‘What do you think?’
Rowlands shrugged and looked over at his colleague in the driver’s seat, weighing his response with care. ‘I think I need a drink.’ Rowlands closed the folder and fumbled for a cigarette, lighting it with a trembling hand which he then held out for inspection. Three times he tried to cure the shakes with no more than an act of will. He failed each time.
‘About the file, I mean.’
‘How long are you going to keep this up, Brooky?’
‘Guv…’
‘I mean it. It’s been a year now and yet you won’t face it. This is nothing. We’ve got nothing on Sorenson and we never will have. I’m sorry, lad. I can’t cover for you much longer.’
‘What do you mean? I’m not asking you to. I get my work done.’
‘Do you think I give a toss about your work? This is the Met, Brooky. No-one gives a flying fuck as long as the villains are killing each other. I’m talking about Amy, lad. Remember her and your baby. I’m talking about your wife ringing me to complain to me about your workload and me having to pretend that it’s my fault you’re never at home.’
‘Guv…’
‘No, Damen, it’s got to stop. You’ve got to give it up. You’re still young…’
‘But he lied, guv. You accept that at least. His twin brother, Stefan, we talked about him. He told me he died of cancer…’
‘So what? So he didn’t die of cancer. So he was beaten to death in his home. Big fucking deal. It’s a touchy subject to some people.’
‘Guv!’
‘All right. What do you want me to say? He lied to you. What of it?’
‘So it got me thinking. Stefan Sorenson was beaten to death in 1989, two years ago, disturbing an intruder who’s never been found. Don’t you see? Sorenson didn’t want me to know that. Why? Because he found him. He knew I’d guess. That intruder was a burglar and maybe that burglar was Sammy Elphick…’
‘Maybe, maybe, maybe…’
‘It’s motive, guv. He waits for his revenge. He finds the man who orphaned his nephew and niece. He’s going to kill him and what’s more, to pay back the suffering inflicted on the Sorensons, he decides to take out Sammy’s family as a bonus. And what better way to do it than to make Sammy watch, make him suffer the way Sorensons suffered?’ Brook cast his eyes around, looking for a way to continue. ‘Do you know losing a twin is like losing a limb?’
‘I do now.’ Rowlands sighed and ran his sleeve over the condensation on the windscreen. He stared out at the rain, avoiding Brook’s entreaties. He affected a dry cough and pulled out his flask to treat it. Brook took the offered flask and feigned a drink in his usual way.
Five brooding minutes later, Brook tried to resurrect a reasonable tone. ‘I just need two more weeks, guv. I know he did it and I know he’s going to strike again soon.’
‘Why? If he’s got his revenge.’
‘I think he’s got a taste for it,’ Brook offered weakly. ‘All I know is he’s planning it.’
‘How do you know?’
Brook pulled the delivery note from his pocket and thrust it at Rowlands.
‘What’s this?’
‘A delivery note.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘It’s for a £600 Compact Disc player. Look at the date. It was delivered to Sorenson over three months ago. It’s still in the box in his house.’ Brook smiled at Rowlands. ‘Remember the VCR we found at Sammy’s.’
‘Yeah.’
‘That was his way in to Sammy’s flat. The CD player’s for the next victims. And we’ve got the serial number. When he leaves it there, we’ve got him.’ Brook couldn’t keep the victorious grin from his features and regretted it at once.
‘You seem keen for The Reaper to kill again, Brooky.’
‘Course I’m not but he will. And when he does…’
‘How did you get hold of this?’
Brook paused and stole a glance at his boss. He hadn’t expected Charlie Rowlands, of all people, to wave the Book at him.
‘During an illegal search,’ he conceded.
‘You’re telling me…’
‘Yes, it’s inadmissible, but if we have The Reaper, when we have him, we’ll get round it. I promise.’
Rowlands sighed. Brook waited but he knew he had him. The longer his boss kept silent the more he was unable to conjure objections.
‘Two weeks, Brooky. Then I’m pulling the plug. That means Amy as well as work. Got it?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you need anybody else?’
‘He won’t move unless it’s just me, guv. Don’t ask me to explain it.’
Rowlands got out of the car and turned to Brook as though about to speak. In the end, he shot him a weak smile and closed the door.
Brook watched him hover outside the pub, looking slyly back at the car, so he engrossed himself in tuning the radio to let Rowlands slip in without guilt.
He checked his watch. 2.30. A couple of hours of daylight left. If he went home now, he could take Theresa round the park, give Amy some time off.
He started the car and arrived at Queensdale Road twenty minutes later.
No sooner had he killed the engine and kicked off his shoes, than Sorenson emerged from his house. He brandished an umbrella over his head, though it was barely spitting, and walked the hundred yards to Holland Park Avenue.
Brook knew from painstaking observation that Sorenson travelled everywhere by black cab so he restarted the car and crawled along the kerb after him. Not once did Sorenson look round. He was either oblivious to the way Brook had dogged his steps for so long, or he simply didn’t care.
He climbed into a cab a couple of minutes later and set off to the west towards Shepherd’s Bush Green, Brook in pursuit two cars behind.
The traffic was building and progress was slow. Only a handful of cars were getting through the lights on each cycle and Brook was tempted to get closer, to avoid being left. He resisted. If push came to shove he could always bang on the portable siren to make up ground.
As he feared, Sorenson’s taxi driver scooted through the lights on red and the car in front of Brook pulled to a halt.
Brook slapped the wheel in frustration and was about to reach down for the siren when he noticed the cab pull over on Goldhawk Road and stop.
For a second, Brook thought Sorenson had stopped to be sure Brook didn’t lose him–that really would have been taking the mick–but instead his quarry leapt from the cab and into an adjacent hardware store. The cab’s hazard lights came on. It was waiting for him.
When the lights turned in Brook’s favour, he overtook the stationary cab and parked fifty yards beyond. A moment later, Sorenson emerged with a plastic bag and hopped back into the cab. Brook sank onto his side as the cab pulled round his car and then sat up to continue the pursuit.
Two minutes later, Brook glanced over at the neat park on his left. Ravenscourt Park. In another hundred yards they’d pass Ravenscourt Gardens, the street in which Laura Maples had lived the last part of her brief life and died the first part of her eternal death.
With a surge of panic, Brook realised that’s where Sorenson was going. The knowledge gnawed at him, as surely as the rats had gnawed at young Laura.
Sure enough, the cab pulled into Ravenscourt Gardens and Victor Sorenson stepped out, carrying his plastic bag. Brook waited round the corner giving Sorenson enough time to find the right house. There was no hurry. Brook knew where it was, he could have walked there with his eyes closed. Especially with his eyes closed.
After an appropriate pause, Brook pulled off the main road and walked towards the basement flat where Laura Maples had perished. Nothing had changed much. There were no onlookers being held back now, no flashing lights and no convulsing uniforms. Otherwise it was as he remembered it.
Brook stopped and put his hands on the railings as he had that warm summer night. They were cold to the touch. He gazed down at the yard. It was still full of detritus, most of it saturated into cardboard soup by winter rains. Only the discarded plastic bag was shiny and new. The smell was the same. Decay.
Brook descended into the depths and picked up the bag. Inside were empty packages for a torch and batteries. He dropped it to the ground. Perhaps he could haul in The Reaper for littering with intent to commit serial homicide. Charlie Rowlands had once done something similar to a sneering Yardie, after he’d thrown his McDonalds carton on the floor. ‘If you can’t catch ’em,’ he’d said to Brook, ‘piss ’em off.’
Brook looked at the boarded window and then at the door. The hardboard had gone, replaced by a sheet of corrugated iron that had been pulled aside. The stench of urine and faeces still pervaded. For once, Brook hankered after a pull on Rowlands’ flask but had to be content with rapid deep breathing. He tucked his trousers into his socks and then he was in.
It was pitch black so he waited by the entrance to accustom his eyes. If he hadn’t given up smoking for the baby he might have had a box of matches to light his way. It would be a splendid irony if having quit smoking for health reasons, Sorenson crept up on him now and cut his throat.
Eventually Brook felt confident enough to inch toward the feeble glow, emanating from the room in which the girl had died. At the thought of her, he saw again the bloated, blackening corpse of Laura Maples and felt a surge of nausea rising in him.
A noise from the next room distracted him and he pressed on, aware of rustling and nuzzling in nearby rubbish. Grazing rats probably. Brook wasn’t sure he could go any further. He wanted to run back to the light, breathe fresh air.
‘They’re more afraid of you than you are of them,’ he muttered, though he knew it wasn’t true.
Brook clenched a fist. He had to go on. Sorenson was waiting for him. This could be the final test. And passing it could get him the ringside seat for Reaper 2–The Reckoning. This time it was personal. So he inched forward, scuffing his feet across the floor to ensure he didn’t tread on a scavenging rodent. He cursed Sorenson for leading him here and himself for being so squeamish.
Where was Sorenson? If he was in the next room he was certainly being very sparing with the torch. Perhaps this was a trap after all, Sorenson’s solution to a year of harassment, but before he could ponder this theory further his blood curdled at the sound of a deep and baleful howling, emanating from the entrails of the house.
He had no time to decide whether to run or freeze because a shadow fell across the faint light of Brook’s destination. It was moving fast and, before he could dive out of the way or even raise an arm for protection, the shadow had hurtled into him with a sickening thud of skull on skull.
Brook went flying in the dark and landed on his left shoulder, with a distasteful skid through something rotten and slimy.
But the shadow wasn’t resting. Although knocked back by the collision, it rose quickly and charged headlong through the door, slithering to a halt before taking the stairs two at a time. Brook clambered to his feet. He caught a glimpse of a hairy face and filthy coat, shiny with wear, and made to follow but instead slipped on something that gave way under his foot and he sank back to the ground.
A foot from his head, a torch flicked on. The light startled the rat poised to sniff Brook’s face and it scuttled away, hastened by Brook’s scream of terror. He flailed his arms around his head for a moment to stave off any further invasion and scrambled onto his haunches, eyes wide, mouth set in a grin of fear.
The light turned to Brook and brought him some relief for his nerves though his stomach wasn’t pleased to see the dog shit he’d fallen in.
‘Are you alright, Sergeant?’ Sorenson declined even to feign surprise at the sight of his opponent.
‘I will be when I get this stinking coat off,’ said Brook, taking the unexpected offer of Sorensons hand. Brook was yanked to his feet by a powerful arm. ‘Thanks. Who was that?’ he asked, tearing off his reeking coat, nodding at the exit.
‘That, I assume, is the new tenant,’ replied Sorenson.
Brook held his coat at arm’s length, between finger and thumb, his face puckered until he burst into the fresher air. Outside he shuddered at the sight and smell of his clothing and sucked in much needed oxygen, all the while eyeing Sorenson with a look of mild annoyance. ‘You certainly spooked him.’
‘Yes. I don’t think he heard me. He got a bit of a fright.’
‘I bet he did.’ Brook shot a glance at Sorensons suede shoes. There wasn’t a mark or a damp stain on them. The man’s agility was remarkable. He must also have fantastic night vision to walk in there without his torch on. ‘What are you doing here, Professor?’
‘I could ask you the same thing,’ he replied with an accusing smile but Brook wasn’t to be charmed off the subject and glowered at Sorenson. ‘Shall we visit the scene of the crime, Sergeant?’ Without waiting for an answer, Sorenson snapped the torch back on and marched back into the derelict flat. Brook made an instant decision to follow and leapt after him to make sure he got full value from the light.
When they reached the killing ground, Sorenson began to move his head around, looking, sensing.
‘It was here, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
He nodded. ‘I was moved by your story of the girl’s plight. I thought I might be able to help.’
‘Help? How?’ The undercurrent of Brook’s scorn was ignored.
‘With suggestions.’
‘Such as.’
‘I assume the Metropolitan Police are utilising the miracle of DNA fingerprinting, Sergeant?’
‘It’s becoming a useful tool, yes.’
‘So you know what it is.’
‘It’s the use of tissue samples to obtain a DNA profile of a person, a unique signature from the DNA molecule, which can be visualised like a bar code. And no two are the same.’
‘And did you know that you’ll eventually be able to get a profile, no matter how small or old the tissue sample is?’
‘This is pie in the sky at the moment, Professor. It’s only just operational.’
‘Sergeant, the first patent in the UK was only issued four years ago. Yes, this technique is in its infancy but it will become ever more sophisticated. Samples that seem too small or old to give up their DNA secrets today will be easy to test in five or ten years. Did you find samples of young Laura’s killer?’
‘There was a lot of semen. But it was old and compromised.’
‘It looks like he’s got away with it then…’ said Sorenson with a knowing smile, ‘…unless you kept the samples.’
‘The file’s still open,’ Brook replied, puzzled. Sorenson didn’t fit Brook’s identikit of a concerned citizen.
‘I’m glad to hear it. Murderers are going to have to be ultra careful in future. Why, even a hair follicle falling to the ground could be their undoing.’ Sorenson beamed, for once without a trace of mockery. ‘Of course you’ll need an idea of who to profile to see if you’ve got a match.’
‘How do you know so much about it?’
‘Former contacts in the business. My father founded Sorenson Pharmaceuticals. I’m sure you know.’
Brook looked at him, uncertain how to proceed. ‘Why have you come here, Professor?’
‘Like I said. To help.’
‘And how will this help?’
‘Atmosphere, Sergeant Brook, never underestimate the power of atmosphere.’
‘Your brother Stefan was murdered during a break-in. Was it Sammy Elphick?’
Sorenson flinched for a second and Brook wasn’t sure his experiment had worked. He was pleased to get such a reaction from Sorenson, to know that he could be affected, but his move was at odds with the way the game was supposed to be played. This crude stab at his quarry’s underbelly might get Brook disqualified from the final round.
He needn’t have worried. The smile returned at once.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a number of things to take care of With that he set off back to the entrance, Brook at his heel to be sure not to get left in the dark.
Having ascended the slimy steps, Sorenson marched away. Brook watched him go. Suddenly he turned back, training the torch on Brook’s face. With a look at the skies, he said, ‘It looks like it could be a wild night tonight.’ With a smug smile, he added, ‘There’s going to be an electric storm and sparks are going to fly. Won’t that be something?’ Sorenson sniggered, looking very pleased with himself. He turned and walked away to hail a cab on the main road.
Such self-congratulation was an unpleasant sight and reminded Brook of his purpose. ‘Catch you later,’ he heard himself calling at Sorensons retreating frame. The time was near.
Brook drained his coffee and dialled the hotel switchboard for an outside line. He felt good after his nap. He’d only been asleep for an hour so, perhaps, that wasn’t the reason. They say confession is good for the soul, which heartened Brook because his present upbeat mood might be evidence that he still had one. How might he feel if he’d told Jones everything? No. There were some subjects that couldn’t be broached–for her sake as much as his.
‘DS Noble, please. Inspector Brook. Yeah, I’m having a fine old time, Harry. Just connect me, will you?’ A moment later. ‘John. How goes it?’
‘Okay sir. We’ve found the van.’
‘About time. Where?’
‘Opposite Derby Station. Looks like he may have got a train out of town.’
‘Opposite? Then why the hell wasn’t it found days ago?’
‘It wasn’t on the road. It was on a private drive. Turns out the couple living there have just got back from a skiing holiday. They reported it as soon as they got through the door. We’ve got Forensics going over it now.’
‘Anything yet?’
‘No but there’s a fair bit of blood around.’
‘It won’t be our boy’s, you can be sure.’
‘What size?’
‘Eight. From some kind of sports shoe.’
‘That’s something. Get onto Midland Mainline…’
‘In hand, sir. Aktar’s reviewing all the CCTV but we’ll keep it for you to look at.’
‘Good. Anything else, John?’
‘Yeah. We got a call from the hospital. They’ve done more tests on what was in Jason’s blood. Apparently he was on something the night of the murder. Thought you’d want to know.’
‘We know he was on something. He had Ecstasy tablets on him.’
‘It wasn’t that.’
‘What then?’ Brook’s heart quickened as he listened. He nodded. ‘Keep the surveillance on him. We want to know where he is at all times. Anything else?’
‘Yeah. Jason’s shoes have got no blood on them and there are no footprints of his in the front room. He’s in the clear there.’
‘So it seems. What about his clothes?’
‘Forensics is still working on them.’
‘Okay. Just a thought, John. When you go house to house around the van, ask if any other cars were on that drive over the last week. Maybe he had another car waiting. In fact, while you’re on it, check the house. If the killer knew the residents were away for a while he might even have stayed there.’
Brook put the phone down. He looked at his watch. He had half an hour before meeting Wendy.
Five minutes later he was strolling down Queensdale Road, hands in pockets, fingering the delicate metal with his left hand. He withdrew his hand and inspected the necklace with its small hearts. Why had he brought it? It was in the past and he should have left it in the file in the cellar. His heart was sad for the girl but she was in a better place now. Perhaps he should just send the necklace back to the Maples family. There was little justification for keeping it. Her parents might be glad of it–assuming they were still alive.
On the other hand they had plenty to remember her by and Brook still felt a responsibility towards Laura. He’d keep it for now, but he resolved to return it to the folder for good. No point trailing it everywhere, reminding him.
He strolled on. Yes, he ambled now. Like any tourist might. Not like before. Once upon a time he was in a hurry to get to Sorenson’s house, mind racing, in thrall to the chase.
He hadn’t been here for many years. Not since that last night in ’91. The night of the storm. Now it was like he’d never been away. The house was exactly the same. The same ivy, the same porthole window on the second storey, the same screen behind the lounge windows, the same brass bell pull.
Brook lingered in front of the house, though on the opposite side of the road. He stood under the shadow of a tree, which hung over the fence of a small circular garden for residents only.
The night of the storm…