‘Well if it ain’t Romeo. Juliet still in bed is she, lover boy?’ he’d said with a smirk. ‘She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not,’ he crowed at Brook’s retreating back, before turning to PC Robinson for approval.
And this time Hendrickson wasn’t the lone source of barbs. Everyone in the division felt they had a contribution to make and lost no opportunity to present their material. A group of fresh-faced constables sang
Dirty Old Man
under their breath before subsiding into a hum
.
Others, WPCs in particular, not wishing to lower themselves to crudity, just giggled.
Even Greatorix had joined in, going out of his way to
deliver the odd wisecrack, though for the most part he was content just to be smug. And why not? It didn’t get much better for a low-flyer like Bob Greatorix. Revenge was rarely so swift and so sweet and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to twist the knife–revenge for Brook’s superiority, revenge for his insinuations in the canteen, revenge for all Brook’s advantages–his money, his brains, his healthy glands.
But, to the annoyance of his detractors, Brook was at peace with the world. Once he would have recoiled from such attention, everybody knowing his business and talking about it. He still didn’t enjoy it, but since that day on the pier with Terri, he’d changed. He’d lost his daughter, the only thing of value to him. Now, nothing mattered. Now he was able to cope with the jibes, all the more since discovering that cheerful forbearance of the baiting diminished the pleasure of his tormentors.
Brook wasn’t worried for himself. He could handle it. He
had
handled it for years. But Wendy. The thick skin he’d acquired didn’t extend to her and he knew she’d been reduced to tears on at least one occasion.
It was easy for Brook. He’d only been in the station for a couple of days before his suspension kicked in. Wendy would have it tougher for a while. She’d get through it, he knew that, but at what cost to their relationship? Assuming they still had one.
She’d phoned him after her talk with McMaster–that was a good sign–but then the conversation had turned to
Daddy’s Special Girl
and that morning at his flat when he’d passed Vicky off as his daughter.
Even so, such was his new-found serenity that he
couldn’t hold back a smile after putting down the phone on her frosty tone. Never before had one of his infrequent relationships been threatened by the notion that he was a womaniser.
Brook extinguished his cigarette and went to the bedroom to finish packing. He stowed the suitcase under the table and picked up the phone, dialled Directory Enquiries, noted the number and dialled again.
‘Belle Vue Park? Yes. I wonder if you might help me. I don’t know how to begin. Yes. Yes. I’ll try.’ With a theatrical sigh, he managed to control his emotions. ‘It’s alcohol, you see. I’ve been having problems. Yes. Well, not yet, but I think I’m weakening. It’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow and I…I’m sure it’s a busy time. Yes, I’ll hold. That’s great. Yes, tomorrow for three nights. Thank you very much. Brook. Damen Brook. B-R-O-O-K. You were highly recommended by a friend. Sonja Sorenson. Well it was a few years ago. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’
Brook replaced the receiver and left the flat. He walked through the grey streets to Jumbo’s, pulling up his collar at the morning drizzle. Noble was already there, nursing a cup of tea. He looked up at Brook’s arrival and, before he could think, shot an involuntary glance at the clock.
‘Morning sir.’
Brook ordered his Farmhouse Special and sat down with a mug of tea.
‘I know. I’m late. It’s not like me and I’m not a millionaire,’ he added.
‘Right.’ Noble handed over a folder and indicated a Tesco bag half full of video cassettes.
‘Is that everything, John?’
‘Everything of use. The list is on top. I can’t let you keep it.’
‘What about the videos?’
‘Greatorix won’t miss them but I’ll need them back at some point. The list contains all men on their own who checked out of local hotels a day either side of the Wallis murders. There’s no Peter Hera though.’
‘Did you think there would be?’
‘I’ve no idea. Is it important?’
‘We’ll see. Even if he didn’t stay in the area, this is where we might trip him up, John.’
‘How?’
‘Because he was off his turf. Derby isn’t his town so he had to take risks. He had to deal with people to get things–vans, accommodation, pizzas. If we’re lucky…’
Brook flipped open the folder and worked down the list of names. For a moment he paused but then resumed before snapping the folder shut.
‘Nothing jumps out. Pity.’ He handed the folder back to Noble.
‘Should we extend the search?’ asked Noble. He was embarrassed at once.
‘It’s not for me to say, John.’ Brook smiled to wipe away Noble’s faux pas.
‘Maybe he’ll be on the tapes.’
‘Maybe. Any other developments?’
‘Not yet. We’ve done everything. Nothing much from around the van. If there had been another unknown car parked on the drive no-one saw it. No sign of any forced
entry to the house, so the killer didn’t stay there. DI Greatorix thinks…’ Noble flashed another apologetic look at Brook. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. What does he think?’
‘Not a lot.’
‘You don’t have to bad mouth him to please me, John.’ Brook was pleased anyway.
‘I know. It’s just…’
Brook’s breakfast arrived and he took up his knife and fork. ‘What?’
‘Have you seen him eat? It’s disgusting. And the way he sweats…’ Noble broke off when he realised Brook had stopped spearing a mushroom onto his fork. ‘Sorry. Bon appetit.’
‘Does he have
any
ideas?’
‘He thinks it was a neighbour with a grudge against Bobby Wallis.’
‘I wish he were right. What have Forensics come up with?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Have they examined Jason’s clothes yet?’
‘His clothes? No.’
‘They’re a bit slow, aren’t they?’
Noble seemed a little put out. ‘Maybe, but when we found no blood on his shoes, he was in the clear. He couldn’t possibly have been in that room. So we put his clothes on low priority. And you weren’t here to give them a hurry-up.’
Brook nodded. ‘Fair enough.’
Noble rose to leave. ‘Well, have a good holiday.’
‘Thanks. And good luck with B.O. Bob.’
Noble laughed. Was this really DI Brook? Going on holiday, tucking into a hearty breakfast, cracking wise. Noble pinched his fingers over his nose and Brook returned the laugh.
As soon as Noble left, Brook pulled out a pen and wrote ‘International Hotel’ on his paper napkin. He didn’t need to write down the man’s name.
After breakfast, Brook returned to his flat, retrieved the keys to the Sprite and climbed into the old car. The Mondeo was next to it. Being suspended, he wasn’t sure he should still have it, but nobody had asked for it back and he hadn’t thought to offer. But The International was only half a mile away and it would be as well to keep the Sprite ticking over.
Five minutes later Brook parked on the forecourt of the hotel and clambered out.
He entered the double doors, running his eye over the excessive Christmas decorations, and rang the bell at a deserted reception. A young girl appeared, trying her best to look helpful and confident. She was petite and full-figured with plenty of make-up and bright orange streaks in her hair. The studs in her ears reminded him of Laura Maples.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
Brook pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at her. The girl’s face betrayed a glimpse of alarm and Brook wondered what she’d been up to. Drugs probably. She was young and, no doubt, badly paid. What else was there?
‘No need to be alarmed, miss. I need some information
on one of your guests. Apparently a man stayed here from the 16th to the 18th of this month.’
‘Ye-es?’
‘He registered under the name Sammy Elphick.’
‘Ye-es?’
‘I wondered if there was anyone here who might be able to give me a description of the man.’
‘Mr Elphick?’ She turned to the desk to flip through the visitor’s book. ‘That’s right. One of your constables rang to ask us about single men staying in the area. What’s he done?’
‘It’s just routine. Sally,’ he added after a glance at her tag.
‘Sammy Elphick? Yeah, here he is. I remember
him
alright. A right weirdo.’ She flipped the book round at him. Next to the name column the words ‘Harlesden, London’ glared out at Brook.
‘Was he?’
‘Yeah.’
Brook waited, wondering if Sally were some kind of comedian. When it became clear she wouldn’t be elaborating without further stimulus, he said, ‘Could you tell me about him, Sally?’
‘He wasn’t very well.’
Brook’s heart quickened. ‘How so?’
‘It was his hands.’
‘His hands?’
‘That’s right. Burnt they were. So he said. He had to wear gloves all the time.’
‘Did he? So that’s not his handwriting,’ enquired Brook, nodding at the folder.
‘No, it’s mine. He couldn’t write.’
‘And he paid his account with cash for the same reason.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Old, a bit sad-looking. He didn’t speak much.’
‘I’ll bet he didn’t eat in the restaurant either.’
‘No, he didn’t. He said it was too bright. He had bad eyes as well you see.’
‘Course he did. He’d need special glasses for that, wouldn’t he?’
Sally was impressed. ‘That’s right. Big thick frames with tinted lenses.’
‘So he didn’t take breakfast?’
Sally was starting to get into the swing of things. ‘No. We all wondered about that because it’s included in the price. We can’t knock anything off, you know. Not round Christmas. Not that he asked. I mean, Cook was a bit put out. He does a good breakfast. One of the best in Derby,’ she added, reverting to a professional voice. ‘But even if it was crap, people always make a point of having it, don’t they? I mean, when they’ve paid for it…’
‘Any other distinctive features?’
‘He wore a wig. I noticed that, though he kept a hat on most of the time.’ Sally was very pleased with her deductive powers. ‘Does that help?’
Brook nodded. ‘It would help more if you could tell me if he was bald underneath.’ Sally screwed up her face in concentration then shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she concluded, a little crestfallen. ‘Like I said, he had a wig on. And not a very good one.’
‘How tall was he?’
‘Quite tall.’
Brook looked up. ‘Tall? Sure?’ He looked Sally up and down. ‘How tall are you?’
‘I’m five feet three,’ she answered, a touch sensitive.
‘You look taller.’
‘I’m wearing platforms.’
‘I see. So, if you’re five-three, someone five-seven/five-eight would look quite tall.’
‘I suppose so. But I was wearing my platforms, so I guess not. He must have been taller.’
‘You’re sure you were wearing platforms when you met him?’
‘Certain.’
‘Why so certain?’
‘Because I always wear platforms.’ Brook looked a little dubious. ‘I do.’
‘If you say so.’ With a sudden inspiration Brook said, ‘Could he have been wearing platforms?’
‘Possibly I didn’t notice.’ Sally was a little defensive after being branded unreliable.
Brook whipped out the old photo of Sorenson and handed it to her. ‘Was that the man?’
She studied carefully then handed it back. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
‘Well, thanks for trying.’ He pocketed the photo. ‘What time of day did he arrive?’
‘It was the evening. Seven o’clock.’
‘Why so precise?’
‘Because I work nine in the morning to seven at night. I was just getting off when he walked in. Kept me here for a few more minutes. Missed my bus, didn’t I?’
‘That’s a long shift.’
Sally shrugged. She didn’t need his sympathy. ‘It’s a job.’
‘Do you know how he arrived?’
‘No. You could ask Mac–that’s Bert Mackintosh. He’s on the door five ’til twelve.’
‘Where can I find him?’
‘He lives in a flat down the road. Number twenty-five. Flat four. It’s only a hundred yards but I dare say he’ll be asleep now. He works late.’
Brook made to leave. Before he did, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note. He handed it to the girl who was surprised and pleased. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Get yourself a drink for New Year.’
‘Thanks a lot. I will. Happy New Year to
you’
‘Didn’t she tell you I’d be asleep?’ The man yawned and covered his mouth. Not before Brook got an eyeful of false teeth shifting slightly as his jaw distended. Mac was past sixty with a thin white pencil moustache and short cropped white hair. He had a healthy sheen to his skin and his build and general demeanour added to the impression that he kept himself fit. A military man most likely.
‘She did, Mr Mackintosh. But it’s important. And I didn’t think a military man would be lying in bed all morning.’
Mac’s eyes widened, unsure whether to be pleased that Brook had noticed his army bearing. His expression betrayed an injury. He tightened the cord of his dressing gown and waited a moment, assessing Brook and the
situation. The habit of an old soldier used to giving orders. ‘When you work the hours I work, it’s the middle of the night.’ He waited for Brook’s acknowledgement that he knew he wasn’t a layabout before adding, ‘You’d better come in then, Inspector…’
‘Brook.’ He followed Mac into his two rooms, noting how the essential misery of the accommodation was kept at bay by the man’s sense of pride in his meagre surroundings.
The place was tiny and down-at-heel but spotlessly clean. The first room was a kitchenette into which the old man would have led his guest had there been space for two–it was only possible for Brook to join him in the doorway, where he leaned against the frame.
There wasn’t much in the way of amenities–a sink, a worktop over a noisy fridge, a small Baby Belling electric hob with two rings–the same model as Brook’s.
The worktop it sat on was old and warped and had been stained by the rings of hot pans lain on it over the years. A half full pan of water sat atop one of the rings. Mac took the pan to the empty stainless steel sink and doubled the amount of water from the solitary tap, before setting it down and switching on the ring.