The Reaper (20 page)

He examined the shelves trying to affect an absent-minded interest. It seemed to Brook that no book had lain untouched and he sensed that each had been read–nothing was for show. And what a variety: philosophy, religion, psychology, anthropology, astronomy, geography, metaphysics, chemistry, wine, art, music, pathology and even heraldry. All life was here. And death. Death and history. The Third Reich, The Great War, The Birth of Israel, The Spanish Inquisition, The Cultural Revolution, The Great Plague, The Vietnam War and, most intriguing of all, An Encyclopaedia of Torture.

Anyone else might have thought the possession of so many volumes on death ghoulish, but not Brook. The greatest history entailed the greatest sorrow. That’s what made it so fascinating, so involving.

Death was a given, Life a treasure, a bauble to be snatched away, a nourishing oasis but always in the distance, something to struggle for but never reach, a mirage, a chimera, a rotten trick. The legerdemain of God. Now you see it, now you don’t. C’est la vie.

Brook continued to examine without interruption. More books. All neatly clustered into subjects: languages, architecture, medicine–endless books. What impressed Brook the most was that all the books were offering some kind of knowledge. There wasn’t a single piece of fiction in the entire collection.

He glanced over at the desk. A book on Italian opera lay open on the opulent leather. Every object his eye surveyed reeked of money and carefully understated taste.

There was a ledger with a gold fountain pen beside it, beyond that a silver-framed photograph of two children in old-fashioned clothing–two boys who were almost identical. The picture held Brook for a moment. The smiles were there as you might expect, but one of them barely covered the look of anxiety on one young face. There was an atmosphere between the two, a tension visible.

Another picture showed Sorenson arm in arm with a man who was clearly his twin. The two had been snapped in early middle age. They were the same, yet different. Sorenson’s brother seemed more thick set, a little taller perhaps, and most striking, had a confident air about him, which contrasted with the strain in Sorenson’s expression. It was as though he had his brother’s arm up behind his back, and was instructing him to look happy. The black eyes were the same though. Black as tar and equally lifeless.

In the corner stood the stereo, one of the few sops to modernity. A record span round, the stylus suspended above.

‘I enjoyed the Catalani, Professor. A beautiful aria.’ Brook wasn’t sure he should have confessed his knowledge but he felt he was being drawn into a game he could only play once his credentials had been thoroughly checked. He didn’t know how he knew, but this piece of music could be his passport to the next level.

Sorenson turned from the cabinet. His features cracked into a wide smile. This time his eyes took part. ‘Isn’t it?’ He surveyed Brook and nodded with contentment. ‘Unfortunately his only great piece.’

Brook turned to continue his reconnoĩtre of the room as Sorenson removed the seal from a stout green bottle. The wall opposite the bookshelves was dotted with oil
paintings, all old and tastefully framed in wood and gilt. No Fleur de Lis but a hefty quota of portraits and landscapes and what looked like a Van Gogh, though Brook hadn’t seen it before. It was of a table with a half-eaten meal of bread and cheese and a pitcher of wine next to it. He walked over to examine it more closely.

The light was interesting. Half the table was in harsh sunlight with Van Gogh’s characteristic broad strokes, and half was in the shadow thrown by somebody standing nearby, unseen.

‘What do you think?’ whispered Sorenson in Brook’s ear, offering a glass. Brook was startled by his host’s sudden proximity. He certainly had a delicate footfall. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’

‘It is,’ agreed Brook, taking a sip of his drink. He gazed into the heavy tumbler with approval as the harsh, smoky liquid flowed over his tongue. ‘Delicious.’

‘The Van Gogh I mean, Sergeant.’

‘Yes. Very fine. But I haven’t seen the original before.’

A slight pause for effect and then, ‘You have now.’ Sorenson beamed with a hint of poorly concealed glee. Like a schoolboy with a champion conker.

Brook turned to him and smiled back but he was disappointed. It was a stupid lie and had broken the spell that had fallen over him. Nobody could keep a picture worth millions in an unguarded townhouse, particularly as that same house had recently been burgled by an untalented thief like Sammy Elphick.

Brook put down the glass and fumbled for his notebook, keen now to get on with things. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’

‘I probably am,’ said Sorenson, still beaming.

‘Well, sir, you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve recovered the video recorder you reported stolen.’

‘Have you?’ Sorenson’s attempt at surprise was woeful. ‘After all this time.’ The black eyes didn’t waver. They watched Brook, probing his reactions.

The truth slammed Brook in the chest. He had nothing to offer but surprise but managed to conceal it. ‘Yes sir. We were a bit surprised. It’s not usual for thieves to hang onto a top-of-the-range video recorder for several months.’

You took it with you
, thought Brook.
You took it with you to gain entry and left it in Sammy’s flat so we’d find you, so you could gloat. What a piece of work. The poster, Fleur de Lis, was a calling card. Art. The song you just played for me. What are you trying to tell me? What’s the message?

Sorenson grinned back at Brook as if he’d heard his thoughts.

Brook tried to ignore the goading expression and pressed on. ‘Is that the VCR’s serial number you gave the officers who dealt with your case?’ asked Brook, showing Sorenson his notebook.

‘If you say so, Sergeant. I couldn’t be expected to remember that after so many months.’ The black eyes bored into Brook, mocking the puny attempt to wrong foot him. ‘Where on earth did you find it?’

‘In Harlesden, sir, in the flat of a Sammy Elphick, a small time criminal. He’s known to us–burglary, theft, shoplifting. Minor stuff.’

‘Then, I’m very glad you’ve caught up with him. I hope you put him where he can’t do any more mischief.’

‘Someone’s already taken care of that, sir. He was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ Sorenson was trying a bit harder now but the glint in his eyes betrayed the artifice, as did the barely controlled smile. ‘Dear, dear. Still, that’s justice, Sergeant Brook…’

‘Justice?’

‘If you commit a crime you can hardly complain if you become a victim.’

‘Sammy Elphick was a criminal, sir. And a habitual one. He caused a lot of misery, that’s for sure…’

‘There you are then…’

‘But he wasn’t a violent man.’

‘Wasn’t he?’ Sorenson’s features were suddenly severe.

‘Not to our knowledge.’

‘I disagree. Most criminal acts involving a victim perpetrate some kind of violence, Sergeant, if not always physical’.

‘A death sentence still seems excessive.’ Sorenson shrugged but was unable to maintain eye contact. ‘His wife and young son were also killed.’ Brook had dropped the ‘sir’ in an attempt to offend Sorenson’s superiority complex. But if he noticed he didn’t register it. Nor did he register surprise at what should be even more shocking information.

‘Is there anything else?’ asked Sorenson, dispensing with Brook’s title in turn. He seemed tired all of a sudden. The loss of his appreciative audience had perhaps irked him. Brook wondered whether it was a good time to press him, provoke an incriminating error.

But Sorenson’s coldness returned and he insisted that Brook wind up quickly. He wasn’t sulky, as some became when they lost the upper hand, just matter-of-fact, as
though the first round were over and it was time for the players to retire.

Brook handed over the appropriate forms for the reclamation of stolen goods, which were received with barely a glance, and followed Sorenson back down to the front door. There was something which didn’t quite fit, which nagged at Brook, and which he knew he had to dredge up before he left if it were to be of use.

‘Have you a record of the serial number on your television, Professor? Just to be on the safe side. You never know…’

‘A television? I don’t own one, Sergeant,’ he replied with a reproachful sniff, before he realised what he was saying. ‘I’ve got better things to do.’

Brook smiled. ‘Then why would you need a video recorder, sir?’ he asked, with the kind of excessive politeness guaranteed to annoy.

Sorenson grinned but not with embarrassment. Then he nodded at Brook with genuine pleasure. He seemed pleased with Brook’s question, as though it were a valuable reminder not to underestimate his opponent.

After a pause designed to show Brook that he was concocting some flippant but unshakeable lie, he said, ‘It was a gift for a friend.’

Brook raised an eyebrow to question Sorenson’s claim to friendships then decided to leave it. It was a dead end. With a nod, he turned on his heel and left.

Brook woke with a start. His heart was pounding. A nightmare? He’d never had nightmares about The Reaper and that’s what he’d been thinking about when he drifted off. He lay back in bed, gathering himself, breathing deeply.

Had he heard a noise? Strange. He was rarely disturbed by noise. Usually his eyes just opened as though waking gently from a coma.

He roused himself, lifted a grimy curtain and peered into the crisp gloom of the night. Maybe Cat had been ferreting around in Mrs Saunders’ bins.

He licked his lips. The red wine had given him a thirst. He cursed, remembering his young guest. It was his habit to make tea when he first woke but, for obvious reasons, he didn’t want to disturb her. It wouldn’t be healthy to face such repressed yearnings twice in one night.

Recalling the earlier peepshow with a lurch of pain, he groped around on the bedside cabinet and smeared a tissue with spittle, then wiped the dry-tear tackiness from his cheeks.

Brook flicked on his bedside lamp and leant down to
the floor for the two slim files. Work. That was the key. He could rearrange the deckchairs while the ship of his soul sank into the inky depths.

He read the Wallis file again but could find no fresh inspiration so he turned to Annie Sewell. Dr Habib was right. It was a bad business. Annie Sewell had died between 7.30 and 9pm, a few hours before the Wallis family. But the manner of her death diluted any thoughts Brook might have had about The Reaper being involved.

The poor woman had been beaten with a blunt object before being strangled with the flex of her bedside lamp. According to Dr Habib, at least two assailants had been involved because of the way the victim had been held down while the life was being choked out of her.

One odd thing. Traces of cocaine had been found in and around the victim’s nose as well as on a nearby table. Also, her nasal passages were torn and bruised. It seemed her killers had snorted coke in her flat before she died and had forced Annie Sewell to do the same. Apart from this final humiliation, there were no similarities to The Reaper’s style.

But Brook was still troubled. There was something about the timing. He couldn’t rid himself of the thought that had struck him during his conversation with Greatorix, that there could be a connection between Annie Sewell and the Wallis murders. Surely it was too big a coincidence that Greatorix should be called out on another murder on the very same night, leaving Brook free to pick up the case that only he could solve, that only he could recognise as the handiwork of The Reaper.

It seemed too neat, too much of a coincidence. Two
different murders in one night. This was Derby, after all. Not London. Or even Nottingham.

Once again Brook felt the hand of The Reaper guiding him, moving him around the chess board like a pawn, ensuring Brook was on the case–nobody else would do. Somehow he’d engineered the death of this anonymous old woman to clear the way for his old adversary. The Reaper didn’t want an unworthy plodder like Greatorix getting his clumsy mind around his work of art. He wanted a foe that he could respect. He wanted Brook. Brook was the only one capable of getting close, the only one capable of understanding.

Brook smiled. The Reaper had overestimated him. At least that showed a lack of judgement. That was one weakness. Years of wrestling with the facts had got him no nearer. A killer who murders families but takes no pleasure in it. Why? Vigilantes know their victims and are driven by hate. They enjoy the killing at least while they’re doing it. If The Reaper was a God squadder, appalled by the behaviour of petty criminals, why kill the children as well? What were they being ‘SAVED’ from or for? Brook had speculated for years about religious imagery and biblical notions of sin and retribution, but it took him no nearer a solution that fitted the facts. Wendy Jones had got as close as Brook in five minutes. One reason he wanted her on the case.

And other questions still nagged at Brook. Why had The Reaper stopped for so long only to resurface in Derby years later? There was no logic to it. Most serial killers can’t control what drives them. They continue until they’re caught. Subconsciously, many want to be caught
so they can unveil their masterpiece to the world and revel in their newfound status.

But The Reaper was different. He conformed to no profile. He
didn’t
want to be caught, didn’t want recognition. It seemed he wanted only Brook to see what he’d done, to be his audience. He didn’t crave attention, didn’t want the world to worship him as a serial killer
nonpareil.
Such publicity shyness shattered the profiling mould.

Brook returned the folders to the floor and turned off the lamp. He stared into the blackness, unseeing. Charlie Rowlands said Sorenson was dead. Sorenson was The Reaper. The Reaper had killed in Derby. Sorenson couldn’t have been The Reaper. Brook shook his head. He’d been so sure…