The Reaper (30 page)

‘No need to be. It’s just, twice in one day. It’s not like you. I mean…they say…’ Jones blushed.

Brook raised an amused eyebrow as he called a waiter over. ‘Really? And what do they say exactly?’

‘That you’re always punctual,’ she replied softly, looking at the ground.

‘Anything else?’

Jones paused, then looked up and smiled back. She stared at an invisible list on the palm of her hand. ‘Rich, arrogant, clever, obsessive, no sense of humour, likes old sports cars, difficult to get along with.’

Brook threw back his head and guffawed. ‘No sense of humour? I resent that.’

She laughed and her face brightened. It was a heartening sight. Brook was reminded of their night together, recalled having never seen anyone giggle as much as her. Though he’d assumed that was Breezer-induced.

Jones continued her own reassessment. She’d been misled. He’s just different to other people, she thought.
Nothing wrong with that. And the things he’d told her, the things he’d seen. It would make anyone difficult to get along with. It wasn’t surprising he carried the scars. In fact, he should have been more damaged. She felt a brief twinge of desire. He was lost and maybe she was the one to find him.

‘So you are rich,’ she accused.

Brook’s grin faded to a smile as though he was ashamed. ‘It depends how you define rich.’

‘Why don’t you define it for me? Harry Hendrickson reckons over a million.’

‘Does he? Well, he’s way out. If you really want to know, I sold my flat in Fulham when I got divorced. It made £180,000 profit, all of which I gave to Amy and Terri. Last year I sold the house in Battersea for a profit of nearly £800,000, would you believe?’

‘Which you gave to your wife and daughter.’

‘No. She’s remarried so we split it. Okay?’

‘And you’re paying for the hotel yourself.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Just to take another look at this Sorenson’s house?’

‘Right.’ She didn’t seem convinced. ‘Atmosphere, Wendy. It was important to get back the old feeling. No matter how painful. I hope I didn’t embarrass you earlier?’

‘No. I understand how you must have felt. This Sorenson sounded very charismatic and you were young.’

‘I felt better telling you.’

There was a lull as both drank their coffee but the awkwardness had gone.

‘So what now?’

‘Now? It’s too late to see Charlie Rowlands. We’re going to check in with my old station, put out a few feelers and then I’m going to buy you a fantastic dinner.’

‘Sounds good. But as you’re down to your last four hundred grand, do you mind if we go Dutch?’

Brook sat naked on the edge of the bed and pummelled his wet hair as he talked into the phone. DS Ross, a wide boy from Hammersmith nick, was on the other end.

‘That’s right,’ said Brook. ‘Married to Stefan Sorenson. He was bludgeoned to death in his home in Kensington ’89. Right. How are you spelling that? S-O-N-J-A Sorenson. Got it. Belle Vue Park Retreat. What is that? Interesting. Four years? Sounds like a sick woman. Yeah. Thanks a lot. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s nothing but you’ll be the first to know if I turn up a connection.’ An impatient pause. ‘I know I’m out of my jurisdiction,’ said Brook. ‘That’s why you’ll hear the moment I find anything. You’ll have to take that up with my Chief Super. Yeah. Yeah. Thanks again.’

Brook slammed down the receiver. ‘Moron.’ He’d forgotten the contempt the Met had for ‘Hillbillies,’ one of the many insults they hurled at coppers stationed outside the M25.

Still he had his information. Mrs Sonja Sorenson had spent four years in a ‘retreat’. From 1988 to 1992. Retreat–a sugar-coated name for a mental institution, according to Ross, though attendance was voluntary, not to mention expensive.

Her mental problems pre-dated both her husband’s murder and her brother-in-law’s subsequent atrocities.
Natural then that after Stefan Sorenson’s murder, responsibility for his children would devolve to Victor.

And perhaps it was feasible that she knew nothing about Victor’s activities. But four years was a long time. Perhaps she knew what Victor had done. Maybe her husband’s murder, and her brother-in-law’s obsessive search for his killer, and his brutal revenge on Sammy Elphick and family, had prolonged her illness.

But that still didn’t explain why such a young mother, with two very young children should check into a glorified mental hospital the year before her husband’s death.

Brook knew he should have delved deeper into Stefan’s murder at the time, but he’d been so preoccupied with the Harlesden killings, and so thrilled to uncover a motive for them, that he hadn’t felt the need to be exhaustive. Perhaps he’d been right. Perhaps there was nothing in it.

But now he had a bigger problem. He had a dinner date with Wendy Jones and he wasn’t sure what to wear.

Wendy Jones chewed her final mouthful of baklava with her eyes closed. She swallowed, with an extravagant moan of pleasure, and resisted the temptation to lick the film of honey from her spoon. Instead she sat back, contented, and opened her eyes. Brook watched her, his chin resting on his knuckles, a half-smile playing around his lips. It was good to watch people, young people, enjoying life, satisfying their appetites with no thought other than self-gratification.

First Vicky, now Wendy.

The memory of his desperate night with Vicky, brought home to Brook the possibility of carnal pleasures.

‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Jones.

Brook filled her glass with wine. ‘Thinking how nice it is to see you eat.’

‘Don’t. I’m supposed to be watching my weight.’

‘What for?’

‘I’m getting…stocky.’

Brook took the opportunity to inspect her. It was less embarrassing than showing her he could rely on his memory. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Wendy.’

‘Don’t be too sure. I need more exercise.’ When she realised the implications of what she’d said, she flushed. Brook pretended not to notice. He ordered two large cognacs and the conversation dried.

Finally Jones broke the silence. ‘Sir?’

‘Please call me Damen.’

‘It wouldn’t feel right…’

‘Just for tonight.’ Again she went red so Brook followed up hastily. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Wendy?’

‘I prefer it.’

‘There you are then. What were you going to say?’

‘I was wondering how strong a connection there is in London with the Wallis killings.’

‘Only the MO.’

‘Then why are we here for three nights? There must be more valuable leads to follow in Derby.’

Brook shrugged. She was probing in that clear-thinking way she had. She was right. Unless they unearthed a concrete link soon, they might as well go back tomorrow. He wondered whether to mention Brighton but decided against it.

Two large cognacs arrived. Brook drained his glass
and called for the bill. Jones went for her purse but Brook insisted on paying.

‘One thing puzzles me. It’s a bit personal…’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Well. If you’re so well off…’

Brook opened his mouth to raise an objection.

‘…relatively speaking,’ she added. Brook smiled his agreement. ‘Then…I don’t know how to put this.’

‘Just say it.’

Finally she found the words. ‘Why don’t you live properly?’

Brook stared at her, wondering if she was serious, then realised it was a good question, with no easy response. In the end he could dredge up only one answer.

‘I don’t know how.’

Brook slept as well as he had in years that night–his mind clear and clean. No guilt. No pain. It was the best therapy having someone to speak to, someone he could trust, someone he knew now he could spend time with.

When he slept that night his dreams didn’t drift into visions of feeding rats, or porcelain corpses, but to Wendy and his longing for her. Hope invaded him. He’d seen his desire reciprocated and it had taken an effort of supreme will to decline the offer of a night-cap. Such an effort that Wendy could see his refusal was not another snub but the gesture of a man thinking of her sensibilities, in case the morning awakened forgotten embarrassment.

Brook woke refreshed, infused with a rare energy. He jumped out of bed to busy himself. He wanted to be at Charlie’s house before noon. The sure way to get sense from him before the booze took hold.

After making tea and knocking gently on Wendy’s door, he packed with the efficiency of the single man and went down to stow his bag in the car.

Two hours later, Brook and Jones swung into the drive of a medium-sized detached house in the leafy suburb of Caterham.

There was no immediate answer to Brook’s pounding on the door and just when Brook had begun to think his old boss had gone out, the door opened.

‘Brooky! How the bloody hell are you?’ growled a voice laden with tar. There was also the tell tale aroma of mints. Charlie Rowlands stepped into the pale light and grasped Brook by the hand.

He felt the warmth of the greeting with a lump in his throat, swiftly gulped away. Brook was unused to the affection of a friend. ‘Not too bad,’ he replied after a second’s thought. He never mouthed platitudes when asked even that simple question. ‘You?’

‘Couldn’t be better.’ Rowlands grinned at Brook. It was an obvious lie. His old boss had shrunk in the years since he’d known him. He had once seemed so tall, dominating the space in a room. To the young DCs of Hammersmith he was an intimidating figure–authority as well as physical presence. It was a potent brew. Charlie Rowlands had been a God.

But now he was diminished. Once he’d looked down into Brook’s eyes. Now they were level. His back was no longer straight as a ramrod but curved and compressed. He’d lost weight as well as the last of his hair, and he was painfully thin. His face was bright and robust, however, as the faces of drunks often are. The red tinge around the high cheekbones and nose mimicked a rosy sheen of health.

But the eyes had it, as always. That look of sunken
pain, which repelled slumber, the look Brook had seen staring back from the shaving mirror many times.

Rowlands continued to smile unsure how to continue. He snaked a glance at Jones.

‘This is WPC Wendy Jones, sir.’

‘I can see she’s a W, Brooky I’ve still got some of me marbles. How are you, Wendy?’

Jones stepped forward to shake his outstretched hand, blushing with pleasure at a remark she might have admonished from a junior rank. ‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘Please. I’ve been retired a long time, luv. Call me Charlie. Got that, Brooky?’

‘Yes guv.’

Rowlands began to cough. His breath came in rasping bursts now and he held up his hand in apology.

‘Where are my manners? Come in out of the cold.’

‘That’d be a first,’ smiled Brook.

Rowlands laughed without getting the joke and led them into a bright, modern kitchen.

‘Still with the smart remarks, eh, Brooky. And it’s Charlie, remember.’

‘Right.’ Brook had only been to the house twice before–once for dinner, with Amy, to celebrate Charlie’s daughter Elizabeth’s eighteenth birthday. Then again a year later, alone, to put his boss to bed after her funeral had driven him to the brink.

That was a night not to be repeated. The two of them sat up together the whole night, Brook waiting for his boss to pass out into the safety of coma, Rowlands waiting for Brook’s vigilance to wane so he could destroy himself.

That night they drank and sobbed and drank and
howled and drank and sometimes even laughed, before drinking some more. It was the laughter that signalled ultimate surrender, the laughter that kept the world at arm’s length–for a short time.

Near dawn, Brook, way over his limit, had passed out on the sofa, his arm clamped round his quietly shaking host. When he woke, his first blurred vision was the sight of his boss, his friend, sitting at the dinner table, drink in hand, staring saucer-eyed at Elizabeth’s doomed smile in the picture frame. His old Webley service revolver lay on the table but there were no bullets for it. By default, Charlie Rowlands had chosen life.

And now, perhaps, Charlie hadn’t lied.
‘Couldn’t be better
’ was the truth because now he was nearer death. Nearer his Elizabeth.

It was the first time Brook had been back since that terrible night and as he glanced through the house, he realised he hadn’t expected the place to be in such good order. He’d assumed it would be more of a time capsule. Everything the same since Mrs Rowlands had given up on Charlie and left him to it. The pictures of Elizabeth still took pride of place but the parts of the house he knew were different. The kitchen was new and expensive. The lounge had also had a makeover. It was sparsely but tastefully furnished with none of the clutter wives felt obliged to scatter everywhere–objects accrued that told not of a life lived but an ambition to be someone else, someone better.

No flying ducks, barometers, carriage clocks. Give Charlie credit. Not everyone stopped trying. Not everyone gave up on creature comforts once their spirit was extinguished.

‘Breakfast anyone?’ asked Rowlands, plonking down two mugs of steaming hot tea.

‘Yes please, Charlie, if it’s no trouble. We didn’t have a chance first thing.’ Jones sounded a little tentative and searched out Brook’s face for signs of disapproval. Charlie turned to him.

‘I could eat,’ nodded Brook.

‘But only because it keeps the body going, eh, Brooky? Nothing changes.’

‘Some things do,’ replied Brook, rolling his eyes around the decor.

‘This? Yeah.’ Charlie suddenly seemed uneasy and busied himself laying rashers of bacon onto a grill pan. ‘My new hobby. I say new. I started the DIY when I retired. It keeps my mind off…things. I’m sure you understand, lad.’

‘You took a while answering the door. Did we get you up, sir? Charlie.’

‘No, lass. I was sitting in the garden reading the paper.’ His tone didn’t convince. ‘Where did you stay last night?’

Brook hesitated. ‘The Kensington Hilton,’ he finally said, looking intently at the bacon spitting under the grill.

Rowlands laughed. ‘Jesus, Brooky. Not the Hilton again. What the fuck for?’