‘There’s a lot of blood on the floor. You might compromise footprints.’
‘I’m just going to look from the door not traipse round shaking hands and sitting on laps. If this has been staged I want to see it as the killer intended it to be seen. Atmosphere, John, remember.’
‘Right. Get a feel for the crime before anything else. Mind the handle. There are blood smears on it.’
As Brook prepared a finger to push open the bloodied door, he turned to Noble. ‘Get onto SOCO and the PS and give them a hurry-up. And get on to the hospital. They probably know but tell them they might need to pump Aktar’s stomach. Young Wallis too. Just to be on the safe side.’
It was the smell that hit Brook first. It wasn’t new to him, the smell of death, the sweet smell of ageing blood,
the excrement expelled by a body no longer able to maintain its integrity, the sweat no longer evaporated by the heat of its host. These things weren’t new to Brook but the smell of a victim’s terror was. Almost. Only twice before. In London. Brixton 1991. And the first time, 1990. Harlesden.
Harleshole of the Universe
, as his old DI, Charlie Rowlands, had dubbed it.
And the same thoughts were intruding then, as now. Did his own fear give off the same scent on those rare occasions his nightmares overpowered his reason?
Brook wondered–no he knew–this was the smell discharged as people watched their own deaths unfold. Yes, he knew, as he knew the other smell, the hint of perfume–talcum powder. To keep sweaty palms dry inside latex gloves. He wished he had some now.
Brook stood to one side of the door and tried to take it all in. Bobby Wallis sat in his armchair, facing the TV. His body was contorted with effort, his fists clenched and spotted with blood. His head was tilted at an angle, as though puzzled by something. Brook peered at the half-closed eyes and turned to follow the victim’s sightless gaze, squinting above and beyond the TV to the word ‘SAVED’ daubed in blood on the alcove wall. Rivulets wept from all the letters except the D. This letter was fainter than the others though the writer hadn’t been short of ink. A message from the killer. SAVED. Who was saved and from what? Brook was no nearer knowing. The Reaper was back. He knew that much.
The memories came flooding in and Brook was tempted to move around the room as if physical activity could quell the images in his mind. But one of those images was
of stepping in a pool of blood all those years ago in Brixton so he managed to anchor himself.
He noted the poster on the chimney breast and nodded in recognition. Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’. It didn’t belong in this house. Rich, vivid colours stood out against the grubby walls. The blue and golden flowers, the single white flower. But now the picture was different, scarred by the slash of red, like a giant approving tick on a piece of artwork. He was held for a moment. Harlesden in 1990, Brixton a year later. And now Derby. Why such a long gap? It made no sense.
Brook forced his mind back to the present and returned his eyes to Bobby Wallis. There was a new orifice under his chin and his dark blue sweater was saturated black with blood. Arterial sprays were everywhere. Walls, clothing, furniture, the small silver Christmas tree in the corner, the dark carpet probably, though it was difficult to tell.
There would be blood all round the bodies and footprints in the blood–the neighbour’s and PC Aktar’s–who would have had to tramp around the room checking for signs of life. They wouldn’t be hard to distinguish for today’s Scene of Crime Officers with their digital imaging technology. The killer’s footprints would eventually be isolated–for what it was worth. They’d still need a suspect before they could find a match.
Brook moved his head, trying to catch a look at the front of the man’s face. Then he saw it, reflected in the dim light, a faint glimmer scarring his cheeks. It was there as before. The man’s cheeks were encrusted with it–salt from tears. Something had made this man cry and sure as hell, it wasn’t
Big Brother.
Brook remembered him now. Bobby Wallis had form and Brook was willing to bet he hadn’t cried since early childhood. He was a local hard man, a man’s man, a petty criminal, who graduated from years in the system and drifted in and out of menial work. Sometimes he got drunk and beat up those who were sure not to fight back. Not his family though. They were part of him. He’d protect
his
kids. He’d protect his wife. Love was another matter.
Brook remembered his own dead father, a miner in Barnsley. Although as different from Bobby Wallis as chalk from cheese, Brook recognised the symptoms. A life built on small successes, hungrily sought and endlessly trumpeted to drown the background hum of failure.
With his father it had been his work as a union official and coaching the church boys’ football club. With Wallis it would have been a good result at the bookies or the chance smile of a barmaid ‘asking for it’.
Brook turned his gaze to the ample figure beside Bobby. Mrs Wallis was on the sofa comically dressed in a towelling tracksuit that stretched itself, with more than a hint of complaint, around her abundant flesh. At least in death she’d discovered irony, thought Brook, trying to suppress a grim smile.
A pack of cigarettes and gold lighter sat neatly beside her. They would surely have been knocked over in the death struggle so they had to have been placed there post mortem. If there was a reason apart from the killer’s sense of order, Brook didn’t know it. His eye lingered on the pack. He was sorely tempted to take one and light up.
Mrs Wallis had also cried. Her face was contorted with
pain and effort, though Brook doubted whether she’d have been able to plead for her life. Like her husband, she wore the large, sopping bib of a bloodstain beneath telltale sinew, protruding like a bag of giblets from her throat. Another life to make no mark. Gone forever. Brook nodded. The same format. And the gore wasn’t too bad. He could cope. Except. There was always ‘except’. That was the same as Harlesden and Brixton too.
The girl lay face down on the fake animal skin rug. Brook was glad he couldn’t see her face–an oversight on the part of the killer perhaps.
Her feet were bare up to her ankles where her pyjamas took over. The bottoms were relatively free of blood and were dotted with cartoon characters. Her top lay in tatters around her torso. It had been slashed open, exposing her back and shoulders. Something had been carved onto the smooth alabaster skin below her shoulder blades and Brook strained his neck to make it out. SAVED again. The lettering was cut in straight lines including the S. The blade had been thin and very sharp, as Brook could see no evidence of effort or hacking around the deep cuts; another cutthroat razor perhaps, or even a scalpel.
The area around the girl’s torn neck shone dark with blood though not as much as might be expected for such a major wound. Nor was there much blood coming from the cuts on her back.
He decided these wounds were administered post mortem to prevent excessive bleeding. That fit the pattern. The killer wouldn’t want his message obscured. Dr Habib would have to confirm it but Brook was sure enough and took some measure of comfort from the fact.
Now he scanned the floor. He could see no obvious sign of the weapon. The Reaper had taken it with him this time. The Reaper. Brook was annoyed with himself. How quickly he’d parcelled up the crime and assigned it to his old quarry. He had to keep an open mind.
He began to scan the room itself. For a family home there was very little mess. Some Christmas cards on a string had been taken down to make way for the Van Gogh poster but even then they’d been neatly stacked behind the little Christmas tree in the corner. If you didn’t count the bloodstains, there was order. The killer had arranged everything, tidied everything so only the important things remained to catch the eye. Before or after death, Brook couldn’t tell. A bit of both, probably.
A few crumbs of food on the carpet were the only other signs of disorder. Probably caused by the victims as they knocked over their meal in the struggle to understand what was happening to them. The pizza boxes were now in the kitchen, out of the way. They’d done their job and were now just clutter as far as the killer was concerned. Everything was deliberate, put in place for Brook to see.
He shook himself to gaze again at the girl, trying not to imagine her ordeal. A few hours before, she would have been pink with life, the rug a deathly white. Now the roles were reversed. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. What had
she
done to deserve this? She hadn’t chosen her parents. Brook could write off their useless existence with little guilt. But the girl should have had her whole life in front of her.
Next Brook glanced at the carry cot beside the TV, glad he couldn’t see inside. It must have been the thought
of the little mite that had eaten away at Noble’s sangfroid. This was a new outrage for The Reaper: murdering a baby. He remembered what Charlie Rowlands used to say in London,
‘The smaller the victim, the bigger the crime’.
Was that what started the tears for Bobby and Mrs Wallis? Or was it their young daughter’s throat being torn open in front of them? He wished he could be sure it was one of the two but he knew not to take it for granted. Impending death could induce terrifying selfishness.
And the son, Jason, a petty thief and general chip off the old block, Brook recalled. He was alive and the girl and the baby were dead. Why? That didn’t tally with the past. In Harlesden and Brixton no-one was spared.
For a split-second Brook was consumed by the hope that this was different, just a one-off, mindless slaughter, not the work of The Reaper but the drug-addled frenzy of a teenage boy or a disgruntled neighbour pushed over the edge. He looked back at the Van Gogh poster and the bloody daub on the wall and the thought died in its infancy.
Brook wanted to step outside. His need for a cigarette was becoming almost clinical. He swept his eye round the room one last time. On the shelf of the fireplace above the gas fire stood a bottle of red wine with two half full glasses either side. ‘Nice symmetry,’ nodded Brook. He couldn’t make out the label from where he was but suspected the killer had brought it. It looked too expensive for the weekly Wallis shop at Lidl.
To the left of one of the wine glasses what looked like a lipstick had been stood on its end. Brook glanced at Mrs Wallis to see if she was wearing any. It was difficult
to tell. It had probably fallen out of her pocket and had been tidied up by the killer.
Brook turned and then looked back. Whatever impression the killer wanted to convey, the chances were he would want it seen as someone came through the door. Many serial killers enjoyed creating a tableaux. In this case, family life as it should be: gathered together to discuss the events of the day, then wiped out by a single act.
As Brook turned again to plot a path back to the cold night air a noise from behind halted him and his head snapped back towards the murder scene. He froze, not daring to move, listening for further noises. He stared at Bobby Wallis for a long time, watching for any sign of movement, examining the wound on his neck again to be sure he was dead.
He turned to leave but the noise returned. This time it was unmistakeable. A rustling of material. Someone or something was moving in the room. Brook stood like a statue for what seemed an age, his breathing shallow, his ear cocked, only his eyes allowed to move. The next sound was one Brook had not heard for many years. Not since Terri had been a baby. It was an infant gurgling, preparing itself to wake and scream for a feeding with that disproportionate power that robbed so many new parents of their sleep.
Brook stepped round the room as quickly and as delicately as he could manage before peering into the carry cot next to the TV. A baby wriggled, its eyes closed, trying to kick off its blanket. Tiny eyes flickered but instead of joy Brook’s mouth fell open in horror. On the child’s forehead–in small lettering–the word ‘SAVED’ again.
Brook narrowed his eyes and pulled the restrictive blanket away from the baby and felt around its torso for any further signs of injury. The baby wriggled even harder and began to kick out and cry. Brook plucked the infant from its swaddling, hardly daring to look at the disfigurement inflicted although there was something odd about it.
He walked towards the door holding the child but stopped suddenly. Then he bent down to sniff the baby. A second later Brook had produced a handkerchief, dabbed it into his mouth then wiped away a corner of the letter D from the baby’s forehead. ‘Lipstick.’ Brook sighed with relief and hurried out of the room.
‘Sergeant!’ he screamed at the top of his voice. ‘Get over here!’
At this terrifying noise, the baby opened its mouth and began to scream as loudly as its tiny lungs would allow. Brook was unable to keep from laughing out loud and long at the baby’s distress. In a bad mood, he’d once said there was, ‘No finer sight than a child in tears,’ and finally his words had found a more worthy setting.
He’d forgotten how to hold an infant and he marched the baby out of the front door at arm’s length, as though he’d set the chip pan on fire. Noble flew to him and took the bundle, amazed.
‘I thought…’
‘Get the little sod off to hospital. If you can, get a shot of the forehead before it gets cleaned off. And when you’ve done that get this place completely sealed off. See to it yourself, John, and let’s get it right this time.’
Two hours later Brook stood at the gate of the Wallis house, pulling hard on a ‘borrowed’ Silk Cut and stamping his feet to keep warm. It wasn’t yet five o’clock but despite that and the biting cold a small huddle of interested bystanders stood shivering in the blackness on the other side of the potholed street, their faces glowing in the burnished light of flashing squad cars and ambulances. A Scientific Support van was parked next to Brook’s Sprite, its back doors open. Noble pulled up and got out of a squad car and approached Brook looking sheepish.
‘How’s the baby, John?’
‘It seems fine. No injuries.’
‘Did you get a shot of the writing…?’
Noble waved a disposable camera at Brook and nodded.