The Reaper (15 page)

After a pause, Jones found her voice. ‘Presumably the writing is something religious, about saving souls.’

‘Probably,’ shrugged Brook.

‘Then why write it on Baby Bianca despite not sending her soul off with the others?’

‘Good question…’ conceded Brook.

‘And why not cut it onto Mum and Dad? Presumably if he’s a religious nutter, he’s saved their souls as well,’ she added.

Brook shook his head. ‘I don’t know–pressure of time, perhaps.’ He was becoming fatigued with his team’s attempts to comprehend things he’d been grappling with for years.

Brook glanced as inconspicuously as he could at Wendy Jones and made his mind up. All that remained was to deflect Noble’s ego from the insult he was about to inflict.

‘No doubt you’re all aware from the press conference that there are some similarities in this case with a murder I investigated in London…’

‘You mean The Reaper killings,’ nodded Rob Morton.

‘I do. It was a long time ago and it’s a bit of a long shot but it needs to be checked out. I want to speak to Forensics before I go but then I want to know I can leave
somebody of your calibre in charge, John. You’ve got the best CID team in the Midlands to back you up,’ beamed Brook at the assembled DCs who glowed with all the modesty they could muster. ‘And Aktar can assist.’ Brook felt Wendy Jones’s subtle change of expression. Was this a further snub?

‘We won’t let you down, sir,’ replied Noble. Brook was pleased with his ability to manipulate, but irked at Noble’s gullibility.

‘Good. Liaise with the Chief, but this is what I want. Keep going house to house. Talk to the neighbours again. I want to know when exactly our killer returned and, if possible, when Jason got back to the house.’

‘Right.’

‘Speak to Mr Singh again and get a more detailed statement about the half hour before he discovered the bodies. We want precise times about when the music was turned on and off. It may be that the volume was up high the whole time and Jason didn’t hear it because the music was at a quiet section. Mahler blows hot and cold doesn’t he, Constable?’

‘He does. Sir,’ replied Jones, not looking up.

‘Get on to the media. I want to know how far Jason’s infamy was scattered. Which papers was it in? Did it get onto local or national telly?’ Brook continued to reel off tasks so Noble wouldn’t have time to think about his demotion. He jotted them down furiously.

‘Check the hotels and B & Bs. I want to know of any men alone who checked out of their rooms on the morning of the murder or the day after. Names and addresses, reasons for visit, all that stuff. Cross reference
with the height and weight of our description. And start checking people out as soon as you get names. Keep it to hotels within five miles of Derby to start with. I want a list on my desk when I get back.’

‘What about cabs, sir?’ suggested Noble, picking up the mood. ‘He may have done a recce of the killing ground. We could check any fares to and from Drayfin a couple of days beforehand.’

‘Great idea,’ purred Brook. ‘And find that van. It’s unlikely but he may have been careless and left us something. When you do find it, go house to house around it. I want to know where he went from there. Did he have another car waiting? Did he call a cab? Did he walk? He might not be in disguise at that point so any sightings will be more significant. Check all parking tickets issued up to two days before the murder in case he had another car and got sloppy. Get as many bodies as you need to help. But mum’s the word remember. The Chief wants this watertight. The media already know more than they’re supposed to.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ll get back to Jason in due course. There’s more to come from him but for now we’ll let him sweat. Where’s the aunt’s house?’

Noble flipped to the back of his notebook. ‘Mrs Harrison. 41 Station Road, Borrowash. The baby’s going there too.’

‘Good. It goes without saying I want the house watched round the clock for the time being. Set it up, John. That teacher Jason assaulted, Constable?’ Jones looked up.

‘Mrs Ottoman?’

‘I assume she has a husband.

‘Yes.’ She seemed wary.

‘I think it might be worth us paying them a visit, John.’ There was a pause as Brook gathered his breath.

‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ Jones enquired with a note of excessive deference. She was very ready to take offence, which made his reply all the more startling.

‘You?’ Brook was halted for a moment, trying to find the right approach, before deciding there wasn’t one. ‘You’re coming to London with me.’ Brook tried not to assess her reaction too closely and was impressed with her poise. She was smart. Her intelligence could be very useful on this trip. At least that’s what he told himself.

Brook pushed the handle of his cup around the saucer and stared into the dregs like a gypsy who’s forgotten how to read the leaves. There was so much to organise and delegate to his team, so much to consider from his past as well as the present, so much to try not to think about concerning his daughter. But none of that was bothering him at this moment.

Brook was thinking about Wendy Jones. Was he doing the right thing, taking her with him to London? She had made a good impression in the briefing. She was sharp and intuitive and wouldn’t be out of place in CID. Taking her with him could be justified. But that’s what was gnawing at him. His instincts were generally spot-on when it came to police work but disastrous when it came to personal relations. Which category applied here?

She’d certainly seemed pleased, if taken aback, when he’d pulled her to one side after the briefing. Her surprise appeared professional, that he should take her on such an important assignment. He knew she was ambitious and the glint in her eye showed she saw a big opportunity looming. For the moment she seemed to have
forgotten their night of passion. That would be temporary though. Things could still be awkward.

He glanced at his watch then around the station canteen trying not to catch eyes. It was filling fast with packs of rowdy males, ribbing each other, eager for their something and chips–salad was for girls. Then a quieter group would latch onto the queue and Brook knew it would always contain a female officer. He sat at his usual seat at a corner table, facing the wall. He could only see the back of the lunch queue but it was enough–not for him the gunfighter’s seat, facing the room, scanning for potential opponents. He had no interest in his colleagues, or they in him, required no knowledge of who was in the room or who was coming in. Even Noble had been given special dispensation by Brook. ‘I know you’ve got your reputation to think of, John,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll expect you to nod politely, but you don’t have to sit next to me. You see enough of me as it is.’

But today would be different. Today, as people drifted in, Brook felt the urge to change seats to monitor conversations that normally would have passed him by but now pierced him.

There it was again. Things were being said, things about him. What things? He wished he’d taken the wall seat but now he was stuck, too self-conscious to move. All he could do was listen, aware that for once the invisibility he nurtured so keenly was gone.

People resented Brook. He didn’t mind. The less people liked him the less attention they paid him. He liked his life better that way. But today was different.

Today he could hear ‘nudge nudges’ and ‘wink winks’ being launched in his direction.

He listened to a familiar source: Hendrickson. What was he saying? He hoped he was still crowing over Brook’s climb-down the other night but feared there was a new focus for his comic gifts. Wendy.

Brook pricked his ears but couldn’t catch the drift. Perhaps they were signalling, pulling faces at him, pointing. He had almost dredged up the courage to change seats and face his tormentors when his fears were confirmed.

An upsurge of coughs and giggles and muted whistles began and he turned briefly to see Jones enter the canteen. They knew already. His impending trip to London had spread around the station and details of his fling with her the year before were now being resurrected for recent arrivals.

Brook pushed his cup away and began to rise but before he could lock his knees, DI Greatorix was at his table, tray of pie, chips and beans in hand. ‘Hello Damen. You look a bit rough round the edges.’

‘Do I?’ Brook retorted without surprise.

‘But then you often do,’ Greatorix beamed back. Brook looked back without expression. His fellow Inspector was such a sartorial disaster area that Brook accepted such admonition in the interests of balance. ‘Got a minute?’

Brook wanted to leave but didn’t know how to put Greatorix off. He hesitated then sat down again, at least grateful that he wouldn’t have to listen to any more banter.

‘Chip?’ Greatorix nodded at his plate and folded a laden forkful into his mouth.

‘No thanks. Make it quick, Bob. I’m due at Forensics.’ Greatorix smiled as best he could, indicating his inability to respond through his food. Brook waited and watched.

Greatorix was about ten years older than Brook. And about eighty pounds heavier. He had a sagging face–misshapen by heavy jowls–which was constantly covered by a film of sweat, visible even through his thinning head of slicked back hair. He was a healthy–or should that be unhealthy?–perspirer and his clothes always appeared to be in a state of accelerated condensation.

It didn’t help that he overdressed his ample frame to a ludicrous degree, the main culprit being the thick worsted overcoat, which he never removed, even in summer. His stained nylon shirt, which still had another couple of weeks to run, clung to a warm undergarment and, when the weather got really cold, below 20 degrees centigrade for instance, he had a tatty grey cardigan with overworked wooden buttons, which he wore to keep himself moist.

‘I was wondering if you’d like to swap cases. By rights the Wallis murders should have been mine, you know.’ Greatorix looked gravely at him before cracking into a baked bean smile. ‘Not a chance, eh? You wouldn’t want to plough through my boring old croaker. Poor old dear’–pause for another mouthful, two mouthfuls by Brook’s standards–‘but I was thinking you might need some help.’

‘Oh? Have you closed yours then?’

‘No. But it shouldn’t take long, if it
can
be closed. Burglary gone wrong. We haven’t got a lot to go on,’ he
shrugged. ‘No, it’s just…you seem a bit short of experience in your team. Apart from you obviously.’

‘That’s the way the Chief wants it.’ Brook could smell something, something that surprised him though he knew it shouldn’t; jealousy. Brook had drawn the glamour case, the one with all the exposure. Greatorix was left with the dud, a no-hope case of murder, an old biddy killed during a robbery–a common crime, of little intelligence and little interest to anybody. Nobody cared about Annie Sewell, least of all Detective Inspector Robert Greatorix.

Brook smiled suddenly. He could see the joke. The Wallis case was the last thing he wanted, the last case he would have chosen. He didn’t want to rake over his past or work under the glare of public interest. Unlike Greatorix, Brook didn’t see an opportunity for advancement, more a trapdoor to disaster.

But it was too late for regrets, too late to worry about jeopardising his rehabilitation. He was stuck with the Wallis case and now he couldn’t let go. Not because he wanted it but because he was the only one who could crack it. He’d cracked it before, after all. He was destined to catch this killer, he knew that. And Fate had intervened to confirm it, sending Greatorix on a routine burglary gone sour, leaving the way clear for Brook to fulfil his date with destiny. A disturbing thought which had been kicking around in his subconscious mind for a while chose that moment to surface but he was unable to attend to it.

‘Listen, Damen. There’s been some muttering about the way
she’s
handling things.’

‘There’s always muttering,
Bob.’

Greatorix held up a placatory hand, flicking chips onto the floor. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Inspector. I just want to help. I could be very useful. I’ve got contacts.’

‘That’s the point–the Chief doesn’t want the wrong people being contacted, getting their snouts into the trough and spreading alarm.’

Greatorix stopped cutting and chewing. Brook had found his target. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Brook smiled and clambered to his feet. ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Bob. You tell me what Brian Burton wants from you and I’ll put in a word with McMaster.’ Brook walked away.

Greatorix glared at his back. ‘You’re a real prick, you know that, Brook?’ he spluttered towards the retreating figure. Brook turned.

‘Of course I know.’

‘You’ll never have any friends in this nick, you fucking toffee-nosed know-it-all. I was nabbing villains when you were still working out how to undo bras.’ Greatorix was standing now, shouting, almost apoplectic in his sudden rush of anger, but Brook had already gone. The canteen was hushed, waiting for Greatorix to come to his senses. Other people’s problems were meat and drink to the social whirl of station life and nobody wanted to miss a thing.

After a few seconds, Greatorix flicked a glance round the room and sat down to contemplate the rest of his meal. When it was clear there would be no more gossip fodder, a likely lad at the front of the queue bawled out, ‘Encore!’ to gales of laughter and derisive hoots.

Greatorix, who had a penchant for
le bon mot
, became even hotter under the collar and eyeballed the heckler. ‘And you can fuck off, you big-nosed fucker!’ he spat through a shower of greasy sputum to the accompaniment of even more hooting and the clutching of invisible handbags
.

It had started to rain by the time Brook and Noble arrived at the mortuary. They hurried inside and walked the short distance to Pathology.

A short man with a chubby, cheerful countenance and round pebble glasses hailed them. Although nearly sixty, Dr Habib’s hair was still brown and his eyes soft and without wrinkles.