The Disciple (50 page)

Mrs Petras opened her door on the second knock and wiped her hands with her apron.

‘I’m sorry to call at this hour.’

‘Inspector Brook,’ she beamed. ‘Come in. I make coffee.’

‘I can’t, Mrs Petras.’ She looked crestfallen. ‘Urgent police business.’ Her face hardened. She understood duty. Brook offered her a cigarette which she accepted gratefully, taking a long pull when Brook lit it for her.

‘Do you remember seeing this woman, Mrs Petras?’ Brook brandished the photograph of Denise Ottoman.

Mrs Petras looked at it briefly. ‘Only from papers. She never see Dottie. Not see her before papers.’ Brook showed her a picture of John Ottoman for good measure but got the same result.

Brook paused, unsure of the right words. ‘Does Mrs North eat ready meals?’

‘No understand,’ she said.

‘Er, ready meals. Frozen food.’

‘Frozed. Never.’ She looked like she wanted to spit, so Brook smiled to disarm the unintended insult. ‘We proper cook. Go three times a week Eagle Centre. On free bus. We buy fresh. Young girls cook Iceland. Not me, not Dottie.’

Brook rushed back to his car. As he expected: pensioners bought fresh and cheap produce and cooked proper food. Meat and two veg. His late parents had been the same. It wasn’t just the desire to eat healthily that drove them to the corner shop or the greengrocer’s. It was also the daily balm of human companionship that drew them out of the house.

Five minutes later Brook removed keys from his pocket and opened the side door of Mrs North’s house. It opened directly into the kitchen in which Brook had previously stood, trying to turn a nagging feeling into a solid fact. Brook opened her fridge. It was empty and spotlessly clean.

This time Brook opened the small freezer compartment. It took some doing as it was frozen solid. When he finally did manage to prise open the flap, the tiny space contained what could have been a tray of ice cubes. There was no room for anything else. There could be no doubt. Nothing had been stored in that compartment for months, if not years.

Whoever had committed murder at the Ingham house had prepared long in advance, had bought meat long before it was needed and stored it, then defrosted it before offering it up to the Inghams. To do so they’d need access to a freezer. But where?

Drexler’s eyes had not left the office door all the time that Sorenson had been inside the office. McQuarry had readied her night-vision field glasses and was scanning the surrounding area for any activity. There was none.

When Sorenson re-emerged he returned to the Toyota and drove it across the lot to the farthest darkest corner, parking outside the end cabin. When the vehicle’s lights
went out, Drexler found it hard to see what Sorenson was doing and nudged McQuarry for a look through the field glasses, an instruction that she ignored. Eventually the driver’s door opened and Sorenson stepped out of the vehicle, framed by the safety light, and opened the rear door.

‘There’s somebody else with him,’ said McQuarry.

‘There can’t be. We’d have seen.’ Drexler squinted across the ground. He saw a figure emerge from the rear of the car and close the door behind, extinguishing all light again. ‘You’re right. There are two of them.’

‘There must have been someone hiding in the back seat,’ said McQuarry.

‘Could it be a hostage or another victim? Drugged maybe.’

‘Can’t see any signs of it, Mike.’

‘Then maybe it’s an accomplice.’ Drexler thought for a second. ‘Maybe there are two Reapers.’

McQuarry lowered the glasses and looked over at him. ‘You might be right.’

There was silence apart from intermittent gusts of wind. The car park was empty. Even the highway was near deserted. ‘What can you see?’ asked Drexler, laying his hand on McQuarry’s shoulder. The tension had pitched his voice a semitone higher.

‘See for yourself,’ she said, nodding towards the cabin.

At that moment the door opened and Drexler was able to see Sorenson illuminated against the bright room. The other person was already inside, carrying something in either hand. Maybe a small case. Drexler didn’t get a look as Sorenson closed the door behind him.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Drexler, a wave of frustration washing over him. He looked across at McQuarry’s arched eyebrow as she removed her binoculars.

‘We wait.’

Drexler opened the door. ‘I’m going in. He could be slaughtering someone as we speak…’

‘Mike! We wait,’ insisted McQuarry.

After a few seconds’ hesitation, Drexler pulled the door closed.

As Brook switched on the computer back in the Incident Room, a sense of dread began to overtake him. Two years ago The Reaper had murdered the Wallis family. The preparations were thorough and Brook had concluded that Sorenson must have spent time in the area. But, try as they might, they’d never discovered where the killer might have stayed. They’d scoured the local hotels and B&Bs but found no trace.

Eventually Brook had concluded that Sorenson had probably stayed somewhere out of town. After Brook was suspended from the inquiry, the question hadn’t been pursued and certainly had never been answered. But now the knot in Brook’s stomach was telling him that Sorenson had property in Derby. Rented or otherwise, it would explain so much about the preparations for
both
Reaper killings in the city.

He started with estate agents, listing then emailing all those he could find on the internet. He asked about rentals and purchases pertaining to the name Sorenson. Then he noted down as many telephone numbers as he could find for follow-up in the morning.

But two years ago Sorenson had been using a false identity. He’d shown a driver’s licence in the name of Peter Hera when hiring a van to deliver pizzas to the Wallis home. So Brook emailed the estate agents, again asking the same question but with the new name.

Brook had an idea. If a property had been purchased before the Wallis murders, the name might have found its way onto the voters’
register. He searched for the electoral roll and fed the same two names into the search bar. Nothing. As usual, Sorenson wasn’t making things easy for him.

He tried again, this time using Drexler’s name. Still nothing. Disheartened, he turned the computer off. He got up to go but found Chief Superintendent Charlton blocking the doorway.

‘Sergeant Hendrickson said you were here.’

‘Yes, sir. I was just on my way to see you, sir.’

‘I’ll bet you were – despite being too busy to answer your phone.’

‘Have you been ringing me, sir? It’s been out of order for some time.’

Charlton eyed him with studied contempt. ‘Modern policing is all about communication, Brook, but I can see I’m not getting through to you.’

Brook noted the absence of his title and tried not to smile. ‘Sir?’

Charlton looked up at Brook, trying to inject some swagger into his voice. ‘I suppose you’ve heard by now.’ Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘The Ottomans were arrested in France this evening. They’ll be on a flight to East Midlands Airport tomorrow afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass that titbit on to Brian Burton, no matter how many drinks he offers you.’

Brook stiffened. He could hold his hand up to mistakes, but corruption was a different matter and for a second he wondered whether to put Charlton on the floor. It passed swiftly but Charlton must have detected the change in Brook’s demeanour because his manner became hesitant.

‘Well. Suffice to say you’re not going to be involved with the case any further. Take a week off. Don’t come to the Incident Room again. Don’t talk to other officers on the inquiry. Clear?’

Brook nodded, declining to speak. His placid response stirred Charlton’s superiority complex once more and his lip curled. ‘You know, I was warned about you, Brook. There’s no future
for your kind in the Force, certainly not in a division I’m running. Think on that.’ He turned smartly on his heel.

‘Where were the Ottomans arrested, sir?’

Charlton half turned. ‘In Paris – they were spotted in an Irish pub by some ex-pats.’ Brook couldn’t suppress his amusement this time. ‘Something funny?’

‘An Irish pub,’ Brook nodded. ‘Right. If I was a hunted serial killer, that’s where I’d go.’

Twenty minutes later, the door to the cabin opened. Drexler nudged McQuarry who sat up and opened her eyes. They watched intently. This time Drexler had the night-vision glasses. Sorenson emerged from the cabin alone. He still had on the overcoat and gloves he had been wearing when he’d arrived. There didn’t seem to be any sign of blood. He looked around before flicking off the light and pulling the door closed. As far as the agents could discern, he did not say anything to whoever remained inside.

Sorenson returned to the Toyota and started the ignition. Drexler reached for the keys but found McQuarry’s hand on his.

‘Let’s wait a while.’

Drexler looked at her, saw the sense in her suggestion and sank back onto his seat, breathing deeply.

‘You gotta take it easy, Mike. It’ll happen. You can’t force these things.’

Sorenson drove to the reception office and pulled up. He stepped out and strolled into the building.

Brook got home late again that night. For once he’d stopped at the Coach and Horses and just managed to catch last orders. He sat in the snug there, nursing a pint, thinking about the Ottomans. He remembered Laura Grant asking him why Ottoman had spared Jason. An even more difficult question, he thought to himself, was why had he, Brook, spared him? The little thug had killed his cat. Smashed its head to a pulp and left the little mite for Brook to find. And there he was in the Inghams’ yard, helpless before him. Why hadn’t he done it? He didn’t know. The Reaper had slaughtered everyone else. There was no one to stop him.

The Reaper. Brook nodded. This was no copycat. Even from beyond the grave this carried Sorenson’s mark. No copycat would have lured Brook to the scene and left young Wallis for him to finish.