The Reaper (50 page)

‘Is this the bit where I cross my legs so you can see I’m not wearing underpants?’ Ross half stood and was halted by a more urgent hand from Fulbright. Brook beamed to annoy them.

‘Funny.’ Fulbright held out a hand and Ross passed him a piece of paper. Brook knew what it was but continued to beam across the table at his two interrogators. ‘I’ve got a report here about your psychological condition. This report was compiled in 1992…’–Fulbright shot Brook a glance which aped a concern he didn’t feel–‘…and refers to a, and I quote, “period of obsessive stalking” by yourself, DS Brook as you then were.’

‘Can you tell us anything about this period, Inspector Brook?’

‘Is the report not clear?’

‘I’d like to hear about it in your own words.’

‘Can you remember who you were stalking, Inspector?’ put in Ross.

Brook continued to smile but it was wafer thin. He took a pause to think then decided he had nothing to
hide. ‘It was a long time ago. Sorenson was a killer. Only I knew it.’

‘You admit you went off the deep end on this guy…’

‘It happens in this job. I did nothing illegal.’

‘As far as we’re aware.’

‘If you’ve got something to say, get it said.’

‘Okay. You’re a fucking fruitcake, mate,’ sneered Ross.

‘I’m not your mate.’

Ross stood over Brook, baring his teeth. A blue vein on his shaved scalp stood out and distracted Brook. As yet, his personal space hadn’t been violated but he felt it was a matter of time. ‘You’re finished as a copper by all accounts.’

‘So you decide to right a few wrongs from the past,’ chipped in Fulbright.

‘You went to Sorenson’s house, forced a confession out of him, cut his wrists and took just enough dope to make it look like you’d been poisoned.’ Ross stood with a leer and went to stand behind Brook. ‘And you thought we’d swallow it. What do you take us for?’

‘Let me guess,’ Brook said, pointing at Fulbright, ‘you’re the good cop and,’ slinging a thumb over his shoulder at Ross, ‘he’s the really bad cop.’

‘We’re just honest coppers like you used to be. Asking questions that have to be asked. And answered.’

‘Harassing an officer who’s clearing up your old cases?’

‘By killing the prime suspect,’ sneered Ross from the back wall.

‘He wasn’t a suspect in either of those killings,’ Brook observed.

‘No. But you had him down for The Reaper.’ Fulbright
looked down as if to check the details. He looked back at Brook with an expression of great sympathy. ‘I mean, we’ve all been there Inspector. We’re just the same as you. Flesh and blood. I saw what he did at Harlesden. And Brixton was pretty grim by all accounts. All these years the bastard’s been free to go about his business. It rankles, doesn’t it?’

‘Pisses you off big time,’ Ross interjected, as though his superior’s vocabulary was too obscure.

‘And it all gets too much for you. So you decide to do something about it.’

‘Just like that,’ said Brook.

‘It can happen in this job.’

‘But with your
history
it looks iffy, you making him cough for The Reaper. So you tag him for something else.’

Brook laughed and turned to Ross. ‘You still watching
Sweeney
re-runs, sarge?’

Ross leapt over to Brook’s chair and put his mouth next to Brook’s ear. ‘You think you’re the dog’s bollocks, don’t you, you toffee-nosed, university cunt?’

Brook felt hot breath on his neck. ‘I’m bored with this. We all know I didn’t kill him. He was terminal, for Christ’s sake.’

‘How would you know that?’ enquired Fulbright.

‘Mrs Sorenson told me and she will testify to that. In fact, she probably has already. I didn’t kill Sorenson and if you could prove I did, you would have charged me by now. You’re just blowing smoke. Let me see the video. I’m willing to bet Sorenson mentioned things about Laura Maples and his brother’s death that only the killer could have known.’

Ross and Fulbright exchanged a look. ‘You were the investigating officer on the Maples murder,’ rejoined Ross, ‘you could have clued him up, given him a script.’

‘And Stefan Sorenson? I was nowhere near that investigation and you know it.’ Brook stood. ‘Unless you have any intention of charging me, I’ll be on my way.’

There was a pause before Fulbright shrugged his shoulders. He stood too and motioned Ross to the door. ‘You’re free to leave, Inspector. This was just a friendly chat. It’s been good to see you again after all these years. No hard feelings, I hope?’

‘Course not.’

‘When are you going back to Derby?’ asked Fulbright.

‘Now.’

Ross opened the door for Brook. ‘I like your bird. Just my type,’ he added with a leer. ‘Nice arse, big tits.’

‘Bit tall for you though,’ Brook observed, passing him. The leer evaporated and Ross took a half step towards Brook’s retreating frame.

‘Sergeant!’ snapped Fulbright. ‘I’ll see the Inspector out.’

Ross managed to wrench a ‘Yessir!’ through his gritted teeth and stalked away, his fists clenched.

‘I see you haven’t lost your ability to piss people off, Brook.’

‘It’s a gift. Sir.’

Fulbright gave him a smile of grudging respect. He studied him for a second. ‘You’ve changed.’

Brook fixed his eyes on Wendy Jones walking towards them. ‘Oh?’ he said.

‘I watched you in Harlesden, moving round the Elphick
family like you were measuring them up for a new suit. You didn’t give a shit about what happened to them, did you? I saw it in your face. But now you’re worse. Then you didn’t really understand what had been to done them. Now you know and still you don’t care. You’ve become hard.’ Brook turned to face him and their eyes locked. ‘Like a killer.’

Brook stared at Fulbright for a moment then smiled.

Fulbright held out his hand and Brook shook it. ‘Stay out of Dodge, Brook.’

‘How was it, sir?’ asked Jones on the way to the car.

‘Like you said. Just routine.’

Brook buttoned his shirt and knotted his black tie. Immediately he loosened it. No sense being choked before getting to the church. He hated wearing a suit, he hated going to churches, but it
was
a funeral and McMaster had been very specific. The press would be there and the TV cameras. Nothing less than sartorial elegance would suffice–Greatorix was minding the shop while the division turned out to pay their respects to the Wallis family.

He checked his watch. Half an hour before Noble and Jones picked him up. He looked again at the Van Gogh propped on his sofa and shook his head. What on earth would he do with it? He knew he shouldn’t keep it. But getting rid of it could be trickier than hanging on to it.

He read again the accompanying letter from Sonja Sorenson which said that it was always her brother-in-law’s wish that it be given to Brook. ‘For being my friend and understanding the importance of my work,’ was how he’d expressed it to her. And she echoed her brother-in-law’s claims from his first encounter with Brook. The painting was unknown to the art world but was a genuine Van Gogh.

Brook stared at the picture. It
was
magnificent. And if the Sorensons were to be believed, an undiscovered treasure worth millions nestled on the plastic sofa in his grubby flat. He found it hard to take in–harder even than the two handlers from Fine Art Conveyors who had marched the bubble-wrapped masterpiece through Brook’s hovel to its nicotine-stained dungeon. Their jaws had hit the floor when they saw the living room and they departed in stunned silence, eyeing each other all the while, unaware even of Brook’s attempt to give them a tip.

Brook removed his jacket, hung it on a chair to avoid the cat hairs and sat down. Something else had arrived that morning through the regular post. Unlike the painting, Brook had been expecting it since reading the transcript of Sorenson’s taped confession several days before. DCI Fulbright had refused Derby CID’s request for a copy of the videotape, so Brook had been forced to rely on the written word.

He’d examined the transcript thoroughly, but had found nothing that he hadn’t expected–a thorough account of Stefan Sorenson’s murder and less detailed confessions to the killings of Laura Maples and Annie Sewell.

What surprised Brook was the absence of a hidden message, something personal from Sorenson to Brook, something for his eyes only, that he alone could decipher. He didn’t know what he expected to find–a last goodbye maybe or a final plea for understanding. But there was nothing.

It was possible Sorenson had included a visual message on the tape but Brook thought it unlikely. Given their
knowledge of each other’s thinking, it shouldn’t have been difficult for someone with Sorenson’s intellect to speak to Brook with a few well chosen buzzwords, a few coded references. But he hadn’t. The confession left in Sorenson’s study was for public consumption only. There had to be something more–something for Brook alone. It had bothered him for days until the morning post arrived.

Brook examined the padded envelope for the umpteenth time since it dropped onto his mat. It was postmarked London and had a return address. 12 Queensdale Road, addressee, Peter Hera. He squeezed the package trying to guess its contents. Finally he tore it open and pulled out a video cassette.

Brook checked his watch. He lit his first cigarette since leaving hospital and let the nausea wash through him. He fed the cassette into his shiny new VCR, pressed the play button and turned on the TV. All was white noise.

Sorenson’s face appeared and Brook exhaled nicotine relief. A grisly voice inside his head had warned him he might have to endure a filmed account of the Wallis family being torn open.

Instead Sorenson sat in a chair, at his desk in his study. The room was lit by lamps and Sorenson held his father’s cutthroat in his hand. He raised a glass to the camera.

Brook grunted. Even death didn’t stop Sorenson’s probing.

He stood and raised his glass.
‘The Reaper is dead. Long live The Reaper.’
Then Sorenson walked out of shot. A couple of seconds later the screen was white again.

Brook rewound the tape and listened to the toast again. He froze the image with Sorenson facing the camera, arm raised. Then he paced around the room for a couple of minutes before disappearing into the cellar. ‘Something’s not right.’ He emerged with the sheaf of papers taken from Charlie’s kitchen, leafed through for a moment to find the section he needed, then read aloud.

‘Funny thing,’
Brook whispered. ‘Noble was right,’ he said to the screen. ‘Jason was at your mercy. Why didn’t you kill him? Why?’ He stubbed out his cigarette then re-read the transcript of Sorenson’s confession.

‘You always have a reason. Every action serves a purpose. One–you confess to killing your brother so Vicky can get on with her life. Two–you confess to killing Laura Maples so you can give me credit for tracking you down.

‘Three–you admit to arranging Annie Sewell’s murder. Reason:’–Brook hesitated then shrugged. ‘So you can put Jason and his low-life friends in the frame for her murder. So why haven’t you done that? Funny thing.’

‘What’s funny?’

Brook spun round. ‘Wendy!’

‘I knocked but there was no reply. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all.’ Brook turned off the TV and moved Charlie’s confession under the Sorenson transcript on the table.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing’s funny.’

‘You do realise that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness?’

‘Yeah, but it’s the only decent conversation I can get since the cat stopped confiding in me.’

‘You’ve got a TV,’ she breezed. ‘It’s almost like a home.’

‘Keep pushing.’

Now she giggled. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need. I’ve given notice. I’m looking for another place.’

Jones tried to hide her blushes at the possible reason for the move. ‘Oh? Nice painting,’ she added quickly.