The Reaper (51 page)

‘Yeah it’s an original Van Gogh.’

‘Lovely Shall we go?’

Brook sat on the hard wooden bench with his head lowered in the traditional manner. It was good manners to hide the boredom. The priest was droning on somewhere in
the back of Brook’s head but no words got through his blanket of taciturn solitude.

He hated churches. To Brook they were monuments to futility. Weddings were the worst. And christenings. All that misplaced hope of future happiness. At least funerals offered release–a way out. And now Brook was looking for his way out. He was suffering from mourning sickness. He smiled at his joke then covered his mouth with his hand to hide it. No funerals for years then–like busses–three happen along at once and each one a keepsake of his former life. Funny thing.

Charlie’s funeral had been first, a happy occasion for Brook, knowing the release his old boss felt at the end. No more pain. No more guilt. No more tiny faces to haunt him.

And it was a pleasant surprise to be reminded what a legend Charlie was in the capital’s law enforcement annals. Anybody who was anybody in West London policing was there. They’d even managed to dig up a junior minister for the occasion.

DCI Fulbright and DS Ross were there and a few other faces from the past. No relations though. Charlie had outlived all the ones he’d ever bothered with. His ex-wife wasn’t there and Brook wondered if she was still in London but couldn’t think of anyone to ask.

Fulbright exchanged a polite nod with Brook but Ross wouldn’t even look at him, which was a disappointment as Brook had prepared a couple of visual taunts about his height.

After the service, in which he did a reading from John Donne, Charlie’s favourite poet, Brook swapped a few
pleasantries with barely remembered colleagues and made his excuses. His main excuse being that he had another funeral to attend–Sorenson’s. Before he left, Brook lingered by Charlie’s newly dug grave, next to his Lizzie.

‘Goodbye, Charlie, and God bless.’ Then he bent over Lizzie’s unkempt grave and burrowed six inches into the soil. He pressed in the ring from which she’d been separated before her death, and filled in the hole.

Sorenson’s funeral was a much more sombre affair. The piercing winter light had given way to gun-metal skies and the whole process was suddenly oppressive to Brook as only he and the family were attending.

Petr looked more strapping than Brook remembered. He was flanked on each arm by Vicky and Sonja, sobbing throughout. He was the man of the family now.

Again nods–the chief currency of funeral communication–were exchanged. Nothing was said. No readings were given. No stories were told. Sorenson left this life without ceremony and without sentiment and Brook felt it appropriate to the way he’d conducted himself in life. Few words were needed for someone who had so much to say for himself.

As the priest rattled through the service, Brook left the tiny chapel. He didn’t look back. If he had, he’d have seen Vicky turn to watch him go. He would never see her again.

Outside stood Laura Maples’ father. Brook didn’t know him at first. He was a defeated old man. He stared at Brook leaving and walked towards him. Brook halted in
sudden recognition and held out his hand. Maples ignored it.

‘Did you know it was him, Inspector?’ Brook let his hand fall.

‘Why are you here, Mr Maples?’

‘I don’t know. Why are you here? To pay your
respects?’
The venom from the old man wasn’t a surprise to Brook. He’d seen such bitterness fester in many victim’s families. It had no outlet over time and to store it was to nurture it, until the roots grew out of your soul.

‘Go home to your wife, Mr Maples.’

‘She’s dead.’ His eyes burned into Brook’s with a defiance borne of suffering. But suddenly a curtain fell over them and he lowered his head and cried. Brook took his elbow and guided him down the crisp drive towards the main road. Maples surrendered to his prompting and trudged in formation with Brook.

As they neared the gates, Maples pulled a hand from his pocket and offered it to Brook. ‘This is all we have left, Inspector. The only thing for all that love, all that work. The sleepless nights…’

Brook, long the custodian of the keepsake, gazed at Laura’s necklace wrapped around the withered claw, its little hearts reflecting the occasional peep of winter sun.

‘The man who killed your daughter is dead. Go home, sir. Keep Laura alive in your heart, as I do.’

Maples turned sharply to look at Brook’s face and saw the depth of feeling there. He was taken aback. For a moment he seemed nonplussed and Brook wondered if he’d said the wrong thing.

But suddenly Maples broke into a watery smile, tears
trickling down his hollow cheeks. He wasn’t alone in his grief and it gave succour. ‘Thank you, Inspector.’

Now Brook stood with the rest of the congregation. All heads bowed so he let his eye wander around the crowd. He caught Brian Burton’s eye. Brook’s glare was greeted by a frosty smile and both looked away.

After the prayer, Brook–positioned at the end of a row for a quick getaway–excused himself and tip-toed out of the church. He grimaced as he went, holding his recently-pumped stomach in case anyone took exception to the speed of his escape. Once outside he pounced on a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

‘Inspector.’

Brook turned to see Habib smiling at him. ‘Doctor. You’ve slipped out for a quick one too?’

‘I’m sure I haven’t. Religious differences, so it is.’ Brook nodded. ‘And how are you, Inspector?’

‘Same as ever.’

‘Ah, still no improvement, eh?’ Habib chuckled.

‘None.’ Brook eyed the good doctor, thinking how to avoid causing offence. It wasn’t his strong suit. ‘Any developments in the Wallis case you haven’t told me about, doc?’

Habib looked at him shifting from one foot to the other. ‘Developments?’

Brook glared at him, wondering what nerve he’d struck.

‘This is hardly the place…’

‘Doctor.’ Brook continued his stare but Habib failed to meet it.

‘Inspector. I don’t think it’s right. It’s no longer your case.’

‘It
was
my case. And there’s something you didn’t tell me, isn’t there?’

‘Not exactly.’ Habib was embarrassed and continued to avoid Brook’s eyes.

‘Tell me.’

Again Habib cast around for suitable words. Brook let him sweat. It was coming. ‘We were short-staffed, Inspector. I wasn’t looking for it.’

‘Looking for what?’

‘Inspector. It’s not your case any…’

‘And Annie Sewell wasn’t my case. It didn’t stop you giving me a copy of the report.’

Now Habib looked into Brook’s eyes, clearly injured by the threat. ‘You wouldn’t?’

‘I won’t have to because you’re going to tell me.’

Habib was tight-lipped. Brook pressed him with his silence. Finally Habib said, ‘I begin to think you’re not a very nice person.’

‘Get used to it, doc.’

Habib sighed. ‘I should have spotted it sooner.’

‘What?’

‘There were four deaths in the Wallis family.’

Brook’s brow creased. ‘What are you talking about?’ Now it was Habib’s turn to be still and watch Brook thinking.

‘How do you kill two people and have one body, Inspector?’

Brook stared hard at Habib. ‘Mrs Wallis was pregnant?’ Habib shook his head. Light dawned and with no more
than a croak Brook managed to wrench out one more word. ‘Kylie.’

Habib nodded.

‘God!’ said Brook. ‘How long?’

‘A month, five weeks. No more.’

‘At her age?’

Habib shrugged. ‘Girls these days…’ He let it hang.

‘And what’s being done about it?’

‘Done? Nothing. Kylie Wallis is dead. Inspector Greatorix and Chief Superintendent McMaster agreed that no purpose is served…’

‘No purpose. A young girl’s been raped. There must be tests…’

‘The victim is dead, Inspector. And most likely the culprit too.’

‘Most likely? You mean you’re not even sure it was Bobby Wallis?’

‘We know he didn’t kill her. No-one in her family did. And now I think I’ll bid you good day, Inspector.’

Habib walked away stony-faced. Brook felt the heat of the cigarette on his fingers and let it fall to the ground.

At that moment the doors opened and the coffins were carried out by the pallbearers. Brook stood aside to let them pass. As the coffin of Bobby Wallis passed him, Brook turned his back. One of the pallbearers noticed and narrowed his eyes at him.

Mrs Wallis followed and Brook turned to face the coffin. Kylie hadn’t yet cleared the doors so not one of the following cortége noticed Brook’s indictment.

A second later he was joined by Noble and Jones.
McMaster was sticking close to Jason and his aunt to be sure she offered maximum comfort.

‘You didn’t miss much,’ said Noble, trying to keep levity out of his tone. ‘Feeling better?’

‘No.’ Brook was far away, thinking of Sorenson.

‘Every sickening detail.’ Brook stared without blinking.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Jones, concerned to see the expression he wore on Brighton Pier reappear. ‘Sir?’

Now Noble was curious and Brook became aware he was causing concern. He roused himself. ‘I’m fine, Wendy.’ He clenched his lips in an approximation of a smile to confirm his wellbeing. Jones and Noble mollified, Brook disappeared again into the comfort of the trance. Nothing much registered. Time passed without notice. When he needed to walk, he stumbled along with the herd. When he needed to stand still, he was kept upright by the proximity of others.

Senses returned. Brook knew he was still breathing because he saw the condensation leaving his mouth. He could feel the bite of the cold nipping his ears, hear the far-off cacophony of crows, the click of the cameras and the low hum of the generators feeding the news teams at a discreet distance.

He was okay. He wasn’t beaten yet. Sorenson couldn’t get him that way. He fumbled for another cigarette and somehow worked out a way to light it. McMaster glanced
over with a tic of disapproval but soon regained her mask of professional sympathy.

And then it was over and Brook was able to walk where he chose. He broke away from the pack of stern-faced mourners hugging and clucking and kissing, and headed for a bench away from the tumult.

The next second Brian Burton was in front of him. Brook looked beyond him, searching for a way past. Freedom was only a yard either side.

‘Inspector,’ he said.

Brook tried to plot a way round him but Burton moved across to block him.

‘Inspector. Or should I call you Chief Inspector after your heroics in London?’

‘Whatever you call me, Brian, I suggest you do it from a safe distance.’

‘Come on, Inspector. No hard feelings.’ He held out his hand.

Brook ignored it. ‘Get out of my way, you parasite.’

Now Burton lowered his voice. ‘Listen, Brook, I can be a useful ally. Why don’t you do us both some good and start playing ball?’

Chief Superintendent McMaster had spotted the two old enemies locking horns and made her way across to them. Others followed.

‘Get out of my way,’ Brook insisted.

Burton saw McMaster coming and adopted a much friendlier expression. ‘How about a shot of the hero of the hour for the local taxpayers, Inspector?’ he shouted.

Burton’s increased volume alerted Brook to the presence of others. He looked round and saw McMaster marching
purposefully towards them. He turned to walk to his superior but Burton grabbed his arm. Brook stiffened and clenched his fist.

‘Just one shot.’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ mumbled Brook.

Burton scanned the oncoming faces. ‘How about one of you with Jason, Inspector Brook? To show your support for his loss.’

Brook was aware of a warning glance emanating from McMaster and uncurled his fist. ‘Great idea, Brian,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘You could call it
The Hero and the Zero.’

Burton stared at Brook for a second then broke into a grin. ‘Oh I will, Inspector. I will. Jason, I want a shot of you with the Inspector.’

‘Fuck that! The way he treated me after me family were killed,’ snarled Jason. A volley of abusive muttering from his posse of friends followed.

Brook smiled his apology. ‘Sorry, Brian. Looks like we’ll have to give it a miss.’ He saw McMaster nod her approval at his manner. She stepped towards Brook to escort him away.

But Burton wouldn’t be denied. ‘Come on, Jason. It’ll be on the front page.’

Jason affected reluctance but finally was able to give in. ‘Yeah, alright. But make it quick.’

‘That’s it, gents. Move a bit closer. Great. One more. Jason. Shake the Inspector’s hand.’

Before Brook knew what had happened his hand was being shaken by Jason. He blinked at the flash of the camera and stared at Jason who was posing for the cameras,
affecting a brave smile. Jason caught Brook’s eye and felt the weight of his hand. His face clouded slightly and Brook could feel him attempting to pull his hand away–ever so gently at first but then more insistently. But Brook held on, narrowing his eyes as though to examine something close at hand, yet gazing, unblinking into the distance.

Now Jason struggled to remove his hand but Brook’s grip tightened.

‘Geroff, yer fucking headcase.’

Brook held on, eyes now fixed on Jason who tried to extricate himself with greater vigour. Then people began to huddle round, pawing at Brook’s arm. All the while Brook was vaguely aware of the urgent flash of the camera. Still he held on.

‘Geroff, yer twat!’ screamed Jason.

Suddenly a voice in Brook’s ear. It was Jones, insistent but calming. ‘Control is what they pay us for.’

Brook blinked and opened his hand. Jason pulled his own hand away, rubbing and flexing it and showing it to his aunt. ‘That’s assault, that is. You saw it. That’s assault. I’ll have you in court, yer fucking nutter.’ He marched away with his aunt ministering to his hand and his posse egging him on to greater heights of rhetoric.