The Reaper (52 page)

Brook stood his ground, a strange grin contorting his features. It was an expression of resignation, of regret.

McMaster gripped his elbow and with Jones and Noble gathered around Brook, they marched him away from the cemetery as nonchalantly as they could.

‘Have you completely lost it?’ McMaster muttered.

Without changing his expression or even looking in her direction, Brook nodded. ‘Lost? Yes, ma’am. I’ve lost.’

The man brought the car to a halt. He killed the engine and lights and sat back, waiting for the rain to ease. He closed his eyes to let the music flow over him. It was difficult to hear over the beating of the rain on the bonnet and roof of the car. He turned it up.

He squinted through the rear window, trying to distinguish shapes through the distorting effect of the water. Nothing stirred. No cars. No pedestrians. No animals.

Every living creature had taken shelter tonight. It was a night to seal oneself off from the outside world and curl up to hibernate. Curtains were closed against the cold, fires were roaring, hot winter food was being consumed and the hypnotic pulse of the TV nurtured life in a flickering cocoon. Every home had returned to the womb. Comfortable. Safe. Warm.

The man located the wiper button and held it while the windscreen cleared. Mist rolled up Station Road from the Trent and for a moment he was sightless. A pocket of clearer air revealed a door opening across the road. A figure stepped through and out into the inhospitable gloom.

A moment later the figure stood next to a small red
car, hesitating, rummaging. Keys found, the figure hopped into the car. Headlights snapped on. A cat skittered from beneath as the engine coughed into life. It ran to the next vehicle then turned to glare at its former shelter. Eyes unblinking. Head still.

The red car swung out into the road and away.

The man watched it recede then turned the music off. The rain had slowed to a steady rhythm. He stepped from the vehicle and retrieved a bag from the back seat. He closed the door, but didn’t lock it, then walked briskly across the road to the house the other driver had left.

He rang the bell, and stepped back from the mottled glass of the front door to look around. No reply.

He rang the bell again and looked around, humming the music to himself. He could see the cat beneath the parked car, flattened against the ground, inching forward, restrained power, eyes rigid, ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

Jason heard the front door bell and lowered his mobile, the text message forgotten for a moment. He stood up from the bed and picked his way carefully round the baby’s cot, to avoid waking her. The light was already off so he felt able to peer out of the window. He could make out a figure but couldn’t tell who it was in the dark.

It didn’t look like any of the officers assigned to protect him, since the slaughter of his family, so he decided to ignore it. Whoever it was carried a bag–probably someone flogging stuff. He tiptoed back to the edge of his bed and sat down.

Jason waited a few minutes in the dark, listening for
the figure to go. He heard nothing except the wind and the gentle breathing of his baby sister.

After a few moments listening, Jason returned to the glowing display of his phone. As he started keying a message, the bell sounded again.

This time he growled in annoyance and made his way softly to the top of the stairs and squinted down at the door to the frame standing motionless on the other side of the mottled glass.

Again he hesitated, watching, waiting. When the bell sounded again he lost his patience and stomped down the stairs.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s DI Brook.’

‘Fuck do you want?’

‘To talk.’

‘What about?’

‘Police business. And I want to apologise…’

‘It won’t do any good. We’re not dropping the complaint so fuck off!’

‘It’s important.’ He paused then dangled the carrot. ‘I’ve brought your money.’

Silence. ‘What money?’

‘The money we confiscated when we arrested you.’

Another pause. ‘All of it?’

‘All of it.’

Jason moved to unfasten the many new locks on the door. It opened and Jason peered out at Brook through a crack. ‘Give us it.’

‘I can’t just hand it over. You have to sign for it. Can I come in? It’s cold.’

Jason looked Brook up and down, a superior scowl on his face. The door opened and Brook stepped inside. Jason nodded him towards the kitchen.

‘Was that your aunt I saw leaving?’

‘Yeah, she’s on nights.’

‘You’re not going out?’

‘I’m babysitting which is gay.’ He looked peeved, weighed down by the excessive responsibility.

Brook shook the rain from his coat but kept it on. He put the bag on the table, unzipped a side pocket and pulled out a bottle of whisky.

‘What’s that?’ asked Jason.

‘Peace offering.’

Jason’s face cracked into a slow smile of triumph. His aunt and that solicitor were right. They
were
holding all the aces. This was gonna be wicked. Watching this pig grovel. Like he was going to pass up a shot at compensation for a bottle of whisky after the way he’d suffered. Still. Keep it coming. It wouldn’t hurt to string him along. ‘Cheers,’ he said, trying not to gloat.

Jason pulled a single glass from the drainer and plonked it on the kitchen table. Brook spun the top from the bottle and poured Jason a generous measure.

Jason picked up the glass and hesitated, savouring his moment of victory. Wait till his crew heard about this. Maybe they had the pig on bribery, as well as supplying booze to an under-18. The bastard was finished.

Jason drank his whisky straight down and pursed his lips against the fire. ‘Where’s my money?’

Brook turned to the bag and pulled out an envelope. Jason snatched it from him with a grin and began to
count it. Brook replenished Jason’s glass like an attentive barman. Jason put the envelope on the table and smiled. Fucking result.

‘What do you think of the whisky?’

‘It’s shit,’ he replied with relish. ‘But as long as it gets the job done, who gives a fuck?’

Brook smiled. ‘No-one does.’

Jason emptied his glass again and filled it himself.

‘Steady on. Don’t forget you’re babysitting,’ said Brook, without conviction.

Jason leered in his direction then bent down to a cupboard and took out a bottle of cola. He topped up his whisky to the brim and this time took just a sip. ‘I can handle it. I’ve been drinking since I was eleven.’

Brook allowed himself a thin smile as the boy sniffed his pride at such an achievement. He really was a special young man.

He eyed the money and grinned at Brook, ‘Thanks for the dosh. Was there ’owt else?’ He took another draught of his whisky and cola.

Brook smiled and pulled up a chair. ‘You need to sign for it.’ Brook placed a piece of A4 and a pen on the kitchen table. Jason sat down and squinted at the paper. He picked up the pen. He turned to Brook. ‘Where do I sign?’

‘At the bottom.’

Jason looked again. ‘This paper’s blank. I’m not signing it. You could put anything on it.’

Brook moved his face close to Jason’s and spoke slowly and clearly. ‘I’m not going to write anything. You’re going to give me a list of names, the friends who killed Annie Sewell with you.
Then
you’re going to sign it.’

It took a moment for Jason to register what Brook had said. He thought for a second then laughed. ‘You never give up, do you? Get the fuck out of here. I can have your fucking job, coming round here and interviewing me without an adult. You’re abusing my rights, pig. Plus I’m under age and you’ve made me drink whisky…’

Jason decided to stand to show Brook the full force of his indignation but stumbled and fell back in the chair. He giggled and tried again but was still unable to get to his feet. The humour faded from Jason’s expression. He was puzzled. He couldn’t feel his legs. He tried again but gave up. Instead he stared off into the distance, alternately opening and screwing up his eyes to gauge the level of his intoxication.

Brook stood and sauntered around the kitchen, hands behind his back, not looking at Jason. Jason just watched him, head swaying slightly.

Brook stopped to admire a large framed picture of a lighthouse being ravaged by the sea. He then lifted the frame from its nail and placed it on the floor.

‘Fuck you doing?’ snarled Jason. ‘I’ve told you. Get out, yer twat. You’re trespassing. I can have you done…’ Jason began to sway in his chair now. He looked at the glass on the table and squinted at Brook, then at his hands. He flexed his eyelids and mouth like a fish. Again he tried to stand, placing his hands on his chair’s wooden arms to lever himself, but this time he couldn’t even lift his body. Still he tried, face straining, sweating with the effort, but it was no use. He looked in Brook’s general direction but couldn’t focus so he just stared, muttering as best he could. ‘Get’n me drunk. Bastard!’

Brook said nothing but continued to move around the kitchen. He moved to his sports bag and took out a portable CD player. He plugged it in, put on a disc and finally turned to contemplate his immobile host. He was out cold.

Jason felt the shock of the icy water on his face and jerked his head back. He batted his eyelids and sucked in oxygen. He opened his eyes to look at Brook, who sat to one side of him. Brook was looking at something on the wall, then back at him.

He could hear music. Classical shit. As if to answer, Brook smiled across at him. He seemed sad. ‘You can hear?’ Jason nodded. As he did so he felt the rope lapped around his forearms and waist.

‘This is Tchaikovsky’s sixth symphony. One of the pinnacles of human achievement.’ Brook listened, his eyes far away. Jason watched him. He could see clearly now, though every image was edged with bright colours. He could make out something on the far wall where his aunt’s favourite lighthouse picture used to be. There was a man dressed in black, with grey hair, standing on a rock, looking out over a raging sea or maybe he was on top of a mountain looking down.

‘You can see?’

Jason gulped. ‘Yes.’ His voice was tiny, far away and his throat hurt from the effort of squeezing out even that whisper.

‘That is a poster of The Wanderer over the Sea of Clouds by Caspar David Friedrich. It caught my eye the other day.’ Brook smiled his appreciation at Jason. ‘Stunning, isn’t it?’

Jason made to speak but had to abandon the attempt. He looked at the picture and back at Brook. Not having the physical control to shrug, he did nothing.

Brook studied Jason while removing his leather gloves. ‘You’re taking this better than I expected, son.’

Jason was unsure what he meant. Brook stood up. He looked different. Jason could see his coat was off and he wore some kind of black overalls. Then he saw the latex gloves underneath Brook’s leather gloves and his brain began to register. His eyes widened.

‘I envy you, Jason. The last image you’ll see on Earth is that painting. The last sound you’ll hear is Tchaikovsky. This will be your finest hour. And you’ll have what you’ve always wanted–a place in history.’

Jason was panting now and tried to stand again but he couldn’t move. Instead he looked down at the table and tried to speak. ‘You’re police.’ His speech was a little stronger but still no more than a croak. ‘Please! Don’t.’

‘Don’t? Is that what Annie said to you? Don’t kill me. It hurts. Take my purse but don’t hurt me any more.’

Jason’s eyes widened. He looked away.

‘How do I know you killed Annie Sewell? Don’t waste time on that now.’

‘I never killed her. I never killed no-one.’

‘Did you laugh when you made her snort cocaine?’

‘Not me.’ Jason found his eyes stinging from the sweat and the tears. No blood yet.

Brook stepped up close and showed Jason the brand new cut-throat, before putting it on the table in front of him. Jason’s eyes began to close so Brook gently slapped his face to concentrate his mind. ‘You’re not fit for this
world, Jason but, hopefully, if you can die right, you might be fit for the next one.’

‘No. Please. I didn’t kill her. It weren’t me.’ He struggled again but it was useless. The ropes immobilised him from the shoulders down. Talk. That’s all he could do to stop this. Think what to say.

Brook’s face was close and Jason could see the glint of the old-fashioned razor. He felt a hand on his jaw, pulling his head round.

‘Look at the picture, Jason. Listen to the music. Let go and feel the beauty. Look for some in yourself. There must have been some once.’

‘There’s coppers…watching.’

‘We pulled them away two days ago, Jason. According to our budget, you’re no longer at risk.’

‘You’re supposed…to protect…to help…’

Brook smiled and nodded. ‘Protect the innocent, Jason. That’s what I’m doing. Obeying the law sometimes makes that harder. I’ve seen too much thoughtless destruction, too many victims. I’ve seen Mrs Ottoman cowering in her living room after what you did to her. I’ve seen young girls raped, torn apart by lowlifes. Jason, I’ve seen Kylie. I can see her now.’

‘Don’t.’

‘It’s true.’

Jason’s eyes squinted through the tears. ‘What?’ What was the copper saying to him? ‘Where?’

Brook placed a hand on Jason’s head. ‘Here in your thoughts. I can see her struggling, fighting to be free. Her hair’s trapped under your elbows. She can’t move. Her pyjama bottoms are in a heap on the floor. You’re hurting
her. It burns! She doesn’t like it, does she? She wants you to stop…’

‘What you saying? Give it a rest. You’re creeping me out.’

‘…but you didn’t stop, did you, Jason? Even though she begged you. She promised not to tell her mam if you stopped. But you weren’t worried about that. Did your mother already know? Did she care? Your dad didn’t. He told you what women were for, didn’t he? Only good for one thing, son–even your own sister.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘The Reaper showed me when he let you live. It’s the only explanation. I thought it was your father but I was blinded by The Reaper’s other victims. Fathers and daughters, you see.’