Deity

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Derby Education?’ echoed Brook. He spun round to look at the artist’s impression of The Embalmer, picked up a sheet of A4 paper from the printer and held it across the forehead of the portrait. He smiled. ‘A chef. That’s why his face was wrong – his forehead was under a chef’s hat.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’ said Charlton.

  ‘He works at Derby College – in the refectory. I was there with Yvette Thomson.’

  ‘Small world,’ said Charlton.

  ‘We were all over that place yesterday morning.’ Cooper sighed. ‘He was right under our noses.’

  ‘He wasn’t there,’ said Noble. ‘The refectory was closed, remember.’

  ‘Let’s go get him,’ said Charlton.

  ‘Good hunting,’ said Brook.

  Charlton eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’re not coming?’

  Brook glanced at the picture of Adele Watson and back at Charlton. ‘It’s not my case any more.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘My team have had a very long day, sir, and we’re not finished yet. DS Gadd’s in charge. If Smethwick’s there, she’ll bring him in.’

  Charlton paused for a second longer. He’d never understand Brook. He walked out ahead of Gadd, who lingered briefly to nod her appreciation.

  Brook slumped on to a chair and put his head in his hands to rub his eyes. Noble sat down and began to look over some papers. He yawned.

  ‘Go home, John. Get some rest,’ Brook told him. ‘You too, Dave.’

  The two detectives left and for something to do, Brook turned on his laptop to play around with more combinations for Russell’s film poster.

  The phone rang. It was a DI Gareth Edwards from North Wales Police.

  ‘Is DS Noble there?’

  ‘I’m DI Brook, his superior.’ Brook quickly typed Denbigh into Google maps.

  ‘Your Sergeant put in a call to ask about a suicide three years ago.’

  ‘The unknown boy in Denbigh. You worked the case?’

  ‘I did. I was only a DS at the time but it certainly made an impression. He was just a kid.’

  ‘Well, his picture popped up on a website we’ve been monitoring.’

  ‘Deity. You don’t need to tell us. I think the whole country’s picked up on it. We were going to call you anyway as soon as we saw it. Your Sergeant was right. The local paper didn’t carry a photograph because we couldn’t find any of him alive. We figured releasing a picture of his corpse was a step too far.’

  ‘Especially at the end of a rope.’

  ‘That’s just it. The picture from the website couldn’t have been circulated to the public because we didn’t take it.’

  ‘It wasn’t one of your crime-scene shots?’

  ‘Definitely not.’

  ‘Why so sure?’

  ‘Because the guy who found the body got him down and tried to revive him.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘A local builder, walking his dog.’

  ‘And he was never a suspect?’

  ‘A suspect in what? The kid hanged himself. He tied a rope round his neck and jumped. Broke his neck instantly.’

  ‘He couldn’t have been pushed?’

  ‘There was no bruising anywhere except his neck – I’ll email you the autopsy. And two people couldn’t have stood on the same branch of that tree …’

  ‘So that picture was taken by someone who was actually there when he jumped.’

  ‘That was our conclusion. The file’s still open and we’re taking another look but we’re not hopeful because we never found out who the kid was.’

  ‘Did you—?’

  ‘We tried everything. No schools reported missing pupils. No parents reported missing kids. It’s like he was a ghost. Fingerprints and DNA were a bust. And there didn’t seem to be any dentalwork.’

  ‘Did you try anyway? There would still be records even if his teeth were in mint condition.’

  ‘Of course we tried. If he’d actually ever seen a dentist even to have his teeth X-rayed we might have found him. He had teeth missing but no fillings or any visible work. We came to the conclusion that he hadn’t seen a dentist, certainly not in Britain.’

  ‘So you thought he was foreign.’

  ‘We didn’t think anything. We had no facts. It was just another angle.’

  ‘Were drugs involved?’

  ‘No. The lad had a small amount of vodka in his system but not enough to get him drunk.’

  ‘No sign of coercion?’

  ‘None. He just climbed the tree, put the noose around his neck and jumped, as far as we could make out.’

  ‘What time of day?’

  ‘Mid-morning. On the bend of the River Elwy. It’s a local beauty spot but it was cold and likely deserted. We never rustled up any witnesses who saw him alive.’

  Brook stared at the map of North Wales. ‘There’s an orphanage in St Asaph’s. Did you check there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But it’s only about five miles from Denbigh.’

  ‘The lad hanged himself three years ago. The orphanage was closed in 2003 – five years before.’

  ‘I see,’ Brook said. ‘Can we get access to the boy’s DNA?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  Brook expressed his thanks and rang off. He turned off the laptop and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. He’d been up for nearly nineteen hours with only biscuits to sustain him. He walked to the door of the Incident Room but didn’t leave. After a moment’s thought, he returned to his desk and packed his laptop into its case and left the building.

  Len Poole pulled his car to the kerb and parked under the shadow of a tree. He didn’t know this quiet cul-de-sac on the Brisbane Estate, only that it was out of the way and Alice was unlikely to walk past and see his Jag in the dark. He took a deep breath and stared into the rearview mirror then straightened his comb-over with a pudgy hand.

  ‘No more, Len. This is the last time. She’s not nicotine.

  You can kick the habit. You must kick the habit.’ His yellow grin glinted in reflection. ‘But not before I move back to Wales, you blackmailing bitch.’

  He nodded to his reflection. All these years paying out like a fruit machine for a mistake any man could make – a temporary weakness that she’d exploited to the full. No more. Now he was in the clear he was going to fill his boots. He took a swallow from a bottle of mouthwash and stepped from the car, hitching his tracksuit on to his bulging waist to rearrange his genitals.

  ‘Question is, can she kick the habit with me?’ he chuckled to himself.

  The fleet of cars were on silent approach after they turned off the London Road, past the village of Shardlow. DC Read parked his car to block the only road in or out of the marina complex, and got out to follow the other three cars moving quietly past a plot of static holiday cabins on the left. A hundred yards later, the plot gave way to a large basin which opened out into an expansive site with a car park, bar, shop and caravan park round to the left. The darkened marina lay dead ahead.

  DS Gadd pulled to a halt when she saw a man signalling her with a torch. The other cars followed her lead and the uniformed officers, including Charlton, poured silently from the cars, easing the doors closed behind them.

  ‘DS Gadd. Are you Henry Huff?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Any sign of Lee Smethwick?’

  ‘Not seen him for a couple of weeks to be honest but then he never makes a song and dance. The lights are out but that don’t mean he’s not in there.’

  ‘Lead on.’ They turned to walk quietly towards the shadowy outlines of the canal boats. There were well over a hundred, a few showing lights, but most in darkness.

  ‘Are all these occupied?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no. It’s Saturday night. There’s not a whole lot to do round here. Most of these are part-timers – you know, Sunday boaters, holidays maybe.’

  ‘Are all the boats …’ Gadd searched for the right words ‘… seaworthy?’ She
heard the expulsion of amused breath from Huff and smiled. ‘None of them are seaworthy, right?’

  ‘No. But most can get out on the river if they’re in a good state of repair.’

  ‘And Smethwick?’

  ‘Never seen him go out once and he’s been here ten year.’ Huff put a finger over his mouth and pointed to the dim hulk of wood and metal looming out of the darkness. Gadd turned and held out an arm to her colleagues. There was a locked gate across the walkway and Huff pulled out a set of keys and unlocked it. It opened without noise.

  Gadd pointed at DC Smee who took three uniformed officers to the far side of the boat. She and the rest fanned out around the walkway. Charlton hung back to observe.

  Gadd rapped on the door. ‘Mr Smethwick – police. Open the door, please.’ She listened before issuing a second summons. When that failed she backed away and nodded to the two officers carrying the Enforcer Ram.

  Brook pulled to the kerb across from Yvette Thomson’s house and killed the engine. Downstairs was in darkness but there was a light on in the bedroom. He reached over for his laptop and was about to open the driver’s door when his mobile buzzed.

  ‘DS Gadd, sir. We found Smethwick’s boat. He’s not been seen for a couple of weeks and it doesn’t look like he’s been on the boat in a while.’

  ‘Anything to show he’s The Embalmer?’

  ‘Plenty. There’s a lot of stuff about Egypt, books on embalming and something interesting you should see – except we’re thinking we should stake the place out and wait for Smethwick to show.’

  ‘You mean Charlton’s thinking that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That we should go through the place with a finetooth comb.’

  ‘Did you find any surgical instruments?’ asked Brook.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What about the ambulance?’

  ‘No one we spoke to has ever seen it.’

  ‘Your instincts are right, Jane. He’s gone and he’s not coming back!’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘If he’s taken his instruments, he’s gone to wherever he takes his victims.’

  Poole lay on his back, panting. Yvette climbed off him and put her head on his densely thatched chest. He nodded with satisfaction. ‘Still got it.’

  ‘You’re a superman, Len,’ said Yvette, trying to drum up some sincerity.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘I do.’ She twirled his chest hair with a manicured finger. ‘Len …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why don’t we get married?’ Poole sat up. ‘What?’

  She pouted alluringly at him. ‘It’s not too late. We’d be perfect together,’ she said in her most vulnerable voice.

  ‘Marry you?’ repeated Poole, this time with a hint of disbelief.

  ‘It’s the ideal solution, Len. Rusty’s gone and I don’t know if he’s ever coming back, even if he’s dead or alive. I’m lonely. I don’t want to be on my own.’ Poole declined to comment so Yvette lifted her head from his chest again. ‘Can Alice do what I do for you?’ She grinned at him and nuzzled at the wiry hair on his flabby breast. ‘Well, can she?’

  Poole pushed her away. ‘No. That’s why I’m here now.’

  ‘Then why don’t you marry me?’

  ‘Because you’re a mental bitch.’

  Her face soured and she prepared a fist but was halted by a rap on the front door. She turned off her bedside lamp and tiptoed to a crack in the curtain.

  ‘Who is it?’ whispered Poole.

  ‘It’s Alice,’ said Yvette with a sneer.

  ‘You lying cow,’ hissed Len Poole, pulling his underpants and tracksuit trousers on. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Inspector Brook, if you must know,’ she whispered from the window.

  ‘At this time? What does he want?’

  ‘How should I know? Probably the same as you,’ she spat. ‘A two-minute quickie.’

  Poole looked daggers at her as he zipped his shiny tracksuit top to the neck. ‘That was at least five, you cow. I looked at the clock. Is it really Inspector Brook?’

  ‘See for yourself. That’s his BMW.’

  Poole crawled to the window. The knocking on the door sounded again. ‘Shit. I’d better go.’

  ‘Should I ring Alice and tell her you’re on your way?’

  Poole darted back from the bedroom door and grabbed her by the throat. ‘Listen, you fucking whore, you go near my Alice and the game’s up for you – and then there’ll be a lot more coppers than Inspector Brook out there. Understand? Understand?’ insisted Poole.

  She nodded as best she could and Poole loosened his grip. Yvette massaged her neck and got her breath back as Poole darted out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the back door. He slipped out quietly and hopped over the fence at the back and scuttled away into the night.

  Ten minutes later, Len arrived back at his car. The cul-desac was in darkness and he flicked at his key fob to unlock his car. The light in the cab of his Jaguar came on and Poole jumped on to the cracked leather of the driver’s seat, enjoying the tackiness of recent conquest along his inner thigh. Mental or not, that bitch certainly knew all the buttons to push. He grinned at his reflection in the rearview mirror but, as he glanced back towards the ignition, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and looked back to the mirror to see a yellow-toothed grin flashing at him from the back seat.

  Brook watched the light go out in Yvette’s bedroom. He knocked one more time then returned to his car with his laptop. Maybe it was for the best. It had kept this long; it could keep for another night. He sent a text to Noble to prepare the ground for the next morning and set off through the estate towards the A52 for the drive to Alstonefield, the picturesque village about ten minutes from Brook’s home in Hartington.

  Thirty-five minutes later, Brook banged on the door of a small stone barn on the outskirts of the village. He hadn’t needed the address given him by DS Morton, because Rifkind’s sleek black Porsche, sitting on the flagged drive, had been visible from the main road. Brook inspected it as he waited. No answer. He knocked again and stepped back to look for a light. The place was in darkness – no sign of life.

  ‘Mr Rifkind, I’m not a reporter, it’s DI Brook. I know you’re in there. I have a warrant for your computer and mobile phone.’ Still no answer. ‘If I have to come back we’ll be breaking down the door.’

  He traipsed back to his car, defeated. Rifkind’s wife had obviously called him to expect a visit and he wasn’t about to surrender his precious computer without a struggle.

  Ten minutes later, near exhaustion, Brook dragged himself from his car and almost sleepwalked his way into his own dark cottage.

  ‘Terri!’

  No answer. No Terri. When he flicked on the kitchen light he saw the note.

  Been out walking with Ray today.

  You were right. Peaks beautiful.

  We’re in the Duke rehydrating (kind of).

  T

  Brook sighed and looked at his watch. It was past eleven o’clock. He was starving and his evening meal wasn’t on the table. ‘It’s just not good enough,’ he said, and smiled.

  He left the cottage to walk down the hill to the village but caught sight of the pair staggering, arm-in-arm, back up the hill. He returned to the cottage and poured himself a glass of red from an open bottle then looked in the fridge. There was a bowl of cooked pasta from a few nights before. Brook gratefully swallowed three spoonfuls before the front door opened and Terri, singing badly out of tune, fell in.

  ‘Mr Brook, you’re here,’ said Ray, helping Terri to a chair. He stood awkwardly, the baseball cap still glued back to front over his bleach-blond head.

  ‘Actually it’s Detective Inspector,’ Brook replied tersely.

  Terri squinted up in his direction ‘Dad. You’re here. Just in time for a drink.’

  ‘You’ve had enough,’ said Brook and Ray in unison.

  Terri’s hea
d swayed between the pair of them, trying to focus. ‘Don’t be so mean,’ she said. ‘It’s a celebration,’ she smirked before hiccuping. ‘Oops.’

  ‘She needs to get to bed, sir – Detective Inspector, I mean.’

  ‘Give me a hand, will you?’

  Ray helped Brook hoist the mumbling Terri towards the sofa in the living room and place her down as gently as they could. She lost consciousness before they laid her out and Brook took off her shoes before ushering Ray back to the kitchen. Brook picked up Terri’s handbag and helped himself to a much-needed cigarette.

  ‘Is this your idea of a good time, Ray?’ he said, opening the front door to exhale. ‘Taking my daughter out and getting her drunk.’

  ‘Sir, honestly, we’ve had a great day out on the hills and I’m whipped. I tried to leave three hours ago but Terri wasn’t budging and… I couldn’t just leave her there.’

  After a moment, Brook nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Thanks for staying with her.’

  ‘No problem, sir. Where did your daughter learn to drink like that?’

  Brook stopped raising the glass of wine to his lips and returned it guiltily to the kitchen table. ‘She didn’t get it from me.’

  Ray smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’ve… er, had the full version at the Duke. And so has half the village, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘That bad,’ echoed Ray. ‘And don’t get me started on her swearing.’ He shook his head. ‘Terri’s a great girl, sir, but she’s certainly got… issues.’

  ‘Issues,’ repeated Brook, risking a Methodist’s sip at his wine. He scraped back a chair and sat down. ‘Take a seat, Ray.’

  Ray sat, rather reluctantly.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m driving.’ He looked hesitantly at Brook. ‘Who’s Tony?’

  Brook looked up from his glass, wondering if this was ground he wanted to cover. He decided to keep it simple. ‘Someone Terri got close to,’ he said after a moment. ‘He died.’

  ‘So I gather. Tel took it hard, didn’t she? It can’t have been easy.’

  Brook declined to comment but took a larger gulp of wine.

  ‘She’s lucky to have you though, sir. You’re her hero.’

  ‘Hero!’ exclaimed Brook. He looked into his wine glass. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her for five years.’