Deity (3 page)

She roused herself to forget and returned her gaze to Facebook. She scrolled down the list of chatting friends. There were at least a dozen online at that moment. She scanned the names, poised to click. A few seconds later, her hand released the mouse.
Facebook friends
. With a sinking heart she realised
that she barely knew any of them, not really, not enough to pour out her deepest fears and emotions. A bit of goss and the odd social engagement was all she could ever share with them. She sighed then wet a finger and rubbed it over the dry salt round her eyes and on her soft cheeks. She cast her eyes around for a pen. She could tell Di. Di would listen. Di was her best friend.

A floorboard creaked outside her bedroom and Adele glared at the door.

‘Adele.’ Her father’s voice, hushed but urgent.

The girl didn’t answer. She pulled down the lid of her computer to extinguish all light and fixed her gaze on the door handle. It began to turn. Adele held her breath as the handle finished its rotation and the door was pushed to open. It caught on the back of the chair propped under the handle and remained closed.

‘Adele.’ She picked up the rising tide of anger in her father’s voice but knew better than to reply. From deep within the house, Adele heard her mother’s voice, but too indistinct to decipher. The door snapped back on to the latch and the handle was still. Her father paused motionless on the landing then managed a cheery, ‘Night, Ade,’ before she heard him padding back to his own bed.

Adele let out a long breath and raised the lid of her laptop again. She was about to exit Facebook when she spotted a new name had joined the online list. She highlighted the name but hesitated over the mouse. It was a big step. A second later she clicked on the name and typed a smiley face in the dialogue box. It was time.

D
ETECTIVE
I
NSPECTOR
D
AMEN
B
ROOK WOKE
to the sound of a barn owl hooting nearby. He still had his recently acquired reading glasses perched on the end of his nose so he pulled them off and laid them next to the reading lamp, still burning beside his bed. He inhaled the soft summer air nuzzling at his curtains and dozed for another minute, listening to the breeze ruffle the trees in the churchyard. Nothing else in the village stirred.

Brook felt the weight on his stomach and lifted the upturned copy of
In Search of The Reaper
from the duvet. He bent down a page and closed it before tossing it on to the polished floorboards. Local journalist Brian Burton’s book documenting Brook’s failure to catch the notorious serial killer was a few years out of date and so completely off the track that Brook had only persisted with it from a sense of twisted amusement – and the added bonus that it put him to sleep quickly.

He dragged himself out of bed and padded down the rickety stairs of his cottage, wearing only T-shirt and underpants. He
flicked at the full kettle and sat at the kitchen table, his eyes wedged shut. As usual the cup and tea bag sat ready for this nightly ritual so Brook could postpone opening his eyes and engaging his brain. The fact that he’d learned to disengage his brain at all was a profound blessing and it was not to be curtailed until absolutely necessary.

For many years Brook had been rudely awoken, drenched in sweat, by visions of old cases, rotting corpses and mumbling half-forgotten names as he stirred. As the years passed, the dreams of ravenous rats devouring decaying flesh had faded as Brook had left his past in London behind. At the age of fifty he’d made some kind of peace with himself, and although his solitary life was no richer, he could at least wake up in dry sheets.

The kettle clicked off and Brook waved goodbye to semi-consciousness. He felt around in the dark for his cigarettes but realised with a sinking heart that, in the unlikely event that his resolve to quit smoking might weaken, he’d left his last pack in his station locker.

On his first sip of tea, the phone rang and Brook squinted at the kitchen clock as he picked it from its cradle. Nearly four o’clock in the morning.

‘Brook.’ He listened without enquiry to Detective Sergeant John Noble, looked sightlessly into the distance to get his bearings then rang off with, ‘I’ll be about an hour.’

Brook pulled his coat tighter and stared longingly at the welcoming disc of dawn creeping over the horizon, unseen birds heralding its arrival as nature began to shake a leg. He closed his eyes, blocking out the noise of activity behind him, and wondered how many millennia this little scene
had been enacted. Man, vulnerable and reverent, mouth slackened by awe, gazing to the heavens to greet the sun’s approach, inspired and soothed by its promise of light and comfort.

Too often Brook’s insomnia ensured he was as familiar with this ancient ritual as the primitive cave dwellers of Stonehenge or Avebury, dancing, praying or sacrificing their way into the goodwill of the gods. But for once Brook wasn’t sitting on the bench in his cottage garden, nursing a tea and a smoke. Dawn found him shivering in the dank, misty fields to the east of Derby, awaiting the recovery of a body from the River Derwent.

He hated this part of the job – the wasted hours kicking his heels just to sign off on a suicide or a lone fisherman who’d waded in too far and been surprised by a deceptive current. Or maybe it was a show-off kid, swinging into the murky waters from a Tarzan rope and unable to clamber back up the slippery bank. Then more wasted hours, informing disbelieving relatives and ploughing through the paperwork.

Brook turned grudgingly back to the darkness of the river bank, itself burnished by the flashing orange suns of the emergency vehicles. He glanced resentfully across at DS Noble pulling on a Marlboro Light. Part of Brook’s own dawn ritual involved a cigarette but he’d made the mistake of giving up three weeks ago. Again.

He debated whether to cave in and ask his DS for a smoke. After all, it was his only vice. He wasn’t a womaniser or a heavy drinker like many in the job. He lived a sober, monastic life and did his work without complaint. He deserved to cut himself a little slack.

‘Christ,’ he muttered through a half-laugh and a shake
of the head. The justifications for having a cigarette were kicking in early.

A shout from the river pierced the early morning mist and the two CID officers moved off the adjacent cycle path and closer to the water’s edge. Despite protective overshoes, their socks and trousers were already sopping wet in the heavy dew. A figure wearing waders and a bright yellow safety bib emerged from the gloom and splashed across to Brook and Noble through the boggy earth.

He waved to the two ambulancemen sitting in the warmth of their cab and made the hand signal for the gurney. ‘It’s a body all right,’ said the man. ‘Male Caucasian, fifty to sixty years of age. Been in a couple of days, I’d guess. Got caught on a fallen tree. They’ve got the harness on. They’ll have him out in a few minutes.’

‘Okay. Thanks . . .’ Brook hesitated, an expression of panic invading his tired features.

‘Keith,’ finished the man with a sharp look at first Noble, then back at Brook. ‘Keith Pullin. We’ve met several times before at refuse collections.’

‘Of course. Sorry, Keith. It’s late.’ Brook had been caught off-guard, forgetting to take Noble aside and ask for the names he never remembered. He smiled weakly at Pullin but the damage was done and he was already stomping back towards the river.

‘Technically it’s early,’ grinned DS Noble, tossing his cigarette butt into a puddle and pulling out a fresh one.

Brook shrugged then caught the luxuriant scent of Noble, igniting another cigarette. Unable to stand it, he set off towards his car. ‘Give me a shout when they get him out, John.’

Noble
watched as Keith Pullin, the portly, forty-year-old Special Constable, walked back over to him, sneering all the while towards DI Brook’s shabby BMW.

‘How’s it going, Tom?’

‘Very funny,’ spat Keith Pullin, without a trace of amusement. ‘Seriously though, how can you stand working with that knob?’

Noble shrugged. ‘He’s not a morning person, Keith.’

‘Fuck off – he’s not an afternoon or an evening person either.’

‘Okay. You got me there,’ admitted Noble. ‘Let’s just say he’s a little distracted.’

‘Why do you always defend him?’

Noble looked unswervingly back at Pullin but said nothing. Failing to get his answer, Pullin grunted and trudged sullenly back to the water’s edge, muttering obscenities all the way.

Noble pulled heavily on his cigarette and sighed. He was used to the barbs aimed at his DI and once he might have joined in, but the longer he’d worked with Brook, the more he felt the need to provide a little balance to offset the abuse that flowed his way.

This little rite was a common occurrence in the field. Brook’s inability to bond with fellow officers and the emergency workers they encountered – some Brook had known for several years – was always a source of mild amusement. But to the dozens working in D Division who’d gone unrecognised by Brook down the years, it remained a cause for deep resentment.

Noble wasn’t sure how much Brook’s time in London had shaped his behaviour towards colleagues, but since his move to the Peak District, Brook’s mind always seemed to be elsewhere
– and forgetting people’s names was the most recurrent symptom. Twenty years had passed since Brook had started hunting The Reaper in London, as one of the rising stars of the Met. But according to all reports, the case had broken him, with years of failure taking their toll and finally forcing him from active duty.

His breakdown quickly became public knowledge when Brook transferred to Derby Division, eight years ago. Sergeant Harry Hendrickson, a curmudgeonly old desk jockey in uniform branch, had taken a peek at his file and gleefully reported the facts to anyone who’d listen. And when Noble had drawn the short straw and been assigned to work with Brook, everyone had sympathised with him.

But then The Reaper had struck in Derby, slaughtering two families in their own homes, and Noble had found himself in the eye of the hurricane. At close quarters, Noble was able to observe Brook’s extraordinary skills as a detective, in addition to the toll such a high-profile investigation took on him – especially as The Reaper remained at large.

‘Eight years,’ mumbled Noble, thinking back over their shared history. ‘I deserve a medal.’ He smiled at a memory of his early years working with Brook and his fruitless attempts to get to know him. He’d found out pretty quickly that Brook didn’t do small talk, on or off a case. Unlike most people, Brook never mentioned his past and never spoke about his private life. And just to maintain consistency, he’d never enquired about the lives of his new colleagues in return.

At first, Noble had felt awkward during the silences and would instigate conversation, mentioning something topical from the news or the TV. But he’d quickly learned to expect a blank expression from Brook and soon gave up trying, realising
that many of the events that people used as common currency in conversation were completely unknown to Brook. He just wasn’t interested and often didn’t speak at all unless it was required. Even his daily greeting consisted of little more than a nod.

As a consequence, people thought Brook cold and distant, sometimes downright rude, especially those who rarely had a chance to work with him. It didn’t help that Brook wouldn’t attend official functions, didn’t socialise or go to parties, didn’t even go to pubs as far as Noble was aware – not with colleagues, at least – even after a big case had been cracked.

More often than not he’d turn up to work, do his job then just wander off after his shift to his little cottage in Hartington where he
. . .
well, Noble wasn’t sure, even after eight years. He knew Brook liked to read, which probably accounted for his freakish intelligence. He also liked to hike, and Noble had discovered two or three years earlier that most of Brook’s holidays were spent marching around the Peak National Park surrounding his village.

Other aspects of Brook’s life were still as unknown as the day they’d first met. He didn’t seem to have a sex life, certainly not one that involved relationships, though there were rumours he’d had a fling with a WPC a few years back. That, and the fact that Brook was divorced with a twenty-year-old daughter meant he probably wasn’t gay – a conclusion his home furnishings would seem to support.

Not that Noble had ever been to Brook’s cottage: he’d never been invited. But just before his move out to the Peak District, Brook had lived in a grubby rented flat off the Uttoxeter Road in central Derby, and Noble had been forced to call round when Brook had been suspended. To his
astonishment, Noble had discovered that his DI was living in the sort of hovel normally associated with squatters or junkies. No garden, no oven, no computer, not even a TV.

And yet, despite an unpromising start to their working relationship, their partnership had begun to flourish and a mutual respect had developed. Unknown to most, Brook generously underplayed his own role in an enquiry, going out of his way to give credit to subordinates for breakthroughs. And, although some colleagues persisted in thinking Brook arrogant, Noble had found the opposite to be true. Brook seemed to have no ego at all. He made absolutely no effort to make himself more popular and didn’t seem to care what people thought of him. Consequently, he was deeply disliked and even hated in some parts of the Division, the more so because he was such a damn good detective.

Further, Noble had discovered that Brook had a dark but undeniable sense of humour, dry and cutting and, what’s more, would actively encourage Noble to make fun of superior officers.

Perhaps the only thing that everyone admired about Brook was the hard moral position he took about police work and how it should be conducted. And if anyone deviated from his position, even his superiors, Brook was quick to take them to task. He had got himself into trouble several times for criticising Chief Superintendent Charlton to his face for his failure to see the value of a line of enquiry or for putting budgetary constraints above the correct course of action on a case.