Deity (12 page)

‘That fat tub of guts. At least you’ve got a sexual orientation.’

Kyle giggled then winced in pain. ‘Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.’ He ushered her in. Becky couldn’t hear music or even a
TV. Only Adele was there, sitting on a small sofa with a bottle of untouched WKD in her hand, staring into space. She glanced up at Becky and smiled when she saw the jeans, trainers and sweatshirt, the leather rucksack over her shoulder.

Becky nodded back at her and looked around. ‘Geek Boy not here?’

Adele shook her head. ‘Not yet. Do you want a drink?’

Becky prepared to refuse, citing her skin as the reason. A model must have beautiful skin. ‘Don’t see why not.’

Jake stood beneath the streetlight outside Kyle’s house. He’d been there nearly five minutes, just watching, wondering what to do. He’d seen no one arrive and no signs of life. There wasn’t even the barely muffled pulse of loud music that had greeted his arrival at every other teenage party he’d attended. Maybe Kyle hadn’t come home after the previous night’s beating. Maybe he was lying out in the fields injured or dead. For the first time in his life, Jake envied people who smoked.

With a deep breath, he approached the glass front door and raised a hand to knock. But instead of knocking, he waited. He couldn’t hear anything; no music, no laughter and none of the usual loud screeching and shouting for attention that characterised every other conversation held at such gatherings. It was as quiet as the grave.

He stood frozen, his hand aloft, ready to pound on the door. Finally he lowered his arm and walked around the side of the house where there was a large floor-to-ceiling window. The curtains were drawn but Jake could see movement on the other side so he drew nearer and fixed his eye to a crack in the material. He pulled back and turned away, deep lines of
confusion etched on his brow. A second later he walked back down the small drive and set off for home.

Becky stood at the sink in Kyle’s kitchen and wiped the last of the talcum powder from her face. When she’d finished, she stared at her reflection in the window. The harsh strip-lighting left no hiding place for all the minor blemishes that others overlooked but she obsessed over. She looked away at once.

The noise of the TV increased as a door opened and Adele came over to put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Okay, Becks?’

Becky smiled faintly. ‘Always.’ She laughed. ‘Lamest party ever, right?’ Adele smiled back. ‘I should text Fern and tell her she got off lightly.’ Adele raised an eyebrow but Becky had already realised. ‘Right. No phones.’

‘Come and watch
Badlands
. You’ll like it.’

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
B
ROOK JOGGED
up the steps of the entrance to Division Headquarters in St Mary’s Wharf, and waited for Noble to swipe his card against the sensor before following his subordinate through the smoked-glass door. Sergeant Harry Hendrickson was on the Duty Desk and spotted DI Brook hurrying by. Hendrickson was in his late fifties and had a face like Sid James on a bad day. He’d never got over being rejected by CID in his distant youth, and a detective as clever as Brook had become the natural focus for his resentment, the more so because Brook wasn’t a local man.

Hendrickson sneered as sourly as he dared in Brook’s direction, but the senior officer kept his eyes glued firmly to his feet. Noble in turn gave Hendrickson no more than a glance as the pair passed.

‘Morning, Detective Sergeant,’ bellowed the uniformed officer when Noble didn’t acknowledge him.

For once Noble didn’t answer or react to the fake bonhomie. Usually he nodded a greeting, played along to keep a foot in both camps as he had with Keith Pullin the other
morning. But this was getting out of hand – too many people felt they could be openly hostile and Noble decided it was time to stonewall the backhanded insults aimed at his superior.

Brook pushed through the door that led to the lifts but he ignored them and made for the stairs. At the same moment a lift door opened and Chief Superintendent Mark Charlton stepped out. Brook saw him from the corner of an eye but pretended not to notice and bounded towards the first step.

‘Morning, gentlemen,’ called Charlton, raising an arm and halting Brook in mid-stride.

‘Morning, sir,’ said Noble. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good.’

Brook turned to face the Chief Super with barely detectable scorn. Noble watched him, wincing in anticipation.
Good at what?
was Brook’s usual retort to such a greeting. More often than not it was followed by
Are you American?
Noble saw Brook open his mouth to speak but fortunately the moment passed without comment.

‘What news about that floater?’ asked Charlton, looking beyond Brook to his destination. Close to regulation minimum height, Charlton was always uncomfortable standing beside two six-footers. ‘I’ve had Brian Burton from the local rag on to me about it. Just an old tramp, I heard.’

Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘Even tramps have mothers. Sir.’ Charlton and Brook’s eyes locked briefly before the Chief Superintendent looked away, tight-lipped.

‘You know what I mean, Inspector. The type to get falling-down drunk and end up in the river – the type worth a fourline paragraph on page eleven of the
Derby Telegraph
.’

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ answered Brook.

‘Oh? How so?’

‘We’re
still assessing that, sir,’ said Brook. ‘It’s not suicide and it could yet be murder.’

Noble looked sharply at Brook.

‘I see,’ said Charlton. He tried to sound authoritative. ‘Well, get your paperwork on my desk today and don’t waste any more time on it than necessary.’

Brook smiled his reply.

Charlton was on the verge of turning away before finding a riposte to Brook’s earlier gibe. ‘You know, you glamour boys in CID never really have day-to-day dealings with tramps or the homeless and alcoholic. It’s us in uniform that have always had to clean up their mess. The nurse punched and kicked in Casualty. The primary-school kids on their way home lured into a derelict house and sexually assaulted. If you’d seen what I’ve seen out in the field, you wouldn’t think some of these scumbags had mothers.’ He glared at Brook only to see that he’d already gone and was sprinting up the stairs.

Back in his office, Brook sipped on the over-sweetened vending-machine tea, aware that Noble was waiting for something.

‘Something you want to say, John?’ Noble shrugged so Brook asked it for him. ‘Why did I tell Charlton it might be murder?’

‘That would cover it,’ answered Noble.

Brook took a sip of tea. ‘Are we certain there was no coercion?’

‘Habib and Petty were. And they’ve seen a lot more of these . . .’

‘Tramps?’

Noble shrugged. ‘For want of a better word. And we know
the path our corpse was on. He only had another year, according to Habib.’

Brook looked away. ‘You’re right. But I don’t like Brass pushing us to sign off on cases before they’re done and dusted.’

‘So we’re not ready to pass this down the food chain?’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Because of the planning that went into disposal . . .’

‘Not just the way the corpse was dumped, John. The way it was filleted, treated with such care then just discarded in the water seems perverse. Almost as though . . .’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know,’ Brook said. ‘But I’ve never seen anything like this. We should give it another couple of days at least.’

‘You don’t think it’s a mortuary mix-up then?’

‘You heard Habib. The body wouldn’t have been cut that way if it had been through the system.’

‘I also heard him say it wasn’t murder.’ Noble smiled at Brook. ‘But I suppose if the Chief Super thinks all bets are still on, we don’t get reassigned.’

Brook grinned back guiltily. ‘That never occurred to me.’

‘Course not.’

‘But you’re right. Charlton will have us back on fake IDs or, God forbid, break-ins if we sit around twiddling our thumbs.’

‘A valuable public service that,’ Noble suggested.

‘But not our skill-set, John – and the householders of Derby deserve better than to have their cases dumped into our inexperienced hands.’

Noble laughed then looked back at Brook.

‘Something else?’

Noble hesitated then said, ‘Never mind.’

‘No, spit it out. We don’t crack cases by suppressing ideas.’

‘It’s
not about the case.’

Brook took a sip of his tea. ‘What is it? Come on, let’s hear it.’

Noble braced himself. ‘Okay. How come you go out of your way to wind up the Chief Super yet put up with all that crap from a nobody like Hendrickson?’

‘Hendrickson doesn’t like me?’ asked Brook innocently.

‘You know he doesn’t and he’s not shy about showing it. And he’s not the only one.’

Brook looked into his tea cup. ‘Like . . .’ He looked up to Noble for help.

‘Keith Pullin.’

‘To name but one.’ Brook nodded.

‘That’ll be the day.’

Brook grunted in brief amusement. ‘Some time ago, Charlton tried to get me to take early retirement and he wasn’t subtle about it.’

‘Well, you did undermine a case by going to the
Telegraph
behind his back.’

‘Two innocent people were being railroaded, John. I couldn’t let that happen.’

‘And Charlton hasn’t forgiven you.’

‘I obviously told you all this.’ And when Noble laughed without mirth: ‘Something funny?’

‘You could say,’ replied Noble.

‘Enlighten me. Come on, let me in on the joke.’

Noble took a sip of tea. ‘How long is it since your transfer to Derby, sir?’

Brook looked briefly at the ceiling then back at Noble. ‘Six years?’

Noble shook his head in disbelief. ‘Eight – it’s eight years
since you moved up from the Met and eight years we’ve worked together.’

Brook shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so. And you ask me whether you told me about Charlton trying to get you off the payroll.’

‘And did I?’

‘No, you didn’t. And if you had, it would have been the first time in those eight years that you told me anything that didn’t relate to a case. Everything else, every bit of gossip, every personal detail, I have to drag out of you. Sir.’

There was silence for a moment before Brook cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. What do you want to know?’

‘We could begin with my question about Hendrickson.’ Brook sighed. ‘What should I do? Tear a strip off him?’

‘It’s a start.’

‘He never says anything that would look insubordinate on paper.’ Brook rubbed a hand on his forehead. ‘And frankly, I don’t care enough about what he thinks. Or Charlton. Or Pullin. As long as
you’re
okay with me, John, I can handle the rest. Or have I misread that situation too?’

‘No, you haven’t,’ said Noble. ‘It took a while, mind, and it’s only because I work with you day in, day out. I thought the same as everyone else when you first arrived. Toffee-nosed Londoner – you know what, lording it over us yokels.’

‘What changed your mind?’

Noble narrowed his eyes in thought. ‘Seriously – you have no ego, no agenda. You don’t care about the politics or furthering your career.’

‘I must care about my career if I resisted early retirement,’ reasoned Brook.

‘Oh, you care that you have a job to keep you busy, and you
care that it’s done properly. But you’re not concerned about promotion or getting in the papers or a pat on the back from Brass. The only important thing to you is the case. That’s your strength.’

Brook smiled sadly. ‘I sense there’s a
but
coming.’

‘You sure you want to hear this?’

‘I’m a big boy, John.’

‘Okay. Your strength is also your weakness. You don’t care, full stop. You understand the work, the hunt, the detection – but you don’t care about the people you work with. That’s a weakness in their eyes and it makes your job harder because nobody is willing to put themselves out for you. So you’ve only got yourself to blame for the contempt people like Hendrickson show you.’

Brook looked up at Noble as though about to object, but he remained silent. Then: ‘That sounds like a terrible weakness,’ he answered softly.

‘It would be unforgivable except for one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The person you care about least is yourself.’

Brook nodded after a few moments of contemplation. ‘Thank you for your honesty. I can’t argue with any of that. You’re right, I tolerate the contempt. It’s the price I have to pay.’

‘To pay for what?’

Again Brook paused. ‘Keeping the blinkers on.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’re not making this easy, are you?’ Brook took another sip of tea. ‘It means that I’m so clueless about all that stuff people do to maintain relationships that it’s simpler just to opt out.’

‘What
stuff?’

‘Small talk. Conversations about nothing, feigning an interest where there is none.’

‘It’s what normal people do to get by, sir.’ Noble searched for the right words. ‘Is this something to do with your . . . thing?’

‘Mental breakdown, John. Never be afraid to use the correct vocabulary.’

‘Is it?’

‘It was a long time ago.’ Brook stood and walked across the room to look out of the window. ‘But, yes. Indirectly.’

‘How?’

Brook turned to face Noble. ‘Keeping control over the things that might threaten my state of mind means excluding distractions.’

‘Like remembering people’s names.’

‘It’s not deliberate, Jim.’ Brook apologised with a raised hand. ‘Not funny. Sorry. But – it’s hard to explain. Some days it’s like walking along a tiny ledge on a high cliff or across a tightrope strung between tall buildings. You need to concentrate. Always.’

‘On what?’

Brook uttered a half-laugh. ‘On not concentrating. On weeding out everything I don’t need to know.’

Noble nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you think if you have a conversation about the weather you might miss your next step on the ledge.’

Brook shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

‘Then why don’t you explain that to—’ Noble’s mobile phone broke the mood.