Deity (56 page)

‘I left to pick up Len, remember.’

‘Then check the film. She was confused because she knew it wasn’t Rusty’s and she didn’t know why. Maybe she even knew it was Philippe’s, I don’t know, but right now Rusty is passing himself off as Philippe. He has his passport and papers and he’s probably made himself over to look like him.’

‘But where did he keep him? The hospital?’

‘At first, maybe, but it’s too far away, John. Remember the stench in Rifkind’s cellar? I’m guessing Rusty drugged him and kept him there until he needed him. That’s why it stank like a
sewer. When he took Terri to the cellar, he switched her with Philippe.’

‘Great theory – pity it’s all circumstantial. How do you prove it?’

‘The car. Philippe must have had a car here. Either he drove it over from France or hired one. If Rusty dumped it, we’re in business. That’s how he got to Rifkind’s cottage. That’s how he got away from the crash site.’

‘And if Rusty didn’t dump it but returned it to the hire company or drove it back to France as Philippe?’

Brook sighed. ‘That just makes it a bit harder. If we can find out which company Len paid to test Rusty’s DNA against Yvette’s, we get the real thing. And Rusty’s DNA will be different from the samples he left us.’

‘Without Len that could take forever and even then we may not get access. What about Philippe? If he was in the cellar we could get his DNA there.’

‘No good. If he didn’t clean up, Rusty’s DNA could be there as well and we’d have no way to tell them apart.’

‘There is another possibility, sir. Maybe Rusty died in that burnout. He lost control of the car, hit the wall and burned to death. Case closed. Are you sure you want to prove to the world that we got our butts whipped?’

‘Are you American, John?’

‘I mean it.’

‘First thing tomorrow, get Philippe’s details from the college and find that car.’

Y
VETTE
T
HOMSON ARRIVED WITH THE
female warder looking, if anything, even prettier in her washedout grey uniform. The bright smile for her warder dimmed only briefly when she saw that Brook and Noble were her visitors.

The warder smiled back at her and gestured her towards the chair. ‘I’ll be right outside, Eve.’

‘Still working your magic, Yvette,’ said Brook, after the warder had left.

Yvette sat at the table and gazed blankly at the two detectives but declined to speak.

‘You look well.’ A quizzical glance from her was Brook’s only answer. He pushed the evidence bag towards her. ‘The last time we spoke, you identified this toothbrush as belonging to the man you knew as Rusty Thomson. Will you take another look, please?’

‘You’ve got a nerve coming here. Unless it’s to apologise.’

‘Take another look, please.’

Yvette looked at him then slowly pulled the bag towards her. ‘That’s Rusty’s toothbrush.’

‘I don’t
think it is. I think you were shocked when you first saw it – until you recognised it. It belonged to Philippe, didn’t it?’

‘You killed my Rusty.’

‘Impossible,’ Brook told her. ‘Because he’s not dead. The man who died in that car was Philippe. Rusty did a switch, just like he did with the toothbrush.’

‘Why?’

‘So he could disappear. So he could start afresh.’

Yvette emitted a one-note laugh. ‘They said you were mental.’

‘Whose toothbrush is this?’

‘My Rusty’s.’

‘You know it isn’t.’ Brook took a breath and tried again. ‘It wasn’t the only switch. After you slept with Philippe . . .’

‘Who says I did?’ snarled Yvette.

‘After you slept with Philippe, Rusty abducted him.’

‘Phil went back to Paris last month . . .’

‘Rusty was probably watching your house – filming too, knowing him. He saw everything. Then he found the condom you used with Philippe and took it. He kept it . . .’

‘That’s disgusting.’

‘. . . and when Philippe had packed his bags and was preparing to leave, Rusty was waiting. He drugged him and kept him in a safe place. Then he went to your house and made the final switch, swapping his toothbrush for Philippe’s.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘DNA, Yvette. Rusty wanted Philippe’s DNA to pass off as his own. When we sampled the DNA from the body in the car, he knew we’d get a match against all the other samples
he left us, including the toothbrush. Rusty knew we’d assume Philippe was him.’

‘I told you, Phil’s in Paris.’

‘Shall I tell you where Philippe really was, Yvette? In a derelict hospital full of rats. After that, he was locked in a dark and cold cellar. He was pumped full of drugs and left to rot.’

‘You’re sick, you are,’ sneered Yvette.

‘Want to know what’s sick?’ asked Brook. ‘While Philippe was still alive, Rusty took a heavy object and smashed all his teeth so we wouldn’t be able to trace the dentalwork. His ordeal only ended when Rusty put him in the boot of my daughter’s car and, when he was ready, stuck him behind the wheel and drove it down a hillside in flames. We’d think he’d smashed his teeth on the steering-wheel.’

‘What kind of mind dreams up a fantasy like that?’ said Yvette. ‘I pity you.’

‘Philippe Deschamps,’ began Noble. ‘Twenty-one years of age, drove to Dover and took the ferry to Calais
five
days ago. We have his car on film boarding the ferry.’

Yvette shrugged. ‘So he did a little sightseeing before going home.’

‘Deschamps has yet to appear back at his apartment in the Rue Garibaldi in Paris or attend any of his scheduled classes at the Sorbonne,’ continued Noble. ‘However, somebody arrived in Paris because Philippe’s bank account was emptied and his credit cards were maxed out, withdrawing cash.’

‘So Phil is in Paris then.’

‘Since when, he’s dropped off the radar,’ Noble finished.

‘I’ve got to hand it to Rusty,’ said Brook. ‘He doesn’t do things by halves. He’s got a new identity, a new passport and a
new nationality. And over thirteen thousand pounds to spend, to add to the money he doubtless took from you.’

Yvette’s blank expression turned sour. ‘He never took a penny from me and you killed him. And now I’ve lost both my lovely boys.’

‘Rusty destroyed your son and you let it happen, but if you help me stop him, I’ll do whatever I can to help you.’

To Brook’s surprise she smiled at him. ‘You’ve already helped me more than I dared hope.’

‘What do you mean?’

She twinkled at him. ‘You don’t know?’

‘Know what?’

‘I’ll be out of here tomorrow – day after at the latest, thanks to you.’

Brook shook his head. ‘Yvette, even with the most sympathetic judge, the best you can hope for is three years.’

Now she started laughing. ‘You really haven’t seen yesterday’s
Telegraph
, have you?’

Brook looked at Noble. ‘John?’

‘Something about the Deity case,’ said Noble. ‘So what?’

‘Didn’t your daughter tell you?’ smirked Yvette. ‘They carried a picture of her.
DEITY DETECTIVE’S DAUGHTER SURVIVES ORDEAL
. Very moving.’

Brook’s heart turned to ice and he fished out his mobile. He had seven new messages. All from Terri. He closed his eyes in realisation.

‘What’s the problem?’ Noble shrugged. ‘I know it’s an invasion of privacy but I still don’t see what—’

‘Let me enlighten you, Sergeant. You see, DI Brook’s daughter posed as a police officer to gain entry to my home and search my Rusty’s bedroom.’

Noble’s
face fell and he stared at Brook. ‘Is this true?’

‘It’s true all right,’ answered Yvette for Brook, who remained silent.

‘Did you know about this?’

Again Brook was unable to answer.

‘Of course DI Brook knew about it.’ Yvette chuckled. ‘He was with her.’ She pushed back her chair and banged on the door. ‘No court in the world would prosecute me after that deception.’

Brook found his voice. ‘Yvette – that changes nothing. If you don’t help me, Rusty is going to kill others.’

Noble stood, ashen-faced. ‘Let’s go.’

‘He enjoys it too much.’

‘Inspector Brook,’ said Noble sharply, grabbing his arm. ‘We’ve got nothing.’

Brook glanced up at him, a look of shock and confusion on his face.

‘Sir, it’s over. Let’s go.’

Brook left the path that skirted the banks of the River Dove and marched the last mile into Hartington across verdant, manure-rich pastures. The golden orb of the sun was dipping below the horizon but Brook could still feel the glow it had left on his tanned face.

He reached the public toilets on the edge of the village and swung his rucksack from his back. He downed the last of his water, sitting on a nearby bench, watching birds feeding on flying insects. He hadn’t felt this good in years. A month after his suspension had kicked in, Brook was fit, brown and relaxed. He was eating properly and had put on a stone in weight, much of it muscle on his legs after four weeks spent walking a
minimum of fifteen miles a day. Better yet, he hadn’t had a cigarette in three weeks and, more importantly, hadn’t wanted one.

Two days earlier, for the first time in years, Brook had started to entertain the idea of leaving the Force. He had plenty of money, even without his pension, and his lifestyle was not exactly lavish. The day after, he’d drafted his resignation letter which sat in his printer waiting for a signature and an envelope. He wouldn’t hand it to Charlton yet, not without speaking to Noble first – he owed him that much.

Brook continued his hike through the village and up the steep incline to his cottage.

He saw the postcard as soon as he opened the door. He bent to pick it up, but before it was in his hand he recognised the Eiffel Tower. When he turned it over, it was blank apart from Brook’s address. It had been posted in Paris four days earlier. He plucked his mobile from his shorts and thumbed at Noble’s number. A second later he rang off and turned the phone off.

He opened a cupboard and reached past the wine glasses for a jam jar. He poured a generous measure of whisky into it and topped it up with water before taking a large gulp. Then he rummaged for his lighter in the drawer, managing to ignore the pack of cigarettes he’d opened three weeks earlier.

Brook spent an hour staring at the postcard and sipping at his jar on the garden bench. Finally he finished his drink and held the lighter to the edge of the postcard to ignite it. A second later he stopped and extinguished the small flame catching at one corner.

He returned to the kitchen and stuck the postcard under his sole fridge magnet, gathered up a pack of cigarettes and,
after a quick detour into his tiny office, returned to his bench to light up. The smoke from his first cigarette for three weeks was harsh on his lungs.

Instead of extinguishing the lighter, Brook held his resignation letter over the flame until it caught fire then dropped the fireball and watched it burn at his feet.