The Disciple (21 page)

Drexler pulled the car across the highway and into the drive of an unseen house. He and McQuarry stepped from the car and peered through an imposing pair of iron gates, following the course of the drive as it wound its way towards the lake. They couldn’t see the house but the icy waters of Lake Tahoe were visible, lapping calmly against the shore in the pale sunshine – a waterfront property in one of the most expensive real estate zones in the US. It didn’t seem feasible that a resident here would have any connection to the late Caleb Ashwell and his son Billy.

McQuarry checked her notes. ‘879 Cascade Road. This is it, Mike.’

Drexler rattled the gates, but McQuarry took the trouble to find the intercom on the wall and pushed the button. There was a crackle.

‘Yes?’

‘Federal agents, sir. May we speak with you?’

No answer but the gates swung open noiselessly.
The two words that struck fear and often loathing into everyone who crossed their path had barely registered. Not a moment’s hesitation. Normally, even the most righteous couldn’t help but take a second to review their ancient and recent past for forgotten transgressions. Reasons to be fearful, McQuarry and Drexler called it. But not today.

‘Somebody’s got a very clear conscience,’ observed Drexler. The agents jumped back into the Chevy and drove slowly up to the house, taking in the splendour of the surroundings – large grounds shaded by mature white fir, lodgepole pine and aspen trees interspersed with bark-covered flowerbeds. As the trees thinned they saw the huge cabin-style house facing the shore, built with natural wood and local stone. The house stood on a bank, maybe ten metres above the water level and about twenty metres back from the lake. A wooden pier, bleached by the seasons, stretched its arm into the heart of the lake, though no boat was moored.

‘Feel intimidated?’ smiled Drexler.

‘I’m quaking in my boots, Mike.’

They parked near a three-car garage at the side of the house, though there was only one car in residence – a small red Toyota.

‘No sign of a Dodge Ram 250,’ said Drexler.

‘Care to give me odds it’s been
stolen
, Mike?’

He smiled. ‘No sale.’

A slightly built middle-aged man seemed to appear out of nowhere and strolled across the lawn to greet them. Drexler and McQuarry exchanged a private smile of recognition. But instead of the full head of wiry red hair from his passport photograph, the man’s shaved head was as it was on Caleb Ashwell’s CCTV monitor.

‘Detectives, what can I do for you?’ he said in an approximation of an English accent. He smiled at them, though
his shrewd black eyes didn’t seem to be in sympathy with his mouth.

‘FBI, sir. This is Special Agent Drexler and I’m Special Agent McQuarry.’

‘Special agents, how thrilling,’ he said with an effort to be impressed. ‘Just like in the movies.’

Drexler flipped open his notepad. ‘And you are Mr Victor Sorenson?’

The man grinned, perhaps distracted for a moment by an echo from the past.
‘Professor
Sorenson in fact.’

It was well past midnight but the fire still blazed in the old oil drum in Stinger’s overgrown backyard. The air was cold and a fog was forming, but the heat radiating towards the four figures slumped on two decrepit sofas served to incubate the occupants. Stinger’s younger brother had gone to his room to play computer games, shortly after Stinger’s mum and her boyfriend Ryan had staggered off to bed. Stinger, Banger and Grets were close to coma and stared unblinking at the hypnotic flames.

Jason would have liked to turn off the boom box but that wasn’t a runner – Stinger was on a major wreck and Jason knew from experience that he’d not let up until every drop of booze was drunk and every ounce of dope smoked.

‘Turn it up, blood. This track kicks ass,’ slurred Stinger, head lolling back on the bigger of the two sofas.

‘Turn it up yourself, bitch.’ Banger leered at the others, waiting for them to acknowledge the comic genius in their midst.

‘It’s pretty loud already,’ observed Jason, regretting his comment at once.

‘So? The fuck are the neighbours gonna say?’ said Stinger, stumbling to the boom box nestled on the bonnet of his dad’s demolition derby car. It was rotting on bricks in the backyard until someone on the estate took a chance and bought new wheels
for their own vehicle. ‘The last time Osama came round to complain, Ryan gave him a right slappin’, innit?’ Stinger turned up the gangsta rap a couple of notches and slumped back down as they all started nodding to the beat.

‘Bet he weren’t happy though,’ observed Banger before dissolving into hysterics – he was on a roll.

‘And granny next door never puts her head outside after dark no more,’ added Stinger. He threw another fencepost onto the fire. Sparks flew off into the night sky.

‘Not unless she wants croaking like that other old bitch,’ nodded Grets. They all laughed but there was a tension in their throats, and each felt the need to run his drunken eye over the others to make sure it hadn’t been noticed. The moment passed and they were able to reposition their masks of invulnerability. But there was disquiet in their demeanour as each reflected on the night Jason’s family had been slaughtered just a few doors away, the night the four of them had murdered an old woman for money and drugs but awoke to find their thunder stolen by The Reaper, Annie Sewell’s death a mere footnote. Narked at first, each had since come to realise that the sensational events at the Wallis home had kept the Sewell murder out of the limelight and left them free to continue numbing their lives.

Jason stared into the flames and remembered that night with something approaching shame. The face he could never forget – the old woman begging for her life, or at least a little dignity. That night she kept neither.

Thank Christ nobody knew. Not true. That leng, DI Brook knew. He’d come round his aunt’s, got him loaded on cheap whisky. Brook had warned him, tried to make him ’fess up and name names. Had he imagined it? But he hadn’t imagined being tied up. Being threatened. One thing Brook said, Jason would never forget. The Reaper was still out there, waiting for his chance – unfinished business. Trouble was, he didn’t seem keen to finish it. Well, maybe tonight was the night and Jason was ready. Ready
to make payment. Ready for an end to misery and fear. Ready to stop being a victim and start being a player. Ready for fame and a place in history.

Banger took a long draught of cider and offered the dregs of a two-litre bottle to Jason. He held a hand up to refuse, so Banger drained the rest, and threw it into the oil drum.

‘It’s late. I should peg it,’ said Jason, trying to sound casual.

‘Chill your beans, man. It’s early. Don’t be dread. This party’s for you. You can crash here. I asked my mum.’

‘Cheers, Sting. It’s been sick. But I got stuff to do tomorrow.’

‘So what? I got college. Ain’t going though. It’s boring.’

‘Me neither,’ piped up Grets.

‘Yeah, but I promised my aunt.’

‘So? Anyway, you’ll never get a white cab this time o’ night.’

‘I was gonna walk.’

‘Oh my days. It’s bloody miles to Borrowash. And you’ll be crossing enemy blocks.’

‘Yeah, well. When you’ve done time, walking outside at night, when you’re locked in … well, it’s something you think about.’

‘Thought you said it was easy time,’ accused Grets.

‘Look, I’m bladdered…’ began Jason.

‘The fuck you are,’ spat Stinger. ‘You’ve hardly had a drop. And you passed the spliff after one draw. We used to have to taser your ass to get it off you. Innit, Bang?’

‘No doubt.’

‘He might not be used to it,’ explained Grets.

‘That’s no excuse.’

Jason eyed Stinger. ‘Can’t yer take a joke, bredrin?’ he said eventually, finding his party face again. ‘Pass me that bottle. Let’s get this party started, fam,’ he said, downing a litre of rust-coloured liquid in one go.

‘That’s the Jace we know. Don’t neck it all, bitch.’

Brook looked at his watch. One am. He was early. Good. Another hour and he would know. The chill wintry air had turned to fog and clung to the potholed roads and bald grass verges of the Drayfin Estate. The noise of his car cut through the still air with a deliberation born out of Brook’s desire to move quietly through the streets, as though not being noticed meant that he was somewhere else. He didn’t want to be here, that’s for sure, revisiting his past, a past that he thought he’d conquered once and for all. But The Reaper was calling him. Even in death, Sorenson would never let go. Brook should’ve known.

He turned slowly onto the road he’d been on so many times in his dreams, eased past number 233, not looking at the Wallis house, just knowing it was there. It had a presence even now.

Parking around the corner, he stepped from the car and gingerly closed the driver’s door, leaving it unlocked – a rare deliberate act on the Drayfin. He walked back through the gathering fog to the scene of The Reaper’s last atrocity – a path that perhaps The Reaper himself had once taken – and ran his eye over the former home of the Wallis family, as it materialised out of the gloom like a ghost ship.

The house was boarded up and, unusually for the Drayfin, had stayed that way. No need for the council to brick up the doors and windows. Nobody came near the place – no kids, no tramps and certainly no neighbours. The house was a lure only
for passing ghouls, unlikely tourists who craved a glimpse at infamy, assuming they could find the place in this sprawling, redbrick jungle. Even then such visits were made only in daylight.

Brook stood before the house and turned again to see if his presence was being monitored. It appeared not. All neighbouring houses were dark, all streetlights inert and broken. Even the faint light of the moon had taken the evening off. Brook felt himself in the grip of a black hole, being drawn towards the Wallis house, unable to pull away, his orbit decaying, his body and mind hurtling towards the stench of evil that still lurked there.

As he stepped over the splayed front gate, Brook pulled his dark coat tightly round him and yanked up his collar. He approached the front entrance slowly and, as he moved, he heard something that the deep recesses of his memory had warned him to expect: music. Brook stopped to listen, glaring at the house to search for an opening. The years began to melt away, and Brook remembered standing at the front door of Sorenson’s London home, minutes before their first meeting, listening to the aria from La Wally leaking out of the window in his study above.

Then he realised that the music was not coming from the Wallis house. Nor was it a song for The Reaper. The pulse of this music came from elsewhere. Brook looked around, sensing the direction – a neighbouring home, maybe even a garden. Some kind of rap music. The music of violence and confrontation, guaranteed to irritate and cow anyone over thirty, especially at this time of night and in this place. Even this late the self-centred who blighted the urban landscape saw fit to inflict themselves on long-suffering neighbours.
Mind yer own business. It’s a free country. We can play our music loud as we like. What yer gonna do about it?

Brook returned his eyes to the Wallis house. He moved to the door he’d last opened on the night of the murders. It was now a piece of chipboard. It had been wedged open, recently by the look of it. The gap was too slight for Brook to get through, so
he forced the board further open and ducked through the enlarged gap. In the same instant, he snapped on a small torch to check the floor for scurrying rodents.

The hall was just as he remembered. No carpet now but the wallpaper was the same grimy flock. The door into the murder room was gone, taken away by forensics to eke out possible evidence from the bloody smears on the handle. There’d been no prints and no clues on the door, on anything. The carpets had eventually yielded a footprint and a shoe size, but neither Brook nor Inspector Greatorix, who’d taken over the inquiry after Brook’s suspension, had ever found a suspect or even a pair of shoes to seek a match.

Brook stepped into the room in which Mr and Mrs Wallis and their daughter Kylie had been killed. No, not killed, slaughtered like animals for the table, almost as ritual. Their throats cut from ear to ear, their life blood everywhere except their veins.

The armchairs on which the Wallis parents had died were gone, so too the once-white rug on which Kylie and her unborn child had been butchered. Even the wallpaper sporting the bloody daub ‘SAVED’ had been torn away. The room was completely bare. Brook stepped further in, wincing at the explosion of sound that his shoes created on the uncovered floorboards.

His veins turned to ice at the sight of the bottle of wine sitting on the fireplace, exactly as it had the night the Wallis family had faced The Reaper. Next to it were two wine glasses. Both were grime- and dust-free. He was expected. He forced himself to step nearer. The bottle was uncorked and full. He stared at the label. It was a Nuits St Georges, the same as it had been two years ago. Brook picked up a glass with his gloved hand and sniffed it. Clean. This time The Reaper hadn’t had a celebratory drink after doing his work. His work. The Reaper was dead. And what work was there for The Reaper in an empty house?