The Disciple (12 page)

Brook shone the torch onto her unblemished peach-fuzz face. He felt a hand pulling at his sleeping bag. ‘Stop.’ He grabbed her hand – it was icy cold.

‘Please, Damen. Just once for love.’ She pushed his arms down and kissed him with her frosty lips. Brook could feel her soft flesh trembling in her too thin slip and tried to pull away, but she pressed closer to him for warmth, her tongue beginning to search for his.

A stench so foul Brook thought he might retch made him push the girl away and he swung the torch back to her face. The blackened skull and orbs of her eye sockets glared back at him and he shrank back to the wall of his tent, almost collapsing the frame. The broken beer bottle protruding from her neck glistened in the artificial light, grimy panties still dangling from its neck – testimony to her killer’s final incriminating act.

‘You’re not real,’ shouted Brook. He darted the torch this way and that, searching for her corpse. She had gone. Brook heaved a sigh. A second later he felt the movement at his feet and knew at once what it was. He scrambled to pull the sleeping bag off his legs but the seething, roiling mass of rats struggling for air at the bottom of his fetid bed gouged and scraped their way to freedom over his quivering torso.

Brook sat bolt upright and took several huge gasps of air. When his heart returned to near normal, he poked a bleary head out into the sharp, cold air of the morning. Although only wearing underpants and T-shirt, he spilled out onto the sopping grass and raised his six-foot frame to its full height, welcoming the fingers of dawn massaging their faint warmth into his face.

He closed his eyes and rubbed the fatigue from them. It had been years since he’d dreamed of Laura Maples, dreams he thought he’d left behind forever. Her killer, Floyd Wrigley, was in the ground – Brook had seen to that – and his nightmares had been buried with him. Or so he had thought. Two nights in a row. He heaved a final huge sigh. Something was wrong.

He looked at his watch and scrabbled back inside the tent, emerging with a box of matches inside a plastic bag. The first two matches he removed failed to ignite, but the third obliged, and Brook slid it under the kettle of his one-ring camping stove and made some tea.

Brook returned to the tent, dressed quickly, then packed his sleeping bag, camera and other meagre possessions into the side of his rucksack.

He then set to work taking down his quick-erect tent. He worked rhythmically, occasionally looking around as he folded, but there was no landowner or farmer to complain this early in the morning.

Brook packed his stove, kettle and mug and struck out down the path that would eventually spit him out into the small hamlet of Milldale, on the River Dove in Derbyshire’s Peak District. Forty minutes later he was standing on Milldale’s ancient footbridge, admiring a nearby heron and feeling the warmth of the low sun spread its balm.

He clambered up the steps to the municipal toilets. After an icy wash, Brook gazed at his bleary face in the cracked mirror. He then set off up the path next to the river that would eventually take him to his home in the village of Hartington. He walked steadily, ignoring the hunger gnawing at his tight belly and feeling
quiet pleasure at the newfound strength in his legs and shoulders. Two weeks of wild camping, walking fifteen miles a day and eschewing alcohol and cigarettes had left Brook feeling as fit as he had in years. But the dream of Laura Maples gnawed at him. What did it mean?

Brook power-walked the last mile into Hartington and up the small hill to his front door, stopping only briefly to get a pint of milk and a loaf of bread at the corner shop. As he was extracting his keys from a side pocket, his eye wandered to the small, lavender-scented front garden of Rose Cottage next door. He noticed that the ‘To Let’ sign, which had been there for many a month, had now been taken down and laid flat along the side wall of the cottage. At the same time, he noticed that several upstairs windows had been opened to air the place out.

He unlocked his front door and stepped into the porch, kicking the large pile of unopened mail to one side. As soon as he entered the inner door he heard the urgent ping of the answer phone alerting him to messages. Two weeks away, two messages. He pressed the play button.

‘Hello, sir. Hope you’ve had a good holiday wherever you’ve been.’ It was DS John Noble. ‘I thought I’d give you the rundown on The Reaper book. It came out on Tuesday and got a fair amount of attention. Brian Burton was interviewed on
East Midlands Today
apparently – I didn’t see it. Surprise, surprise, he has a go at you in it, about the way the investigation went, you know the routine, and the BBC rang up to find out if you or the Chief Super wanted to be on with him. The Chief’s said no. As he doesn’t know you all that well, he’s fretting that you might get sucked into saying the wrong thing. Don’t worry, I told him you don’t talk to anyone if you can help it, least of all journalists …’

Brook smiled at this and muttered, ‘No comment!’

‘Anyway…’ The message cut off at this point but was picked up again in the next one. ‘It’s me again. Just to say I’ve taped the interview for you if you can face it. I’ve also left a text on
your new mobile just in case you actually manage to take it with you, remember how to turn it on and have learned how to access your messages. Unlikely, I know. See you tomorrow. Oh, BTW,’ Brook rolled his eyes, ‘Jason Wallis was released a couple of days ago. Thought you might want to know.’

Brook’s expression hardened. ‘So you’re out at last, you murdering little coward.’ He made some tea and took a sip while glancing through the side window at the memorial to his slaughtered cat. He reflected on the night two years ago when he’d risked everything and played The Reaper, holding Jason hostage, confronting him with his crimes and threatening to cut his throat unless he turned himself in for the murder of Annie Sewell, an old woman in a sheltered home.

He looked back to the cat-shaped stone. He’d underestimated Wallis. A week later Jason and his crew had come after Brook, wrecking his down-at-heel flat and killing his cat.

Brook smiled suddenly. ‘The Reaper’s dead, Jason. Did I forget to tell you? For all you know he could be waiting round the next corner or passing you in the street. It could be anyone. It could be me. Sweet dreams.’

Brook finished his tea and deleted the messages. He took out his brand new mobile phone and turned it on, confirming there was a text from Noble, but didn’t bother to read it. He wasn’t comfortable texting but had no desire to endure the how-was-your-holiday conventions of a phone conversation so he painstakingly tapped out: ‘Jason Wallis. Did anyone inform the Ottomans?’, making sure he took the time to add the capital letters and question mark.

A few minutes later Noble replied – ‘who’ – without punctuation or a capital letter.

Brook was disheartened on two fronts. ‘A pity we don’t remember the victims as we remember the criminals,’ he muttered and switched off the phone.

Then he booted up his computer and went to take a shower.

*    *    *

Special Agent Mike Drexler drained his espresso then turned his attention to the orange juice. He took a long slow sip and grinned at his companion.

‘Yummy. I never imagined things could taste like this and I could feel this good on top.’

Special Agent Edie McQuarry flashed him a sarcastic smile and exhaled tobacco smoke over him. ‘A month away from the weed and you turn into some kind of goddamn evangelist. It’s sickening.’

‘I got news for you, Ed. I haven’t had alcohol for three weeks either.’

‘Well, give the man a prize. While the rest of humanity is out getting drunk and laid, you’ll be able to stay home nights and brush up on your macramé.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ve no idea but my sister says she does it on her coffee mornings.’

‘Sounds kinky.’

‘Well, if you ever get a hankering to wear a poncho I’ll hook you up.’ McQuarry eyed her partner before taking another long pull on her cigarette and twisted her mouth to exhale the smoke away from the other tables. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned sisters.’

Drexler looked up. ‘Ed, it’s been ten years now. I’m over it.’

‘Glad to hear it. So how’d it go last week?’

‘How’d what go?’

McQuarry raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s October, Mike. And I’m your partner.’

Drexler smiled bleakly into the distance. ‘How do these things usually go? You place the flowers, wipe the dirt off the headstone, say a few words. “Hey, sis, let me tell you about my year.”’ He smiled at his partner. ‘Gotta keep busy standing over the dead.’

‘You visit your mother?’

Drexler’s smile was a mask behind which words were carefully selected. ‘What’s the point? She doesn’t know who I am. I barely know myself. Since Kerry died…’ He shrugged. What else was there to say?

Opposite McQuarry, a large woman sitting next to her even larger husband and two grossly overweight boys, caught her eye to purse her lips in disapproval, before opening them to fork in a mouthful of syrupy pancakes.

Drexler followed McQuarry’s gaze to their table. ‘If anyone complains I’m going to have to arrest you.’

‘We’re outside, goddamn it, Mike. What more do they want?’

‘It’s a public place. There are laws.’ Drexler tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t maintain it.

‘My first smoke of the day ruined.’ McQuarry stubbed out her cigarette, then briefly examined her left hand.

‘How is it?’ asked Drexler.

She grinned at him, then flexed her hand more vigorously, trying not to wince at the discomfort from the scar tissue. ‘Good as new, Mike.’

Drexler nodded. A tension rose within him and McQuarry knew what was coming. ‘Listen, Ed…’

‘If you’re gonna start that crap again, Mike, we’re gonna have a problem. You’re my partner. You saved my life. I got cut ’cos I got careless, and if it hadn’t been for you I could’ve been filleted by that piece of shit. End of story.’

Drexler managed a smile. ‘Okay. You won’t hear me mention it again. But I never got to say thanks, you know, for still wanting to saddle up with me and backing me in front of the Board. I owe you.’

‘You don’t owe me shit, Mike, it was a good shoot. Just how many more times aren’t you ever gonna mention it?’

Drexler returned her grin. ‘Coupla hundred.’

McQuarry drained her coffee and they both stood in
unison. Drexler counted out a few dollars and dropped them on the table. She eyed the morbidly obese family as they passed their table. ‘You know, I don’t complain about lardasses encouraging me to weigh my heart down with fat,’ she said, a little more loudly than was necessary, as she stalked away from the restaurant.

They walked down Placerville Main Street through the morning sunshine, back to their dark blue Chevy. They’d been partners in the FBI for nearly three years and were comfortable in each other’s company. Drexler was thirty-three, slender and tall with curly brown hair, a handsome face and a lopsided smile.

McQuarry was thirty-eight and two years away from being a fifteen-year veteran. She looked younger, or so Drexler always told her, and despite his occasional teasing she saw no reason to disbelieve him. Her hair was also brown, but darker and shinier, and she tied it in a ponytail when on duty. She was a foot shorter than Drexler and full-figured, though she tended to think she was overweight and had been ‘careful’ with her diet for most of her adult life.

‘Nice place, this,’ said Drexler.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No. I can see myself living in a place like this in a few years. It’s safe, got great fishing…’

‘Safe,’ sneered McQuarry. ‘Sacramento’s not safe enough for you? It’s the most boring city in the world.’

‘You’ll never get over ’Frisco, will you, Ed?’

‘No, I never will – the most beautiful place in the world. And they got a ballpark. And another thing – the most dangerous activity in San Fran is being a tourist who says ’Frisco. It’s San Fran or SF – never ’Frisco. Got that?’

‘Go easy on me, officer, I’m just a country boy who don’t know no better.’

McQuarry threw the keys at him. ‘Amen to that. Now let’s move it, Mike. We got another hour on the road.’

Grant grabbed her small suitcase from the boot before Hudson could attempt to carry it for her. They walked from the residents’ car park to the reception area of the Midland Hotel and checked in. They found their adjacent rooms and Hudson paused at his door.

‘What do you fancy for dinner? French? Italian? Spanish?’