The Reaper (31 page)

‘Just to get the old scent back.’

‘I hope you were paying, lad.’

‘Of course.’

‘Can I use your toilet, Charlie?’ asked Jones.

‘Course, love. It’s the first on the left,’ Rowlands called after her, running a surreptitious glance over her retreating frame. ‘You’ve got a beaut there, Brooky.’

‘She’s a fine officer,’ Brook nodded, resisting the temptation for man talk.

Rowlands chuckled into a cough. ‘
A fine officer.
Yeah. Full house an’ all.’ Brook nodded to condone Rowlands mocking. He’d earned it.

After breakfast, Jones got her case from the car to have a shower and change her clothes. While Charlie washed up, Brook stood on the patio and looked around the large sloping garden. It was slightly overgrown but generally in good shape. Charlie had been busy. But then he had a lot of memories to deaden.

The pine trees at the rear were mature and took most of the pallid sun out of the equation, even near noon. Most of the lawn was still covered in frost and emitted a satisfying crunch under Brook’s foot. It was cold out of the sun so he returned to the patio. He took out Jones’s mobile and dialled. While he waited, he checked that Charlie was still washing up then ferreted around the patio furniture.

He found the whisky bottle under the blanket draped over the sun lounger. It was a quarter empty. The mints were there too. Charlie’s full English breakfast.

‘John.’

‘Sir. Where are you? The Chief Super wants to know.’

‘Still in London, John. What’s happening there? Any developments?’

‘We’ve got a list of about forty single men who stayed in Derby hotels the night before the killings. We’re checking reasons for visit, which ones left the morning after, nothing so far.’

‘Okay. I’ll be back tonight. And for my sake, don’t say
anything about my calling. I’ll brief McMaster when I get back. Got it?’

‘But the boss wants to know where she can reach…?’

Brook turned off the phone and returned to the house. Rowlands was in the kitchen drinking coffee. A half finished brandy bottle stood on the table.

‘Any news?’

‘Not really. The Chief Superintendent wants to hear about progress so I didn’t speak to her.’

‘How do you get on with that dyke?’

Brook gave Rowlands a look which he pretended not to see. ‘She likes me, as much as anyone in her position can afford to.’

‘It’s all about image these days, Brooky The top brass won’t stand for egg on their faces. Being a copper is all about politics. I’d barely get above DC if I had my time again.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Drink?’

‘Of?

‘Something to keep the cold out. Don’t worry. It’s after twelve. You used to be able to fake drinking strong liquor pretty well, as far as I can recall.’

‘Was it that obvious?’

‘Blinding, laddie. I didn’t mind. You kept me company, in more ways than just that.’

‘Just doing my job, Charlie.’

‘Fuck off, Brooky. It was far more than that. You were doing both our jobs.’ Rowlands tipped a little more brandy into his coffee and looked at the floor. ‘I never had the chance to thank you. Not properly. Please let me finish,’ he insisted. ‘You saw me through that time. If it
hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have made it, I wouldn’t have wanted to make it. You gave me the strength…’

With a cute sense of irony, Rowlands’ rasping cough returned and Brook stood to clap him on the back. He poured himself a small measure of brandy and raised his cup to Rowlands. ‘Cheers, Charlie.’

‘Cheers, Damen. Here’s to you and that lovely girl. I hope you make a go of it, I really do.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come off it, lad. You deserve a chance at happiness.’ Rowlands was beginning to well up. ‘I blame myself, you know, for Amy…’

‘What?’

‘If I’d been able to look after myself at work…’

‘Forget that now, Charlie. Don’t even think it. There was nothing you could have done to save my marriage.’ Brook took a drink and winced at the unfamiliar heat. If he was to drive in the afternoon, he could drink no more so he put the cup back on the table. He looked at the floor. He didn’t know how to say what he wanted. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to say it. He decided, as usual, to keep it simple. ‘How long have you got?’

Rowlands looked up and smiled. He shook his head in wonder. ‘The best damn detective I’ve ever seen, Brooky, I swear to God. How did you know?’

‘You haven’t had a fag since we arrived. Not by choice I assume.’

‘You’re right. Physically I can’t handle them. One puff will have me on the floor, bringing me guts up. Lung cancer. Both barrels. Six months. More likely three.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

Jones walked into the kitchen. Her hair was still wet from the shower. She wore a pair of dark trousers, baggy at the ankles but figure-hugging at the high waistband. She placed an empty cup and plate in the sink. ‘That was great. Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it, love.’

‘Constable, we’re hitting the road again. You’d better dry your hair.’

‘Sir?’ She looked round at the two of them but their eyes were glued together, waiting to be left alone. ‘Right.’ She took the hint and went back upstairs. The blast of the hair dryer followed moments later.

‘Tell me about Sorenson, Charlie.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘When did he die?’

Rowlands grinned. ‘Around the same time as me.’

Driving or not, Brook needed another pull on the brandy. ‘You said he was dead.’

‘I said he was a goner.’

‘So he’s alive.’

‘Not really. Like me. Cancer. Getting in line.’

‘And how did you find this out?’

‘He was in hospital, same time as me. He came over to speak to me.’

Brook stared at the floor, eyes like flint. ‘Did he?’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t know you knew him.’

Charlie hesitated. ‘I didn’t know him. He knew me though. Knew I was your boss from the old days. He wanted…’

‘I know what he wanted.’

‘Do you?’ Rowlands smiled. There was pleasure in his expression but it was buried under a mask of pain. ‘Do you really?’

‘He wanted to know where I was.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you told him.’

Rowlands paused, examining Brook’s face. ‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘A few months ago.’

Brook nodded. ‘And a family in Derby dies.’

‘You don’t know there’s a connection,’ said Rowlands.

‘Don’t I? So why speak to him at all, Charlie?’

‘Because he’s dying, Brooky. He said…’ Rowlands halted, unsure how to continue. His eyes began to water and Brook was eaten by guilt. He was giving his old boss a hard time but he had to know.

‘What?’

‘He said he had a bond with you–a friendship almost. He said he wanted to speak to you one last time. I understood.’ Rowlands darted him a look. ‘He said he had something to give you.’

Brook nodded. ‘What was that?’

‘Purpose. He said you needed purpose.’

Brook laughed bitterly. ‘And that’s what he’s given me, Charlie. Problem is he’s had to kill an innocent young girl to do it.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Come off it, Charlie. Don’t tell me about Sorenson. You don’t know the way he operates, the games he plays. Christ, I spent a year breathing the same air as him.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so.’

‘So you don’t want to see him then?’

‘No, I damn well…’ The venom in Brook’s retort took Rowlands aback. Brook took a breath and softened his features. ‘No I don’t. But what choice do I have?’

Rowlands smiled in sympathy. ‘None. Not if you want to be sure, son.’

‘I’m sure. He did it. He did the London killings and now he’s killed in Derby.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

Brook locked his gaze onto Rowlands. Odd. For a second there was something…something in his old boss’s voice that suggested he was probing. Probing not for impartial clarification, but for information he needed. Brook wondered whether to give it then answered softly.

‘Peter Hera.’

‘Say what?’

‘Peter Hera.’ Brook nodded. Back on the case he could put his baggage down and revel in the gratification of detection. ‘It didn’t take long. You see Sorenson thinks I do crosswords. I was doing one the night he first invited me into his house for a drink.’

‘So?’

‘It’s an anagram. Not difficult. Peter Hera. The Reaper. It was the name on the fake licence given to the van hire company in Derby. In case I was in any doubt.’

‘Just that?’

‘No, but that was the clincher.’

Rowlands nodded. ‘So The Reaper is back.’

‘So will you see Sorenson?’ Jones looked up from the map book to study Brook’s face. It was fixed on the road ahead.

He sighed, showed some signs of having heard her. A few minutes later, he said, ‘I can’t avoid it. When Victor Sorenson wants something he usually gets it.’ Brook pulled over to the kerb and killed the engine. ‘We’re here.’

‘What time does she get out?’

‘I’m not sure. Three-thirty?’

As if on cue, a stream of uniformed girls disgorged from the double doors of the handsome building at the end of the avenue and streamed towards the gates where the Mondeo was parked.

Brook took the time to run his eye over the beauty of the surroundings, the immaculate cut of the grounds, now covered in a patchwork layer of frost. As on his previous visit, he had to douse the fires of resentment against a system which allowed some children, through no merit of their own, to grow tall in these Elysian Fields, while others, through no fault of
their
own, huddled against the radiator of a dog-eared prefab.

Brook stepped out of the car, motioning Jones to wait, and walked to the gate. He tried not to appear careworn. He didn’t want to burden her with more of his woes. She might get the idea he was too much effort in the long term.

The first gaggle of girls passed him, pulling on coats and mufflers against the chill seaside air. They were utterly carefree in their privileged cocoon. He was struck by their energy and zest, that sense of unabashed expectation that clung to them. They screamed and strutted and giggled and teased, some fingering cigarettes, longing, anxious, anticipating sufficient cover to don the cloak of adulthood, some chewing gum like it was going out of fashion.

And like all of their generation, they were afflicted by that selective blindness which prevents the young seeing anyone of Brook’s age, even someone standing so self-consciously, staring in their direction, wondering what he must look like, a man in his forties, loitering outside a girls’ school on the last day of term.

They walked past him as though he wasn’t there. He didn’t exist, at least not until a middle-aged woman with a tight bun came out of a side door and proceeded to march to the gate, all the while her eyes boring into Brook.

‘Daddy!’ screamed a voice from within a pack of high-pitched banter and a slender dark-haired girl came out of the crowd to fling herself at him.

‘Terri.’ Brook raised his arm with a glance at the matronly figure who, somewhat reassured, slowed her approach to her duty position. There would be no abductions on her watch, after all.

Terri threw herself into Number One Dad’s arms and he swung her round with less ease than he used to. Still, this bridge to the past was important to him. She was the best thing he’d ever done with his life. Perhaps the only thing. In spite of his trepidation, Brook’s tension vanished and he cracked into a wide smile.

‘Daddy. What are you doing here? I can’t believe it.’ She was breathless and a little more self-conscious now, as a couple of her friends had planted themselves against the escaping tide and were looking on with interest. ‘Daddy, this is Cynth and this is Marsha.’

‘Hello Mr Brook,’ said the one identified as Marsha, sheepishly.

‘We’ve seen you on the telly,’ added Cynth with a sidelong leer at Marsha. Ah, he was a celebrity. Now he was visible. Brook smiled back, unaccustomed to star-struck fans.

‘Can we have your autograph, Mr Brook?’ added Marsha.

‘I can do better than that. Give Terri your address and I’ll get my agent to send you a couple of signed photos.’

‘Cor! Would yer?’

‘Take no notice, Cynth. He’s teasing you…’

‘Course I am. I don’t have an agent yet. Now where do you want me to sign, girls? A body part perhaps…’

‘Dad!’

‘Or a piece of underwear?’

‘Stop it!’

‘Or would you like some of my DNA? I’ve got a sample in my pocket.’

‘DAD!’

‘Well…we’ve got homework, Tel, we’ll see you later, yeah.’ They rushed away.

‘That’s got rid of them,’ observed Brook.

Terri turned to her father, still open-mouthed. ‘How could you embarrass me like that, Dad?’

Brook laughed in disbelief. ‘Well, for God’s sake, Terri. My autograph? Doesn’t the real world touch young people? I’m a policeman. The reason I’m on
the telly
is I’m investigating a triple homicide, and the man I’m after kills girls younger than that and doesn’t turn a hair doing it. Does it all boil down to fame and money for girls like that?’

‘And why shouldn’t it? I’m a girl like that. We’re only young once. Maybe we don’t want the real world to touch us yet, Dad. Is that a bad thing?’ She was calm but furious.

Brook looked at his daughter. He hadn’t seen her for so long. She seemed tall. And beautiful. And intelligent.

‘That’s a good answer,’ he conceded. He was suddenly very proud of her.

‘
I’m
a young person, don’t forget. It touches me.’

‘Sorry.’

Terri fixed her eyes on Brook. Her attempt to stop her lips curling up was in vain and she burst out laughing. ‘Their faces though. You’re
so
bad.’ She punched his arm and shook her head in wonder and Brook laughed with her.
‘Would you like a sample of my DNA?
That was really naughty, Dad.’

‘I know. Will they be okay? I mean…’

‘Those two? They’ll be fine. That’s nothing to the things they come out with.’

‘Spare me.’

Brook took her hand and led her towards the car, he beaming at her, chattering away. She was so…mature. Fifteen and so old. The outside world encroached too quickly these days, like it or not. But then it had to if they were to be kept safe. Brook, of all people, knew that.