top of a page followed by ‘Peter Hera’, arranging the letters in a disordered circle as he might when trying to solve an anagram from a crossword.

  Finally he yawned and flung the pencil down. He put his hands behind his head and closed his stinging eyes.

  Charlton led the way with Hudson, followed by John Ottoman in handcuffs being guided by a uniformed constable. Mr Ottoman was very pale and seemed to be in shock. Denise Ottoman, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, and a female constable were behind him, and Grant brought up the rear. She smiled weakly at Brook as she passed. She looked very tired from the strain of travelling down to Brighton and having to turn straight round and come back at news of the arrests; Hudson didn’t look much better.

  Only Charlton seemed ebullient, a mood which faded quickly whe
n he caught sight of Brook. To his credit, he said nothing in front of the throng of officers, instead busying himself directing the two prisoners to separate interview rooms. Then he turned back to Brook and glared at him for several seconds before marching off with Hudson, Grant and Noble. Brook leapt up to follow.

  ‘Forgotten something, Mr Hera?’ said Carlson.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve had what I came for so I’m checking out.’

  The night manager’s grin returned. ‘What about your lady friend?’

  ‘She … will check out tomorrow. I don’t know what time, but don’t disturb her. And when she does wake, she may be a little groggy and confused as to how she got here. She’s a little forgetful. I’d appreciate it if you were the same.’ Sorenson grinned, as if to say ‘we’re all men of the world here.’

  ‘Discretion.’

  ‘Exactly. Now what do I owe you?’ smiled Sorenson and began peeling twenties from a roll. He stopped at four hundred dollars after a nod from the manager. ‘Nice to do business with you.’ Sorenson pocketed his remaining notes and made for the exit.

  ‘Same here, Mr Hera,’ said Carlson, counting his bills. ‘You come back and visit soon. Always welcome.’

  ‘This had better be good,’ said Charlton, sitting on his desk. Hudson, Grant and Noble all pretended to be absorbed in something requiring intense concentration.