The Reaper (13 page)

Eventually she sat down, pulling her T-shirt back over her midriff. Heavy sighs were released around the room and Brook almost expected a round of applause to follow. He tried to ignore the looks of exquisite pain directed at her from the other table and hoped his own expression didn’t betray the same yearning. Unattainable pleasures were to be avoided at all costs. The emotional epidermis of this male was pocked with enough wounds.

Still, it wasn’t easy for Brook to find a place to rest his eyes. Even looking directly at her face couldn’t hide the dark rim of her nipples goading him. Fortunately his breakfast arrived to distract him and he tucked in with more gusto than he’d felt a moment earlier. ‘No joy, then?’ he mumbled, through a mouthful of toast.

‘No, you were right. It wasn’t a very nice place,’ she replied absently.

Brook looked up to try and fathom why she’d need to lie. He saw her looking at his plate and realised that she didn’t have enough money to buy herself any food. Come to think of it, when he looked again, her cheeks did seem a little hollow, gaunt even. He was savvy enough to avoid wounding her pride by offering to buy her something so he just rolled his two sausages to the side of his plate and shook his head.

‘I told him no sausages,’ Brook complained. ‘I hate sausages. Look, I’ve paid for them already. Would you have them? I can’t stand waste.’

She seemed to perk up a little. ‘Well if you’re sure you don’t want them?’

‘I’m certain,’ he said and before the last syllable was out, she’d fallen on them as delicately as she could manage. Watching her mimic fellatio, Brook wished he’d offered her some toast instead but they were gone in a trice and she smiled gratefully at him.

Brook returned her smile but was puzzled. What did she want? She hadn’t had time to get to the Casa Mia and back and he knew, as a graduate himself, there was little likelihood of entrance interviews in the week before Christmas. She looked far too classy to be on the game but you never could tell; it wasn’t the exclusive preserve of pressured single mothers and granite-faced fortysome-things. She wouldn’t have been out of place in better parts of London but this was the rough end of Derby.

‘Where will you go now?’ he asked, trying to get to the bottom of it. He didn’t have long to wait.

‘I’ve tried everywhere else. All full,’ she said, unable to look at him. ‘I’ll have to go back there, I suppose.’

Brook scrutinised her, chewing both his food and his thoughts. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’ She looked at him for the first time without the discomfort of deceit so Brook decided it was the truth. He had nothing to lose, certainly nothing valuable in his flat, except Cat.

‘Look. I go to work at eight. I’ll leave a key under a brick near the back door, right.’ She feigned surprise
quite well. ‘It’s a bit shabby but if you can’t find anywhere else at all, there’s a sofa for the night, if you want it? No strings and no charge.’

‘That’s very nice of you,’ she said. ‘Why would you do that? For a complete stranger, I mean.’

‘Why? Because I was a penniless student once, for all the good it did me, and because you’re not much older than my daughter and I’d hate to think of Terri wandering around a strange city without a place to stay. Also I’m a policeman, so it’s my job to prevent crime.’ He looked hard at her for signs to betray that she was on the make in any way. There were none.

Instead recognition flickered across her features. ‘You were on the TV last night,’ she said, open-mouthed, pointing at him, ‘about those murders.’ Brook nodded his confirmation, basking ever so slightly in his new-found celebrity. Top of the world ma. ‘Well, I’d feel much safer under a policeman’s roof than some of the hotels I’ve seen. Thanks very much for the offer.’

She stood up to leave and held out her hand to shake his. ‘I’m Vicky.’

‘Damen.’ Brook shook her hand and shot her a mechanical smile, trying to mask his fresh doubts about her age. If she thought being a policeman was a guarantee of moral rectitude, she must be more naive than he’d assumed.

She reassembled her layers, drained her cup and headed for the door, throwing a beautiful smile over her shoulder at him. This time four pairs of eyes took the tour around her southern hemisphere.

Brook turned back towards the occupants of the
neighbouring table who were radiating a mixture of resentment and respect. He shrugged his shoulders modestly and pulled his best ‘Yeah-I’m-a-babe-magnet’ face before resuming his breakfast.

The phone rang just after seven-thirty. Brook picked up before the end of the first ring.

‘Terri?’

‘Dad.’

‘Talk to me.’

‘Dad, stop panicking. There’s nothing wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean there’s nothing wrong. I just got worked up about some silly thing, that’s all.’

There was silence as Brook wondered what to say. He wasn’t able to square away his daughter’s reassurances with her barely contained anxiety of the previous day. He decided to gamble.

‘Has Tony been making…sexual advances towards you?’

‘No dad. It’s nothing like that. Everything’s fine.’

Bullseye! She’d failed even the simplest interview technique. From nowhere, beads of cold sweat studded Brook’s brow. His darkest fears were confirmed. His daughter and that…She was only fifteen.
Fifteen.

Nowadays kids were au fait with these…matters, but what Brook had suggested was appalling. A fifteen year old girl–his daughter–sleeping with her stepfather. And yet there was no high-pitched squeal of shock, no incredulity that he could even think such a thing, no startled denial–
‘I can’t believe you said that, dad.’
Nothing.

Brook swallowed hard but no tears came. Instead a volcanic anger bubbled in the pit of his stomach. His baby. And that bastard. He hung up without another word and stared at the wall, unblinking.

Brook rested his elbows on the desk and propped his head in his hands. His eyes were stinging so he closed them and massaged the lids. His head now throbbed and his mouth reeked of stale tobacco and bacon-flavoured sweet martini.

With an effort, which to casual observation would have suggested disability, he hauled himself to his feet and shuffled to the door. He didn’t want to face anyone so he locked his office door, hoping that no-one needed his attention. Fortunately he wasn’t included in station banter and most people left him alone, although Hendrickson had given him a passing sneer as he arrived.

Brook checked his watch. Ten minutes to briefing. He pulled a Greater London Street Atlas from a drawer and turned to the double spread of his old beat to reacquaint himself with it. Fulham, Shepherd’s Bush, Hammersmith and, of course, Harlesden. He stared at Minet Avenue in Harlesden, scene of the first Reaper killings, as though it might offer up new clues. On an impulse he flicked over the page to check how to pick up the A23 to Brighton before closing the tome decisively.

DS Noble, DCs Morton, Cooper, Gadd and Bull, PC Aktar and WPC Jones gazed back at Brook from the sanctuary of their plastic chairs. All tried to remain still but each fidgeted in their turn, aware of their exposure. Usually there’d be a table to cocoon them but Brook had removed it. He’d been to enough briefings to know that such comforts discouraged concentration.

He tore the cellophane from a new pack of cigarettes and lit up, leaning against a desk. Crutch in hand, he was finally able to raise his red-rimmed eyes to the assembled company. He let smoke drift up into his face, hoping to offer his audience an alternative theory for their condition.

Brook usually enjoyed leading briefings but he wasn’t looking forward to this one. At least McMaster hadn’t put in her threatened appearance.

‘Okay,’ he said to the floor before fixing his eye on an indeterminate point behind Noble’s head. ‘Let me give you the watchword for this enquiry: discretion. What happened in Drayfin two nights ago is not a regular occurrence. Not in Derby. Not anywhere. People are going to want to know about it. People, clever people, are going to pressure you, offer you inducements to talk about what we have seen and what we’re doing about it.

‘The Chief wants me to make this clear at the outset. We can’t afford anyone on this enquiry who feels they can’t resist that pressure. And that includes pressure from fellow officers and those close to you. Say now if you feel you’re not up to it. We keep the facts of this case close to our chests otherwise careers are going to be in the balance.

‘The nation’s media will be watching so this case is priority number one and the Chief has given me a free hand to authorise any additions to the team,’ Brook nodded at Jones and Aktar, ‘and we’ll have as many bodies from uniform as we need to do any legwork.’ Brook glanced up but couldn’t detect any offence taken by Aktar or Jones.

‘So to details. There are three corpses in the mortuary–Mr and Mrs Wallis and little Kylie Wallis.’ Brook nodded towards the pictures arranged around the white board behind his head. Aktar and Jones were already mesmerised by them, a reaction Brook recalled from his early years in the Met. ‘Their throats were cut. No forced entry. No apparent motive. Before we go over what we know does anyone have any ideas, thoughts or observations of any kind about the nature of this crime?’

There was a silence that only Noble seemed eager to fill. ‘It’s not random. Our killer has planned this for a long time.’

‘How do we know that?’ asked Brook.

‘Because he telephoned the family the day before, telling them they’d won a competition, a free meal courtesy of Pizza Parlour,’ continued Noble.

‘Okay.’ Brook waited. ‘Why has he gone to all that trouble? Why not just turn up and start slaughtering them?’ He could see that Jones knew the answer but had decided not to play teacher’s pet.

Brook decided to press on. He had better things to do than shepherd these novices through such an intense investigation. A second later, he realised that he hadn’t. ‘Well. This way he can fix the whole family’s location at
a given time. Or so he believes. They’ve won something for nothing. Who can resist collecting their winnings?’ Brook surveyed the outbreak of nodding. ‘And so it begins. John.’

Noble flipped open his notebook. ‘On the morning of the murder, our man, wearing dark glasses and a black baseball cap, hired a white transit from Euro Van in Allenton. He paid cash and gave a false name and had a licence to match. Name of Peter Hera.’

‘Hera?’ said Jones.

‘Yes?’ Brook queried.

‘I don’t know. It seems familiar. Something from Greek mythology.’

‘Hera was a goddess of some kind,’ replied Brook. ‘Married to Zeus, I think.’

‘Maybe this guy thinks he’s a god,’ offered Rob Morton.

‘Could be,’ nodded Brook, trying to sound impressed. Clearly nobody else in the room had ever bothered with crosswords or simple anagrams. He motioned Noble to continue and returned his eyes to the floor as if thinking about the case.

‘The van he hired was the same van seen outside the Wallis house on the night of the murders. It hasn’t been seen since. An alert neighbour, Mrs Patel, remembers seeing the white van outside the house and the fact that the driver delivered several flat boxes. She jotted down what she could see of the number plate, it was dark and foggy, remember.’

‘Why would she do that?’ asked Aktar. ‘I mean, getting a pizza delivered is hardly suspicious, is it? Even in ASBO-land.’ He permitted himself a satisfied smile at this.

Noble knew better and kept a straight face even though DI Brook didn’t appear to be annoyed. In fact, Noble wasn’t even sure he was paying attention. He looked as though his mind was elsewhere. ‘To those law-abiding citizens who live on the Drayfin Estate, everything is a potential crime, particularly at night, Constable. Let’s just be thankful Mrs Patel is nosy enough to jot down a partial. We had enough to trace it to Euro Van. Uniform haven’t yet found where it’s been dumped but it shouldn’t take long. We’ve had Traffic review all the relevant footage and there was no sign of it leaving Derby on any of the major routes. It should still be here. We’ve put out a national alert just in case it slipped out on a minor road. Locally we’re concentrating on bus and rail stations…’

‘Good thinking, John,’ chipped in Brook. ‘I don’t think our killer’s local but he’s not going to risk driving home in the van. Nor is he going to dump it anywhere there’s obvious CCTV, so look further afield.’ Noble nodded and made a note.

‘Do we have a description at all?’ asked DC Bull.

‘Nothing useful,’ Noble continued. ‘He was dressed in black overalls, the baseball cap and glasses hid his face. One thing. The neighbour thinks he was small and slim but it was hard to see and there are few working street lights in the area. Euro Van would seem to confirm the description. So we’re looking at around five-six, five-seven, and 140 pounds. Age unsure, but the guy who hired out the van says not young. At least middle aged. But that’s very roughly. He didn’t take much notice.

‘We know the mileage of the vehicle when it was hired out but until we find the van, we don’t know how far
he’s driven. Nor do we know where he took the van until he was ready to commit the crime. All we know for sure is that at 7.25pm, on the night in question, he drove to the Pizza Parlour on Normanton Lane, being careful to park away from the restaurant, and bought three large pizzas, paying cash. According to the till roll that was at 7.36 exactly…’

‘I know you’ll think this is a daft question, sir,’ ventured Aktar, ‘but why take pizzas to the Wallis house? They seem a bit cumbersome. In fact, why take food at all?’

Brook paused, gathering his thoughts as though he’d been following proceedings. ‘It’s a very good question, Constable. Yes, food’s cumbersome but it has certain advantages. First, because he’s handling food, it allows him to wear disposable gloves without arousing suspicion. I’m certain there’ll be no fingerprints…’ Brook shrugged.

‘I see.’ Aktar nodded mechanically.

‘He also knows that the whole family will eat hot food immediately,’ added Jones. ‘So whatever drug he’s added to the food will be ingested straight away. That’s good for his schedule. If he brought round drinks as a prize, he can’t be certain the whole family will consume at the same time, never mind that it would be easier to see if it’s been tampered with. You’d be suspicious if a Coke bottle had a broken seal.’