The Disciple (32 page)

Finally Drexler closed the door on the chamber of horrors and continued his tour. He unfolded the Forensics report from his back pocket and read it for the hundredth time. He went into the bathroom and opened the rickety bathroom cabinet with its cracked mirror.

‘What are you looking for, Mike?’

‘The drugs.’

McQuarry sighed. ‘The CSIs went over this place twenty-four/seven for three days, Mike. If they didn’t find the drugs then they’re not here.’

Drexler looked at the sheet again. ‘Billy Ashwell had coffee before he died, laced with hyoscine and traces of morphine. The combination depresses the central nervous system and causes paralysis and amnesia. George and Tania Bailey both received a similar cocktail of drugs before they died.’

‘I read the report, Mike. But there’s nothing here.’

Drexler sighed. ‘Know what I’m thinking? Maybe Sorenson took it … for future projects.’

‘Good luck getting a search warrant. It’s past nine, Mike. I’d like to have some dinner and maybe a drink before I go back and collapse in my welcoming motel room.’

Drexler rubbed a hand over his face, then smiled. ‘Sorry, Ed, you’re right. Let’s get out of here. Dinner’s on me.’

‘Damn right.’

They closed and locked the cabin door and walked back towards the darkened garage on the highway, Drexler swinging his flashlight and McQuarry greedily lighting a cigarette.

The noise of the forest was deafening and, but for their one pyramid of torchlight, the darkness total.

‘It sure is lonely out here, Ed. I can’t imagine anyone wanting…’ Drexler halted in his tracks and swung his flashlight at the scrub on the side of the dirt track. He retraced his steps and got down on his haunches to examine something on the ground.

‘What is it, Mike?’

‘This hole. It looks freshly dug.’ Drexler swung his flashlight over the hole. It was about a foot deep and six inches in diameter. He fingered the soil inside it. ‘What do you suppose was buried in there?’

Drexler stepped back and swung his flashlight from side to side. There was a line, an avenue almost, of half a dozen small saplings planted equidistant from each other. The end tree was now missing. He approached the sapling nearest to the hole. The deep green leaves were large and oily, and horn-shaped creamy white flowers drooped towards the ground.

‘Unusual. Don’t think I’ve ever seen a tree like this. Know what genus that is?’

‘Gee, Mike, is it a Californian Redwood?’

Drexler laughed. ‘Sorry, Ed. I’m used to you knowing everything.’

‘I know my stomach is grumbling.’

‘I wonder what happened to this end tree.’

‘There’s been heavy traffic on the site, Mike. Maybe one of the ambulances or tow trucks knocked it over.’

He nodded. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

It was cold, dark and beginning to rain by the time Brook, Hudson and Grant arrived back at the Ingham house. For that reason the crime scene was not as besieged as it might have
been. There were still a few gawping locals hanging around the taped-off area, and media organisations were still represented, but the weather and the lateness of the hour had thinned out the crowd.

As Brook pulled the car into the nearest parking space, a few lights and cameras swung in its direction. A few friendly cries hoping to elicit an interview could be heard above the drone of the generators.

‘Inspector. What progress are you making, if any?’

Brook turned to see Brian Burton grinning at him. ‘No comment at this time.’

‘Should I ask the Senior Investigating Officer?’ Burton added with a leer. If Burton had been expecting a reaction from Brook, he was disappointed. ‘Had a chance to read my book yet, Inspector?’

‘I don’t read fiction, Brian,’ Brook replied coolly and the throng of Burton’s colleagues bellowed with laughter. Brook walked calmly past the clutch of journalists and ducked under the tape, following Hudson and Grant to the crime scene. Cameras flashed behind him and Brook was halted in his tracks. Mike Drexler stood at the back of the crowd. He’d only caught a glimpse as the camera flash died, but he was sure it was him. He was standing some way off behind a knot of onlookers and seemed to be smiling in Brook’s direction.

Brook stood and waited for the next camera flash. When it came a few seconds later there was no sign of Drexler.

The sound of booing erupting from a small huddle of people beyond the tape distracted Brook’s attention. He turned to the group of no more than four people gathered in the dark, at least one of which was an elderly woman.

Hudson and Grant halted and came back towards him. ‘What is it?’ asked Grant.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Brook. ‘Are they booing
us
?’

Grant narrowed her eyes against the slanting rain. ‘I think they are.’

Seeing the three detectives now paying attention to them, the small group of people became more voluble. One shouted, ‘Let The Reaper alone. If you can’t keep the streets safe, let someone else do it for yer.’

Another shouted, ‘Good riddance to the scum. Long live The Reaper.’

And yet another chanted, ‘Scum in fear. The Reaper’s near. Scum in fear. The Reaper’s near.’ The chant was taken up by the others.

‘Fuck me!’ said Hudson, throwing a cigarette into his mouth and continuing towards the house. ‘That’s a first. Three cheers for The Reaper? You weren’t wrong, Damen.’ Brook merely grunted.

Once inside the relative comfort of the police marquee, the detectives were joined by Noble.

‘I take it you heard the Neighbourhood Watch out there?’ asked Noble.

‘Hell, yes,’ answered Hudson. ‘Bizarre.’

‘Maybe you wouldn’t find it so bizarre if you had to live next to the Inghams, guv,’ observed Grant.

‘She’s right, sir. Door to door all round the estate, everyone we spoke to told us they lived in fear. Seems they were a constant nuisance and worse. The noise, the loud music at all hours, routine thefts, threats. They behaved like they owned the estate. Apparently the little kid was the worst. He was even put up for an ASBO. Nobody would raise their face to them, never mind a hand. And nobody went out without leaving lights and the TV on.’

‘So good riddance to bad rubbish, eh?’ nodded Hudson.

‘It fits The Reaper’s MO, guv. Target the troublemakers, the petty criminals,’ added Grant. ‘Maybe people are seeing the connection now.’

‘Connection?’ said Brook, fixing her with a look.

‘The pattern. After five of these, people are starting to realise
that if they’re minding their own business and behaving themselves, they’re safe. A few less villains on the street – who cares?’

Brook smiled. She caught on quickly. Under his breath he said, ‘Nobody cares.’

Only Grant heard him above the background hum of the generators and she turned to him for the first time without hostility, giving him a bleak smile in return.

‘Maybe we should piss off back to Brighton then, Laura. Let someone turn this road into a Reaper theme park,’ Hudson observed, to his own amusement. ‘Thought not. Bring us up to speed, John.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Call me guv, will you, John? Sir makes me sound like a fucking teacher.’ Noble looked over at Brook, who affected disinterest. ‘What about the bodies?’

‘All gone and Dr Habib says he’ll have something preliminary first thing in the morning. Forensics too.’

Hudson looked at his watch. ‘Hopefully that’ll give us something to chew on at briefing.’

‘And you know the good news,’ said Noble with a glance at Brook. ‘We’ve got a clear thumbprint from the mobile phone. There are a few other smudged marks which are partials of Jason’s. But the thumb isn’t his. It doesn’t match any print on the database. Criminal
or
internal!’ he said, with more than sufficient emphasis. But, as if he were addressing first-day cadets, he felt compelled to add, ‘DI Brook is in the clear. If there was any doubt.’ Noble looked pointedly at Grant, who nodded.

‘We never doubted it, did we, Laura?’ said Hudson, encouraging his sergeant with a look.

‘Not for a second, guv,’ she answered in a monotone.

‘And did we get anything useful from the street, Sergeant?’

Noble nodded. ‘One lead – Mrs Patel, our nosy neighbour from two years ago, said she saw someone standing outside her house, watching the Ingham house. All the streetlights round
here have been vandalised so she couldn’t give us anything more than she thinks it was a man.’

‘Doing what?’ asked Brook.

‘Like I said – just standing, watching.’

‘Sounds promising. What time?’

‘Around ten. She watched him for a few minutes and then he moved away.’

‘That’s a long time to hang around waiting for his opportunity,’ said Hudson. ‘Risky.’

‘May not be our guy,’ said Grant.

‘If he moved off towards the Wallis house, it might still be him,’ said Brook. ‘But I agree. If he’s using the Wallis house as cover, why stand in the road getting noticed? Anything else, John?’

‘Just background. No other witnesses. Every curtain, every blind facing the Ingham house seems to be permanently drawn. Everybody on the Drayfin just wanted to block them out. Getting nosy invited trouble. And it was past one in the morning. Too late for most.’

‘Did people hear the music?’ said Brook.

‘Everybody close by heard it but nobody looked at their clock. It was normal and people were used to tuning it out. One minute it was pounding out, the next morning it had stopped.’

‘Pounding?’ said Hudson.

‘Some kind of rap music was on. Nobody heard the Chair de Lune.’

Brook smiled. ‘The Moon Chair, John? No, they wouldn’t have. The rap was for the neighbours. Debussy was only for the victims.’

‘We found melted plastic in the oil drum. It’s probably the CD the Ingham boy had on. My guess is that once they were out cold, The Reaper takes it off, tosses it in the fire and puts his own stuff on.’

‘Did you find a case for it, John?’

‘For the Debussy, no – could have been on the fire as well. But there’s an empty case for a gangsta rapper on the kitchen table.’

‘What about clothing? Anything dumped nearby?’ asked Grant. ‘Not that we’ve found. So far we’ve got some clear footprints round the barbecue but they match up with the victims’ shoes.’

‘What about the path and the gate?’ said Brook, nodding at the darkened house that backed onto the Ingham house.

‘If that’s how he got away he left no sign and no one in the next street saw anything either,’ replied Noble. ‘They’ve taken the gate away for further tests.’

‘No footprints or marks of any kind? With all that blood on him?’

Noble shrugged. ‘Not that they can find. There’s been some rain.’

‘Maybe the killer left the Ingham house at the front?’ offered Hudson.

‘Then why the blood on the fence at the back?’ persisted Brook. ‘Did you find out who lives there?’

‘Mrs Dorothy North. A pensioner. Lives alone.’

‘Did she see or hear anything, anyone in her garden?’ asked Grant.

‘She’s away. That’s why the house has been dark through all this.’

‘Any idea where?’

‘No. Her next-door neighbour,’ Noble indicated the house to the left, ‘knows only that she’s away for six weeks and left two weeks ago.’

‘Okay, John. Get Cooper to re-canvass the entire block – both streets. Mrs North might have other friends in the street, so look for people nearer her own age. And check for any relatives. Find someone who knows where she went.’

‘Is it important, Damen?’ queried Hudson.

‘Maybe not. But it’s the house backing onto the Inghams and the woman who lives there is away. With The Reaper I tend to be suspicious of helpful coincidence.’

‘I thought this was a copycat,’ offered Grant, almost smiling.

Brook looked across at her. ‘Either way.’

‘Is this usual, Damen?’ asked Hudson. ‘As Reaper crime scenes go.’

‘The Reaper always likes to mix it up. Assuming it is The Reaper,’ he added with emphasis for Grant’s sake.

‘You still say it’s a copycat?’

‘Method can be copied Joshua. And yes, I shall say it’s a copy.’
Sorenson’s dead.
‘There are too many differences and too much evidence.’
And Sorenson’s dead.

‘I mean the phone call for one. The Reaper would never do that.’
And did I mention Sorenson’s dead?

‘We’ll need to hear more on that in the morning. Okay, let’s walk through again.’

For the next half hour the four detectives re-enacted the crime for their own benefit, arguing over a detail here and miming an action there.

Brook, who knew from experience how things had probably played out, watched Hudson and Grant go about their business. He had to admit he was impressed. They seemed well matched, each with differing talents that complemented the other’s. They picked up on the significance of certain details and together sometimes came up with ideas that surprised or intrigued Brook. One such idea came to DS Grant as she had stood underneath the skylight in the bedroom ceiling. The rope that had hung the young boy was no longer in situ, having gone to the laboratories along with all the other evidence.