Brook rested his elbows on the desk and propped his head in his hands. His eyes were stinging so he closed them and massaged the lids. His head now throbbed and his mouth reeked of stale tobacco and bacon-flavoured sweet martini.
With an effort, which to casual observation would have suggested disability, he hauled himself to his feet and shuffled to the door. He didn’t want to face anyone so he locked his office door, hoping that no-one needed his attention. Fortunately he wasn’t included in station banter and most people left him alone, although Hendrickson had given him a passing sneer as he arrived.
Brook checked his watch. Ten minutes to briefing. He pulled a Greater London Street Atlas from a drawer and turned to the double spread of his old beat to reacquaint himself with it. Fulham, Shepherd’s Bush, Hammersmith and, of course, Harlesden. He stared at Minet Avenue in Harlesden, scene of the first Reaper killings, as though it might offer up new clues. On an impulse he flicked over the page to check how to pick up the A23 to Brighton before closing the tome decisively.
DS Noble, DCs Morton, Cooper, Gadd and Bull, PC Aktar and WPC Jones gazed back at Brook from the sanctuary of their plastic chairs. All tried to remain still but each fidgeted in their turn, aware of their exposure. Usually there’d be a table to cocoon them but Brook had removed it. He’d been to enough briefings to know that such comforts discouraged concentration.
He tore the cellophane from a new pack of cigarettes and lit up, leaning against a desk. Crutch in hand, he was finally able to raise his red-rimmed eyes to the assembled company. He let smoke drift up into his face, hoping to offer his audience an alternative theory for their condition.
Brook usually enjoyed leading briefings but he wasn’t looking forward to this one. At least McMaster hadn’t put in her threatened appearance.
‘Okay,’ he said to the floor before fixing his eye on an indeterminate point behind Noble’s head. ‘Let me give you the watchword for this enquiry: discretion. What happened in Drayfin two nights ago is not a regular occurrence. Not in Derby. Not anywhere. People are going to want to know about it. People, clever people, are going to pressure you, offer you inducements to talk about what we have seen and what we’re doing about it.
‘The Chief wants me to make this clear at the outset. We can’t afford anyone on this enquiry who feels they can’t resist that pressure. And that includes pressure from fellow officers and those close to you. Say now if you feel you’re not up to it. We keep the facts of this case close to our chests otherwise careers are going to be in the balance.
‘The nation’s media will be watching so this case is priority number one and the Chief has given me a free hand to authorise any additions to the team,’ Brook nodded at Jones and Aktar, ‘and we’ll have as many bodies from uniform as we need to do any legwork.’ Brook glanced up but couldn’t detect any offence taken by Aktar or Jones.
‘So to details. There are three corpses in the mortuary–Mr and Mrs Wallis and little Kylie Wallis.’ Brook nodded towards the pictures arranged around the white board behind his head. Aktar and Jones were already mesmerised by them, a reaction Brook recalled from his early years in the Met. ‘Their throats were cut. No forced entry. No apparent motive. Before we go over what we know does anyone have any ideas, thoughts or observations of any kind about the nature of this crime?’
There was a silence that only Noble seemed eager to fill. ‘It’s not random. Our killer has planned this for a long time.’
‘How do we know that?’ asked Brook.
‘Because he telephoned the family the day before, telling them they’d won a competition, a free meal courtesy of Pizza Parlour,’ continued Noble.
‘Okay.’ Brook waited. ‘Why has he gone to all that trouble? Why not just turn up and start slaughtering them?’ He could see that Jones knew the answer but had decided not to play teacher’s pet.
Brook decided to press on. He had better things to do than shepherd these novices through such an intense investigation. A second later, he realised that he hadn’t. ‘Well. This way he can fix the whole family’s location at a given time. Or so he believes. They’ve won something for nothing. Who can resist collecting their winnings?’ Brook surveyed the outbreak of nodding. ‘And so it begins. John.’
Noble flipped open his notebook. ‘On the morning of the murder, our man, wearing dark glasses and a black baseball cap, hired a white transit from Euro Van in Allenton. He paid cash and gave a false name and had a licence to match. Name of Peter Hera.’
‘Hera?’ said Jones.
‘Yes?’ Brook queried.
‘I don’t know. It seems familiar. Something from Greek mythology.’
‘Hera was a goddess of some kind,’ replied Brook. ‘Married to Zeus, I think.’
‘Maybe this guy thinks he’s a god,’ offered Rob Morton.
‘Could be,’ nodded Brook, trying to sound impressed. Clearly nobody else in the room had ever bothered with crosswords or simple anagrams. He motioned Noble to continue and returned his eyes to the floor as if thinking about the case.
‘The van he hired was the same van seen outside the Wallis house on the night of the murders. It hasn’t been seen since. An alert neighbour, Mrs Patel, remembers seeing the white van outside the house and the fact that the driver delivered several flat boxes. She jotted down what she could see of the number plate, it was dark and foggy, remember.’
‘Why would she do that?’ asked Aktar. ‘I mean, getting a pizza delivered is hardly suspicious, is it? Even in ASBO-land.’ He permitted himself a satisfied smile at this.
Noble knew better and kept a straight face even though DI Brook didn’t appear to be annoyed. In fact, Noble wasn’t even sure he was paying attention. He looked as though his mind was elsewhere. ‘To those law-abiding citizens who live on the Drayfin Estate, everything is a potential crime, particularly at night, Constable. Let’s just be thankful Mrs Patel is nosy enough to jot down a partial. We had enough to trace it to Euro Van. Uniform haven’t yet found where it’s been dumped but it shouldn’t take long. We’ve had Traffic review all the relevant footage and there was no sign of it leaving Derby on any of the major routes. It should still be here. We’ve put out a national alert just in case it slipped out on a minor road. Locally we’re concentrating on bus and rail stations…’
‘Good thinking, John,’ chipped in Brook. ‘I don’t think our killer’s local but he’s not going to risk driving home in the van. Nor is he going to dump it anywhere there’s obvious CCTV, so look further afield.’ Noble nodded and made a note.
‘Do we have a description at all?’ asked DC Bull.
‘Nothing useful,’ Noble continued. ‘He was dressed in black overalls, the baseball cap and glasses hid his face. One thing. The neighbour thinks he was small and slim but it was hard to see and there are few working street lights in the area. Euro Van would seem to confirm the description. So we’re looking at around five-six, five-seven, and 140 pounds. Age unsure, but the guy who hired out the van says not young. At least middle aged. But that’s very roughly. He didn’t take much notice.
‘We know the mileage of the vehicle when it was hired out but until we find the van, we don’t know how far he’s driven. Nor do we know where he took the van until he was ready to commit the crime. All we know for sure is that at 7.25pm, on the night in question, he drove to the Pizza Parlour on Normanton Lane, being careful to park away from the restaurant, and bought three large pizzas, paying cash. According to the till roll that was at 7.36 exactly…’
‘I know you’ll think this is a daft question, sir,’ ventured Aktar, ‘but why take pizzas to the Wallis house? They seem a bit cumbersome. In fact, why take food at all?’
Brook paused, gathering his thoughts as though he’d been following proceedings. ‘It’s a very good question, Constable. Yes, food’s cumbersome but it has certain advantages. First, because he’s handling food, it allows him to wear disposable gloves without arousing suspicion. I’m certain there’ll be no fingerprints…’ Brook shrugged.
‘I see.’ Aktar nodded mechanically.
‘He also knows that the whole family will eat hot food immediately,’ added Jones. ‘So whatever drug he’s added to the food will be ingested straight away. That’s good for his schedule. If he brought round drinks as a prize, he can’t be certain the whole family will consume at the same time, never mind that it would be easier to see if it’s been tampered with. You’d be suspicious if a Coke bottle had a broken seal.’
‘And people have different drinks, I suppose,’ added Bull, getting into the swing.
‘That’s right,’ said Brook, holding his eyes on Jones. ‘He might have to take beer for the parents and Coke for the kids. Maybe the mother doesn’t like beer. He can never be sure. With a pizza, it’s a sure shot for the whole family. It’s relatively bland for a start. He can’t risk curry or Chinese in case somebody doesn’t care for it. And don’t forget they’ll have ordered their favourite toppings when they won the competition.’
‘He’s thought about this a lot, hasn’t he, sir?’ said Morton. ‘The cunning bastard.’
Brook would normally have stamped on such displays of emotion; they were counterproductive to logical thought, but he remembered his own first encounter with barbarous slaughter and let it slide. If Morton was very lucky he might not lose the rage that had been painstakingly squeezed from Brook, year on year.
‘Go on, John.’
‘Mrs Patel remembers the van pulling up just after 8pm. It’s only a five to seven minute drive from Pizza Parlour so he’s used the intervening time to doctor the food. The killer thinks the whole family will be there, but he’s wrong. Jason Wallis has gone out. Our killer delivers the boxes and then, we assume, he leaves to let the family tuck in. We don’t know if he knows about Jason’s absence but he may have found out.’
‘How?’ asked DC Gadd.
‘Steering the conversation to check if everyone’s there, pretending the boxes are about to spill if he doesn’t put them down inside the house. There are ways,’ answered Brook. He nodded at Noble.
‘Mrs Patel remembers looking again at 8.20 and the van was gone. By then the family are tucking into the pizzas. We’ll find out from Forensics this afternoon what each of them ate.
Our killer is confident that he can return later and get in without a struggle. The front door has bolts but at that time of night the door would only have been on the latch and any criminal worth their salt can get past an old Yale lock. It’s cold and dark and late when he returns, so he’s unlikely to meet many people. We don’t know if he pulls up to the front of the house in the van. Probably not. Certainly no-one sees him.
Our best estimate of the time he returns is between 11.00 and 11.30 because the music the killer puts on starts at 11.40 according to the next door neighbour, Mr Singh. Around that time the victims were killed–the PMs may fine tune that but don’t bank on it–and the music is turned up to full volume around midnight so it’s quite a small window with all he has to get done. At half past midnight the neighbour’s had enough and goes round to complain and finds the bodies.’
‘One thing, John–it may be nothing–but Mr Singh said the music was turned off some time between twelve and half past, then turned on again which means our killer may have left later than midnight.’
‘Why would he turn it off?’ asked Jones.
Brook shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe he turned it down when Jason came back?’ said Aktar.
‘That’s a good thought, Constable. It would explain why Jason heard nothing when he got home.’ Aktar was thrilled with his contribution so Brook tried to let him down gently. ‘There’s just one problem with it.’
‘If Jason came back why didn’t he get his throat cut?’ said Jones softly. ‘It wouldn’t have been difficult in his condition.’
‘Right!’ said Aktar, trying not to look crestfallen.
Brook smiled at Jones. ‘Go on, John.’
‘So having returned, our killer probably has a small case or bag carrying a bottle of wine, two glasses, a corkscrew–in case the Wallises don’t have one–the murder weapon and–given the careful arrangement of the victims–possibly a camera,’ continued Noble, assuming credit for his superior’s observations. ‘He may have a change of clothes as well as the Van Gogh poster and a CD of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony. And before you ask, it’s not Bob Marley,’ he added with barely a glance at Brook. ‘Mahler’s a classical…’
‘He wrote nine symphonies, his last being the most famous. He was dying and knew it. He wrote it as his own requiem,’ continued Jones. ‘My dad’s a big fan,’ she explained, examining her shoes and missing Brook’s approving smile.
Noble, chastened, looked at Brook who raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you, Constable Jones,’ said Noble. ‘Okay. Our man re-enters the Wallis household. And if he didn’t know before, he knows now that Jason isn’t there and could return at any moment. So he has to hurry.
‘We think he brings the baby downstairs and puts it in the cot. The girl is out cold where she lay, face down on the rug. He cuts the girl’s throat…’
‘Not yet, John.’
‘Sir?’
‘Not straight away. He revives Mr and Mrs Wallis before he kills the girl.’
‘Oh yes. That’s vital. That’s what the wine is for. Remember the tear tracks. It’s important that Mum and Dad watch their daughter die. You can’t teach someone a lesson if they’re not paying attention,’ he added. ‘They watched her bleed out in front of them and knew they were next. That was supposed to be their final sight on earth. That and the Van Gogh poster.’
‘You’re kidding,’ said Aktar to nobody in particular. Jones also betrayed an exclamation of disgust although the undertone of anger was what hit Brook. He was impressed.
‘I suppose they couldn’t listen to the music or taste the wine if they were unconscious,’ she observed.
‘Exactly, Constable.’ The temptation for Brook to call her Wendy was becoming difficult to resist and he saw that she’d noticed it as well. Brook became self-conscious and decided to move things along.
‘To finish off for you, John, the killer goes about his work quickly. He’s annoyed because Jason’s not there. And it’s spoiling his vision, his creation, and he doesn’t know when or if he’s coming back. He can’t appreciate his work of art fully. He puts up the poster…’
‘What’s that in aid of?’ asked Aktar.
‘Probably to tell them he’s better than them because he appreciates art,’ Brook said. ‘Though it’s more likely he’s telling us. Anyway, he revives the parents. It’s not easy because he’s had to use enough juice to put them down and keep them there. He manages it but they can’t stand or call out. Perfect. All they can do is watch as he slices across Kylie’s throat.’
‘Doesn’t he revive the girl?’ asked Noble.
‘I don’t think so. She’s small and she’ll have felt the effects of the drug more than her parents. And he doesn’t need her to suffer, that’s for the parents. She’s an innocent. But she still has to die. She’s an essential tool for our killer who has no qualms about killing her or desecrating her corpse. So, to rub it in, he cuts her top down the back and cuts the word SAVED below her shoulder blades, while her parents watch.’ Jones and Aktar continued to listen but with heads bowed. The others simply stared at a convenient point on the wall.
‘The baby’s been brought down and he uses one of Mum’s lipsticks to write SAVED on its forehead. By now Bobby and Mrs Wallis have started to cry and struggle but can do no more than wriggle and empty their bowels. If he hasn’t put the music on before, he does so now.
‘He enjoys the music, but probably not the wine–he’s too intelligent to give us any useable saliva. Then he turns to the parents. I think he does Bobby last. He deserves to wait.
‘He cuts the throat of Mrs Wallis and watches Bobby’s reaction as she chokes on her own blood. The spray from her arteries hits Bobby, the carpet, the killer, everything. Maybe he steps back and takes photographs of the last moments, I don’t know. I’m just speculating but that’s what I’d do.’ Jones looked up at him sharply, but Brook was lost in thought. She glanced at the display behind his head, imagining what the killer’s own album might show.
‘Finally he turns to Bobby. He watches him struggle and smiles. He waves the scalpel, cut-throat razor, whatever it is, in the air, like a conductor with a baton, and closes his eyes to savour the music. Maybe he talks to him. Listen. You’ll like this bit. Close your eyes. Have a sip of wine. It’s a Nuits St George.’
Brook stops for a moment as though frozen. Silence. Nobody moves. Nobody speaks. Nobody breathes. It’s dangerous to rouse sleepwalkers.
‘And after he cuts him?’
Brook snaked his eyes towards Noble. ‘He waits. Watches. Listens. To life ending. Then he dips his finger into the blood and writes his message on the wall. And it’s done.’
‘But because of Jason, he has to hurry.’
‘That’s right, Wendy.’ Brook was unaware of the slip. ‘He’ll need to change into fresh clothing or, more likely, take off protective overalls which are covered in blood. He wraps the weapon in his overalls, stuffs everything into his bag, turns the CD up and leaves before the commotion starts. Whoever finds the bodies will see a neatly organised execution posing as a cosy family scene. Minus Jason.’ Brook looked round. ‘Questions?’
Nobody could think of much to say at that moment. Finally DC Cooper made his first contribution. ‘How does the killer know the Wallis family have a CD player?’
‘He doesn’t. Maybe he’s got a small cassette player and a tape as well, just in case. But he can do without the music if he has to.’
‘And why kill the girl if she’s innocent?’ Jones asked, taking her hundredth glance at the photographs.
‘That’s his MO, Constable. Her death will serve his purpose because it makes the parents suffer so much more. Not only do they have to watch her life end, but they know they’ll be joining her.’
‘I don’t get it, sir.’ Aktar’s broad accent made him sound plaintive.
‘I’m not sure you’re supposed to.’ Brook kept silent for half a minute. He’d sped through the briefing, feeling the need to get it over quickly so he could be alone but now he felt it necessary to leave a pause for the full impact to sink into his team.
‘Now we have a puzzle. There are two survivors. Jason Wallis, who should have been there…’
‘Lucky bastard,’ muttered Jones.
‘…and baby Bianca who was. Question. Why take the trouble of bringing the baby down from its…’ Brook looked at the ceiling in self-admonishment, ‘her bed, to complete the family gathering and yet not kill her?’
Noble glanced at Jane Gadd. He knew that Brook would already have the answers but he sensed an opportunity to impress her. ‘It could be an act of mercy on the part of the killer to show himself in a better light. Make us think he’s not an animal.’ Noble paused, trying to appear spontaneous. ‘And also he knows the baby can’t identify him.’
‘True,’ nodded Brook. He put his hands in his pockets and allowed discomfort to linger to remind his audience of the need to think. He became aware that Jones wanted to fill the vacuum.
‘Sir,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I know this might sound a bit weird but…I get the impression that he doesn’t enjoy the killing. Even the parents.’
Noble kept silent but drew in a mocking breath. Aktar felt obliged to smile weakly so he could keep a foot in both camps. Morton, Cooper, Bull and Gadd turned to Jones with varying degrees of confusion etched on their faces.
Brook just stared. ‘Go on, Constable.’ The inquisitive tone removed the smile from Noble’s mouth.
‘Well sir, they all died quickly and relatively painlessly, after they’d served their purpose. You said the girl died first and was probably unconscious when he cut her throat. Her purpose wasn’t to suffer but make the parents suffer. He wants them to suffer a lot but even then it’s mental torture. They die just as quickly as the girl. Their real ordeal is to watch their children die.’
‘But the baby’s alive!’ protested Noble, looking at Brook for support that didn’t arrive.
‘Okay. But if he’s already killed the girl, they’ll think he’s going to kill the baby as well,’ continued Jones. He only has to pretend. He bends over the carry cot to make it look like he’s going to cut the baby, just to turn the screw. But they can’t see. He doesn’t need to do it to make them suffer, so he doesn’t. That’s why he brought the baby down and that’s why he didn’t kill it. Her.’ Jones halted, suddenly uncertain. ‘Is that too simplistic, sir?’
Brook smiled. He wanted to clap but for Noble’s sake he had to be non-committal. ‘An interesting idea, Constable. Worth thinking about.’ He arched an eyebrow at Noble, who registered it with satisfaction. Brook hoped Jones wouldn’t see but his hope was in vain and he saw her colour rising.
‘As you’ve got your thinking cap on, Constable, answer me this. Why this family?’ His attempt to throw her a bone failed. The damage was done. Blank faces greeted Brook’s hardest question. Jones just looked at the floor, her face a mix of emotions.
‘It was thanks to you, PC Jones. You put me on the right track.’ She perked up a little but Brook could see she wouldn’t forget his slight for a long time. ‘I realise motive is hard to fathom for this sort of crime but believe me, although we can’t see it, serial killers have strong reasons for apparently random killings.’
‘Serial killer?’ PC Aktar exclaimed. ‘In Derby?’
‘You’re right, Constable. They’re rare in this country but they exist. Shipman, Sutcliffe.’ He turned to Noble next. ‘How do we know it’s a serial, John?’
‘The organisation,’ Noble said.
‘And?’
‘The selection of appropriate victims.’ Noble looked pleased with himself but not with Brook’s response.
‘Well remembered. Although the Wallis family seem to be randomly selected, they’re not. I think Jason Wallis was the reason for this crime. Constable Jones pointed me in the right direction.’ Brook continued to check her demeanour for signs of forgiveness. There were none. ‘Ironic then that he should escape his fate.’
‘Why is Jason the main target, sir?’ enquired Aktar.
‘He’s made enemies, Constable. I think our killer has seen him on the news or in the papers in connection with the threatened rape of a teacher. He’s decided that the world would be a better place without him.’
‘But he kills the rest of the family even though his main target didn’t turn up?’ Noble’s scepticism was clear. ‘I’m sorry but that tells me he enjoys it.’
‘I know it’s hard to fathom, John, but PC Jones has a point. He has to kill the family. He wants to, if only to disguise the fact that Jason is the real target. Don’t forget he’s been planning this for a long time and Jason could turn up at any minute to collect his just desserts.’
After a pause, Jones found her voice. ‘Presumably the writing is something religious, about saving souls.’
‘Probably,’ shrugged Brook.
‘Then why write it on Baby Bianca despite not sending her soul off with the others?’
‘Good question…’ conceded Brook.
‘And why not cut it onto Mum and Dad? Presumably if he’s a religious nutter, he’s saved their souls as well,’ she added.
Brook shook his head. ‘I don’t know–pressure of time, perhaps.’ He was becoming fatigued with his team’s attempts to comprehend things he’d been grappling with for years.
Brook glanced as inconspicuously as he could at Wendy Jones and made his mind up. All that remained was to deflect Noble’s ego from the insult he was about to inflict.
‘No doubt you’re all aware from the press conference that there are some similarities in this case with a murder I investigated in London…’
‘You mean The Reaper killings,’ nodded Rob Morton.
‘I do. It was a long time ago and it’s a bit of a long shot but it needs to be checked out. I want to speak to Forensics before I go but then I want to know I can leave somebody of your calibre in charge, John. You’ve got the best CID team in the Midlands to back you up,’ beamed Brook at the assembled DCs who glowed with all the modesty they could muster. ‘And Aktar can assist.’ Brook felt Wendy Jones’s subtle change of expression. Was this a further snub?
‘We won’t let you down, sir,’ replied Noble. Brook was pleased with his ability to manipulate, but irked at Noble’s gullibility.
‘Good. Liaise with the Chief, but this is what I want. Keep going house to house. Talk to the neighbours again. I want to know when exactly our killer returned and, if possible, when Jason got back to the house.’
‘Right.’
‘Speak to Mr Singh again and get a more detailed statement about the half hour before he discovered the bodies. We want precise times about when the music was turned on and off. It may be that the volume was up high the whole time and Jason didn’t hear it because the music was at a quiet section. Mahler blows hot and cold doesn’t he, Constable?’
‘He does. Sir,’ replied Jones, not looking up.
‘Get on to the media. I want to know how far Jason’s infamy was scattered. Which papers was it in? Did it get onto local or national telly?’ Brook continued to reel off tasks so Noble wouldn’t have time to think about his demotion. He jotted them down furiously.
‘Check the hotels and B & Bs. I want to know of any men alone who checked out of their rooms on the morning of the murder or the day after. Names and addresses, reasons for visit, all that stuff. Cross reference with the height and weight of our description. And start checking people out as soon as you get names. Keep it to hotels within five miles of Derby to start with. I want a list on my desk when I get back.’
‘What about cabs, sir?’ suggested Noble, picking up the mood. ‘He may have done a recce of the killing ground. We could check any fares to and from Drayfin a couple of days beforehand.’
‘Great idea,’ purred Brook. ‘And find that van. It’s unlikely but he may have been careless and left us something. When you do find it, go house to house around it. I want to know where he went from there. Did he have another car waiting? Did he call a cab? Did he walk? He might not be in disguise at that point so any sightings will be more significant. Check all parking tickets issued up to two days before the murder in case he had another car and got sloppy. Get as many bodies as you need to help. But mum’s the word remember. The Chief wants this watertight. The media already know more than they’re supposed to.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ll get back to Jason in due course. There’s more to come from him but for now we’ll let him sweat. Where’s the aunt’s house?’
Noble flipped to the back of his notebook. ‘Mrs Harrison. 41 Station Road, Borrowash. The baby’s going there too.’
‘Good. It goes without saying I want the house watched round the clock for the time being. Set it up, John. That teacher Jason assaulted, Constable?’ Jones looked up.
‘Mrs Ottoman?’
‘Yes.’ She seemed wary.
‘I think it might be worth us paying them a visit, John.’ There was a pause as Brook gathered his breath.
‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ Jones enquired with a note of excessive deference. She was very ready to take offence, which made his reply all the more startling.
‘You?’ Brook was halted for a moment, trying to find the right approach, before deciding there wasn’t one. ‘You’re coming to London with me.’ Brook tried not to assess her reaction too closely and was impressed with her poise. She was smart. Her intelligence could be very useful on this trip. At least that’s what he told himself.