The Reaper (35 page)

Next to the hob was a small steel teapot with a teabag in. Mac added another. Next to the teapot was a bean-stained plate with knife and fork, neatly placed together. Mac picked it up and laid it in the sink. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘When you’re on your own…’ he shrugged.

‘Don’t worry.’

Mac nodded and busied himself with the tea. He added milk from a carton in the fridge that Brook saw
was otherwise empty. The lone cupboard set back on the opposite wall had glass doors similar to the one in Brook’s kitchen. The supplies Brook could see consisted of ‘economy’ baked beans, outnumbered by dozens of tins of cat food.

For a second, Brook worried that this proud, impecunious old man had descended to getting his meat from pet food, until he heard the plaintive yowl of a cat in the room next door. At the same time he spotted the newspaper-lined litter tray on the far side of the fridge.

Mac must have seen him looking. For no other reason, he said, ‘I get most of my meals at the hotel. Go through into the other room.’

Brook stepped next door. Another small room, with a low ceiling. A bay window covered by lace curtains looked down and out over the centre of Derby, every roof slick and shiny under the brief illumination of rain and low sun.

Most of the room was filled by a metal-framed bed on which the cat lay. It glared nervously as Brook entered. It was a little black kitten with wide wary eyes. Brook cautiously held out a hand to stroke it and it immediately careened itself towards the pressure of Brook’s fingers.

From a flat nearby a dull thudding music sprang up. Brook continued to look around. There wasn’t much to see. A small coffee table, a wooden-framed armchair with a uniform draped over it, a gas fire and a straight-backed chair with a small TV resting on it.

Brook could only stand and stare. It wasn’t possible to move around, as the other pitiful scraps of furniture
were jammed against the far wall. A deep sadness filled him. He couldn’t explain why. He took no great pains over his own living conditions and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen such poverty before. Perhaps it was the denial of the occupant. Like poor dead Laura in her pathetic squat, clinging to the pretence that she was in control of her own life, her own environment.

‘My alarm call,’ beamed Mac, holding a mug of tea towards Brook and nodding vaguely in the direction of the music.

Brook took it and had an appreciative swig. ‘Thanks. Just what I need.’

Mac set his own mug on the floor and lifted one end of the bed. ‘Off you get, Blot,’ he soothed, as he raised the bed into a recess and closed two doors on it. Now there was a little space and Mac moved the table and chairs to the middle of the room and sat in the stiff-backed one, resting the TV on the floor, before taking a sip of tea.

‘Mince pie?’ Mac held a plate towards Brook who took a mince pie and bit into it. It was stale.

‘Very nice.’

‘I get ’em from the hotel.’

‘Right. Nice view,’ nodded Brook.

‘We like it. The moggy and me.’

Brook smiled, glad of common ground. He didn’t know how to talk about the weather. ‘I’ve got a cat. It’s a pain in the neck.’

‘I know what you mean. Bloody nuisance, this little puss. Aren’t you? I’m stuck with you now though, aren’t I?’ Mac smiled with pleasure. ‘Found him out in the alley a couple of months back. Wet through he was. No bigger
than my hand. Mewling and shivering. Must’ve been chucked out. Some people. Who’d do that to such a defenceless little mite?’

‘How long have you got?’ replied Brook.

‘Now what did you want to talk about, Inspector? A Mr Elphick, you said.’

‘That’s right. Do you remember him?’

‘Should I?’

‘He stayed a few nights the week before Christmas. Old, not very well.’

‘Oh, him with the gloves and glasses?’

‘That’s him.’

‘I remember. Only ’cos he was such an odd looking sort. I don’t know what else I can tell you, ’cept he wore a wig.’

‘Sally told me. Was there anything else? His voice? His height? Anything he said.’

‘He didn’t say a word to me, Inspector, and that’s a fact. Not even thank you, when I opened the door. Not that he weren’t polite. Just that he preferred to nod than speak, that’s one of the things that made him stick in the mind. That and his appearance.’

‘Did he tip you?’

‘He did. He was a good tipper for these parts. I only saw him twice and each time he gave me a pound. Tips like that make all the difference. My army pension goes nowhere. Not now I’ve got two mouths to feed.’ He beamed at Blot who was caressing his ankle.

‘And his height?’

‘Tallish. About your height I’d say. Even with a bit of a stoop.’

‘You’re sure he wasn’t smaller? Nearer five eight.’

‘Certain. I’ve seen over a lot of men and you gets to know these things without really looking. You’d know what I mean about that, Inspector.’

‘Yes I suppose so.’ Brook was unhappy. The waters were muddying. The Reaper had gone out of his way to get Brook’s attention and now all his long nurtured certainty about the case, about Sorenson, was being undermined.

‘Was there anything else? Did you get him cabs?’

‘No. He walked the night I saw him.’

‘Did you see how he arrived?’

Mac’s face widened. ‘That’s right. That
was
odd.’

‘What?’

‘Well, when he arrived he was dropped off down the road.’

‘By a cab?’

‘No. A cab wouldn’t have gone past the front entrance.’

‘And that was odd?’

‘There were no cars parked outside the hotel. Why not just drop him off there? And the car was on the hotel side of the road, so it must have driven past deliberately. It was almost as though…’

‘As though the driver didn’t want to be seen,’ concluded Brook. Sammy Elphick had been a dummy, a distraction. Sorenson had been driving not staying at the hotel. But why bring somebody else to Derby? To flag up a name so Brook would realise The Reaper had been to town? Why, when there were so many other pointers at the crime scene? It made no sense.

There had to be another reason. There had to be a
purpose, a need for Sorenson to have company. Perhaps he was too ill for the ‘job’ and needed stronger hands to do the deed while he supervised–Brook had a momentary flash of Sorenson ticking off chores on a clipboard, with his assistant.

1) Deliver pizzas

2) Bring down baby

3) Cut throats.

But all the evidence pointed to a single killer, someone of Sorenson’s height and stature, entering the Wallis house that night. But then again, he’d only been seen delivering the pizzas–even a sick old man could do that. Nobody had seen who returned later to kill the victims.

Brook showed Mac the picture of Sorenson but without success.

‘Well thanks, Mac,’ said Brook standing. ‘You’ve been a big help.’

‘My pleasure. What’s he done by the way?’

Brook walked to the door and glanced again at the door of the empty fridge.

‘I can’t discuss it.’

‘Ere, he’s not the one that did that family, is he?’ Brook’s silence confirmed it. ‘The bastard. That poor little girl. What had she done to deserve that?’

Interesting how everyone zeroed in on the only aspect of the killings that was truly tragic, thought Brook.

‘We don’t know for definite. Listen. If this man comes back, I’d like you to ring me on this number.’ Brook wrote his home number on a piece of scrap paper knowing it wouldn’t be needed for anything other than
the smokescreen he was about to throw up. He handed it to Mac with a twenty-pound note.

‘You don’t need to pay me for doing my duty, Inspector Brook. I’m glad to do it.’ The wound in the old man was stark.

‘Oh I know, I just thought…I need a good man on the job…’

‘You’ve no call to insult me like that. I don’t do the right thing for profit…’

‘Please take it. Treat it as a tip. Get some toys for the cat.’

Mac eyed the money with a mixture of longing and deep bitterness. Brook was appalled at the effect of his actions.

The old man stood before him, bereft even of the dignity he so scrupulously nurtured, unable to lift his dampening eyes from the money, the life-giving money. Every instinct told him to refuse it. He’d invited another person, as a guest, into his home. He’d assisted the police with their enquiries. They’d had a nice cup of tea and a nice chat and the old man had felt useful again. What could be more normal than that?

Being treated as an equal by a police Inspector, an important man who sought his opinion, his help. Suddenly he was a member of society again and could make a contribution to a community from which he’d felt ever more alienated. For a short, wonderful moment he was a human being not a shuffling relic, not a lonely, desperately sad old man who would have opened his arms to death every day, had not a tiny kitten given him the unquestioning love and companionship he needed to keep him going.

Mac closed his eyes and his hands around the money. Twenty pounds for self-respect. Bargain.

Brook turned to leave. He turned back at the sound of the old man’s voice.

‘We have a saying in the army.’ Mac stared at the floor, gazing at his own headstone. ‘Life’s like a gunshot wound. When it stops hurting is the time to worry.’

Brook hurried to his car. What was he doing? Out of nowhere he was taking an interest in other people’s lives, other people’s pain. Years of living behind the barricade of his thoughts had been replaced by pity for the plight of others. Why?

He was throwing cash around like Scrooge on Christmas Day. He could afford it but it was the kind of scattergun palliative of which he’d always disapproved and which, as he’d just witnessed, could do as much harm as good.

Then suddenly he knew and it hit him hard. An old man in a hovel, clinging to the illusion of life and companionship, only a cat to care whether he lived or died. Mac was The Ghost of Christmas Future. Brook had dropped in on his own barren existence, twenty years on.

The next morning, New Year’s Eve, Brook staggered to his door under the weight of two heavy boxes. He fumbled with his keys, balancing both boxes on his left thigh and let himself in. He stepped into the kitchen and snapped on the harsh strip light. He placed the boxes on the kitchen table and trotted back out to the Sprite for his shopping bags.

When he returned he opened the fridge. It was empty save for a carton of milk. A moment later it was full of comestibles, most of which he wouldn’t eat but that didn’t matter. For the first time in a long time, appearances were important. Appearances mattered. Not to Brook maybe but to everyone else, and it was stupid pigheadedness to put himself at such a disadvantage where human relationships were concerned. If his life were to be retrieved, he had to start where other people started–first impressions.

God forbid that anyone should walk into his flat again and see it as defeated and empty as old Mac’s. Small wonder he hadn’t seen Wendy for dust after that first night. What must she have thought?

Later that evening, Brook had set up his brand new TV and VCR–not without difficulty–and was able to put in the first of the tapes from the station CCTV. He settled down with the remote control and a ready meal chilli, briefly amused to have stumbled upon the nation’s twin pillars of obesity, after a lifetime of emaciation.

It was dull going, so after the first half hour, he put it on fast-forward but this made it too difficult to pick things out, so he abandoned the experiment and decided just to leave it running. If he missed something, so what? Unless Sorenson danced across the footbridge in a bloodstained boiler suit waving a scalpel around, Brook knew this was a waste of time. They still had nothing.

He decided to ring Amy again, see how she was getting on. He’d rung her the day after getting back to Derby on some pretext or other and it was obvious she’d been
crying. After he’d pressed her to confide in him she’d told Brook of Tony’s departure.

‘I haven’t told Terri yet. She thinks he’s away on business.’

She’d seemed composed. But when she read Brook the note, the tears had begun to fall.

Brook had kept her talking until she cheered up. He didn’t usually have that effect but then he rarely made the effort. They’d had a few laughs about the early years, making sure to skirt difficult areas. Maybe she just needed someone, anyone, to talk to, but Brook was still pleased to detect a note of affection in her voice he’d not heard for many years.

This time Amy picked up on the first ring.

‘It’s me again, darling. How are you today?’

‘I’m O.K.’

‘And Terri?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘Have you told her about Tony yet?’ There was a long pause at the other end. ‘Anything wrong, Amy?’

Brook heard her take a deep breath.
‘Damen. I don’t want you to ring again.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t want you to ring again. I want you to leave us alone.’

‘Tell me what’s wrong…’

The line went dead. Brook replaced the receiver.

At that moment Vicky hopped from the bottom step of the footbridge. The same flash of blue denim that Brook had first seen standing across the road in the cold a couple of weeks before, the same quilted coat, the same flash of blonde hair.

He checked the date on the display. It was the day before Brook had met her outside his flat.

He watched her progress across the concourse. It was difficult to make her out, the cameras in the main station were high in the vaulted roof, but she seemed to be waving at someone off-camera, someone waiting by the entrance. She quickened her step.

Then a hand reached out from beyond the fixed camera position and Vicky swung her carpet bag into it as she walked off-screen. Brook surmised that a girl wouldn’t offer to carry another girl’s luggage. Vicky must have been met by a man.