DS Brook trudged through the office, aware that he looked wilder than usual. He hadn’t shaved or changed his wet clothes, his eyes were red-rimmed and his hair was dank and matted against his skull. Even the DCs, and other assorted grunts, who generally avoided his passing, were moved to stop what they were doing and stare.
Brook, aware of inquisitive eyes, locked his attention onto the plastic cup of black coffee he carried, holding it like a bar of plutonium. He didn’t go out of his way to indulge in that fiendishly difficult small talk that others found easy so he hurried to the sanctuary of his office.
Once there, he slumped into his chair, took a mouthful of the black unction and rummaged through a drawer for cigarettes. He pulled out a dented pack, cracked the cellophane and lit up, closing his eyes to the bite of the smoke. Then he reached for the phone and dialled.
‘Hello.’
‘It’s me, darling.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Working.’
‘All night? In that terrible weather?’
‘Fraid so.’
There was a pause from Amy. She’d been down this route before. Since Harlesden. Since Laura Maples. Her husband was unreachable, not of this earth. But she couldn’t let him off lightly. He had responsibilities. ‘And were there no phones where you were working?’ She was about to add his name but thought it might signal weakness.
‘I…It was difficult, darling. There was another family killed last night. It’s The Reaper. He’s taken another family.’
‘Oh God. Where?’
‘Brixton. Can you hear me? Do you understand? It was The Reaper again.’ Brook closed his eyes and recalled Amy peering out of the window of the house the night before, ignorant of his presence, unaware how her simple reaction to a car horn had released such a tide of relief and self-loathing in him. He remembered the cold hand of fear tightening its grip on his shoulders, holding him, pushing him down into his seat, numbing him.
‘Does this mean another year like the last one, Damen?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I can’t stand it any more. Never seeing you and all the time dreading seeing you. You come home, sit in a chair and stare…I can’t stand any more…’
Brook took the silver chain from his pocket and draped it around his fingers, playing with it. For a moment, he forgot he was on the phone and just stared at the necklace with its little hearts glinting in the pale light. He spoke again, his voice a mere croak.
‘You can rest easy now, Laura. Don’t worry any more. It’s over, Laura. It’s over.’ He replaced the receiver and slumped forward onto his desk.
The door opened. ‘Brooky. Fucking hell! Are you all right, old son? You look like shit.’
Brook opened one eye at Rowlands from the cradle of his trembling arms. He lifted his damp head and caught a waft of the brewery from his boss. He drained the last of his coffee. ‘Sorry, guv. Didn’t sleep last night.’
‘Was that at home or in your car outside Sorenson’s?’ Brook opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. ‘I thought so,’ nodded Rowlands. ‘Well,’ he said, looking at a wad of papers in his fist. ‘That might be a blessing in disguise.’
‘Why?’
Rowlands smiled. ‘Because now you’ll know Sorenson ain’t The Reaper. There’s been another.’
Brook nodded. ‘I know.’
‘What do you mean, you know?’
‘The Reaper killed another family. I followed him.’
Rowlands was speechless, his face pained. He turned away from Brook and slumped into the nearest chair, pulling out his flask. After a longer pull than usual, he offered it to Brook, as was his custom. For once Brook kept the tip of his tongue from the neck and allowed the cheap whisky to burn his throat.
‘You’re right.’ Rowlands was sombre. ‘In Brixton. A black man, name of Floyd Wrigley and his girlfriend and daughter. What happened to you?’
Brook looked away. ‘I lost him. In Battersea.’
‘What?’
‘He went to my house first to remind me what he could do.’
‘Jesus, Brooky! Then you don’t know for sure it was Sorenson.’
‘It was him, guv.’
‘Fucking hell, lad. When will this thing end? You can’t go on like this. You’ve got to get on with your life.’ Rowlands seemed like he was about to burst into tears. ‘Look, I’m your friend. You have to drop this now. Another year like this will kill you…’
‘Guv!’ Brook held up a hand. ‘Stop worrying. Sorenson’s finished with me now.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘He’s beaten me, he’ll move on.’
‘Talk sense, man.’
Brook smiled at his incomprehension and decided not to disturb it. ‘I’ve nothing left to give. He knows that. After last night. That’s why he went to my house. To show me he can do what he wants and I won’t…I can’t stop him.’
Rowlands took another pull on his flask and looked off into space. After several moments he began nodding and even managed a smile. ‘Good. We’ll let someone else worry about it. And you don’t want any details then?’
‘No.’
‘You really mean it, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you don’t want to reccy the crime scene?’
Brook paused. ‘No need.’
‘I’d better ring the Brixton Boys then. They were expecting you on a consult. I’ll tell ’em we’ve got complete confidence in ’em.’ He winked. ‘They’ll lap that up. Go home, Brooky. You’ve got a beautiful wife and baby waiting for you.’
‘Thanks, guv. I will.’ Brook stood with some difficulty. He seemed to be on the verge of complete collapse. He shuffled to the door.
‘What’s this?’
Brook turned to see Rowlands fingering Laura’s silver necklace, which lay on the blotter. He held out his hand and his boss dropped it into his palm.
‘It’s a present for Theresa.’
Brook pulled his collar up against the cold and headed for the sanctuary of the café. He bought a tea and hesitated, surveying the available food. He was hungry but not that hungry.
The Leeds-Derby service was delayed but Brook didn’t care. He needed time to think. He knew now what he had to do, but he needed support from McMaster and had to work out how to get it. Suspended or not, he must have her backing to go to Glasgow, even if unofficial, just drop her name into the conversation to get the jocks to speak to him about Roddy Telfer’s background and try to find a link with the other Reaper killings.
It would be difficult. His visit to Leeds had been a mistake. He’d been refused any co-operation without back-up from a senior officer. Now McMaster would be hearing about Brook treading on toes in the North, sniffing around on a case from which he’d been suspended.
Brook sipped his tea. He pulled out the Leeds A-Z given him by Sorenson. What had he missed? Despite all indications to the contrary, there had to be something to learn from Telfer’s killing in ’93. But what? What did Sorenson mean? ‘Don’t judge this book by its cover.’
Well Brook had judged it. He’d marked Leeds down as a copycat but now he was being forced to reassess. The murder of Roddy Telfer and his heavily pregnant girlfriend was connected to The Reaper. Sorenson had told him that much, told him to dig deeper.
Brook stared at the A-Z, at the page with Telfer’s old street on it. He wondered if Sorenson knew Telfer’s building had been flattened to make way for a new link road and that there was no longer a murder scene to visit. Did that matter? Sorenson was telling him Leeds was important. Brook had missed something. Despite the botched MO, there was a connection with Harlesden and Brixton. Especially Brixton.
Something bubbled away beneath his consciousness but wouldn’t surface. His mind drifted back to the face of the Wrigley girl on that terrible night in Brixton. The night Sorenson had shown him he could take any family he wanted, even Brook’s.
Families. Sammy Elphick had killed Sorenson’s brother in a bungled burglary. Floyd Wrigley had raped and murdered Laura Maples. What had Telfer done to interest The Reaper? What had Bobby Wallis done?
‘How you feelin’, Brooky?’
‘Okay guv.’
‘You don’t look okay. That baby keeping you awake?’ Brook nodded.
‘How is she?’
‘Terri’s fine.’
‘Fine.’ Rowlands contemplated Brook. ‘You must be the first parent in history who don’t gush at any mention of their new-born baby. And what about you, lad? Are you fine?’
Brook nodded.
‘I can do this on my own. There’s still time for you to bail.’
‘I’m okay, guv,’ replied Brook and they both returned to their reading matter. Brook finished his toast and drained the last of his syrupy tea. He looked back across at Rowlands reading the autopsy reports and nursing his whisky-laced coffee. His toast lay untouched. He wouldn’t eat on an empty stomach.
‘There were traces of chloroform around the Wrigley girl’s face and nose and she was given an injection. A mixture of Nembutal and Seconal. A lot.’
‘Nembutal?’ Brook looked up. ‘That’s a barbiturate. Relatively harmless.’
‘So is Seconal and you’re right. It says here if they’re taken orally, they’re absorbed slowly. Injected into a vein it causes damage. It would have killed her.’
Brook received this information with a small measure of relief. ‘So she may have felt no pain.’
‘But why cut her throat as well?’
‘For show, like the Elphick boy,’ answered Brook. ‘What about the parents?’
‘Smack. They were both users so it was probably self-administered, which means he didn’t have to work hard to control them.’
‘That explains why they weren’t gagged.’
‘I guess.’
‘Would you like the good news, guv?’ asked Brook, nodding at his own reading matter. ‘Floyd Wrigley Petty theft, possession, affray, ABH, GBH. It goes on.’ There was no mention of rape and murder. Now there never could be.
‘Some comfort then,’ nodded Rowlands.
‘It gets worse, guv. Or better. DS Croft reckons Floyd was living off immoral earnings to fund his habit. They had nothing solid but…’
‘He was pimping his girlfriend? Classy.’
‘Not the girlfriend, Tamara, the daughter.’
‘Fucking…scum. How old?’
‘Eleven. There’s a note at the end of the autopsy. They asked the pathologist to look for it. She wasn’t a virgin, guv.’
Both fathers of daughters, one living, the other dead, looked at a space that couldn’t look back at them, that couldn’t see through the eyes, into their hearts where all the private things were.
Rowlands lit a cigarette and took a huge pull. ‘I don’t envy you, Brooky At least Elizabeth…’ Rowlands looked down at his coffee. In a trice that a gunfighter would have been proud of, he’d whipped out his flask and was replenishing his cup. ‘Look after Amy and little Theresa, lad. You only get one go at it.’
‘Guv…’
‘I know. Sorenson’s finished with you. But you’re here aren’t you?’
Brook examined his boss. He didn’t look well. Then again he never looked well.
Rowlands squinted up through the blue smoke drifting across his face. ‘Ready?’ He finished his coffee at Brook’s nod and they manoeuvred themselves off the Star Burger’s unyielding bucket seats.
They walked together down Brixton High Street, not speaking, not looking at each other. Instead they looked at the second-hand Christmas illuminations, cast-offs purchased by the Council, on the cheap from Blackpool. They even studied the famous railway bridge, straddling the main road with its patronising ‘We’re backing Brixton!’ message, its cluster of business logos a knee-jerk, post-riots affirmation of capitalism. They looked but they didn’t see.
As they turned onto Electric Avenue, Brook had to make a conscious effort to stay half a pace behind Rowlands who was scanning the street to get his bearings.
He stopped outside a door sandwiched between two moribund shop fronts, daubed with posters for bands, concerts, jumble sales and obscure political groups. A constable squinted at their ID and stood aside. A gaggle of ghouls still loitered outside the murder scene four days after the event. They talked in lowered tones about the killings. They were shocked and horrified in conversation, but glowed inside, satisfied to be a spit from the spotlight of public infamy.
Brook glanced warily around for the empty boxes that The Reaper had left outside the doorway. They were gone. Rowlands passed through the entrance but Brook hung back.
‘You coming, lad?’ said Rowlands from the bottom of the stairs.
Brook smiled and followed his boss. He made to close the door but the constable put his hand out to keep it open. ‘They want fresh air up there, sir.’ Brook nodded.
The lounge was the last room at the top of the rickety stairs. Rowlands nodded to the two SOCOs on their knees still sifting and scraping and measuring and combing four days after the fact.
Brook took out glossy photographs from the dossier and started handing them to Rowlands who examined them against the layout of the room. It was bright now because the curtains had been drawn back. On the photographs the curtains were closed and the room was poorly lit. Rowlands looked around, getting the measure of what had happened here, acclimatising to where he could and couldn’t walk.
There was a tatty, if comfortable looking sofa at one end of the room. It had once been a faded blue but was now covered in black stains, particularly on the seat cushions where rivers of blood had dammed against the thighs of the man and woman, sat side by side. The rest of the sofa was a patchwork of blood splatter.
The bare floor had also been stained–dry-black pools, in contrast to the scuffed dirty brown of the boards. The bloodstains were edged in white chalk and tape to alert pedestrians. At the edge of one such stain the smooth circular regularity of the encroaching blood had been breached and part of a footprint was clearly visible.
‘What size?’ asked Rowlands.
‘The file reckons ten,’ said Brook. ‘Thereabouts.’
‘And what’s Sorenson?’
‘Size eight.’
‘Told you so.’
‘We can’t say for sure it’s the murderer’s shoe, guv.’
‘Well it ain’t the milkman’s.’
To one side, under the window, lay a small mattress with a couple of thin blankets for cover–perhaps the place of work for one wretched human being.
In the middle of the room there was an old straight-backed dining chair, lying on its side, facing the sofa. Another apron of black spewed out from where it had toppled. Black-red sprays extended out from the mass of the pool-like flares under the great initial force of the severed artery. These thin jets of blood had escaped at several different angles. The girl, Tamara, had contested her fate, despite the drugs. Shed been bound, gagged and doped up but still fought against the ebbing of her scarred life.
What had she thought of the world in those last few terrible moments, Brook wondered? Tied to a chair, cold in vest and knickers, throat sliced by a stranger, facing her parents, drug addicts, who sold her for sex and were only able to stare back, saucer-eyed, uncomprehending, as their daughter convulsed herself into oblivion.
‘Why her? Why the Elphick boy? Why the children?’ muttered Rowlands.
Brook approached the top-of-the-range CD player. He squirreled a look at Rowlands who nodded back at him.
‘Alright, don’t rub it in, Brooky.’
‘Has this been dusted for prints?’ Brook could tell from the powder residues that it had, so he switched it on before the SOCOs could reply. He opened the CD tray. It was empty. Brook reached into his overcoat and pulled out a thin plastic case. He flipped out the disc and fed it into the machine. Mozart’s Requiem crept out of the speakers positioned in opposite corners, barely audible. Brook turned it up so the music flowed over them. This would be the only beauty young Tamara would have known in her life.
The SOCO boys turned round at the noise.
‘Atmosphere, lads.’
Rowlands examined a crime scene photograph and moved closer to the gas fire. He could still see the glint of broken glass on the boards. ‘This is where the picture frame was smashed, Brooky.’ He peered at the trickle of blood on the wall above the hearth.
‘Maybe it was in the way of his message,’ offered Brook.
‘Yeah but why not just move it? Why would he smash the glass and remove the actual picture? He didn’t take souvenirs in Harlesden.’ Rowlands moved over to the sofa. ‘Floyd sat here, the woman, Natalie, this side.’ Rowlands’ tone conveyed his raised eyebrow. ‘Interesting. Look.’ He pointed to the photograph of Floyd Wrigley’s body. ‘There’s more than one cut here. It was a struggle. Like the killer had trouble. Or maybe there was a smaller, weaker accomplice.’
‘Look at his neck though, guv. There are some weights in the bedroom. He worked out. A real vain bastard.’
‘So?’
‘Well, in a condition of heightened adrenaline, combined with the effect of the heroin, there’s no telling how his neck muscles would react. They could have seized, making them difficult to cut.’
‘Maybe. I’m not complaining, laddie. One less piece of shit on the streets.’ Rowlands pulled out a glossy print and handed it to Brook. ‘This is interesting.’
‘What am I looking at?’
‘The back of his neck. See that mark.’ Rowlands indicated the long thin weal on Floyd Wrigley’s skin.
‘Yeah.’
‘What do you think caused that?’
‘No idea, guv.’ Brook became self-conscious under his superior’s gaze.
Rowlands wasn’t used to his sergeant not having the answers. ‘Maybe the killer helped himself to a trophy. Maybe Floyd wore a chain and the killer yanked it off as a keepsake.’ Brook said nothing. Rowlands turned to the SOCO boys still groping around on their knees. ‘Are there any family photographs in the flat, fellas? There’s no mention in the inventory.’
They both looked blank and shrugged back at Rowlands. Then one said, ‘You’ll have to ask DS Croft, sir.’
‘Do you mind if we look around for any?’
Another shrug. ‘Go ahead. We’ve finished in the other rooms, sir.’
Brook and Rowlands set to work. It didn’t take long. Wrigley had clearly sold everything that wasn’t required for sleeping or sitting. No camera, no photographs.
‘What are we looking for, guv?’
‘Snaps of the flat, family portraits, anything that might give us a clue about what was in that picture frame or what was round Floyd’s neck.’
Brook shook his head and looked at his boss. ‘It must be a souvenir. Like you said.’
‘Exactly.’ Rowlands nodded. ‘Which gives us a different MO.’
‘Perhaps he had no choice, guv. Perhaps, when he moved the frame, he cut himself.’
‘On the picture and not the glass? There were no traces of anything on the glass. No prints, blood, nothing.’
‘It’s a puzzle, guv.’
Rowlands suddenly looked at Brook, his face animated. ‘Maybe it’s not a different MO. Maybe he took something from Harlesden that we don’t know about.’
Brook laughed. ‘You’re on top form today, guv.’
‘One of us has got to be,’ Rowlands snapped back. There was an awkward silence. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I didn’t mean that. I know what you’ve put into this case. I’m glad you’re not getting too involved.’
The awkwardness returned. Rowlands turned away and laid a consoling arm on Brook’s shoulder for a few seconds.
‘Forget it, guv. If Wrigley’s got any relatives that aren’t in hell with him, Croft should find out what was in that frame.’
Rowlands nodded. ‘Good thinking, lad.’
Brook broke away and went behind the sofa to check the last view of the parents, as he had in Harlesden. As with the Elphicks, they would have watched as their daughter died, and afterwards, seen the word SAVED written on the chimney wall, in the blood of their child.
‘Why SAVED and not SALVATION?’ mused Brook to himself.
‘There could be a pattern. Something biblical.’
Brook couldn’t suppress a curt laugh. ‘You’d know, guv.’
‘Cheers.’
‘It’s more likely lack of space or time, if not blood.’
‘One thing puzzles me. If the killer brings this CD player as some phoney prize, like you say, why let the killer in? With Floyd’s habit, I would think he’d just take the box at the door and keep it to exchange for drugs. Why let him in to set the thing up?’
‘Our guy wouldn’t hand it over unless he was allowed in to set it up. Part of the prize. Or maybe the parents didn’t let him in. If they were tripping the light fantastic, maybe they were bombed out on the sofa.’
‘The girl.’ Rowlands nodded, his eyes and lips clenched.
‘Yeah. How easy could it be? He comes in, sees the parents in the state they’re in. He puts the girl under with the chloroform then ties and gags her then binds mum and dad. Just in case. Then the injection…’
‘Enough to kill her?’
‘Sure, but not before he gets to cut her throat.’
‘Then why give her the injection, lad? He didn’t do that with the Elphick boy.’
‘No, guv. But he didn’t have to. He’d smothered the boy before he hung him. Maybe Sammy and his missus weren’t as upset as they should’ve been, as they would’ve been if they’d actually seen him die. He cut off the fingers to show the Elphicks he was dead. But it wasn’t enough. So now The Reaper feels the need to slaughter the girl while her parents watch.’
‘So he gives her a lethal dose of barbiturates because he doesn’t want her to suffer. What a prince.’ Rowlands looked away deep in thought. Both men considered the scene. Mozart’s portentous choir flowed over them.
‘What makes someone with a life that shit cling on to it with such force? In her shoes…’ Rowlands stopped himself in time. He snaked a look at Brook who pretended to be absorbed in something else. ‘So then what, lad?’
Brook took a heavy sigh and found his bookmark in the drama. ‘My guess is that he’s already set up the CD player. He’s brought Mozart’s Requiem. He wants to hear it as he works. Or he wants the Wrigleys to hear it.
‘There was a wet towel in the bathroom sink. My guess is he’s revived mum and dad to make them watch. Then he cuts the girl’s throat and stands back to watch Floyd and Natalie’s reaction.
‘It should be a good show. The girl’s struggling for all she’s worth. She knocks over the chair, fighting with as much strength as she can muster.
‘But maybe Floyd and Natalie are on Cloud Nine and don’t know what’s going on. It’s worse for the child than it was in Harlesden, but it doesn’t make the parents suffer. They’re too far gone.’ Brook’s voice began to soften and he looked away as though watching a re-enactment unfolding in the middle distance. ‘He wants them to see. He wants him to see. He hates Floyd Wrigley. He’s scum–the lowest form of life on earth. What he’s done with his life demands punishment. He’s wasted it and ruined others. Even watching his daughter choke on her own blood won’t settle the debt.’ The other officers exchanged a look and stopped to listen. ‘Because you don’t care, do you? You don’t care about anyone but yourself. You fear your own death, not your daughter’s, not your wo-man’s.’ Brook spat out the word in the loud Jamaican patois he’d heard so many times from bejewelled Yardies. There was silence for a moment. Nobody moved. Only Mozart.
‘Why no art to look at while they die?’ Rowlands asked.
‘Maybe he brought something but they were in no state to appreciate it so he didn’t put it up.’
‘Or maybe he’s changing his MO every time to try and fool the profilers.’
‘Could be.’
Rowlands studied his friend. ‘I’ve seen enough. Let’s go. Be quick if you want that serial number.’
Brook stopped the music and pocketed the disc. He knelt down behind the CD player with a small pad and pencil.
Rowlands was already on his way back down the steps. Brook watched him go and jumped up to follow. He put the pad and pencil away then paused and turned to one of the officers still toiling away.
‘Have you found anything useful?’
‘It’s not looking good apart from that footprint. No fingerprints, no weapon, no DNA, no fibres. This guy knows what he’s doing.’
‘If you do find something, anything from the killer, I want you to get it DNA tested.’
‘Obviously.’
‘I mean anything. And if you don’t think the sample is usable, make sure you still store it carefully. It may be usable in the future. Clear?’ With that triumphant demonstration of his interpersonal skills, Brook followed his boss out into the crisp, winter afternoon.
‘And you can blow it out your arse, you fucking nutter,’ mumbled the officer to his retreating back.
‘Wanker,’ agreed his colleague with venom.
Brook took the cigarette thrown in his direction and placed it in his mouth. The lighter followed. Rowlands sat opposite refilling his flask from a half bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label. It was unavailable in Britain, but he had a friend in Customs and Excise who sent him seized contraband from time to time. When he’d finished he took a swig first from the bottle, then the flask. Finally he looked back over at Brook. ‘Well?’
‘Guv?’ Brook looked back at his boss.
‘Does the serial number match?’
Brook fished for his notebook and flipped it open. He stared at the blank page. Then rummaged around his drawer and drew out the delivery note he’d taken from the boxed CD player in Sorenson’s house. It still had the brown tape clinging to it. Brook located the serial number and held it next to the blank page away from his boss.
Brook smiled. It was a bittersweet smile. A smile of loss. A smile that wished things could have been different.
‘Are they the same, lad?’
Brook picked up the lighter from his lap and ignited his cigarette. Then he held the flame to the edge of the delivery note. The tape crinkled and smouldered before the paper took light. Brook held it up for a moment to ensure the conflagration then dropped it into the metal bin at his feet. ‘No.’