Brook turned to walk back to Holland Park Avenue. He was going to be late meeting Wendy. Then an impulse overwhelmed him and he crossed the road and hauled on the brass pull of Number 12. He held his breath and listened.
No music. No sound. Nothing. He was about to turn away when a noise from within made him linger. The door opened.
‘Can I help you?’ The woman peered at Brook dubiously. Her voice had a heavy Scandinavian lilt. She looked about fifty years old with short blonde hair, tinted to disguise any grey, wide, clear grey eyes and a clear complexion. She was still a handsome woman and must once have been a great beauty. She held a hand over her eyes to shield them from the low sun.
‘Is this Professor Sorenson’s house?’
‘It is.’
‘Right.’ Brook was hesitant. He hadn’t expected the house to still be Sorenson’s. ‘I…used to be a friend of his…it was a while ago. I heard the news and came to pay my respects.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ she said without gratitude. She was suspicious, uneasy, gripping the door with one hand. ‘It’s a difficult time.’
‘Yes. Are you Mrs Sorenson?’
She hesitated. ‘Yes.’
Brook nodded politely. She didn’t trust him. Why would she? He didn’t trust himself. It was time to get personal. ‘I hadn’t realised Professor Sorenson…Victor had married. He certainly kept that quiet.’ He unfurled a smile that implied her husband had been a lucky son of a gun.
At the mention of his name, Mrs Sorenson seemed to thaw and she smiled back. ‘Oh no. I’m not Victor’s wife. I’m his sister-in-law. Victor never married.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry. You must be Stefan’s wife then. Widow,’ added Brook, glad he’d reviewed the file a couple of days before. His tone was regretful and he bowed his head in the appropriate manner. ‘I knew Stefan only slightly,’ he lied. ‘A terrible business…’
At the mention of Sorenson’s brother, the frost returned to his widow’s face.
‘Yes.’ She dropped her eyes and a hint of remembered pain clouded her features. Brook was surprised. She hadn’t got over it in all these years. There were others like him.
‘How are the children taking it?’ asked Brook, immediately realising that Sorenson’s nephew and niece must be her children.
‘Badly. Victor became a father to them.’
‘I know.’ Brook had nowhere else to go with this and wished he hadn’t bothered. He looked at his watch, keen to be away from the awkwardness. ‘Well, I must be off. Please accept my best wishes.’
‘Thank you.’ She held out a hand, more cheerful now that he was leaving. ‘Mr?’
‘Brook. Damen Brook.’ He shook her outstretched hand.
To Brook’s amazement Mrs Sorenson’s face lit up in a warm smile of recognition that changed her completely. She looked different now, different and yet, somehow familiar. Had he met her in the old days? He didn’t think he had.
‘Mr Brook! Why, of course. Victor used to mention you all the time. He was very fond of you, you know.’
‘Was he?’
‘Yes. You were always in his thoughts and prayers.’
Brook smiled back with as much warmth as he could manage. ‘And he in mine.’
‘Where are my manners? Won’t you come in and have some tea?’ She was positively gushing now and Brook found it unnerving. What had Sorenson said about him? The mention of his name usually had the opposite effect. Perhaps he should send Harry Hendrickson and a few others round for a reappraisal.
‘I can’t. Thank you. I have an appointment.’ Brook took a step back to try and close proceedings.
‘What a pity. Well, thank you for coming. If Victor were…’ Her lip began to wobble and tears filled her eyes.
‘I understand,’ Brook nodded and turned to walk back to the hotel, not noticing the curtain twitch at the porthole window on the second floor.
‘Interesting,’ he muttered. His impulsive act had thrown up an intriguing question. Why had Victor Sorenson been handed the responsibility of looking after his brother’s two children after his murder in 1989 when the mother was still around? Or had they just been visiting the night Brook had crept into their room all those years ago? He resolved to find out.
Wendy Jones looked at her watch as Brook stepped into the piano bar. He caught the gesture and smiled at her not to be embarrassed.
‘You’re right. I’m late. Sorry.’
‘No need to be. It’s just, twice in one day. It’s not like you. I mean…they say…’ Jones blushed.
Brook raised an amused eyebrow as he called a waiter over. ‘Really? And what do they say exactly?’
‘That you’re always punctual,’ she replied softly, looking at the ground.
‘Anything else?’
Jones paused, then looked up and smiled back. She stared at an invisible list on the palm of her hand. ‘Rich, arrogant, clever, obsessive, no sense of humour, likes old sports cars, difficult to get along with.’
Brook threw back his head and guffawed. ‘No sense of humour? I resent that.’
She laughed and her face brightened. It was a heartening sight. Brook was reminded of their night together, recalled having never seen anyone giggle as much as her. Though he’d assumed that was Breezer-induced.
Jones continued her own reassessment. She’d been misled. He’s just different to other people, she thought. Nothing wrong with that. And the things he’d told her, the things he’d seen. It would make anyone difficult to get along with. It wasn’t surprising he carried the scars. In fact, he should have been more damaged. She felt a brief twinge of desire. He was lost and maybe she was the one to find him.
‘So you are rich,’ she accused.
Brook’s grin faded to a smile as though he was ashamed. ‘It depends how you define rich.’
‘Why don’t you define it for me? Harry Hendrickson reckons over a million.’
‘Does he? Well, he’s way out. If you really want to know, I sold my flat in Fulham when I got divorced. It made £180,000 profit, all of which I gave to Amy and Terri. Last year I sold the house in Battersea for a profit of nearly £800,000, would you believe?’
‘Which you gave to your wife and daughter.’
‘No. She’s remarried so we split it. Okay?’
‘And you’re paying for the hotel yourself.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Just to take another look at this Sorenson’s house?’
‘Right.’ She didn’t seem convinced. ‘Atmosphere, Wendy. It was important to get back the old feeling. No matter how painful. I hope I didn’t embarrass you earlier?’
‘No. I understand how you must have felt. This Sorenson sounded very charismatic and you were young.’
‘I felt better telling you.’
There was a lull as both drank their coffee but the awkwardness had gone.
‘So what now?’
‘Now? It’s too late to see Charlie Rowlands. We’re going to check in with my old station, put out a few feelers and then I’m going to buy you a fantastic dinner.’
‘Sounds good. But as you’re down to your last four hundred grand, do you mind if we go Dutch?’
Brook sat naked on the edge of the bed and pummelled his wet hair as he talked into the phone. DS Ross, a wide boy from Hammersmith nick, was on the other end.
‘That’s right,’ said Brook. ‘Married to Stefan Sorenson. He was bludgeoned to death in his home in Kensington ’89. Right. How are you spelling that? S-O-N-J-A Sorenson. Got it. Belle Vue Park Retreat. What is that? Interesting. Four years? Sounds like a sick woman. Yeah. Thanks a lot. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s nothing but you’ll be the first to know if I turn up a connection.’ An impatient pause. ‘I know I’m out of my jurisdiction,’ said Brook. ‘That’s why you’ll hear the moment I find anything. You’ll have to take that up with my Chief Super. Yeah. Yeah. Thanks again.’
Brook slammed down the receiver. ‘Moron.’ He’d forgotten the contempt the Met had for ‘Hillbillies,’ one of the many insults they hurled at coppers stationed outside the M25.
Still he had his information. Mrs Sonja Sorenson had spent four years in a ‘retreat’. From 1988 to 1992. Retreat–a sugar-coated name for a mental institution, according to Ross, though attendance was voluntary, not to mention expensive.
Her mental problems pre-dated both her husband’s murder and her brother-in-law’s subsequent atrocities. Natural then that after Stefan Sorenson’s murder, responsibility for his children would devolve to Victor.
And perhaps it was feasible that she knew nothing about Victor’s activities. But four years was a long time. Perhaps she knew what Victor had done. Maybe her husband’s murder, and her brother-in-law’s obsessive search for his killer, and his brutal revenge on Sammy Elphick and family, had prolonged her illness.
But that still didn’t explain why such a young mother, with two very young children should check into a glorified mental hospital the year before her husband’s death.
Brook knew he should have delved deeper into Stefan’s murder at the time, but he’d been so preoccupied with the Harlesden killings, and so thrilled to uncover a motive for them, that he hadn’t felt the need to be exhaustive. Perhaps he’d been right. Perhaps there was nothing in it.
But now he had a bigger problem. He had a dinner date with Wendy Jones and he wasn’t sure what to wear.
Wendy Jones chewed her final mouthful of baklava with her eyes closed. She swallowed, with an extravagant moan of pleasure, and resisted the temptation to lick the film of honey from her spoon. Instead she sat back, contented, and opened her eyes. Brook watched her, his chin resting on his knuckles, a half-smile playing around his lips. It was good to watch people, young people, enjoying life, satisfying their appetites with no thought other than self-gratification.
First Vicky, now Wendy.
The memory of his desperate night with Vicky, brought home to Brook the possibility of carnal pleasures.
‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Jones.
Brook filled her glass with wine. ‘Thinking how nice it is to see you eat.’
‘Don’t. I’m supposed to be watching my weight.’
‘What for?’
‘I’m getting…stocky.’
Brook took the opportunity to inspect her. It was less embarrassing than showing her he could rely on his memory. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Wendy.’
‘Don’t be too sure. I need more exercise.’ When she realised the implications of what she’d said, she flushed. Brook pretended not to notice. He ordered two large cognacs and the conversation dried.
Finally Jones broke the silence. ‘Sir?’
‘Please call me Damen.’
‘It wouldn’t feel right…’
‘Just for tonight.’ Again she went red so Brook followed up hastily. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Wendy?’
‘I prefer it.’
‘There you are then. What were you going to say?’
‘I was wondering how strong a connection there is in London with the Wallis killings.’
‘Only the MO.’
‘Then why are we here for three nights? There must be more valuable leads to follow in Derby.’
Brook shrugged. She was probing in that clear-thinking way she had. She was right. Unless they unearthed a concrete link soon, they might as well go back tomorrow. He wondered whether to mention Brighton but decided against it.
Two large cognacs arrived. Brook drained his glass and called for the bill. Jones went for her purse but Brook insisted on paying.
‘One thing puzzles me. It’s a bit personal…’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Well. If you’re so well off…’
Brook opened his mouth to raise an objection.
‘…relatively speaking,’ she added. Brook smiled his agreement. ‘Then…I don’t know how to put this.’
‘Just say it.’
Finally she found the words. ‘Why don’t you live properly?’
Brook stared at her, wondering if she was serious, then realised it was a good question, with no easy response. In the end he could dredge up only one answer.
‘I don’t know how.’