Deity (51 page)

‘Adele looks like an angel,’ said Noble.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘You were right about her,’ continued Noble. ‘She was impressive. She does have a lot to say.’

Brook nodded. ‘Let’s hope there’s more to come.’

Noble lit up on the steps of the station as Brook’s phone began to vibrate. It was Terri.

‘Dad. When are you coming home?’

‘Terri, I know it’s late but I may not make it back tonight – things are hotting up here. Don’t wait up, okay?’

There was a pause.
‘Dad, I need you to come home.’

‘Terri, I—’

‘I need you to come home now.’

Brook paused. ‘What’s wrong?’

Another pause.
‘I’ve been depressed, Dad. About Tony. I’ve taken something. Pills.’

Brook pushed his face closer to the phone as if to be better heard. ‘Terri, listen to me. What have you taken?’

Again a pause.
‘I don’t know, but I had a lot of them. I don’t feel so good.’

By this time Noble had cottoned on to a problem and was also listening intently. ‘Terri, listen carefully. I want you to hang up and dial 999.’

Another pause.
‘I’ve called the ambulance, Dad, but I need you to come home.’

‘Okay, darling. I’m on my way.’ He covered his phone for a moment. ‘John. Can you see Fern on your own?’

‘She’ll keep,’ said Noble firmly. ‘I can drive you home.’

‘John,
I’m fine. I’ll be quicker, I know the roads. Talk to Fern and let me know.’

Brook sprinted to his car and jumped in. He screeched away from the car park, speaking into his phone. ‘Darling, I’m here. Terri, I want you to stand up. If you can, walk around until the ambulance gets there. Make coffee. Whatever you do, don’t lie on your back.’

‘Why?’

Brook shook off an image of his daughter choking on her own vomit. ‘Just do it and stay awake. If you can, make yourself throw up. I’ll be there in half an hour.’ He threw the open phone on the passenger seat and slammed the BMW into a lower gear to make the lights next to the Radio Derby building. The black car hurtled along St Alkmund’s Way then Brook flung it sharp right on to Ashbourne Road, heading for home.

Gadd and Smee pulled on to the green in Aston-on-Trent and parked by the Malt Shovel. Once inside they strode to the near-empty bar, pulling out their warrant cards. The young barmaid eyed them uneasily.

‘We’ve stopped serving,’ she said before she saw their ID.

‘Is the landlord in?’

‘He’s on holiday. I’m the relief manager.’

Gadd and Smee exchanged a resigned glance. ‘Never mind.’ Gadd turned away but hesitated. ‘How long has the current landlord been in the pub?’

The barmaid smiled blankly. ‘No idea.’

‘Ten years,’ said a tarry voice from the far end of the bar belonging to an overweight, grey-whiskered old man, who wore a flat cap and straining woollen cardigan despite the
warmth of the evening. ‘What’s Austin been up to? Watering the beer again?’

‘And you are, sir?’

‘Who wants to know?’ he demanded. Gadd thrust her ID in his face. ‘Name’s Sam,’ he muttered resentfully.

‘We’re trying to locate an ex-employee. Lee Smethwick.’

‘Lee Smethwick.’ Sam snorted. ‘I remember that weirdo, all right.’

‘You knew him?’ said Smee.

Sam blew out his cheeks. ‘Not so much to talk to, thank God. He was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. You’d finish your pint and you might be the only soul in the bar but he’d just stand there like some stuffed dummy, staring into space. When you finally got his attention, you’d think you’d disturbed a sleepwalker.’

‘He lived on a boat in Shardlow Marina but he’s missing,’ said Gadd. ‘Did he have any haunts that he mentioned, any special places he liked to go? Somewhere big and private, say.’

Sam glanced down at his nearly drained pint then meaningfully back up at Gadd.

‘It’s past closing,’ began Smee.

‘Can we get another pint over here?’ Gadd called to the relief manager. She hesitated over her glass-drying. ‘It’s okay. He’s a local,’ said Gadd, as though it were some new by-law.

‘Thanks,’ said Sam, taking a large pull on the freshly drawn pint, a minute later.

‘Well?’

Sam just sat there, smiling inscrutably.

‘What can you tell us?’ said Smee.

‘Feel a bit of a fraud, accepting your pint,’ he said chuckling. ‘See, he did voluntary work at the Village.’

‘The Village?’

‘Aston Hall Mental Hospital – but they called it the Village. Make it sound welcoming, I suppose. You can see it from the end of the road. Just a lot of empty buildings and broken windows now. They closed it six, seven year ago after the fire. Lee volunteered there then did the odd shift in here. You ask me, he should’ve been a patient.’

Brook skidded to a halt behind the bright green VW. No ambulance. No lights on. Maybe it had been and gone or worse, hadn’t arrived yet. As Brook hurried towards the cottage he heard the sound of an engine block cooling down. He put his hand on the VW. The engine was still warm. He tried the driver’s door but it was locked so he sprinted up to the darkened cottage and burst into the kitchen.

Peeping Tom.
Directed in 1960 by Michael Powell, starring
Carl Boehm as a serial killer who films people as they die. Cool.

Brook saw the red dot in the shadows and around that a sinister figure sitting at the kitchen table. In spite of the darkness, Brook saw the light.

‘What have you done with my daughter, Ray?’

Brook heard a low chuckle. He leaned back towards the door to snap on the light.

‘Or are you still Rusty?’

Ray grinned back at him, the camcorder covering one eye, a pose Brook recognised from the Facebook picture of Rusty. But where Rusty’s skin had been pale and spotty, Ray looked tanned and healthy and, with the baseball cap still back to front on his head, the blond hair and the beard, Brook could plot Rusty’s transformation into Ray.

‘It’s amazing what you can do with facial hair, a bottle of
dye and tinted contact lenses,’ said Ray, his visible eye still squinting as he filmed. ‘And – cut,’ he called, lowering the camcorder and fixing Brook with his blue eyes.

‘Where is she?’ said Brook, moving towards him.

‘Stay where you are or the girl gets it,’ he roared. He had an open laptop on the table in front of him and a finger hovered over the Enter button. A moment later, the grin returned. ‘Film?’

‘Where is she?’ repeated Brook.

‘You’re right,’ beamed Ray. ‘It could be any one of a dozen movies, and not very good ones either. Our dénouement promises to be a much classier affair.’

‘Where is she, Ray?’ Brook advanced menacingly.

‘She’s safe,’ said Ray, turning the laptop screen to face Brook. Terri’s image glared back at him. Her eyes were closed and she wore an oxygen mask.

‘Where?’

‘She’s alive and will stay that way if you sit down.’

Brook looked at the screen, where Terri’s chest was rising and falling. There were a couple of tubes leading into the mask and Brook could see small red and green lights flashing next to two small tanks.

‘See those tubes? One is feeding her oxygen as we speak.’ He dangled a finger theatrically. ‘If I press Enter, the tank of cyanide gas will cut in and your daughter will be dead in seconds. Now sit down, we’ve got a lot to get through.’

Brook stared at the monitor. He recognised his bedroom and glanced towards the stairs.

Ray followed Brook’s eyes. ‘By the time you get there, she’ll be dead. Now please sit down.’ He indicated the chair opposite.

Brook gazed
at him for a few seconds more, then scraped back the chair and sat.

‘Thank you,’ said Ray.

‘Terri didn’t take any pills.’

‘That was just a ruse,’ smiled Ray. ‘There’s a script in front of you if you want to see it.’

Brook pulled a sheet of A4 paper towards him.
Tell him you’re depressed and have taken some pills.
v. important – tell him you’ve called an ambulance already.

He pushed it away. ‘Very clever – she says she’s called the ambulance so I don’t do it.’ Brook’s eyes burned into his uninvited guest. ‘Ray, Rusty, what should I call you?’

‘Take your pick, Inspector. I have many names. I’m Moriarty. I’m the Star Child. I’m Horus. I’m Keyser Soze. I’m the Fifth Element. I’m Hanging Rock. I’m Deity. I’m everything and nothing, the unknown, always behind you, always beyond your field of vision.’

‘My daughter . . .’

‘Your daughter’s fine. For now.’

Brook glared at him. ‘What do you want, Ray?’

Ray rummaged in a khaki-coloured laptop bag at his feet.

‘You can autograph my book for a start.’ He pulled out a copy of
In Search of The Reaper
by Brian Burton and slid it across the table. Brook snorted in bitter amusement. When it became clear he was serious, Brook opened the book and wrote a few words in the front before sliding it back across the table.

‘You know, for a star detective, you don’t seem to catch many killers,’ said Ray.

‘You haven’t got away, yet.’

Ray laughed. ‘Killer? Me?’

‘You killed Yvette’s son.’

‘I never
laid a finger on that little pansy and I’ve got the photographs to prove it – the same with the others.’

‘Others?’

Ray raised a digit. ‘Getting me talking. Very good.’ He flipped open the book to read the dedication. ‘
You’re sick and need help. Let me help you
. Signed
Damen Brook
.’ Ray looked up and laughed. ‘Maybe Len was right, Damen. Maybe I have underestimated you.’

‘You took Len. Is he with the others?’ Ray nodded. ‘Dead?’

‘I’m not sure. I just finished recording my final message to him before you got here. Then we’ll see. Or rather you will. I’ll be long gone.’

‘And Adele?’

Ray looked at Brook with a mixture of appreciation and curiosity. ‘You single her out?’ He nodded. ‘You feel the same as me. Mesmeric, isn’t she? She’s going to be a great example.’

‘Is? You mean she’s alive?’

‘I mean she will provide ongoing inspiration to all those unhappy souls seeking a solution.’

‘And Kyle and Becky?’

He shrugged. ‘Who cares? Window-dressing. Adele is the key. Adele was my Miranda.’ He looked wistful for a moment. ‘You know, I’ll miss her. She was a good friend.’

They’re dead, you know
. ‘So you have killed her.’

For once Ray’s restrained amusement gave way to consternation. ‘Don’t be vulgar, Damen. I’ve told you, I’m not a killer. I help people – help them to see their true value so they can clear their minds and do what has to be done.’

‘You mean you prey on the vulnerable and manoeuvre them towards their deaths. Like Wilson.’

‘Wilson was a
bonus. I did him a favour. He threw himself at Yvette so I made him throw himself at the river.’ Ray laughed at his own joke. ‘Will he be missed? I don’t think so. The fat fuck is more famous now than he could ever have dreamed. He should be grateful. He was a bully and a sex-pest. But now the worldwide web has made him a star.’

‘What happened?’

‘After I filmed Kyle’s slapping I followed Wilson back to Yvette’s. He made it so easy for me. Did I kill him? No. Did I offer him mind-altering drugs? Absolutely. But
he
chose to take them. After that, a few choice words and his own paperedover inadequacies did the rest. He made quite a splash, don’t you think?’

Brook shook his head. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why are you doing this? Preying on teenagers on the verge of starting their lives? Is it because they have a future that you can only imagine?’

‘Where’s the fun in emptying out the old people’s homes? That’s no challenge, it’s a public service,’ Ray said. ‘But those with their whole lives in front of them. . . getting them to step off is very rewarding.’

‘Because they have prospects that you were denied,’ snarled Brook. ‘You’re another orphan, aren’t you? Only you got bitter and twisted because people didn’t worship the ground you walked on. They couldn’t see how special you were. Is that how you hooked up with Yvette – two needy, grasping narcissists against the world?’

Ray’s face hardened. ‘And so the cheap psychoanalysis begins.’ In a whining voice he said, ‘
It all started when I got a taste for pulling the legs off insects, Doctor. Pretty soon I moved on to
drowning cats
. . .’ He couldn’t continue for laughing. ‘I wouldn’t expect a stupid policeman to understand.’

‘Try me.’

‘Try you? Okay. Start with this. What do you see when you look at a teenager?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Don’t you? Tell me you don’t look at teenagers with hatred and envy – envy because you wish you could be their age so you could show them how to live, and hatred because you know they’re going to ignore you and waste all that precious youth.’

‘Youth is wasted on the young – that it? Well, like you, I already had my go round.’

‘And did you piss it all away?’

‘Of course. Everyone does,’ said Brook. ‘One way or another. That’s how it is. That’s why we can never look back without regret. How did I miss that opportunity? Why did I let myself get blown off-course? It’s called drift. That’s what teenagers do because they have all the time in world. And sure, they’re wrong about that, but so what? We all were. And as a result, we don’t waste time later in our lives because now we know we have less of it.’

‘Drift? All that potential, all that energy lost in an orgy of sex and booze and drugs. Too stupid to see how to grab life by the hand.’

‘That’s experience talking,’ said Brook. ‘Experience of wasting your best years. That doesn’t mean you should take somebody else’s as recompense. I know the young have it all. And they’re too weak to know it won’t last. That’s how it has to be – so they can waste it, like every generation before them and then spend the rest of their lives wondering how it happened.’

Ray smiled.
‘You do understand.’

‘About weakness?’ Brook hesitated. ‘I’ve encountered it.’

‘Weakness? The young aren’t weak, Damen. They’re sinners. They offend God. They’ve taken the deadliest of the Seven Deadly Sins and used it as their personal mantra.’