The Reaper (21 page)

A faint noise disturbed him again. This time there was no mistake. This was no cat foraging, no external presence. His bedroom door was opening.

Brook didn’t move. His hands were behind his head. He tried not to make a noise or change his breathing though he didn’t know why. Wasn’t it best to show the intruder he was awake to scare him off?

Brook flexed his fingers ever so gently, inclining his head towards the door. All was black. But he hadn’t imagined it. He could feel a change in the air currents.

He didn’t know how he knew, perhaps it was the imperceptible changes in leg tension that signalled movement, but whoever it was, inched closer.

‘Daddy,’ whispered a voice. Brook guessed it was Vicky a split second before she spoke. He could still faintly remember the scent of a woman. Soap. They always smelt of soap. They like to wash.

Brook shivered as she pulled back his duvet and thrust her cold hands under his vest. ‘Hold me, Daddy.’

She was naked. To check Brook quickly ran his hand between her shoulder blades down to her downy buttocks, and just as quickly pulled it away.

‘What are you doing, Vicky?’ It was a stupid question because her hand was already on his pants, massaging him into an aching erection, one which had been waiting in the wings for months, and which now emerged with the eagerness of the understudy given his big chance.

‘Stop it!’ Brook’s voice carried a collapsing authority that she must have detected because she continued to move her thumb and forefinger delicately around his straining manhood. ‘Vicky. Stop it!’

‘Do you like that, Daddy?’ Brook liked it. But he had to put a stop to the fireworks exploding along his thigh.

Brook grabbed her hair and leant across to the lamp and flicked it on. ‘That’s enough.’ He looked down at her eyes which began filling with tears. He tried not to look at her body, her breasts pointing at him, the perfect curve of her groin down to her pubic hair.

‘Do you like my teeth, Daddy? I’ve been to the dentist.’

‘I’m not your Daddy, Vicky. Now snap out of it!’

‘Don’t worry, Daddy. I won’t tell. It’ll be our secret,’ she looked nervously at the door. ‘Mummy’s gone shopping.’ She closed her eyes tight and lay back, inviting him to her.

Brook shook his head. ‘Vicky. This is wrong.’

‘Please Daddy. I won’t tell. Promise.’ She opened her eyes again and looked at Brook and the despair in his face.

He loosed a groan from way down deep and closed his eyes to shut the door on his loneliness and self-loathing. ‘I love you, Daddy,’ Vicky sobbed, putting her arms around his buttocks and pulling him towards her.

‘Vicky, I can’t,’ whispered Brook, his voice dripping with distress. ‘It’s not right. Please go.’

‘But I’m scared, Daddy. It’s dark. I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I’m sorry. But this can’t happen.’

Brook held her away, trying not to look at her soft warm body. Vicky stopped struggling to reach him and her body relaxed. She looked at Brook. ‘Just hold me then? Keep me safe.’ The little girl voice had gone and she gazed up at Brook with large sad eyes.

Brook looked back at her for what seemed an age. Finally he nodded. ‘I can do that.’

Vicky lay down next to him and closed her eyes. Brook placed a strategic pillow between them and lay down to enfold her slight frame with his arms. She was cold now and he stroked her forearms to warm her up. She in turn rested a velvety cheek on his hand.

‘Am I still Daddy’s special girl?’

‘Daddy’s special girl,’ he muttered, half into the pillow, and reached over to turn out the lamp.

When Brook woke, it was because of noise again–this time a pounding on the kitchen door. He glanced at the display of his alarm radio. He never used the alarm. Why would he? It was ten past six. Wendy Jones was late. Brook loathed tardiness but decided against mentioning it to her. He extricated himself from Vicky’s embrace.

She didn’t wake. Brook was glad. Perhaps he could leave before she realised he was gone. That would be the simplest way. He didn’t want to lie–he wasn’t good at it–but right now he knew he’d have said anything, done anything to cover his tracks with Wendy.

‘Morning sir.’ Wendy Jones raised an eyebrow at her superior knotting his dressing-gown belt severely. She was accustomed to his being dishevelled but being unprepared was a surprise. Brook bore little resemblance to the man who prided himself on his attention to detail, to cold logic and control. This was more like the man at whom she’d thrown herself, last New Year’s Eve. The recollection brought a blush to her features, but the embarrassment was tinged with pleasure.

Brook waved her to sit at the kitchen table. No need to go through to the living room. He obviously didn’t want her revisiting the site of their furtive passion and Jones was grateful for his thoughtfulness.

Brook was uneasy, unsure what to do. If he made tea, they’d be delayed. But if he hurried her out, Wendy might suspect something.

At least it gave him a problem to solve–take his mind off what had happened, stop him wondering if he’d done or said anything to cause Vicky to come to his bed. Maybe she’d seen him peeping at her. She would think he was a pervert. The sewer he’d been trying to flee for nearly twenty years had taken root inside him. He was its prisoner. There was no way out. He could see that now. Pointless trying. In an odd kind of way, the knowledge was quietly liberating. But that was what
worried him, what was causing the dull thud in his head.

He tightened the tatty towelling robe around his diminishing waist still further. He must eat more. He could see the clench of his genitalia through the material and turned back to the corridor to avoid exposure.

‘I won’t be a minute. Help yourself to…something.’ Brook darted to the bathroom, showered in one minute and dressed in three. The note to Vicky could take twice as long but he didn’t dare permit himself the time. He had to get Wendy away before Vicky woke. He couldn’t heap public humiliation onto private suffering.

Jones looked in the fridge, expecting to amuse herself at its desolation but was mildly surprised to see food and wine, albeit sparse, on one shelf. She then noticed that the sink contained no piled plates and the drainer was empty, unlike her last visit.

She had just about decided that Brook had tidied up for her benefit when she saw the two glasses on the side, red dregs still at the bottom. Lipstick clung to the rim of one of the glasses. To her surprise, she felt a rush of something approaching jealousy and was ashamed. She knew she had no right. After all she’d spent nearly a year trying to ignore both him and the jibes from her colleagues. Until the murder of the Wallis family and her involvement with the case, she’d almost persuaded herself that nothing had happened between them. And then he’d walked through the screen at the hospital and her heart had lurched in a way she hadn’t experienced since her childhood sweetheart had first brushed her breast with
the back of his hand. And now she’d missed her chance, assuming she still wanted one.

Brook emerged from the hall in a plain grey jacket and trousers. He had suits, but he’d forgotten to keep them together and often wore different combinations of the same two suits on consecutive days, causing much hilarity behind his back.

As he walked in, he noticed the wine glasses before Jones looked up. There was nothing to be done. Perhaps she hadn’t spotted them. He smiled at her in a businesslike fashion and she returned it with something approaching warmth.

‘Shall we go?’ he said, indicating the door.

‘Have you said goodbye to your guest?’ said Jones, with what she hoped was a playful smile.

Brook couldn’t hold her look. ‘I left a note,’ he muttered to the linoleum, in a voice that declared the matter closed.

Jones stood, feeling very foolish, and brushed herself down. She hadn’t wanted to wound him but she had. Then again, he’d humiliated her at the briefing and she was able to take a measure of comfort from a debt paid. However, the way things had started wasn’t good. They had a long journey in front of them and things were already awkward.

Brook glanced up at her as she stood up. She looked very good in a flowing, rain-flecked gabardine covering a dark pin-striped trouser suit and a white silk blouse, open at the neck. She opened the door and prepared to step out into the dark morning.

‘Hello.’

Brook looked at Jones. He tried to smile but could only manage a weak grimace which he felt sure was about to tip over into hysteria. It was still a good effort given that his world was crumbling around him. What would Wendy think? What would she say? Any moment a young, naked blonde would come stumbling into the kitchen wiping the sleep from her eyes.

Brook handed Jones the two folders from Dr Habib and bolted towards the bedroom. Vicky stood at the door wrapped in a sheet. She smiled and seized him into a hug. Brook pushed her away, gripping her elbows in his hands.

‘Stop! Vicky. Stop! I’ve got to go, I told you. I’m working. I won’t be back for a few days.’

‘I see. Yes I remember.’ She seemed confused for a moment.

‘Vicky. About last night…’ Brook didn’t know what to say. ‘I…you’d been drinking…’

‘Don’t worry.’ She gave him a caring peck on the cheek. ‘You were very gallant.’

Brook looked at her, a warmth burning inside him. The anvil had been lifted from his heart. ‘You said things.’

She looked away from him. ‘I always do.’ Vicky turned back to him with doleful eyes and gently covered his hand with hers. ‘Thank you for last night, for thinking of me.’ Then she smiled and the little girl was gone again. In her place, the mature student said, ‘I’ll feed the cat and put the key through the letter box.’

Brook nodded and held her eyes for a second. ‘Goodbye,’ he said, then turned to leave.

Brook walked Jones to the Mondeo in something of a daze. He didn’t notice her stare, her wish to apologise with a look. He removed the case from her car and put it in his boot. He put all the files and folders on the back seat for ease of access and backed the car out so Jones could park her car in his space.

Eventually she climbed in beside him, still trying to engage him. She removed a long blonde hair from his shoulder and tried to catch his eye with a smile. When she could stand the silence no more, she said, ‘So your daughter’s staying with you. How old is she?’

Brook emitted a tiny, mirthless laugh. ‘Daddy’s special girl?’ He paused and looked into the distance. ‘She’s fifteen.’

‘Forget it, Brooky, you’ve got nothing. No prints, no fibres, no DNA and no witnesses. Nothing. Just a purple tart sitting in a field full of purple flowers.’

‘Fleur de Lis by Robert Lewis Reid. Oil on canvas.’

‘I thought it was a poster.’

‘I mean the original, guv.’

‘So this Professor is into art in a big way. Big deal. It won’t get you a warrant, Brooky, so put it out of your head.’

Rowlands removed his feet from his desk and inhaled deeply on his cigarette. Tobacco smoke was oxygen to him now, the essential lenitive to deaden nerves and allow him to function. A few seconds later, having spread its soothing balm, the smoke began its return journey from lungs through mouth and nose, into the flask being raised to lips. Rowlands took an urgent draught before holding it out to his subordinate. He hated drinking alone, particularly in the morning and Brook felt compelled to offer all the support he could, until his boss could put his daughter’s death behind him.

So DS Brook accepted the flask and tilted it, making sure his tongue was covering the neck. The whisky burned the tip and fell back.

Brook stared out of the window at the rooftops sprawling across West London and popped a sly mint into his mouth. He could see the snake of sighing cars on the elevated M4, sidling impatiently towards their destination, and it held him for no particular reason. So many people going nowhere.

He turned to Rowlands, summoning all the gravity he could muster. ‘He did it, guv. I know it. He knows I know it. And what’s more,’ he said, raising an impressive finger, ‘he made sure I know it.’

‘You’re talking in riddles, Brooky.’

‘He knew I was coming, guv. He played me some music. Opera. It was another calling card. He’s sending messages with art.’ Brook flinched as he said it. That which seemed so certain sounded absurd when voiced.

Rowlands shook his head. ‘People like Victor Sorenson don’t go around murdering lowlifes like Sammy Elphick no matter what they may have nicked from him. They’ve got too much to lose.’

‘But Sammy didn’t nick anything don’t you get it, guv? Sorenson took the VCR with him and left it there. Just so there’d be something to connect him to the Elphick murders. He doesn’t even have a telly.’

‘Irrelevant, old son. He might have been about to buy one.’

‘You don’t need to tell me the legal objections. I know it makes no sense and I know it’d be laughed out of court. But I know he did it. And we’ve got to stop him.’

‘Brooky.’ Rowlands paused. He didn’t want to offend. ‘Putting aside the complete absence of physical evidence, if we accept that this man…’

‘Sorenson.’

‘If we accept that this Sorenson did take his own VCR to Sammy’s as a way in, you lose the only motive you’ve got.’

Brook laughed. ‘I know.’

‘You do?’

‘Yeah. There is no motive–at least not one that you can recognise.’

‘But you would?’

‘When I hear it. Look, guv, I’m not sure there even is one. That could be the point. I know it sounds flimsy. But you’ll see.’

‘I see a wealthy retired businessman with no reason to commit multiple murder…’

‘And the burglary at his house?’ argued Brook, clutching at a straw.

‘A burglary which you say never took place. According to you, this Sorenson buys a video for a TV he doesn’t have, notes the serial number, claims he’s had a break-in so he can report the thing stolen, then months later takes it to a flat in Harlesden to gain entry, kills Sammy Elphick and his family, and leaves it for us to find and return to him so he can give us a hint that he’s the killer. Flimsy ain’t the fucking word, Brooky The word is non-existent and don’t tell me that’s two fucking words, you toffee-nosed, fast-track twat.’ Brook laughed.