The Disciple (8 page)

‘Why? Because he
wants
to kill him, guv. And maybe he wants to avoid a trial, avoid putting Terri and his ex-wife through the ringer.’

‘Then it’s the same problem we had with Terri and the mum. This murder was cold and calculated. If it’s revenge for his daughter there’s got to be some passion somewhere, even after two years. I don’t see any.’

‘Maybe he’s a cold fish.’

‘He’s still one of us, Laura, the thin blue. Let’s not lose sight of that. And you’re talking about one of the smartest detectives in the country, by all accounts. He deserves any benefit we can give him.’

‘If he’s so good, why hasn’t he caught The Reaper, guv? He’s had several cracks at it.’

‘Just the same, we don’t want to be going off half-cocked. We’ve got nothing on him.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Get everything we’ve got on all The Reaper murders so we can get a handle on what Brook’s been up against – see how he thinks.’

‘And then?’

‘Pack a bag.’

September 1995, Northern California

The vehicle swept into the gas station and drew to a halt next to a pump. Sensored floodlights banished the gathering gloom and cast the surrounding woods into surly shadow and a multitude of insects came to life at the sudden warmth of the lights. A powerfully built young man in oily dungarees, with unkempt straw for hair, half-ran, half-walked from the flat slab of a building towards the pump. He arrived and stood waiting for the driver, looking intently over the vehicle, wiping his mouth with a napkin extracted from his grimy shirt pocket.

The driver stepped out, pulling his map from under a sealed plastic wallet full of deep red rose petals on the passenger seat. He stared at it for a moment then tossed it back into the vehicle to cover the small box of bullets on the back seat.

‘Fill her up, sir?’ asked the attendant, his mouth still half-full of food. It had stained his chin with a film of grease. The man nodded and strolled towards the building, stretching and flexing his frame as he went. He’d been driving all day and could feel the tingling in his legs as blood reintroduced itself to his muscles.

He walked into the shabby prefab and let the fly screen clatter behind him. The man heard the nightly news report
of the latest from the OJ Simpson murder trial being chewed over by the commentators. There was no escape from the story, even in this remote corner of Northern California.

His dark eyes flicked around the squalor, adjusting to the strip lighting that buzzed and flickered overhead. A water cooler burped its welcome somewhere in the back and insects glided towards his eyes and ears. The fetid atmosphere was almost tangible, unperturbed by the ancient fan struggling to push the treacly air around the room.

A man dressed in a soiled, sweat-stained, sleeveless vest, which must once have been as white as his arms, leaned forward across his desk. The reflected glow of a small TV danced around his three-day stubble.

‘Evening, sir. Welcome to Alpine County,’ beamed a middle-aged version of the young man filling his car. ‘Caleb Ashwell’s the name. That there’s my boy Billy.’ He turned off the TV and stood to greet his customer.

‘Evening,’ replied the man, declining to throw his own name into the mix. ‘Am I on the right road for Markleeville?’

‘Yes, sir. You’re on 89 – ten miles out of Markleeville. That where you’re headed, Mr … ?’

The man looked up at Ashwell and, after a pause, answered. ‘Brook. No, I’m headed for South Lake Tahoe.’

A slow yellow grin filled Ashwell’s features. ‘Not far to go, sir. Maybe thirty, forty miles,’ he said. ‘You English, Mr Brook?’

‘You could say that,’ answered Brook distractedly.

‘I knew it,’ exclaimed Ashwell, slapping the counter. ‘Just love that accent. Welcome to California, Mr Brook. God’s own country. After Texas, ’course.’ He held out his hand for Brook who kept his hands behind his back but, when Ashwell wouldn’t be denied, he placed his thin hand into the American’s rough paw and shook as firmly as he could.

If Ashwell noted Brook’s discomfort at the contact, it didn’t seem to have registered. ‘And we all sure loved your
Mrs Thatcher over here. The Iron Lady. Mighty fine. Mighty fine. And your Princess Di? Well now, sir she’s a real beaut, yes indeed.’ Ashwell’s face cracked into the professional smile of the salesman. ‘Is that a Dodge Ram 250 you got out there, sir?’ he said, marching to the grimy window to look out. ‘Didn’t know you could rent that model any longer?’ He turned to Brook expectantly, waiting for his answer.

Brook gazed back, his own smile starting to function. ‘I didn’t, I bought it second hand in Los Angeles.’

‘A ′92?’ The smile was broad but the eyes were probing. Clearly there weren’t abundant opportunities for conversation on this lonely stretch of highway.

‘No, 1991 – it’s already clocked over a hundred thousand though,’ replied Brook.

Ashwell seemed satisfied with that. ‘In four years? Ain’t a lot for the 250, sir. She’s just getting started. Mighty fine vehicle – a real workhorse. You must be touring round a lot. You been to Yosemite yet?’

Brook nodded and fixed his interrogator with his dark eyes. ‘I drove through yesterday. It was magnificent.’

‘Ain’t it? One of the Lord’s finest day’s work right there.’ Brook shrugged. Ashwell pressed on. ‘And you’re gonna love Tahoe.’

Brook noticed a camera on the back wall, stared at the red light for a few seconds, then looked back at Ashwell with a half-smile.

Ashwell must have seen him looking because, unsolicited, he said, ‘Had a couple of robberies last year. Goddamn bikers.’ He looked around for somewhere to spit but then evidently thought better of it.

‘You can never be too careful,’ agreed Brook.

The young man came through the door, rubbingb his hands with a cloth. ‘Billy. This gentleman’s from England.’

‘They got a queen, Pop.’

‘That’s right, son. Whyn’t you pour Mr Brook here a cup of coffee to take with him?’ He turned to Brook. ‘On the house, you understand. Freshly brewed. You ain’t got far to go but you need to stay alert on these roads and a cup of hot Joe always does the job. It’s awful dark out there when the sun dips.’

Brook smiled. ‘Thank you for your kindness. What do I owe you?’

Billy returned with a lidded paper cup and handed it to Brook. ‘Ten bucks even.’

Brook pulled a credit card from his wallet, thought for a second, then slid it back in. He then pulled out a large wad of notes, methodically looking for the right denomination, before pulling out a ten-dollar bill. ‘Pity they didn’t make these easier to use,’ said Brook, apologetically. ‘They all look the same.’

‘Just like niggers,’ chortled Billy, until his father’s hand caught him hard round the head.

‘Don’t you talk your foolishness round real people,’ shouted Ashwell. ‘Get on up the house.’ Billy’s head sagged onto his chest and, close to tears, he slumped away. ‘Sorry about Billy, Mr Brook. He ain’t bright but he ain’t usually that stupid.’

‘No need to apologise – must be hard out in this wilderness for a boy his age. Your wife too,’ said Brook, suddenly keen to make conversation.

‘It sure is a lonely stretch of blacktop, sir, no word of a lie – but beautiful too. ’Specially in the winter when the snow’s on the hills. Got a cabin up on the bluff,’ said Ashwell, indicating behind him with a flick of his head. ‘Momma’s gone. There’s just Billy and me.’

Brook nodded. ‘I see.’ He stared back at Ashwell but seemed lost in thought. He smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you sell corkscrews; lost mine last night at the campsite.’

‘No problem, sir.’ Ashwell slapped a penknife on the counter, which had various attachments including the corkscrew Brook was looking for. ‘Five bucks.’

This time Brook counted out five ones. ‘Well. Thanks again for the coffee.’

‘Don’t mention it, Mr Brook. Now you drink it while it’s hot. And we’ll hope to see you again soon,’ he called to Brook’s receding frame. Ashwell stood motionless, watching the Dodge pull away as the deathly quiet slowly engulfed the station again.

A moment later the silence was shattered as the sound of another engine signalled a different vehicle encroaching on the California night.

‘I still don’t see how you can rule out the wife and daughter.’ Chief Superintendent Donald Maddy stroked his beard as was his custom when ruminating over matters of detection. It didn’t help his deductive powers at all – he didn’t have any – but, whenever matters outside his comfort zone were presented to him, he subconsciously reached for his facial hair to mask his unease. Grant had read the textbooks and knew that psychologists attributed this kind of mannerism to a desire for concealment based on inadequacy. She also knew that had she, Hudson and the Chief Super been discussing community policing or traffic management, Maddy would have opened himself up by putting his hands behind his head, inviting contradiction so he could show off his in-depth knowledge of the subject.

She looked over at Hudson who nodded. He always encouraged Grant to take the reins in the Chief Super’s office, because he was too easily exasperated when those he dubbed ‘pencil necks’ didn’t accept his superior expertise.

‘It’s the way he was murdered, sir,’ answered Grant. ‘He was
killed by someone who knew what they were doing. The wife and daughter wouldn’t have had a clue.’

‘They might have hired someone to do it,’ observed Maddy.

Hudson’s features began to darken but, before he could speak, he heard Grant say, ‘Good point, sir. We’ll certainly keep that in mind.’

Maddy seemed pleased that his impressions were of some value and attempted to gild the lily. ‘What was that drug again?’

‘Scopolamine mixed with traces of morphine.’

‘Ah yes,’ he said as though in recognition.

‘It induces a condition known as Twilight Sleep,’ said Grant. ‘It’s why Harvey-Ellis was so compliant with his killer, sir. We’ve got no material evidence here in Brighton apart from those drugs. Whoever did this has come and gone without a trace.’

‘No witnesses, nothing on CCTV?’

‘Not yet, sir.’

‘What about this Sowerby?’

‘A weasel, sir, and we’re not ruling him out. However, we’re dubious he could plan something this slick. And motive is weak – Harvey-Ellis was a good customer. There’s always money but Sowerby swears blind he didn’t sell him out. For the moment we believe him.’

‘And he didn’t notice anyone who might have been setting this up?’ asked Maddy.

‘No one.’

‘Which leaves only the wife and daughter,’ nodded Maddy. ‘As I said.’

‘Not quite true, sir,’ said Grant. ‘But this is where it gets tricky. The ex-husband also has motive and, what’s more, he has professional criminal know-how.’

‘Opportunity?’

‘We’re not sure yet. He lives in Derby. But he does know Brighton. Two years ago he found out his daughter and stepfather
were lovers and marched into Harvey-Ellis’s office where he assaulted him and threatened him with arrest.’

‘Sounds promising.’

‘Yes, sir. But he’s a serving DI in Derby CID. Damen Brook.’

Maddy made eye contact for the first time.
‘The
Damen Brook? Of Reaper fame?’

‘The same.’

Maddy took a minute to process the information, then shrugged. ‘We must root out all bad apples, Detectives. That’s our job. Do what you have to do.’ He nodded at them both, clearly expecting this to be the end of the meeting. When they showed no sign of moving, he held out his hands. ‘Something else?’

‘We ran the combination of drugs through the database,’ said Hudson, deciding it was time to contribute. ‘The only recent incidence of those two drugs being used in a crime was during the last Reaper killings in Derby.’

‘What are you saying?’ asked Maddy, this time unashamed to have it spelt out for him.

Hudson paused for a second to be certain there would be no misunderstanding. ‘We’re working on the theory that Brook learns about the drugs while working the Reaper murders and then puts the same drugs to use when he kills Tony Harvey-Ellis.’

‘Sounds reasonable. What’s the problem?’

‘If we clear Brook, it means Brighton may have had its first Reaper killing.’