‘Forget it, Brooky, you’ve got nothing. No prints, no fibres, no DNA and no witnesses. Nothing. Just a purple tart sitting in a field full of purple flowers.’
‘Fleur de Lis by Robert Lewis Reid. Oil on canvas.’
‘I thought it was a poster.’
‘I mean the original, guv.’
‘So this Professor is into art in a big way. Big deal. It won’t get you a warrant, Brooky, so put it out of your head.’
Rowlands removed his feet from his desk and inhaled deeply on his cigarette. Tobacco smoke was oxygen to him now, the essential lenitive to deaden nerves and allow him to function. A few seconds later, having spread its soothing balm, the smoke began its return journey from lungs through mouth and nose, into the flask being raised to lips. Rowlands took an urgent draught before holding it out to his subordinate. He hated drinking alone, particularly in the morning and Brook felt compelled to offer all the support he could, until his boss could put his daughter’s death behind him.
So DS Brook accepted the flask and tilted it, making sure his tongue was covering the neck. The whisky burned the tip and fell back.
Brook stared out of the window at the rooftops sprawling across West London and popped a sly mint into his mouth. He could see the snake of sighing cars on the elevated M4, sidling impatiently towards their destination, and it held him for no particular reason. So many people going nowhere.
He turned to Rowlands, summoning all the gravity he could muster. ‘He did it, guv. I know it. He knows I know it. And what’s more,’ he said, raising an impressive finger, ‘he made sure I know it.’
‘You’re talking in riddles, Brooky.’
‘He knew I was coming, guv. He played me some music. Opera. It was another calling card. He’s sending messages with art.’ Brook flinched as he said it. That which seemed so certain sounded absurd when voiced.
Rowlands shook his head. ‘People like Victor Sorenson don’t go around murdering lowlifes like Sammy Elphick no matter what they may have nicked from him. They’ve got too much to lose.’
‘But Sammy didn’t nick anything don’t you get it, guv? Sorenson took the VCR with him and left it there. Just so there’d be something to connect him to the Elphick murders. He doesn’t even have a telly.’
‘Irrelevant, old son. He might have been about to buy one.’
‘You don’t need to tell me the legal objections. I know it makes no sense and I know it’d be laughed out of court. But I know he did it. And we’ve got to stop him.’
‘Brooky.’ Rowlands paused. He didn’t want to offend. ‘Putting aside the complete absence of physical evidence, if we accept that this man…’
‘If we accept that this Sorenson did take his own VCR to Sammy’s as a way in, you lose the only motive you’ve got.’
Brook laughed. ‘I know.’
‘You do?’
‘Yeah. There is no motive–at least not one that you can recognise.’
‘But you would?’
‘When I hear it. Look, guv, I’m not sure there even is one. That could be the point. I know it sounds flimsy. But you’ll see.’
‘I see a wealthy retired businessman with no reason to commit multiple murder…’
‘And the burglary at his house?’ argued Brook, clutching at a straw.
‘A burglary which you say never took place. According to you, this Sorenson buys a video for a TV he doesn’t have, notes the serial number, claims he’s had a break-in so he can report the thing stolen, then months later takes it to a flat in Harlesden to gain entry, kills Sammy Elphick and his family, and leaves it for us to find and return to him so he can give us a hint that he’s the killer. Flimsy ain’t the fucking word, Brooky The word is non-existent and don’t tell me that’s two fucking words, you toffee-nosed, fast-track twat.’ Brook laughed.
‘And tell me this,’ Rowlands continued. ‘Why the fuck would this guy go to all the trouble of leaving absolutely no trace at the scene of the murder and then confess to the first copper who turns up on his doorstep?’
‘He didn’t confess. He wanted me to know. There’s a difference. He doesn’t want us to prove it, guv, he wants to keep doing it. He’s laughing at us.’
‘Bollocks!’
‘It’s a classic case of super-ego. This is the first of a series, guv. He knows we wouldn’t finger him for The Reaper in a million years, unless he gives us a nudge. He’s killed three people and we can’t touch him for it. But he can’t have his fun unless he can watch us running around like headless chickens trying to pin it on him.’
‘But we’re not trying to pin it on him, Brooky.’
‘I am.’
Rowlands began to pant. His breath came quickly these days. Even the mildest difficulty enervated him. ‘Give it up, son. You’ll get nowhere with it. Our best, our only chance to catch this bastard is when he does it again. If he does it again.’ Rowlands spoke softly, deliberately. Brook saw the sign. His superior had nothing more to say on the matter, even if he could summon the necessary breath.
‘He will, guv. And when he does, I’ll be ready.’
There was an awkward silence between them and Brook wasn’t sure why. There hadn’t been many. They were friends as well as colleagues since Elizabeth’s death. Brook had nursed Rowlands through that dark time. He was still nursing him. There had been some difficult moments. These matters were usually suppressed, emotions weren’t easy–their job had no use for them. They were a hindrance, an encumbrance to efficient function. Extreme events were often turned into humour to make them easier to deal with. Even Rowlands’ de rigueur divorce had been a source of thin amusement to Brook and his boss. But the death of a child…
Rowlands pushed a piece of paper towards Brook. ‘Here, take your mind off things. Go for a drive in the sunshine.’
‘What’s that?’
‘An address near Ravenscourt Park. Uniform have found us a body to check out. It’s probably just a derelict with an exploded liver…’
‘I’ll take a look.’
‘And stop worrying so much about Sammy Elphick and things you can’t change. It’s not good for your health.’
Brook glanced at the cigarette and the flask, then at Rowlands and raised his eyebrows. They grinned in unison.
‘Point taken.’ Rowlands broke into a tarry chuckle. ‘I’m serious though. It’ll cost you if you make it personal, Damen. That way lies madness. Take it from me. Besides,’ Rowlands searched for a justification and came up with one that guilt would only allow him to mutter under what passed for his breath, ‘it’s only Sammy Elphick. When all’s said and done, who’s bothered?’
Brook paused, mulling over something, then nodded. ‘You’re right, guv. It’s only Sammy Elphick. He won’t be missed.’ Then quieter, ‘You’re right.’
A sudden cloud glided over them, as though both men were confronted by something they’d rather not face. Save for the distant ringing of telephones there was nothing to disturb the moment.
Brook was the one to break it. ‘Do you remember that night, on the stairwell? When I asked you if it was a bad one and you said you didn’t know. I think I understand what you were saying.’
‘Do you? I hope not.’
Brook ignored the warning and stared at the wall, conjuring the scene. ‘I saw what you saw. I saw Sammy. I saw his wife. I saw the boy. This is a bad one, I thought. This is a brutal, heartless killing of man, woman and child, and every right-thinking person in this world should be appalled. And do you know what, guv? I didn’t care. I didn’t give a damn about those people. I looked into that boy’s face and all I saw was a case–a problem to solve. I didn’t see a family. I didn’t see a history–work, play, life, death. I saw three corpses and a challenge. I didn’t see a brutal killing and I wasn’t appalled.’ Brook looked hard at his boss. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Rowlands raised a bloodshot eye to Brook and nodded.
Brook missed the attempt at closure. ‘I thought it would hit me later. I’d have nightmares. But it hasn’t. And I know it won’t.’
‘No,’ agreed Rowlands. He took another pull on the flask and thought for a second. ‘How old are you, Brooky?’
‘Twenty-seven. Why?’
Rowlands nodded, a bemused look spreading across his countenance. ‘Christ. I was twenty-seven,’ he glanced up at Brook as though to reassure him of the relevance of this information, ‘when I stopped.’
‘Stopped what?’
‘Giving a shit.’