Brook stood as upright as he could manage given the weight of his rucksack and the steepness of the slope. In a few metres he’d be at the top, but the fire in his lungs and calves demanded immediate rest.
He turned to look back down the sharp incline of Thorpe Cloud and watched Wendy panting after him some thirty metres below.
‘Hurry up. It’ll be dark in eight hours,’ he shouted.
An indecipherable grunt emanated from below accompanied by a vigorous V-sign to guarantee clarity. Brook grinned and struck out for the summit.
Once there he flung the rucksack to the ground and, when his lungs had recovered, did a full turn to take in the sun-dappled panorama–the sleepy houses of Ilam, dozing in spring warmth to the north-west, Bunster Hill to the north and the deep scar of Dovedale, gouged out by the river, further east.
By the time Jones joined him ten minutes later, he had the flask and the sandwiches ready and was comparing the map to the view of their route along the River Dove to Milldale and Hartington beyond.
Jones flung herself onto the ground next to Brook and sucked in air until her breathing slowed. ‘Thanks for waiting,’ she gasped.
‘Have some coffee.’
Wendy took the plastic cup, drained it, then laid her head next to Brook’s and closed her eyes to the morning sun. ‘It’s beautiful up here.’
Brook sat up and looked down into her face. ‘Yes.’
‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’ She opened her eyes briefly to check his face then closed them again.
Brook paused, sweeping his gaze around the horizon. ‘I’m resigning…’
She sat up now and searched his expression. ‘You’re giving in?’
‘No, Wendy. I’m getting out while there’s still a chance for me. Carrying on is what Charlie did so he wouldn’t have to live with himself, wouldn’t have to face up to a life without hope.’ He looked back at her. ‘I’ve found something to live for. And a way to live with myself.’
‘Is this anything to do with Sorenson?’
‘Yes. He had plans for me.’
‘What plans?’
‘A way for me to cope with despair.’ Brook gave a half-laugh and looked into the distance. ‘But he needed me in the Force. He didn’t envisage my finding happiness and making peace with the world.’
‘And have you?’
‘Not yet. But I think I can.’
‘But you have to resign.’
‘Yes.’
‘Even though that’s what some people want.’
‘Part of being happy involves not caring what other people want…’
‘Even if Harry Hendrickson and Greatorix think you’re a loser.’
‘They’d think that either way.’
She looked away. ‘I suppose,’ she muttered some while later. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself, for not catching him…’
Brook halted her with a brush of his hand against her cheek. ‘Don’t worry, Wendy. I don’t. The Reaper won’t be stopped. Not by me.’
Jones nodded and fondled his face in return. It had been a long time since she’d last touched him and Brook felt a thrill of electricity at the prospect of further contact. They didn’t talk after that but sat there drinking coffee and munching on their sandwiches, looking at the view, spring-cleaning their minds.
After nearly an hour of peace, they heard the panting of other ramblers so they packed their rucksacks and headed down towards the River Dove.
At ground level, they moved off at a steady pace along the path to the east of the river and followed its course up the steep, wooded gorge cut from the limestone rock over millions of years.
As they walked, from time to time, Brook would produce a small guide book and give a name to various natural features along the way–Lover’s Leap, The Twelve Apostles, Jacob’s Ladder, Tissington Spires–almost everything bigger than a boulder seemed to have a name.
After the hamlet of Milldale, the terrain eased and the river’s course became more sinuous. The path was no longer overhung by rock but wide and man-made. Occasionally it would take them away from the river as it cut across an alluvial plain.
On they walked, saying little, comfortable in each other’s silence. In Wolfscote Dale herons watched them briefly before taking to the skies, Jones unable to get her camera out in time.
When they passed into Beresford Dale the river became slow and wide for a time and they trudged wearily across the flat landscape until they rejoined the water at a small footbridge. They crossed the river and plodded on, damp and sweaty in the afternoon sun.
‘You look like Greatorix,’ laughed Jones as Brook mopped his brow.
Around the next bend the water swirled gently into a large, deep pool, shaded by trees and guarded by a huge boulder. Large trout glided gently in the depths.
There was a ‘NO SWIMMING’ sign on the boulder so Brook and Jones stripped down to their underwear and dived in.
As they lay, drying on the bank, they held hands while they sunbathed. Refreshed, they dressed and marched the last mile into Hartington with increased vigour.
After a late, leisurely lunch in the Devonshire Arms, their eyes began to droop.
‘It’s been a lovely day, Damen. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure. Pity you have to work in the morning.’
‘I know.’
‘What time are you on?’
‘Early turn.’ Brook nodded. Jones smiled. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘It’s unlikely.’ Brook laughed at her stern face. ‘What are you thinking, Wendy?’
‘That we should get a room.’
Brook frowned and looked into the log fire. Finally, he said, ‘No. Let’s go.’ He rose and headed for the exit carrying his rucksack. Jones followed, trying not to appear insulted.
‘What’s the hurry?’ she shouted at his retreating back. She struggled to throw her rucksack over her shoulder and trotted after Brook, who turned a corner and started striking up a steep street, not bothering to look round.
‘Where are you going?’
Brook didn’t answer and didn’t slow down, so Jones ploughed on, trying to catch him, wondering what she’d done to cause offence. A minute later, Brook stopped and turned to face Jones still puffing along in his slipstream.
As she approached, he propped himself against an estate agent’s board and waited.
‘What the hell’s the matter?’ gasped Jones. She was ready to blow her top.
Brook could keep up the pretence no longer. He smiled at the aggression on her face.
‘Well?’
Instead of an answer, Brook leant over the old dry stone wall he’d been sitting on, and wrestled with the pole.
‘What are you doing?’
Brook finally extricated the pole from the ground and flung it into the tiny, lavender-scented front garden.
‘Damen!’ Jones looked at the pale limestone edifice of the house, expecting the front door to open and the owner to appear. ‘I’ll have to arrest you if the owner complains.’
‘Don’t worry, officer.’ Brook cracked into a wide grin. ‘I am the owner.’
‘You’re what?’ Jones laughed and pummelled Brook’s shoulders with her fists. ‘You shit. I thought I’d done something. When did you…?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘You never said.’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘It is that. When did you decide to do it?’
‘When someone very important to me asked me why I didn’t live properly.’
Jones looked at him and walked slowly into his arms, not moving her eyes from his. She put her hand behind his head and pulled him onto her mouth, kissing him long and hard. When she broke for air, she pulled his head onto her shoulder and whispered into his ear, ‘Take me inside.’
Two minutes later they were making love as though it were their last night on Earth. Every touch, every stroke, every thrust was urgent. They burrowed into each other, as if determined to emerge from the other side, and when it was over they held each other, molten in their physical union, for a long time.
When they de-coupled they lay on the bed talking and touching, feeling the breeze billowing through the curtains, cool their hot skin. They made love again, this time taking pleasure in the exploration of the other’s face and neck and torso.
Later they showered together, dressed and returned to the pub for urgent supplies of liquid and solid food, as Brook had not yet been able to transfer his copious supplies of party food from the fridge in his flat.
Brook slept better than he had for many years that night and, when he woke, spent many minutes gazing at Wendy’s sleeping frame.
Then he dressed and went down into the kitchen. He made coffee and sat on a bench outside the back door, on a small flagged patio which overlooked the rest of his steep, walled garden as it fell away from the house.
He drained his cup and went back inside for a refill and a cigarette. On his way back to the patio, he picked up his resignation letter for a final perusal.
There wasn’t much to check. Four lines got the job done. Three of them were used to thank McMaster for all her support and wishing her well for the future. He signed the letter and folded it into an envelope.
As he lit up, Jones stuck her head round the door. Her hair was tousled and she seemed groggy. ‘What time is it?’ she asked, pulling Brook’s towelling robe tighter.
Brook examined her. She was even more beautiful in the early morning light. ‘Gone seven.’
‘Is that all? I should have slept longer.’
‘You’ll miss this lovely morning. Why don’t you have a shower? I’ll go get something for breakfast.’
‘Sounds good.’
An hour later, full of hot buttered muffins, Brook ignited the Sprite, and he and Jones set off for Derby.
Brook looked around the Chief Super’s office as she read his letter of resignation. It seemed more spartan than usual. The spider plant had long since perished and several objects which usually adorned the desk had disappeared. He craned his neck over the desk and caught sight of a cardboard box full of the detritus of a career.
She looked up at him, nodding sadly. ‘So you’re giving in.’
‘If that’s the way you want to look at it, ma’am.’
‘It’s how your enemies will look at it.’
‘They can think what they want. What about your enemies, ma’am?’
McMaster screwed her eyes and stared beyond Brook to the window. ‘I found out last night. I’m being transferred out.’
Brook nodded. He had no need to ask whether it was voluntary or not. ‘I see. But you fight on?’
‘Of course I fight on, Damen. I believe in what I do, and how I do it. I’ll be back. Mark my words.’ There was anger in her eyes.
Brook smiled to comfort her. ‘I envy you, Evelyn. And pity you. How can you keep going?’
‘What should I do? Take the easy way out, like you?’ Brook laughed. ‘I’m sorry, Damen. I didn’t mean that.’
‘Yes you did. And yes, you should take the easy way out. Caring can damage your health.’
‘I can’t. I won’t let them beat me.’
‘I didn’t for a minute expect you would.’
McMaster stood and gathered her dignity and held out her hand. Brook shook it warmly. ‘Good luck, Damen.
The Force needs people like you. I’ll hold onto this letter for forty-eight hours…’
‘Why?’
‘It’s standard practice–unofficially. In case you change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’
Brook gunned through the lights and roared up the Uttoxeter Road. As he approached the flat, he saw old Mrs Saunders standing on the pavement, arms folded, looking up and down the road. She was just a tiny thing, barely five feet in height. She raised an arm when she saw him and watched as he slowed to a halt and jumped from the car.
‘Anything wrong, Mrs Saunders?’
‘I’ve already called the police, dear. Some lads kicked your door in. I rang straight away but they weren’t in there long. They only left a few minutes ago. I’m sorry, dear, but I didn’t dare come outside until they’d gone.’
‘You did the right thing, Mrs Saunders. Wait there.’
‘Oh, Inspector.’ Brook turned. ‘One thing. I know it’s a weird name but I definitely heard one of the young men call another one Jay or Jace. Is that a help?’
Brook nodded. ‘Maybe.’
He ran to the flat’s wrecked kitchen entrance and stopped in the doorway. The door hung from its hinges now and Brook had to lift it to go inside.
He looked down at his feet and stepped back. The floor was flooded with the water still spurting from where the sink had once been. It had been hammered into three large pieces and water was sluicing around the floor.
Various plastic food packets bobbed on the water. The fridge, which had had its door wrenched off, had then been pushed over. Brook could see a selection of cocktail dips and cooked chicken being showered by the fountain from the decapitated cold water pipe. The fridge door itself had been thrown at the kitchen window and lay half in, half out, of the shattered frame.
Brook lifted up his trousers and tiptoed across the sopping floor to the hall. From the living room, an acrid stench assaulted his throat forcing him to clench a handkerchief over his mouth.
He kicked open the door through which he’d watched Vicky brush her hair those many months ago. The smoke hit Brook in the eyes, so he bent low and forced his way through the room to the front door, satisfying himself that there was no heat from a blaze. He flung open the front door and stepped through to let his lungs pull in the fresh air. The acrid smouldering of Brook’s sofa began to dissipate and Brook was able to see into the room.
He looked at the devastation. The brand new TV and video recorder lay pulverised on the floor. His chair and table were blackened by the smoke but were otherwise intact. The telephone and answering machine had also been placed on the sofa, to share its fate. They had begun to melt but were still recognisable. Fortunately the Van Gogh was in his new house.
The smoke cleared somewhat and Brook headed for his bedroom. He opened the door to the words ‘OINK, OINK. YOUR GOING TO PAY PIG’ daubed on the wall in red.
‘Oh no.’ Brook stepped to the bed and sat besides the remains of Cat. He placed a hand on its still warm body and stroked what was left. For once the cat didn’t careen itself around Brook’s hand. Its head was pulp though he could still identify the stub of pink tongue poking through broken teeth. Two grapefruit-sized splashes of dark red on the back of the door told its tale.
He closed his eyes to remember his only friend.
Sirens in the distance grew louder. He roused himself to look around. He reached to pick a towel from a hook and wrapped Cat reverently into a bundle.
He went outside to his car and placed the body gently in the boot. He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Cat. I should have named you.’ He closed the boot and turned to face the squad car screeching to a theatrical halt behind him.
It was after midnight when Brook returned to his new house in Hartington.
He pulled up to the kerb and silenced the ear-splitting cacophony from the Sprite’s exhaust, oblivious to the disturbance it must have caused in this sleepy village. He opened the boot and removed a carrier bag and newly-purchased spade. He took both in the house and returned to the car. He picked up the bundle containing Cat and took it to the back garden.
In darkness, he dug a small hole in a corner of the garden and placed Cat down. He replaced the soil on top and patted it down before putting a large stone on top to discourage scavenging foxes. ‘Rest in Peace, little friend.’
Brook climbed the path to the house and sat down on the patio bench. He pulled the bottle of whisky and two packets of cigarettes from the carrier bag, poured himself a large measure and lit up.
‘Cheers, Cat.’ He took a swig and flinched as the fiery liquid burned its way to his stomach. ‘Cheers, Charlie.’ He took another, smaller swig. ‘Professor.’ This time he merely held the glass aloft, declining to drink.
The next morning Brook was woken by birdsong. He was on the bench with a thin blanket for cover and a cushion for a pillow. He sat up and looked at his watch. Then he stepped into the kitchen and picked up the phone. He dialled, asked for an extension number and lit a cigarette in the pause to be connected. ‘Chief Superintendent McMaster. DI Brook, ma’am. About my resignation–I’ve been thinking it over…’