The Reaper (44 page)

Brook folded the papers and slipped them inside his coat. Now there was nothing to do but wait. He knew everything Charlie knew. Almost everything.

Brook sat opposite his old boss. The old man’s chest still moved. His breath still whistled faintly through his teeth but the noise was diminishing. There wasn’t long.

Brook sat forward and cupped Rowlands emaciated hands in his. For a split second he fancied he could see
something. Something terrible–blood everywhere, covering everything…and deep in the blood a tiny face, eyes closed. He removed his hand then rubbed his eyes and shook his head. He stood up to walk around. ‘I’m going mad,’ he muttered. ‘Again.’

There was a grating sigh. Rowlands’ chest stopped moving. Brook checked his pulse. There wasn’t one. He held a withered hand in his. Charlie was gone.

Brook sat back and closed his eyes. He took a few moments to remember his friend. Then he reached into his own pocket and pulled out the silver necklace he had carried with him for so long. Laura’s necklace. He removed the sapphire ring from Rowlands’ waistcoat pocket and slid it onto the necklace before refastening the clasp and putting it back in his own pocket. ‘Safekeeping, Charlie. I’ll give it back when it’s time. Goodbye, old friend. Give my love to Lizzie.’ Brook made to leave but turned back at the door. ‘And Laura.’

It was the early hours before Brook pulled onto the forecourt of the Hilton and stepped from the car. He handed the keys to the doorman and carried his small overnight bag to reception and registered. If the girl swiping his credit card recognised him from his last visit she didn’t show it. He ordered a 9.30 breakfast and headed for the lift.

Inside his room he flopped fully clothed onto the bed and slept soundly for a couple of hours, his mind untroubled and his dreams at bay.

Later he sat on the bed, wet towel round his waist, downing the last of his coffee. He turned the TV to mute and picked up Noble’s mobile and dialled.

‘Can you speak, John?’

‘Yes.’

‘Anything on Petr Sorenson yet?’

‘No form at all but he’s local. A student. He lives in halls at Nottingham University.’

‘Really.’ Brook was thoughtful. Vicky’s brother was not more than fifteen miles from Derby. He had a more than
reasonable excuse to meet his sister’s train. On the other hand if Sorenson’s nephew had taken up the mantle from his uncle, what better place to revive The Reaper murders than Brook’s new home?

‘Sir…’

‘What’s he studying?’

‘Er…Chemistry? Inspector…’

‘Interesting but not surprising. That’s how the family made their money.’

‘Inspector Brook, listen. We’ve found something. I put a rush on Jason’s clothes.’

‘I knew it. Get a team to Annie Sewell’s…’

‘It’s not fibres. They’re still working on that. It’s not what we expected. It’s blood.’

‘Blood? Whose?’

‘His father’s…’

‘What? That means…’

‘No it doesn’t. Let me finish. We found minute traces in a series of small cuts on his jacket.’

‘Did you say cuts?’

‘Yes. Cuts. Very thin. With what looks like the murder weapon. Someone cut the letter R into the material–R for REAPER. That’s how the blood got there. It was very small and under his arm so it wasn’t spotted at the scene.’

‘Jesus.’ Brook’s mind was flooded with images and scenarios. Noble kept silent at the other end of the line to let the implications sink in. ‘The Reaper was still there when Jason got home, John. That’s why Jason didn’t hear music.’

‘Right. The neighbour, Mr Singh, said it was turned down for a few minutes. The Reaper turned it down after he killed
Bobby. He saw Jason coming and waited for him in the living room. When he didn’t show he guessed what had happened and went to find him spark out in the kitchen.’

‘So he cuts his signature on Jason, turns the music back up and then leaves. God.’ Brook shook his head in dismay, not bringing himself to say what needed to be said. But Noble said it for him.

‘But why didn’t he kill him? He had him.’

‘I’m not sure, John. The only thing I can think of is that Jason was in no condition to know he was about to die. And that’s key for the man we’re dealing with. That’s what gets him off. It’s the knowing…’

‘With respect, sir, that’s fucking bullshit. If Jason’s the reason he’s chosen this family he should do him right there. I mean, he’s never going to have him in his sights again. He’s left him for a reason, something we don’t know yet.’

‘Maybe he knows Jason’s a killer. Maybe he’s leaving him to us.’

‘What? So we can send him to prison–maybe. You don’t believe that for a second.’

Brook sighed. ‘All right, all right. It’s a mystery. We’ll figure it out. Anything else? What? Is he?’ He looked up at the TV. Jason Wallis filled his screen. ‘I’m watching it now, John.’ Brook stayed on the line but turned the sound on the TV back on.

‘I just wanna say if anyone knows anything to come forward. Speak to the police. Whoever did this to my family is sick. Dangerous.’
Pause for slumping of head and wiping of tear. Jason’s aunt tightened her grip on his arm to give him the strength to get through.
‘Me mum and dad and me sister…’

But Jason couldn’t go on and the camera moved onto McMaster and Greatorix seated next to one another.

McMaster, as usual, was immaculate and the same could almost be said for Bob Greatorix, now basking in the limelight he so craved, a hint of a smirk submerged beneath his mask of fake sympathy.

Brook grimaced at the sight of McMaster. After all her support he should have warned her about young Wallis personally. Now she was between a rock and a hard place. With Charlie’s confession, Brook had the evidence to charge Jason with at least conspiracy to commit murder. Sorenson too. But now, after this debacle, even bringing her The Reaper wouldn’t wipe the tape of her sitting next to a teenage killer, comforting him in the regulation manner. The press would tear her to pieces.

He turned off the phone, forgetting Noble was still on the other end, turned off the TV and finished dressing. Then he packed his bag and prepared to leave.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Who is it?’

A pause. ‘Daddy’s special girl.’

Brook put his bag and coat on the bed and walked to the door. ‘Vicky?’

‘Yes. Let me in.’

Brook raised a hand to the door but hesitated. ‘How did you know I was here?’

‘Can we talk inside?’ Still Brook waited. ‘Please!’

Finally, curiosity got the better of him and he turned the handle. Before he could pull the door open it crashed against his right shoulder and he was sent spinning onto the bed, knocking his bag and coat to the floor. He tried
to right himself, but a wiry figure was on him, forcing a cloth into his mouth. Brook could taste a pungent chemical aroma and had already taken an involuntary gulp before swinging back onto the mattress and bringing his knee up into his assailant’s crotch.

Brook felt the gust of breath through the man’s teeth as he doubled up. His grip eased so Brook was able to flex his left foot into the man’s chest and heave him off the bed. He fell heavily into the doorframe of the bathroom.

Vicky shrank back, unsure what to do, but a second later she flung herself onto Brook’s legs and clung on tight while the man staggered back to the bed with the cloth.

Brook was already feeling the effects of one lungful of the chemical and tried to wriggle free from Vicky’s grip. But the man fell on Brook’s chest and forced the cloth back over his face. Brook grabbed his right arm to hold him off but he was young and strong.

As the man edged his arm closer to his face, Brook’s head was forced off the bed towards the floor. The more the man pushed, the further off the bed Brook slipped until the back of his head was touching the floor. Now there was no retreat from the fumes as the man pressed his weight against Brook’s defensive arm.

Finally, Brook felt the cloth against his mouth and held his breath. His eyes darted at the bag by his head. His coat, which had lain on his bag, was on the floor next to it.

With his free hand, Brook dragged the coat to him and slid his fingers into the pocket. After a few seconds
scrabbling to get the correct hold, Brook pulled out Charlie’s gun and thrust the nozzle against his attacker’s forehead.

‘Get off!’ he grunted through the cloth. ‘Now!’ Brook fixed his eyes onto the man, trying to look calm. He didn’t feel calm. His heart was pounding against his ribs and his head spun from the chemical.

‘He won’t shoot, Pete. I know him,’ urged Vicky, still clamping Brook’s legs.

Brook screwed his eyes in what he hoped would appear a display of quiet determination. ‘Now!’ he gasped.

Brook felt the man’s arms relax and the cloth retreat from his face as he stood back from the bed. Brook leapt up to open the window and gulp in fresh air all the while keeping the gun trained on his assailant.

Petr Sorenson was a young man of medium height, a little taller than Vicky, and with the same slant to his eyes, the same blond hair. His face was flushed and he panted heavily, all the while looking at Brook with that sullen hatred Brook had seen in Jason.

‘Shouldn’t you be studying?’ Brook managed to say through urgent draws of oxygen.

‘Fack you!’ Brook expected the abuse but not the broad cockney accent. But with a wealthy background to live down in the college bar, perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise.

‘Face the wall. You too, Vicky.’

She looked at him, eyes pleading. ‘This wasn’t my idea.’

‘Turn round.’

‘Please,’ she began to sob. ‘Please, you have to tell us. Uncle Vic won’t say, even though he’s dying.’

‘Tell you what?’

‘About The Reaper,’ she implored.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ Brook threw the cloth at Vicky. ‘Put it over your brother’s mouth and nose.’

‘What? No. I won’t do it.’

‘Do it, Vicky.’ Petr half-turned to his sister, nodding. His face was grim now. The flash of hatred was gone. Understanding and acceptance had replaced it. ‘Don’t blame her, mate. You don’t know what he did to her.’

‘Why do you want me to hurt him?’ she sobbed at Brook.

‘I’m going to see your uncle now. He’s expecting me. Put your brother under. Now.’

‘I don’t understand.’ She was barely able to speak.

‘He’s right, Vicky. Do it,’ said Petr again.

‘I can’t have any distractions, Vicky. Your uncle and I have been planning this day for a very long time. When he’s…when we’re finished I’ll answer all your questions.’

‘I won’t do it.’

‘It’s better than a crack on the head or a bullet in the leg, sis. Do as he says.’ Expecting no argument, Petr dropped to his knees.

‘He wouldn’t do that. I know him.’

‘You don’t know me at all, Vicky. I’m a man. Capable of anything. Like your uncle–like your father.’

Vicky’s eyes widened. Brook saw fear there. She picked up the cloth and pressed it over her kneeling brother’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Pete,’ she muttered. Brook watched Petr inflating and deflating his chest. It took longer than expected but eventually his eyes rolled skywards and he fell on his side.

Brook prodded a finger into his ribs. He stood to face Vicky and nodded at the bed.

She kicked off her shoes, moved to the bed and lay down like a corpse. Legs together, toes pointed away from her, arms folded, eyes staring at the ceiling.

Brook knelt beside her then a thought crossed his mind. ‘Is your mother home?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve not been home for a while. We were waiting for you outside Charlie’s house. We followed you from there.’

‘How did you know I’d be…? Uncle Vic told you,’ he realised before he’d even finished the question.

‘Is Mr Rowlands dead?’ asked Vicky.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He’s not.’

Brook raised the cloth. Vicky held his arm.

‘Won’t you tell me? I’ve got to know.’

‘Tell you what?’

She gulped now and her eyes widened. ‘My father. Is he still alive? Is he The Reaper?’

Brook sat quietly in his chair and watched Sorenson sleep. He was content to wait. He’d waited a lot of years; a few more moments wouldn’t hurt.

The house was empty. Sonja was nowhere to be seen. The nurse had let Brook in then left at once, according to her instructions. Everything was ready.

As Brook waited for his host to wake he took out Laura’s necklace, slid Lizzie’s ring from the chain and put it in his pocket. He held the chain up to the light and examined it draped around his fingers.

He imagined he was there, in that hellish place where Laura died. Everything was dark but his senses were keen. He fancied he could almost smell the stench of decay in his nostrils. Human waste, old food, damp walls. Something else. Sweat, bad breath.

There was an empty can on its side, a small stove on the floor. And then he heard the tears, the muffled squeals of pain. He could see Wrigley’s face, teeth grinding, grimacing, moving towards the girl. Then away. Then back. And still the smell. The beer breath. The sweat. Another thing. Sickly sweet. The fear. Laura’s fear.

Wrigley smiles. It’s not a smile of pleasure, of happiness. It’s a smile of triumph. Conquest. The fight has gone. He can do as he pleases. He tears at the girl’s neck and the pain is fierce but quick. The necklace is taken. A keepsake dangled to taunt, to remind him of his greatest day. He’s already invaded the present. Now he seizes the past, receding glimpses of childhood tarnished. He puts it round his own neck. Yeah. Now he’s somebody. Now he exists. Laura knows. Brook knows. They won’t forget Floyd Wrigley in a hurry.

But the moment fades and his power is gone. Wrigley takes a neck at a bottle. He’s hungry. He wants back what he had. That power. To be a God and squash this ant. To take the future and complete the set. There is a way.

Brook let the necklace drop to his lap. Poor Laura. Poor Vicky. He thought of her lying unconscious in his hotel room. As Brook had sat beside her on the bed, Vicky had revealed every appalling detail of her torment.