As he walked he heard a door bang around the bend of
the avenue and slowed his step to listen for anyone approaching.
A few yards further on, he could see the end of the street. It was empty. Nothing stirred. The wind had dropped and the sky had cleared and the dim lights were now augmented by the moon’s pale light.
As Brook passed a doorway, something caught his eye and his heart began to pound. He bent to examine it. It was the large rectangular box containing the CD player he’d seen in Sorenson’s house. It was empty.
He spun to examine the doorway. He saw a crack of light from the other side and pushed the door. It swung away from him and Brook stepped over the threshold. He was at the foot of a small flight of stairs. No sound. No movement.
Brook’s face followed the stairs to the dim light at the top. He took as silent a pull of oxygen as he could manage and placed his foot on the first step.
Brook woke the next day to the sound of empty champagne bottles clinking together at his feet. He opened his eyes and looked at his watch. It was nearly midday.
Brook lay for several minutes in the warm bed, luxuriating, looking at the ceiling. His head didn’t feel too bad. Then he remembered his call to Amy and pulled a pillow over his head.
He picked up the phone.
‘Room service.’
Brook ungummed his lips and did a good impression of someone speaking normally. ‘This is Room two fifteen. I’d like a full English breakfast please, with a pot of coffee
and two jugs of orange juice and any other healthy liquid you can think of.’
‘I’m afraid we’ve stopped serving breakfast, sir. I can do you lunch.’
‘Stopped? When?’
‘Nine thirty, sir.’
Brook laughed. ‘On New Year’s morning. Did anyone struggle down before then?’
‘One or two, sir.’
‘Well at a grand a night old, son, you’d better make that three or I’ll be down to damage some eardrums. Got that?’
There was a brief muffled aside.
‘Certainly, sir. Right away.’
Brook gathered his clothes and began to dress.
After a hearty breakfast and copious re-hydration, Brook felt much better. He paid his bill, resisting the temptation to have a swipe at the establishment, then located his car and set off south into the heart of London. It was a grey day, not too cold, so he opened the sunroof to blow away the alcoholic haze.
Despite the dull ache in his head he felt better physically than he had in years but he worried now, after that day on the pier with Terri, whether his mind was gone. He’d changed that day, for the better, he felt. But now he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t know if he had the mental strength to cope any more. Going back. It had been a long time. The past seemed a long way away. Amy. London. The Reaper.
He’d left it all behind to find some peace and now
he’d squirreled away a thimble full, he doubted the wisdom of coming back to face Sorenson. Today was the day. Charlie Rowlands had arranged it. But what good would it do? Let The Reaper play his games. Let him destroy who he wished. Most of them deserved it. What did it matter? Even Kylie Wallis. Stick thin, skin of alabaster. She was better off now. Well out of it. The sexual abuse. The pain. The hopelessness. No life sentence for her, no clinging to the weekly mirage of the six-numbered parole.
Charlie looked up from his drinks as Brook strode into the Prince of Wales. He smiled. It was a smile of love and friendship. It was a smile of goodbye. His eyes were bonfire-red. They burned with the life that was seeping from the shrinking frame, hunched over Guinness and rum chaser. Blue smoke drifted from hand to face and he inclined his head slightly, like a sniffer dog, to secure maximum inhalation. Brook could see he was in pain.
‘Smoking again?’ smiled Brook, offering his hand. Charlie placed his bony claw in Brook’s as though about to receive a manicure, not shake hands. He had no grip left.
‘Seems daft not to. What’ll it be? Orange juice?’
‘I’ll get them.’
‘No you won’t, old son.’ Rowlands stood uneasily but with great distinction. This was an article of faith, affirmation that Charlie was still a man. Men bought each other drinks. Brook remembered the humiliation he’d heaped on old Mac the doorman and relented.
‘Thanks, Charlie.’
‘What’ll you have?’
‘Same as you.’
Charlie grinned, his face a dusty old accordion. ‘Welcome aboard, son. You won’t regret it.’
Brook watched him totter to the bar, fumbling for a note. Now he could see how wasted Charlie’s legs had become. He hadn’t noticed a few days ago but then he’d been on home turf, able to conceal such things under blankets and shapeless dressing gowns.
He returned with a tray of glasses and, like most career drunks, regardless of condition, was able to plonk it down not having spilt a single drop of the precious liquid.
‘Cheers. Happy New Year, lad.’
‘Cheers.’ Brook declined the second sentiment on behalf of them both.
‘Sorry it’s not the Hilton.’
Brook laughed. ‘Don’t start.’
They talked over old times for a while and behaved like men. Rowlands smoked and drank heavily, between bouts of guttural coughing, and Brook did him the courtesy of joining in. They were friends again. Equals. Not a sick man with a disapproving colleague. Death with dignity sat in their corner, waiting, listening and appreciating.
‘Tell me, guv, why are you here? I could have met Sorenson on my own.’
Rowlands’ face clouded for a second. ‘Don’t you know?’
Brook looked into his friend’s hooded eyes. The fruit machine couldn’t drown the noise of Rowlands breathing. ‘Perhaps I do.’
Rowlands smiled. A silence fell between them–not
awkward, but of perfect companionship with no compulsion on either side. Finally Rowlands broke the silence. ‘It’s going to be so good being dead, Brooky. So fucking good.’
Drinks consumed, they rose without prompting and left the pub for the short walk to Queensdale Road. It was already getting dark and a cold wind was stirring. Brook experienced a tremor of disquiet and was grateful to be able to walk slowly, next to his friend. He was in no hurry to meet Sorenson.
Brook knelt beside the girl. She was small but, no matter her size, The Reaper had seen fit to lash her to a chair, now on its side from the death struggle.
She looked eight, maybe nine years of age in physical development though she could have been older. Some kids, abused kids in particular, were often years older than their appearance, their bodies thin, malnourished, unable to grow. Sometimes only a look at the face could reveal how long they’d lived, how much they’d endured. The eyes had it. They had dead eyes.
This girl’s eyes were very dead, glaring at Brook without judgement. But the creases around her eyes suggested a smile and Brook was beset by an urge to untie her bonds and get the girl to her feet. It passed.
Instead he stepped back for a better view. He couldn’t see the girl’s mouth–it was covered by a large sticking plaster–but he knew her teeth would be clenched in the rictus of death. A grin of pain and determination as life convulsed to a close–risus sardonicus, it was called.
On her neck the terrible wound winked at Brook, a
cross-section of windpipe visible, a mocking vowel amongst the twist of pink gristle.
Brook stared down at her, his eyes equally hollow and lifeless. This was his daughter now. He was acquiring quite a collection. Baby Theresa, Laura Maples and now The Reaper’s latest offering. He wished he knew her name.
He stepped away. The toe of his shoe was covered in blood. He cursed. Take care. A DS should know better. Do the job. Be a copper not a punter. Keep it together. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves to avoid further tainting of the crime scene and moved to the sofa.
The man and woman were side by side. Rope lapped their waists but they required no gag–Brook wondered why. Their heads lolled together in a sick approximation of romance. A pose staged by The Reaper as a parting joke, Brook was sure.
He bent to examine the woman, close enough to smell the blood which clung to her clothes as though they’d been freshly dyed–the deep slash across her throat had left no sanctuary for body fluids. Her T-shirt had a deep apron of gleaming scarlet still eating across its midriff. Only the material at her hips retained original colour. White to contrast with her brown skin.
Brook picked his way round to the man. There was something odd about him. Apart from a few lines of blood splatter from the woman, his clothes were dry and clean. How had he died? Maybe his heart had given out at the sight of his daughter being torn open in front of him. Shock–it happened. But this man was young, thirty perhaps, and looked lean and gym-fit, like many young black males in the inner city.
Brook stepped closer, being careful this time to skirt the blood pool on the bare boards. As he neared, he saw the bloody scalpel glinting from the man’s lap. No, it was a razor–it had a mother-of-pearl handle and looked old–a cut-throat, the kind scraped on leather belts in barber shops in Westerns.
He examined the man’s neck. Nothing. No sign of a wound.
Suddenly Brook was overcome by the impulse to find a quiet corner and sleep. He’d been awake for days and now it got to him. But he couldn’t sleep yet. Not yet. He’d missed his prey by seconds. For once he was there when it mattered–a living crime scene. Living but not breathing. Gone was the routine numb of detection, the banality of post-mortem bureaucracy. In its stead came the thrill and chill of participation. Brook was in the eye of the needle.
Then a noise–a hiss and a gurgle–and the man’s chest moved.
Brook snapped upright in terror, his heart punching its way out of his ribcage. Pinheads of sweat moistened his top lip, his hair follicles tingled and his mind spun on its axis.
Was the man alive? Why would The Reaper spare the father yet tear open the daughter? Had he been disturbed? Was he still…?
Brook was engulfed by the urge to flee, every sinew screaming at him to run, to stumble out into the cold Brixton night and fill his lungs with oxygen. He was in bad shape, he knew that. The last year on Sorenson’s trail had taken its toll. If he left now he could get away and never look back–never think of The Reaper again.
But he didn’t run. Couldn’t. He’d waited so long. So instead he stepped away from the sofa, like a daredevil, walking backwards along a tightrope slung between high buildings. Don’t look down. You’ll fall. Don’t think. You will fall.
Back he stepped, inching his way to the wall ’til he could go no further.
As his heels bumped against the wall, his arm brushed something. Suddenly there was music. Something beautiful, sensuous almost. Mozart. The Requiem. It shocked him, brought him back.
Only then did he blink and begin to register his breathing, harsh and rasping through the tar. Only then could he think.
It made no sense. Why the child and not the father? The Reaper was too thorough. The man was dead. The noise was the onset of decomposition. Body gasses. Had to be.
Brook took a few moments to compose himself, still staring at the man to be sure. No movement. No more noise. Only the music. He was glad of it. The silence would have scorched his ears.
Calm now, Brook turned to the CD system. It was brand new. A half-smile drifted across his face. He set about concluding his business and turned to the wall to examine the word smeared in blood over the fireplace. His eye caught a glimpse of something else and his features darkened–a photograph in a frame on the mantelpiece. He looked closer, staring hard for what seemed like hours. There was no mistake. His mouth fell open. He shrank back, his face frozen in wonder, his eyes unblinking, his mind in turmoil, trying to make sense.
Then he knew. It all fit together and he nodded, his face set, eyes like slits to block out the visions. Of course. Now he understood. He’d got The Reaper’s message. A smile cracked his features. Another noise behind him. Brook took a deep breath as he turned to face his nemesis.
Brook stood outside Sorenson’s house waiting for Rowlands to shuffle the last few yards. It was dark now, snowing lightly, and Brook recalled the last nerve-shredding night he’d been in Sorenson’s house, the night he’d found the brand new, still boxed CD player.
He sensed Rowlands looking at him, probing his reaction, waiting for him to be ready. ‘Well, lad?’ he panted.
‘Just a minute.’
‘What’s wrong?’
Brook put a finger to his lips. ‘I thought there might be music,’ he explained. ‘He played me something a long time ago.
La Wally’
‘What did you call me?’
Brook laughed nervously. ‘Sorry, Charlie. You’re cold.’ Brook grabbed the bell pull and gave it a tug.
A light footfall crossed the interior and the door was opened by a vision of loveliness, an angel framed against the warm light of the hall.
‘Hello, Damen. Mr Rowlands.’
‘Hello, Vicky.’
She smiled nervously. ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ she said, looking sheepish. Rowlands looked from one to the other, trying to be included.
‘I wouldn’t go that far. You look nice. Different somehow. More like your mother.’
She smiled again. Brook wasn’t sure he’d said the right thing. But he wasn’t thinking his straightest. He’d suspected Vicky might be close to the case but seeing her now, at The Reaper’s house, was still a shock to the system. He hid it well.
‘Come in.’
Brook and Rowlands stepped into the warm. Vicky took their coats and hung them up. She was very beautiful in the pale light. Gone were the patchy jeans and multi-coloured cardigans. Instead she wore black figure-hugging cords which tapered down to an expensive pair of tan Chelsea boots. A superfluous belt held her flat stomach against a dark velvet V-necked top which caressed her sculpted torso. Her hair was scraped back into a clasp, showing off her swan’s neck and her ears, embellished by a pair of silver earrings–delicately worked filigree–shimmered in the half-light.