The Disciple (17 page)

Brook was late setting off for home after his shift, having made a conscious effort to clear his backlog of paperwork. It was partly that things seemed to be pretty quiet at the moment, the colder weather being credited with a decline in drink-fuelled violence, and partly a result of his meeting with Chief Superintendent Charlton.

Charlton had been as unsubtle as he could manage without openly saying what he wanted.

‘How old are you, Damen?’

Brook had sat blankly in his chair, flicking a discreet eye towards the copy of Brian Burton’s book on Charlton’s desk. He didn’t like the Chief Super using his first name. It wasn’t that he cared
about Charlton’s overfamiliarity, more that he resented its use as a tactic to soften him up for some ulterior motive that Brook was fairly certain he could guess. To make his point, Brook waited longer than was polite to respond, knowing that Charlton almost certainly knew the answer.

‘Forty-seven, isn’t it? Forty-eight just before Christmas. You know, I envy you, Damen.’

Brook eyed his superior coolly, trying to mask the contempt rising in him. ‘You wouldn’t if you knew the pain I’ve suffered, sir.’

Charlton was taken aback. ‘Oh?’

‘My parents tried their best to keep things special but it’s an expensive time of year. Uncles, aunts and grandparents always gave me one present for Christmas, which had to double up for my birthday as well. All told, I calculate I’m down about seventy presents from my childhood.’

Charlton briefly looked at Brook as though he were completely insane, then pressed ahead with his own agenda. ‘No, I mean that coming up to fifty, your thoughts must be turning towards retirement, getting out of all this … stress.’

‘Must they?’

‘Not that you’re not a valued officer. But I know it’s a young man’s game, eh? Let them get on with it while you go off and enjoy yourself.’

‘Enjoy myself.’ Brook lingered over the words and Charlton began to realise that he’d been a bit too obvious.

‘But that’s not why I wanted to see you…’ And he’d rapidly changed lanes to talk about the Brian Burton book and how much Brook was prepared to say on the record.

So, subliminal or not, Brook had left the meeting feeling a need to clear his desk, and had spent several hours doing just that. Whether it was the need to show he was still a competent detective, or a subconscious acceptance that he was ready to call it a day was more difficult to fathom.

*    *    *

Mike Drexler and Edie McQuarry sat at the table of the windowless room at Markleeville PD sifting through various papers. Some were faded faxes of car rental receipts; some were black and white images of driving permits. The most disturbing were the happy family portraits of the doomed families, grinning timelessly into the camera, shiny with hope and purpose, now immortalised as victims of The Ghost Road Killer – or killers. When the documentary makers moved in, these would be the pictures set beside the pictures of skeletons, like the rag doll found in the VW. And when the story became public property it might even weaken OJ’s stranglehold on the front pages for a day.

‘Okay, we got the Campbells from Brigham City, Utah, the Hernandez family from Prescott, Arizona,’ said Drexler, slamming down a missing persons folder for every family. ‘The Biscotti family from Las Vegas, Nevada, the Reeves family from Denver, Colorado and the latest victims, the Bailey family from San Diego, California. Five families matched to five different vehicles so far. That’s in chronological order.’

‘And the Baileys were the last family to go missing.’

‘Right.’

‘How long exactly?’ asked McQuarry, shaking out a cigarette and lighting up with a precautionary glance over her shoulder.

‘They were reported missing two months ago, but obviously may have been abducted before that. Or after. They were last seen on July fifteenth when their holiday started.’ Drexler looked over at his partner. ‘Ed,
outside
a restaurant may be a grey area, but now you’re definitely breaking California state law.’

‘You think state police give a hoot about a law forced through by a few rich anorexics in LA with too much money and time on their hands?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then stow it and tell me about the Baileys.’

‘Yes, ma’am. The Baileys. Four of them. Two daughters. Nicole and Sally. Fifteen and thirteen years of age,’ said Drexler, lingering over the last snippet without really knowing why. ‘Wife Tania Bailey, forty-one and her husband George, forty-seven. They were from England originally but were living full time in the States at the time of their disappearance. The husband is a chemical engineer and had been working in San Diego for two years. They were on vacation…’

‘Wait a minute,’ said McQuarry holding up a hand and closing her eyes. ‘Did you say George?’ Drexler nodded. ‘George Bailey?’

‘That’s what I said. Problem?’

She laughed. ‘George Bailey. Shit. Someone’s messing with us, Mike.’ Drexler showed no sign of understanding her.
‘It’s a Wonderful Life
, that film I was talking about. The character James Stewart played was called George Bailey. He finds rose petals in his pocket that his daughter Zuzu has given him…’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I’m telling you, this is more than a coincidence. Someone’s sending us a message with these rose petals.’ ‘What message?’

She took a pull on her Marlboro Light and thought about it. ‘I think whoever killed Caleb and Billy Ashwell wants us to know that they were killed because of what they did to George Bailey and his family. George Bailey is the key to this. Where did you say he worked?’

Stepping out of his car in Hartington sometime after seven, Brook realised with a sinking feeling that his new neighbour was clearly
the outdoors type. Framed against the dark sky, he could see the glow of a fire in Rose Cottage’s small back garden and knew that he would have to stay indoors unless he wanted to endure an evening of tedious chitchat. With winter fast approaching, Brook had wanted to maximise use of his garden while he still could, and this impediment was a nuisance.

When he reached his door, however, he found the situation far worse than that. A note stuck out of his letterbox.

Brook hovered over the note for a minute before screwing it into a ball and binning it. At least when the tenants had kids they didn’t have time to bother him. He went into the house and neglected to turn on any lights, without quite realising why. Eventually he flicked on a small lamp next to his computer and immediately began to feel self-conscious. He kicked off his leather shoes and squeezed his feet into a pair of deck shoes before padding back into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. It was empty except for a carton of milk, a baked potato skin, an opened can of beans and a bottle of champagne left over from his last night with Wendy Jones the year before.

After a moment’s contemplation he closed the fridge door, but not before plucking the champagne from its cradle. He strolled next door, remembering to take a full pack of cigarettes with him. Despite his infrequent attendance at social functions in the last fifteen years, Brook remembered sufficient misery when plentiful alcohol and tobacco was not at hand.

As he knocked on the front door, Drexler came to greet him from the side path.

‘Damen! Good to see you. How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine. How are you?’

‘I’m good,’ nodded Drexler, unaware of the tic of annoyance his grammar caused Brook. ‘Champagne. Thank you. That’s thoughtful,’ he added.

Brook managed a smile as he followed Drexler round to the back. ‘The least I could do. Settling in okay?’

‘Pretty good.’ Brook looked around the garden of his new neighbour, half an eyebrow raised. ‘Yeah, it’s just us, Damen. Tom’s been and gone.’

‘Great,’ Brook muttered under his breath.

‘And Basil, of course.’ Brook spied the black cat gnawing away at some blackened meat on the tiny lawn. He looked up briefly to be sure Brook wasn’t about to steal his food, then returned to his meal. ‘Please sit. Wine or beer, or would you like champagne?’ smiled Drexler.

Brook was aware now that his host was slurring slightly. ‘Not champagne, beer or red wine if you’ve got it,’ he said cracking open his fresh pack of smokes.

‘As you’re still in the job, how about both?’ asked Drexler, with a grin. Brook shrugged his assent and Drexler disappeared into the tiny kitchen of Rose Cottage, re-emerging moments later with a cold bottled lager and a large glass of red wine. He trotted back into the kitchen and returned with a plate of raw burgers. He slapped two of them onto the grill of the barbecue then put his feet up on a spare chair and tapped his bottle against Brook’s. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’ Brook braced himself for a conversation and went over his mental checklist, but Drexler satisfied himself with staring into the hot coals, punctuated with the occasional bout of burger flipping and organising the salad. When the burgers were nearly done, Drexler dropped a square of processed cheese onto one of them, and when that wilted he began to assemble Brook’s massive double cheeseburger.

When his plate was plonked down, Brook tucked in with more
gusto than he thought possible. Since leaving the city, Brook’s meagre diet had consisted of baked potatoes, beans on toast and the occasional takeaway. The unexpected pleasure of flame-grilled meat left him purring.

When it was finished, Brook licked the ketchup, mayonnaise and grease from his fingers, wiped his hands with a serviette and sat back with a sigh.

‘Mike. That was the best burger I’ve ever had. Thanks.’

‘My pleasure. Another?’

‘That was plenty for me.’

Drexler nodded and took a pull on his beer, then turned back to stare at the dying coals. When the coals began to lose their heat, Drexler pulled out a small pot-bellied garden stove and lit the newspaper protruding from beneath a pile of dry sticks. It sparked into life instantly and they both got to work examining the spitting flames and taking the occasional chug on their drinks.

‘So you’re a writer,’ ventured Brook.

Drexler bent his head towards Brook and smiled without parting his lips, then scrunched up his nose in an expression of scepticism. ‘Not really.’

‘I thought Tom said you were.’

‘I’m getting there. It’s a second career of sorts. It pays the rent.’

‘What was your first career?’

‘Same as you, Damen – law enforcement.’

Brook looked up sharply. He waited for a moment but Drexler didn’t expand, either on his own career or how he knew Brook was a policeman. He was on the verge of asking him when he realised that Tom must have told him on the drive from the airport. Of course. Ask about the new neighbours. It was the most normal thing in the world to do, assuming you weren’t as dislocated from the norm as Brook.

‘Whereabouts?’

‘California. Sacramento. It’s the state capital, just north of San Francisco.’

‘I’ve heard of it. But you flew in from Boston.’

‘That’s right. I moved to the East Coast in ′01 after my book became a hit.’

Brook nodded. ‘What was it about, your book?’

Drexler looked away. Brook had nearly given up on an answer when Drexler said, ‘A case I worked for the FBI.’

‘You were in the FBI?’

‘That I was, Damen. A long time.’ Drexler stared into the flames intently, before adding under his breath, ‘Or maybe it just felt like a long time.’

Brook took another pull on his beer and wondered whether to further pick at what looked like an open wound. ‘I’ve got to take my hat off to you, Mike. I mean, you deal with things in the States that we just don’t see over here.’

‘Plus the bad guys have guns.’

Brook smiled, now more forgiving about the quirks of sharing a language with another country. ‘Plus the bad guys have guns,’ he echoed. Interested now, Brook racked his brains for a way to probe further but then decided against it. He had a sudden flash of sitting with Sorenson in his study all those years ago, plied with drink, a fire nibbling at his toes, being similarly dissected.

‘What’s the book called?’ he finally asked.

‘The Ghost Road Killers.’

‘And should I not ask you what it’s about?’

Drexler turned to Brook with a bitter smile. Suddenly he chuckled. ‘In case I’m scarred by it, you mean. In case I wake up every night screaming, sheets damp, brain on fire.’ He chuckled again. ‘No. You can ask me. I dare say you get people tiptoeing round you when it’s not necessary. You being The Reaper Man and all.’ Brook raised an eyebrow as Drexler laughed. ‘Sorry. You mustn’t blame old Tom. You know how it goes. It’s our job to pull this stuff out of people, and we do it even when they don’t want us to. Tom was a pushover once he’d let it slip.
Besides, you’re even famous in the States – in police circles, at least.’