The Reaper (32 page)

‘Why are you here, Dad?’

Brook opened the car door for her and introduced her to Wendy Jones. He didn’t register his colleague’s puzzled expression as she eyed Terri’s auburn hair. ‘Come on. I’ll take you for a Coke.’

The cafe on Brighton pier was dingy and the coffee was bitter and expensive. Terri twirled her ice around the bottom of her glass with a straw and Jones merely stared at the table.

When Terri stood to go to the toilet, he took his chance. ‘Wendy, I’ve got to have a word with Terri, in private. Do you mind?’

‘Not at all.’ She kept her eyes on the table. Her voice was clipped and formal but she’d dropped all pretence to acknowledge his rank. Something was wrong.

‘No please. Stay here in the warm. I need the air.’

‘Fine. Here comes Daddy’s special girl now.’

Brook’s hair stood on end his mouth fell open. Vicky. His heart sank as he realised his blunder. How could he have been so stupid? Vicky’s blonde hair. And Terri…

Brook swallowed a deep breath. He didn’t have time to wallow in the embarrassment. He had harder emotions to deal with.

‘Wendy…’

‘Please don’t call me that, sir.’

Brook nodded. Her anger made things easier. ‘I don’t have time to explain. I will later, if you want to listen.’ His cold tone gave Jones pause for thought but she still couldn’t look at him.

Brook stood as Terri returned to the table and escorted her outside.

‘Isn’t Constable Jones coming with us?’

‘Not just yet. I need a word.’ The wind swept in from the sea, cold and refreshing, and the pier was close to empty.

‘Terri.’

She stopped and turned back towards him, searching his face for an explanation. He looked suddenly serious and in pain as though he had a toothache. Something in her realised the reason for his visit and she looked away.

‘Terri. What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know what…’

‘You had something to tell me. Something you couldn’t say in front of your mum. What is it?’ She opened her mouth to speak but her expression caused Brook to dive in. ‘I want to know what’s going on between you and your stepfather. I want to know now.’

A cloud passed over Terri’s eyes as she sought the words to pacify her father, but they wouldn’t come. Instead she walked over to the rail and looked out over the foaming sea. Brook paced after her.

‘Terri, please. Talk to me.’

She looked up at him, then down at the boardwalk. ‘We’re in love.’

‘You’re what?’ Brook’s expression may have been uncomprehending but his heart was in the know. ‘Say that again.’

‘I love him, Dad. And he loves me.’

‘My God, you’re only fifteen, Terri!’

‘I’ll be sixteen in April.’

‘There are laws…’

‘The laws are like borders, Dad. They’re artificial constructs. There’s no…’

‘Did Tony tell you that?’

‘Dad, we’re in love. Deal with it.’

‘Deal with it?’ Brook stared, still processing the information. A million questions crowded in–questions which were noble in their concerns for others. What about your mother? What about the legal issues? How long has this been going on? But one question burned above all others. The visceral ache that no father of a daughter can deaden. The only question that matters.

Brook’s palms were sweating despite the cold. ‘Have you…? How does he love you?’ he said softly.

Terri looked at the deck of the pier again. She couldn’t find the words, perhaps realising there weren’t any. She looked every inch the schoolgirl now, despite her height, despite the make-up. She might have been in the Head’s office, being told off for throwing water in the labs. At last she mumbled her excuse but instead of blaming another pupil and saying ‘It won’t happen again, miss,’ Brook heard, ‘He loves me like a man should love a woman.’

Brook looked away, a strange wheezing noise emanating from him. It was his breath leaving his body
as though he’d been punched in the solar plexus. He could see the brown water seething between the boards. It made him feel dizzy. ‘But you’re not a fucking woman,’ he spat at her.

Terri flinched at the obscenity and then her eyes glazed over into that shocking, hard-faced certainty patented by all-knowing teenagers who think it conveys experience but instead betrays only insecurity and selfishness. ‘I’m both of those things,’ she informed him, coldly.

Brook’s heart fell into the icy sea. Before the last syllable was out, he’d gripped her by the shoulders, and was shaking her violently. He closed his eyes and the moisture in them was forced onto his cheeks. Heads began to turn but Brook was oblivious.

‘Dad, you’re hurting me,’ Terri wailed, trying to prise off his whitening knuckles and wheeling around like a wrestler trying to break a hold. She looked around at the desultory passers-by who were assessing the free entertainment. A stall keeper took a step towards the dance. ‘It’s okay, he’s my dad,’ she panted. The man hesitated, deciding to wait for developments.

‘Dad!’ Terri shouted, shaking him in return. ‘People are watching.’

But Brook shook her and shook her. The man who ran the sharp shooting stall took a further step but Brook was unaware of everything, save the rushing in his ears. He was mumbling incoherently, spinning her round. He could see and hear nothing. He was unconscious, drowning. His life zipped across his mind and was gone and Brook hoped that would be the end of it.

But suddenly there was calm–an impression of
stillness. Brook could feel the warmth of the sun on his face. Nothing else. He was in orbit, flying towards great heat. His body was weightless and his head felt like it was on a stick. He was very tired and his head slumped to his chest. He became aware of his legs. They felt heavy and unwilling to hold him upright. With an effort of supreme will he opened an eye to see the water swirling below his disobedient feet. Then the noise of the waves rushed in and he was able to locate Terri’s face. She looked at him. She was sad. Her eyes pleaded with Brook. Her mouth was moving but Brook couldn’t hear. She seemed to be crying, pulling at him.

A numbing cold grabbed Brook a second later and other senses came rushing in. He heard, ‘Your mother. Your mother,’ and realised he was speaking.

Terri still struggled against his grip. ‘Dad! Let go!’ Brook tried to let her go, to unfasten his fingers but couldn’t work out how to do it. Then a soft mouth from behind touched his right ear and then a voice.

‘Inspector Brook! Stop it. Let go.’

All was noise and bustle now. Brook heard the panting and snorting of those struggling around him. Wendy Jones had an arm squeezed into his neck, choking him. Don’t stop, Wendy. You don’t mind if I call you Wendy?

‘Sir. We’ve got to leave now,’ she insisted.

Brook looked to the heavens and saw the grey sky above. He relaxed his muscles to signal his defeat and slumped into Jones’s arms. She loosened her grip, just holding his shoulders to keep him upright.

‘He wants locking up, he does,’ observed the sharpshooter.

‘He’s a fucking lunatic!’ ventured an amateur psychiatrist, toffee apple in hand.

Finally Terri broke free and stomped away to the rail, sobbing. Brook turned his eyes to look at his hands still held in front of him like a novice bullfighter. He let them fall to his side as his knees gave way and collapsed to the floor. Jones lifted him up by the armpits and put her arm round him.

‘Come on, sir. Let’s go.’ She held his limp frame and walked him through the throng.

‘You should call the police, luv. Streets ain’t safe with nutters like ’im roaming around.’

‘I am the police,’ she spat back, ‘and if you want a night in the cells, just stay there shooting your mouth off.’

The potential have-a-go-heroes were aggrieved but wandered away, that’s-the-thanks-you-get expressions glued to their faces.

‘Sir?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Wendy Jones.’

‘I’ve told you. Call me Charlie. Everything alright?’

‘No sir. It’s DI Brook. I think he’s had some kind of breakdown.’

There was a pause though not a long one
. ‘Right.’

‘We got down to Brighton, no problem. Then we picked his daughter up after school. From what I could gather she’s having a relationship with a man. I think it might be her stepfather.’

‘Oh God. Not little Terri. How is he?’

‘I’m not sure. He seems physically and mentally exhausted. I can’t get him to talk. I can’t even get him to look at me. He just stares into space.’

‘I know the symptoms. Where is he?’

‘Lying down. I booked us into a B & B. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You did the right thing.’

‘It’s like he’s in a trance. Should I get a doctor?’

‘No. He wouldn’t do anything. You did the right thing. He just needs complete quiet. Try and get him to sleep, that’s the main thing. Hot sweet tea and sugared rum. That’s the stuff. He’s in shock.’

‘You say this has happened before.’

‘It was a few years ago now.’

‘Was that down to The Reaper?’

‘Amongst other things. You see, luv, Damen’s got this brain–haven’t we all? But his…it never stops unless he switches it off. But he has to take the trouble to do it. Most of the time he can but this case, it’s got him thinking again and he’s clever, he can’t accept he hasn’t caught The Reaper. I’m not explaining this very well. Suffice to say the last time it took away his marriage, his home and part of his sanity.’

‘He told me about Sorenson. About his relationship with him.’

‘Did he? He hasn’t told anyone else, luv. I think he really trusts you, Wendy.’

‘Do you?’

‘I do.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Look after him. Stay with him and keep feeding him hot, sweet tea and sugared rum. He’ll be okay. If he drank
more he might not be in this state now. By the way, Wendy, your boss tracked you down to here. She’s hopping mad you haven’t kept her up to speed. I said you were working hard which took the wind out of her knickers for a while.’

‘You didn’t have to…’

‘I know. I did it for Damen’s sake. She also said if she didn’t hear from him tomorrow, he’d be reprimanded.’

‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Damen wouldn’t. Look luv, forget all that ’til tomorrow. Just stay with him tonight. Ring me tomorrow morning, will you?’

‘I will, Charlie, and thanks.’ Jones replaced the receiver.

Half an hour later she returned to the Seaview carrying two Sainsbury’s bags. She retrieved her key from the tight-lipped landlady who made a point of glaring at Jones’ shopping. What an insult. To buy one’s own provisions, when even now a dozen contented residents were sitting down to a hearty meal of vitamin-free slop, was truly a slap in the face for Mrs Purley. Mr and Mrs Jones indeed–a likely story.

Jones pushed open the door to their room with a bag then dropped both to the floor with a chink of glass on glass. She winced but Brook didn’t move. He lay prone on the bed, fully clothed except for his shoes, snoring gently.

Jones decided not to disturb him. She ate her sandwich in the chair by the window and watched. Occasionally she crept to the toilet or made a cup of tea. Brook’s cup sat waiting–rum and sugar–waiting for him to stir. On she waited, listening to the steady rhythm of his
breathing, wanting to climb on the bed next to him, but resisting.

He needed her and she needed to be needed so she sat on, keeping her motionless vigil, satisfying herself with the lightest stroke of his forehead, a taunt to the urgent physicality of their previous night in bed together.

And so the evening passed into night and night into early morning and still he slept. It was the sleep of the dead. His life, everything he’d worked for was gone, spoiled forever, and there was nothing left for Brook to do but concede and start from scratch, from the womb. Clear of all thoughts, all worries, all preconceptions and all conventions. Now he could sleep. Now he was nothing. Nobody. No job, no career, no family, no future and, for once, no past. None of it mattered any more. To worry about any of it, never mind try to influence it, was futile. He had landed on the longest snake in the game and it had crushed and swallowed him. He’d been so close but now he was back at the start. If he wanted to go again he had to throw a six. If he wanted to go again…

South. Always south. Brook checked his watch. He’d been driving around for over an hour since he lost Sorenson. Why had he let that happen? There had to be a reason. After all Brook had been through, to be discarded like this.

Disconsolate, he pulled up to the red light on the South Circular, at the crossroads of Brixton Hill. An hour ago he would have run the lights but now the urgency was gone. It was late. Near midnight. The tension of the chase had evaporated, the search fizzled out. Even the rain was stopping.

Brook had lost the game. He’d lost to Sorenson. He’d lost to The Reaper.

The lights turned and Brook drove on. He hung a left towards the city, intending to take a long loop through Brixton, back up to Clapham and home. It was over. Time to let go.

Home. Then a thought–an icy hand of dread squeezed his heart. What if he’d been tricked? Sorenson had lost him and then doubled back towards Amy and baby Theresa. They were alone. Helpless.

Brook blinked to gather his thoughts and get his bearings. Which way? He’d just missed the turn-off by Brixton Town Hall. Now he’d have to turn up by the Academy and gun it down there.

Brook changed down and floored the accelerator. As he did so, something caught his eye and he jumped onto his brakes and slithered to a halt. On the opposite side of Brixton High Road, Brook stared dumbstruck at a street sign. He gazed at it. Electric Avenue.

‘There could even be an electric storm. Very rare. Yes, sparks are going to fly.’

Brook stared on, his mind churning. A cabbie pulled past, glaring and gesticulating.

Finally Brook pulled into the outside lane and swung right, up towards Brixton Market, now deserted except for discarded fruit and vegetable boxes. He parked underneath the arches opposite the eastern end of Electric Avenue.