The Reaper (3 page)

He looked briefly at the answer machine. For once it was flashing so he played the message. It was from Terri, his daughter, wishing ‘a happy birthday for tomorrow to my number one dad’, her nickname for him since acquiring a second father. She’d moved with her mother and ‘number two dad’ to Brighton after the divorce. Brook didn’t wipe the brief message but left the machine flashing to remind him to ring her.

It didn’t sit well with Brook that a father should need a reminder to talk to an only daughter and his unexpected good mood soured as a result. He looked at his watch. It
was
his birthday. He could see the
single envelope on the mat by the front door. He left it there.

After picking at his curry and downing a celebratory glass of milk, he showered and went to bed. He remembered to leave a little food by the flap, in case Cat tired of its nocturnal foraging, and lay down to read in his box-sized bedroom, head grazing one wall, feet flat against the other for the warmth from the radiator on the other side.

For a change, sleep came quickly, though it rarely lasted beyond an hour. And too often it would be an hour of visions exploding across his brain. Some he could recognise, some he couldn’t. Then sometimes, on a case, he would see something–a face, a crime scene, a piece of evidence–and recall an echo of it in a dream he’d already had. It bothered Brook at first until he’d been able to write it off to the Job. The things he’d seen were enough to fever any brow.

Tonight even the concession of one fitful hour was withdrawn and he woke to the noise of the phone a few moments later. It was DS John Noble.

‘Sir, you’re awake.’

A sigh was Brook’s only answer. ‘What’s up, John?’

‘Murder, sir. A bad one.’

‘Bad as in poorly executed or bad as in not nice?’

‘The latter I think,’
replied Noble, making a conscious effort to impress with his vocabulary. Eighteen months hanging on to DI Brook’s coat tails had taught Noble three things. ‘Avoid swearing, John, in my presence at least. Try to speak proper English, if you know any. And most important, don’t ever call me guv.’

‘DI Greatorix should be dealing but he’s already on a call.’

‘So he is. Where are you?’

‘ASBO-land.’

Brook let out a heavy sigh of frustration. ‘John, if you’re on the Drayfin, just say so.’

‘I’m on the Drayfin Estate.’

‘What’s the address?’ Brook jotted it down. At this time of night it wouldn’t take him long to get to the rundown housing estate on the south side of the city, built in the sixties when Britain’s city planners had decided that people were keen to live cheek by jowl in identical, low-cost boxes. It was little surprise to Brook that residents in such areas attracted more than their fair share of Anti-Social Behaviour Orders. ‘I’ll be ten minutes.’

Fifteen minutes later the noise from Brook’s Sprite ensured that those houses on the Drayfin Estate still in darkness were fully alerted to the commotion in their midst, and soon switches were being flicked and curtains twitched.

If he spent much more time driving around in the middle of the night, the National Grid would be inviting him to the staff parties. The idea brought a brief smile to Brook’s lips. A pity he couldn’t introduce such levity into his dealings with others, he thought.

Brook was mulling over the comedic potential of his future transactions with Sergeant Hendrickson when, without warning, he jumped onto the brakes. The car shuddered to an unconvincing halt. Seconds later a black and white cat hurtled across the path of the Sprite and skittered away into the mist, a pink tail hanging from its mouth.

Brook exhaled heavily and, fully awake now, pulled
over to the huddle outside Number 233–a small red brick semi-detached–as an ambulance was pulling away. He killed the engine, aware of looks and smiles exchanged between the knot of uniformed constables attempting to keep warm on the verge outside the house.

He wondered if the earlier incident with Hendrickson had been thrown into the mix for general sport. Such disputes spread like wildfire amongst the smaller, close knit stations and D Division was no exception.

A young man stepped from the throng. Detective Sergeant Noble was a good looking, fit twenty-seven year old who took a keen interest in his own advancement. Apart from a regulation-stretching blond mop, parted in the middle, he was smartly presented, even at this late hour. The contrast with his own hurriedly assembled and shapeless clothing wasn’t lost on Brook.

‘Evening, John–or rather morning.’ Noble nodded but Brook could tell he wasn’t his usual ebullient self because he fidgeted with his latex gloves, not meeting Brook’s eye. ‘Have you puked, John?’ he enquired with a hint of mockery.

‘No sir.’ A pause. ‘Not yet.’

‘Who was that in the ambulance?’

‘PC Aktar, sir. He was first on the scene. He fainted.’

‘Causing great hilarity amongst his colleagues no doubt.’ Despite himself Brook took a little comfort from this alternative explanation for the smirks that had greeted his arrival. ‘Is it that bad, John?’

‘Not so much to look at. I’ve seen worse. It’s just…’ he tailed off and looked at the floor.

‘Is the PS in there?’ asked Brook.

‘The surgeon’s been delayed.’

Brook raised an eyebrow then nodded. ‘Right, the other murder. And SOCO?’

‘Same.’

‘A fresh crime scene. Talk me through it.’

‘The family’s name is Wallis.’

Brook narrowed his eyes in recognition. ‘Bobby Wallis. Yes. Petty theft and an ABH. General scourge if memory serves. Which one is it?’

‘Well.’ Noble looked round as though he were afraid of making a fool of himself before turning back to Brook. ‘There are four bodies.’

‘Four?’ Brook fixed his DS with a stare. A long-buried echo sounded in the vaults of his heart, quickening its beat. He ignored Noble’s faint nod and ran his bottom lip underneath his upper teeth, a gesture of calculation that he hoped would mask his unease. ‘Go on.’

‘Bobby Wallis, his wife we’re assuming, plus his daughter–Kylie–and a baby. One survivor. The son. Jason Wallis. He was out cold and a strong smell of booze on him. Could be drugs as well. He’s gone off to hospital.’ Brook turned to Noble with his eyebrow cocked. ‘He’s under guard,’ answered Noble. ‘But there are no obvious bloodstains on his hands or clothes. And if he was in there…’ Noble looked away.

Brook nodded then looked around as though a cigarette vendor might recognise his need and come forward with a pack. It seemed he was about to make one of those periodic visits to hell that he’d moved to Derby to escape. Months of stultifying boredom, interspersed
with sporadic journeys through the entrails of the human condition, Brook a mute witness to the black hole of depravity and despair that sucked all virtuous emotion from him. Black. The colour of man’s heart. The colour invisible in the night. The colour of old blood.

‘Witnesses?’

‘A neighbour across the street, Mrs Patel, says she saw a white van make a delivery. Around 8.15. There are pizza boxes from Pizza Parlour inside so it looks legit. She remembered a partial plate. I’ve put it out on the wire. No hits yet.’

‘Score one for the busybodies. Are you checking with Pizza Parlour?’

‘They’re closed but we’re running it down. Do you think it’s important?’

‘Yes. The van’s wrong. In my experience most pizza deliveries are done on a moped. If Pizza Parlour did have a van, they’d have their livery all over it.’

‘So why would our nosy neighbour not see that if she can remember a partial?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’ve been onto Traffic to be on the lookout on all the major roads.’

‘Good. Give it to the motorway boys as well though he may be long gone. And tell them we’ll need to look at all the CCTV for our time slot.’

Brook waited while Noble got on the radio to Dispatch, all the while scanning the uniformed officers for the chance to bum a cigarette. But no-one would light up until the senior officer had disappeared into the house.

Noble rejoined Brook. ‘Well, let’s take a peek, John.’ And with that Brook attached his mental blinkers and concentrated fully on Noble’s brisk summary as they walked towards the front door.

‘The next door neighbour found them, sir. A Mr Singh. He came round at about half past twelve to complain about noise–loud music–the front door was ajar so he walked into the front room and there they all were. Apart from the son–Jason–who was flat out in the kitchen.’

‘How were they killed?’

‘Throats cut, and, well, you can see for yourself. You won’t believe it.’ Noble’s recollection began to gnaw at his composure. His features adopted the pained squint of a man holding on to himself, so useful at funerals.

Brook stopped and almost to himself echoed his DS. ‘Throats cut.’ Then with a turn of the head he roused himself to keep step with Noble. ‘I’ll believe anything where people are concerned, John.’

‘The weird thing is the victims were just sat there, facing the telly, like they were watching
Big Brother’

‘Big
…?’

Noble looked at Brook with a momentary puzzled expression then looked away, realising his mistake.
‘Big Brother.
It’s a TV programme, sir. Very popular, with ordinary people, I understand.’

Brook caught the undertone of Noble’s gibe with a flush of pleasure. He was learning a healthy disrespect for superiors. It would make him a better copper. ‘Please don’t explain the tastes of the nation to me,
John, I’m tired. Sitting around the TV like a normal family, you say.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Since when has it been normal for a family to sit down together–as a family. Not since the golden age of Ovaltine and Dick Barton.’

‘Dick Barton?’

‘The radio. Or the wireless, to be strictly accurate.’

Noble nodded. ‘You mean kids have a TV in their own room…’

‘Or their own music or computer. The point being, never fail to question what initially hits you as normal. Families rarely socialise as a unit these days.’ A sliver of personal grief deformed Brook’s features for a second and was gone.

‘So having the family in one place is part of the MO. The killer’s staged it.’

‘It’s possible.’

‘Well that would rule out Jason as the perp.’ Noble was conscious of his gaffe before he’d finished the word and prepared himself for Brook’s disapproval.

Instead Brook smiled thinly and looked him briefly in the eye. ‘Perp? Have you got indigestion, John?’

Noble smiled back.

They stopped at the Wallis front door. It was open. Noble handed Brook a pair of latex gloves which he pulled on.

‘Was the front door forced?’

‘No obvious sign of it.’

‘How many have tramped through already?’

‘Besides myself, PC Aktar and the neighbour, Mr Singh.
Also the ambulance crew had to stretcher Jason out from the kitchen.’

‘What about Aktar? Where was he?’

‘He fainted out here.’

‘Did he? That’s interesting.’

‘Delayed shock maybe.’

Brook nodded. ‘Maybe.’ Avoiding the handle, Brook pushed the front door back with a latex finger. There was another door on the right off the hallway with red smears on the handle. The door was open just a crack and Brook noticed Noble make a conscious effort to suppress a shudder at the thought of what lay beyond. Ahead, in full view, lay the brightly lit kitchen, door wide open. The sink was visible, as was the lid of a cardboard pizza box lying open on the drainer.

‘How many have been in the living room?’ asked Brook, fleetingly aware of his unintended joke.

‘Mr Singh went in and found them. Aktar had to go in to check for signs of life. He went in the kitchen to check on Jason too. I only looked in at the door. I didn’t want to disturb anything.’

‘I don’t think we can compromise the hall any more than it is but watch out for any obvious bloody footprints, John. Step right up against the wall.’ With that Brook picked his way past the murder room, towards the kitchen, Noble following in his superior’s footsteps.

Once in the bright stark room, Brook knelt down to examine the linoleum. ‘What do you think that is?’ he said, indicating a small knot of dark red matter on the floor.

Noble felt his gorge rising. He managed to wrench out
a, ‘Dunno,’ keeping his eyes averted from the offending unction.

Brook removed a pencil from his coat and prodded the floor then raised the red tip of the pencil to his nose. He sniffed, suppressing a smile, aware of the discomfort of his audience. This must be how the boy who ate earwigs at Brook’s primary school had felt. He stood and turned to look at the open pizza box on the drainer. Two closed boxes were neatly stacked under the top one.

‘Tomato sauce. From this pizza. Pizza Parlour’s Quattro Stagioni–Four Seasons to you and me,’ he added with a smile. ‘And very good they are too.’

‘You know your takeaways,’ said Noble.

‘I went to university, John. That’s how I was able to read it off the box. Note two pieces missing. One cut from the ham and mushroom segment, the other torn from the pepperami. Jason Wallis was found unconscious here, this is where he fell, but the rest of the family are in the living er…lounge?’

‘Right.’

‘Good. Remind me. Is PC Aktar heavy?’

Noble was taken aback but had become accustomed to not reacting to Brook’s odd questions.

‘Fairly heavy, yes.’

‘Right.’ Brook’s expression took on a faraway look. There was silence as both men realised they’d used up all their distractions. Suddenly, with a full swallow of air for Dutch courage, Brook sought the eye of his DS and nodded towards the living-room door. ‘Am I right in thinking the killer’s left us a message in there, John?’

Noble’s lips parted in surprise. ‘How did you…?’

As Noble’s voice began to falter, Brook, alive to his discomfort, tapped into one of his meagre seams of humanity–the mother lode had been exhausted long ago–and he threw Noble a straw to clutch.

‘I’d like a peek at the scene before SOCO start bagging and tagging. You’ve already seen it, John, so wait outside for the surgeon. I don’t want anybody else in the house until SOCO have done their stuff. No-one else comes through that front door.’ He paused before adding, ‘Okay?’ The two men, normally cloaked in layer upon layer of emotional cladding, looked at one another as men rarely do. Noble’s instinct was to turn away and adjust his protective layers but something made his eyes linger, the need to communicate his gratitude.