Deity (44 page)

‘No. But most can get out on the river if they’re in a good state of repair.’

‘And Smethwick?’

‘Never seen him go out once and he’s been here ten year.’ Huff put a finger over his mouth and pointed to the dim hulk of wood and metal looming out of the darkness. Gadd turned and held out an arm to her colleagues. There was a locked gate across the walkway and Huff pulled out a set of keys and unlocked it. It opened without noise.

Gadd pointed at DC Smee who took three uniformed officers to the far side of the boat. She and the rest fanned out around the walkway. Charlton hung back to observe.

Gadd rapped on the door. ‘Mr Smethwick – police. Open the door, please.’ She listened before issuing a second summons. When that failed she backed away and nodded to the two officers carrying the Enforcer Ram.

Brook pulled to the kerb across from Yvette Thomson’s house and killed the engine. Downstairs was in darkness but there was a light on in the bedroom. He reached over for his laptop
and was about to open the driver’s door when his mobile buzzed.

‘DS Gadd, sir. We found Smethwick’s boat. He’s not been seen for a couple of weeks and it doesn’t look like he’s been on the boat in a while.’

‘Anything to show he’s The Embalmer?’

‘Plenty. There’s a lot of stuff about Egypt, books on embalming and something interesting you should see – except we’re thinking we should stake the place out and wait for Smethwick to show.’

‘You mean Charlton’s thinking that.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What do you think?’

‘That we should go through the place with a fine-tooth comb.’

‘Did you find any surgical instruments?’ asked Brook.

‘No, sir.’

‘What about the ambulance?’

‘No one we spoke to has ever seen it.’

‘Your instincts are right, Jane. He’s gone and he’s not coming back!’

‘Gone where?’

‘If he’s taken his instruments, he’s gone to wherever he takes his victims.’

Poole lay on his back, panting. Yvette climbed off him and put her head on his densely thatched chest. He nodded with satisfaction. ‘Still got it.’

‘You’re a superman, Len,’ said Yvette, trying to drum up some sincerity.

‘You think?’

‘I do.’ She twirled his chest hair with a manicured finger. ‘Len . . .’

‘What?’

‘Why don’t we get married?’ Poole sat up. ‘What?’

She pouted alluringly at him. ‘It’s not too late. We’d be perfect together,’ she said in her most vulnerable voice.

‘Marry you?’ repeated Poole, this time with a hint of disbelief.

‘It’s the ideal solution, Len. Rusty’s gone and I don’t know if he’s ever coming back, even if he’s dead or alive. I’m lonely. I don’t want to be on my own.’ Poole declined to comment so Yvette lifted her head from his chest again. ‘Can Alice do what I do for you?’ She grinned at him and nuzzled at the wiry hair on his flabby breast. ‘Well, can she?’

Poole pushed her away. ‘No. That’s why I’m here now.’

‘Then why don’t you marry me?’

‘Because you’re a mental bitch.’

Her face soured and she prepared a fist but was halted by a rap on the front door. She turned off her bedside lamp and tiptoed to a crack in the curtain.

‘Who is it?’ whispered Poole.

‘It’s Alice,’ said Yvette with a sneer.

‘You lying cow,’ hissed Len Poole, pulling his underpants and tracksuit trousers on. ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Inspector Brook, if you must know,’ she whispered from the window.

‘At this time? What does he want?’

‘How should I know? Probably the same as you,’ she spat. ‘A two-minute quickie.’

Poole looked daggers at her as he zipped his shiny tracksuit top to the neck. ‘That was at least five, you cow. I looked at the clock. Is it really Inspector Brook?’

‘See
for yourself. That’s his BMW.’

Poole crawled to the window. The knocking on the door sounded again. ‘Shit. I’d better go.’

‘Should I ring Alice and tell her you’re on your way?’

Poole darted back from the bedroom door and grabbed her by the throat. ‘Listen, you fucking whore, you go near my Alice and the game’s up for you – and then there’ll be a lot more coppers than Inspector Brook out there. Understand?
Understand?
’ insisted Poole.

She nodded as best she could and Poole loosened his grip. Yvette massaged her neck and got her breath back as Poole darted out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the back door. He slipped out quietly and hopped over the fence at the back and scuttled away into the night.

Ten minutes later, Len arrived back at his car. The cul-desac was in darkness and he flicked at his key fob to unlock his car. The light in the cab of his Jaguar came on and Poole jumped on to the cracked leather of the driver’s seat, enjoying the tackiness of recent conquest along his inner thigh. Mental or not, that bitch certainly knew all the buttons to push. He grinned at his reflection in the rearview mirror but, as he glanced back towards the ignition, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and looked back to the mirror to see a yellow-toothed grin flashing at him from the back seat.

Brook watched the light go out in Yvette’s bedroom. He knocked one more time then returned to his car with his laptop. Maybe it was for the best. It had kept this long; it could keep for another night. He sent a text to Noble to prepare the ground for the next morning and set off through the estate towards the A52 for the drive to Alstonefield, the picturesque
village about ten minutes from Brook’s home in Hartington.

Thirty-five minutes later, Brook banged on the door of a small stone barn on the outskirts of the village. He hadn’t needed the address given him by DS Morton, because Rifkind’s sleek black Porsche, sitting on the flagged drive, had been visible from the main road. Brook inspected it as he waited. No answer. He knocked again and stepped back to look for a light. The place was in darkness – no sign of life.

‘Mr Rifkind, I’m not a reporter, it’s DI Brook. I know you’re in there. I have a warrant for your computer and mobile phone.’ Still no answer. ‘If I have to come back we’ll be breaking down the door.’

He traipsed back to his car, defeated. Rifkind’s wife had obviously called him to expect a visit and he wasn’t about to surrender his precious computer without a struggle.

Ten minutes later, near exhaustion, Brook dragged himself from his car and almost sleepwalked his way into his own dark cottage.

‘Terri!’

No answer. No Terri. When he flicked on the kitchen light he saw the note.

Brook sighed and looked at his watch. It was past eleven o’clock. He was starving and his evening meal wasn’t on the table. ‘It’s just not good enough,’ he said, and smiled.

He left
the cottage to walk down the hill to the village but caught sight of the pair staggering, arm-in-arm, back up the hill. He returned to the cottage and poured himself a glass of red from an open bottle then looked in the fridge. There was a bowl of cooked pasta from a few nights before. Brook gratefully swallowed three spoonfuls before the front door opened and Terri, singing badly out of tune, fell in.

‘Mr Brook, you’re here,’ said Ray, helping Terri to a chair. He stood awkwardly, the baseball cap still glued back to front over his bleach-blond head.

‘Actually it’s Detective Inspector,’ Brook replied tersely.

Terri squinted up in his direction ‘Dad. You’re here. Just in time for a drink.’

‘You’ve had enough,’ said Brook and Ray in unison.

Terri’s head swayed between the pair of them, trying to focus. ‘Don’t be so mean,’ she said. ‘It’s a celebration,’ she smirked before hiccuping. ‘Oops.’

‘She needs to get to bed, sir – Detective Inspector, I mean.’

‘Give me a hand, will you?’

Ray helped Brook hoist the mumbling Terri towards the sofa in the living room and place her down as gently as they could. She lost consciousness before they laid her out and Brook took off her shoes before ushering Ray back to the kitchen. Brook picked up Terri’s handbag and helped himself to a much-needed cigarette.

‘Is this your idea of a good time, Ray?’ he said, opening the front door to exhale. ‘Taking my daughter out and getting her drunk.’

‘Sir, honestly, we’ve had a great day out on the hills and I’m whipped. I tried to leave three hours ago but Terri wasn’t budging and. . . I couldn’t just leave her there.’

After
a moment, Brook nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Thanks for staying with her.’

‘No problem, sir. Where did your daughter learn to drink like that?’

Brook stopped raising the glass of wine to his lips and returned it guiltily to the kitchen table. ‘She didn’t get it from me.’

Ray smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’ve. . . er, had the full version at the Duke. And so has half the village, I’m afraid.’

‘That bad?’

‘That bad,’ echoed Ray. ‘And don’t get me started on her swearing.’ He shook his head. ‘Terri’s a great girl, sir, but she’s certainly got. . . issues.’

‘Issues,’ repeated Brook, risking a Methodist’s sip at his wine. He scraped back a chair and sat down. ‘Take a seat, Ray.’

Ray sat, rather reluctantly.

‘Drink?’

‘No thanks, I’m driving.’ He looked hesitantly at Brook. ‘Who’s Tony?’

Brook looked up from his glass, wondering if this was ground he wanted to cover. He decided to keep it simple. ‘Someone Terri got close to,’ he said after a moment. ‘He died.’

‘So I gather. Tel took it hard, didn’t she? It can’t have been easy.’

Brook declined to comment but took a larger gulp of wine.

‘She’s lucky to have you though, sir. You’re her hero.’

‘Hero!’ exclaimed Brook. He looked into his wine glass. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her for five years.’

Ray shrugged. ‘You’re her father, sir. You’ll always be her hero. That’s how it works.’ He scraped his chair back against the slate floor. ‘I must be off. Work tomorrow.’

‘I
thought it was half-term.’

‘It is, but essays don’t write themselves.’

Brook stood to see him out. ‘Got any tattoos, Ray?’

‘Tattoos? Not really my thing, I’m afraid. In my opinion, they’re for people who don’t have any personality. They get a tattoo so they’ll have something to talk about. Why?’

Brook smiled and held out his hand to shake Ray’s. ‘No reason.’

B
ROOK FIDDLED WITH THE STRAP
of his laptop case as he looked up at Yvette’s bedroom window. The curtains were drawn. He checked his watch and knocked loudly on the glass door. After five minutes of rhythmic knocking, Brook heard footfalls and the door finally opened.

Yvette tried to focus on her visitor in the piercing light. Her black hair was tousled and her eyes sleepy as she tied the belt of a silk robe tightly round her waist. The curve of her breasts and her shapely legs were, as usual, available for inspection. ‘Damen. It’s Sunday morning. Do you know what time it is?’

‘It’s six o’clock,’ said Brook helpfully. He removed his laptop from his shoulder.

‘What the hell do you want?’ She kept the door open enough to converse but no more. ‘Have you found Rusty?’ she said with sudden hope.

‘No.’

‘Then . . .’ She looked annoyed but in a trice her manner
became flirtatious. ‘You should ring next time, Damen. I might have had company.’

‘Len!’ shouted Brook at the top of his voice. ‘You still in there?’

‘Stop that,’ she spat, looking round at neighbouring houses. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Just checking,’ explained Brook. ‘I think he’s gone now. He wouldn’t risk a sleepover with Alice three streets away.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘What makes you think it would be Len Poole? I might have your Sergeant upstairs in my bed.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then you don’t know men like I do, Damen. The Sergeant was very taken with me, don’t you think?’

Brook was sombre. He couldn’t lose sight of the fact that maybe Yvette was herself a kind of victim. ‘He’ll get over it.’

Her lip curled. ‘So what do you want?’ she said, cocking her head.

‘I need to ask you about yesterday’s Deity broadcast. It’s important.’

Yvette’s face hardened as she sought the excuse she needed but it wouldn’t come. Instead she walked away from the door and Brook, uninvited, followed her into the sun-dappled sitting room.

‘I haven’t seen it,’ she said, sitting demurely on the sofa.

‘What do you mean, you haven’t seen it?’

‘Just that.’

‘It was on the Deity website, it was on the news in the evening. Are you telling me that you haven’t seen a piece of film that might have a bearing on your son’s disappearance?’

She
didn’t reply. Instead she went to the kitchen. ‘I’m making coffee,’ she explained. ‘Want one?’

‘You’re making coffee?’

She smiled sweetly at him. ‘Got to start the day with a cup of hot coffee.’

‘Is that what you did when you found your mother’s body?’

Her eagerness to please vanished for a split second but resumed almost at once. ‘I was only nine. And it was a can of Lilt back then.’ Her eyes lowered in sadness. ‘She left me on my own.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Brook.

Yvette found her smile a second later. ‘No use crying over spilled milk.’ She breezed back to the kitchen.

‘I brought Russell’s computer back yesterday,’ shouted Brook, looking around the living room. He spotted the laptop on a side-table still in the plastic bag he’d returned it in. He picked it up. ‘Why didn’t you watch the broadcast, Yvette? I want an answer.’

She appeared at the doorway. ‘No sugar, right?’

‘You’re a mother. Your missing son could be on that film,’ insisted Brook. ‘The son you begged us to find.’

She looked right at him now, her lips quivering. ‘Russell’s not coming back. He’s dead.’

‘Russell!’ exclaimed Brook. ‘Did you say Russell?’

She hesitated. ‘My son, yes.’

Brook smiled sadly. ‘Your son is dead? How do you know?’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘A mother always knows.’