Sorenson took a sip of whisky. ‘When our twenty-first birthday arrived our lives changed forever. Until that point, I was able to keep a rough parity with my brother. We both went to university to study Chemical Science. My father wanted us to take an interest in the business. And so, to please him, I got a first class degree. But Steffi? Steffi could only scrape a pass, and even then I’d had to give him my notes. It was more important for Steffi to get drunk and sleep with as many women as he could,
which was a lot. He could be very charming when he wanted something from you.
‘After university we were supposed to work at the plant and learn the ropes from the bottom up, like Dad had done. But I’d performed so well that Dad wanted me to go as far as my brains would take me. And I was happy to oblige, to shut myself away in academe. By this time I was having trouble coping with life. I was different. I’d discovered that I was more than sensitive. I was seeing things, visions, when I came into physical contact with people. Terrible things. Never anything beautiful. So I was happy to hide with my books while my brother went to work in the business.
‘And to be fair to him, he did well. He became a good manager, a good entrepreneur. Like father. And when I finally went to work, we had the ideal partnership. I could supply all the expertise for the new processes for product development and Steffi could wheel and deal–under Father’s watchful eye of course. But it wasn’t enough. He didn’t have control over his own destiny. That’s when he killed Father.’
Brook took a sip of his whisky, and rolled the burning liquid around his mouth. What he was learning was interesting and told him a lot about the psychology of his opponent but took him no nearer The Reaper.
‘You don’t seem surprised, Damen?’
‘This kind of rivalry is well known, particularly in twins. It produces all sorts of imaginary hatreds and jealousies. Each believing the other is their enemy, each trying to promote themselves at the expense of the other…’
‘I see.’
‘I mean he didn’t really kill your Father, did he?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You have evidence?’
‘No.’
‘But you saw it–
in a vision.’
‘No. Steffi knew. After they found Father with his neck broken at the foot of his office stairs, he never came near me. Never let me touch him. He was my twin. He could sense my abilities.’
‘I see.’
‘Do
you
have proof that I’m The Reaper?’
The directness of the question threw Brook for a second. ‘I did have. I destroyed it.’ Brook shifted a little in his chair and took another drink. ‘I searched your house that night, while you were asleep. The serial number on a CD system stored in your house matched the number on the system in Wrigley’s flat. I removed the delivery note.’
‘But you destroyed it?’
Brook shrugged. ‘An illegal search. It was inadmissible.’
Sorenson’s knowing grin was close to an outright laugh. ‘Inadmissible. Of course.’ Now he did laugh. ‘You couldn’t condone such corrupt practice. Another drink, officer? Or would that constitute a bribe?’
‘I’ll risk it.’
‘Brave man.’ Sorenson went to put on some music and returned with another tumbler of whisky. Brook took an immediate sip. The heat felt good on his tongue, he swirled it around like mouthwash. He felt relaxed, at ease with his host. This was where he was meant to be, where he’d been so often in his dreams.
‘So you can’t prove I’m this killer?’
‘I’ve proved it to myself.’ Brook decided against
mentioning Charlie’s confession. That was an ace he’d only use if he needed it.
The music drifted over from the speakers. Beethoven this time. Brook wasn’t sure which.
‘The Ninth–von Karajan conducting,’ said Sorenson, as though answering an audible question. ‘You’ll enjoy it more than you can imagine,’ he said with a cryptic smile and set off round the room, switching on lamps to dispel the gathering shadows.
Brook looked at his watch. Nearly four in the afternoon. This could be a long night.
‘If you’ll excuse me, Damen, I’ve got some medication to take. I won’t be a moment,’ and he stepped through a door at the back of the room, behind one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Brook picked up his glass and ambled around the room, wondering what Sorenson had meant by his remark about the music. He sniffed his glass and examined the bottom of the whisky bottle. If Sorenson had doctored his drink he couldn’t tell. He took another hearty swig and positioned himself to admire the ‘fake’ Van Gogh he’d seen on his first visit to the room. Everything about it was right–the bold brushwork, the light, the signature. It was an impressive mimic of Van Gogh’s style.
He picked up an instruction booklet from the desk. It was for the video camera on a tripod in the corner of the room. He flicked through it then tossed it back on the desk.
He continued to wander round, stopping at his overcoat to pick out Noble’s mobile. He turned it on. There were no messages so he returned it to the coat. The music played on.
Brook arrived at one of the bookshelves and examined its contents. A book caught his eye–
Empathic Depths of the Mind.
He browsed through it.
‘Keep it,’ said Sorenson over Brook’s shoulder. ‘A gift. You’re going to need it.’ He returned to his armchair and arranged the blankets around his legs.
Brook made a show of replacing the book but Sorenson had closed his eyes. Brook stepped back to his chair and sat down.
‘One thing Vicky didn’t explain was why she latched onto me.’ Sorenson didn’t respond so Brook pressed on. ‘She said she saw me on the news, at the Wallis Murders press conference, but if she had no idea you were involved why would she even be interested in The Reaper?’
‘Vicky thinks he’s still alive.’
‘Who?’
‘Her father. She’s terrified of him, of the memory of him. She thinks he’s The Reaper.’
‘But she knew her father was dead.’
‘Not at first. She was very young. I couldn’t tell her. Not after killing him. I said he went away.’
‘But she’s not young any more.’
‘I know. When she was old enough to understand we told her, Sonja and I. Said he was killed by a burglar. But it was too late. It had taken root. Her father was a monster–a beast, preying on his family. Do you see? Families. That’s how she connected to The Reaper. She fears the monster coming in the night, killing without mercy, destroying families then melting into the darkness. And to confront those fears she has to seek him out, to find him. It’s not rational, I know. But our nightmares rarely are.’
Brook nodded. ‘And your brother?’
No response. Finally Sorenson’s eyelids parted slightly. Already he looked like a corpse. He opened his eyes and contemplated Brook.
‘Sonja was home for the weekend. She’d been in care for a year, driven out of her mind by Steffi’s cruelty. But he wouldn’t allow her proper treatment. I’m sure he wanted her to go mad in that glorified country club he put her in, just to save himself the bother of dealing with her. He never visited. I did–without his knowledge. And that’s when she told me about Vicky. That’s when I first heard of the Dentist Game. She couldn’t be absolutely sure. We’re talking about a little girl. Her own father. But I was sure. I knew what he was like.
‘One day, I waited for Steffi to go out and called round to see Vicky and Petr. I hadn’t seen much of them that year. Steffi had hired a housekeeper to keep people away. Especially me. He knew better than to let me near them. He must have known I’d sense the truth at once. But Sonja warned me about her so I pretended to be Steffi. We were so alike. How could she have known? I’d forgotten my key, I said. It was easy.
‘Poor Vicky. I didn’t need to hold her tiny hand to know. It was so strong. Just seeing her, imagining her and Petr alone with that monster. And Sonja, going mad with guilt, powerless to protect her own children. I decided then to kill him.
‘I left the house but before I went, I fired the housekeeper. I told her I’d made a mistake hiring her. I offered her a thousand pounds in cash if she left immediately. Steffi never knew.
‘Sonja was coming home for a visit the next day so I called round unexpectedly to see them. I took flowers.
‘She opened the door. She was crying, her blouse was torn. Steffi was in the living room. Drunk. He had an old cutthroat razor, a coming-of-age gift from my father, and he was waving it about in front of the children. They were terrified. Howling the place down. Sonja had finally got up the courage to tell Steffi she was leaving him and taking the children and he’d gone berserk.
‘Strange. He couldn’t have cared less about them. But his ego was bruised. The thought that his power was no longer taken seriously, no longer feared, mortified him. So he’d decided. Told them he was going to tie them up and cut their throats one at a time.’
Brook looked up–another reason for Vicky to connect with The Reaper. ‘What happened?’
‘I managed to distract him long enough to get the children out. Sonja brought them back here. When I came home the children were asleep. I made Sonja take a taxi back to the hospital, her alibi, you see. Then I went straight back to Steffi’s.
‘He was even drunker by now. The violence in his eyes was savage. He attacked me, verbally, then physically. It all came out. All his poison. And then I saw. He’d wasted his life. He didn’t deserve to live. It was easy. He was too drunk to stand. I tied him to a chair. I needed to make it look like a frenzied attack by a burglar so I beat his brains out with a poker. Afterwards I put a few antiques in a bin bag to suggest a burglary and left.’
‘Just like that?’
Sorenson smiled. ‘Not quite. Something happened.
Something terrible, something amazing, something few people can understand. Even murderers don’t get to see it. Most of them.’
‘What was that?’
‘I think you know. You’ve seen it in Harlesden, in Brixton, in Derby. Those last few moments of life when people realise what’s happening and beg for a little longer–a few minutes, a few seconds more. Everything changes in those moments.
‘I saw that in Steffi. Those final seconds of his life he lived more than he’d ever lived before. Because suddenly he knew. He knew it was right. He knew he was about to die and every breath, every sight, became urgent, precious. He looked around the room at all the beautiful things and saw them as if for the first time. They were different, wonderful. He asked me to put on some music so I played him our song. La Wally He cried. We both did.
‘And to die, to give up your wasted life surrounded by the apex of human achievement, to end your time seeing such beauty and listening to the breath of Heaven, instead of gaping at a hospital ceiling or the bonnet of a car or a back street puddle…
‘By the time I’d crashed the poker into his skull the first time, I’d changed him.
I
had changed him. He was different to the Steffi I’d always known. Better. At ease with himself, with his fate. I envied him for once. No more worry. No more having to hide the pain, the guilt. He was in the terminal ward. In rapture. If it were possible, I would have untied him so he could do the same for me. But I couldn’t let him down. He was depending on me.’
Sorenson had to take a pause now. His head slumped.
‘There’s something I don’t understand.’
‘What don’t you understand, Damen? The urge to kill those who don’t deserve to live. To destroy those who can’t appreciate the beauty there is in the world–a painting, a piece of music, a glass of wine. To end the lives of those who, in deadening their own pain, spray their vile scent over others. To show them how precious life is by removing it. What don’t you understand? Tell me.’
‘I understand the picture–Fleur de Lis–I understand the music, the wine. I even understand the arrogance which demands that only people who can’t appreciate the things you take for granted should be slaughtered, people without your advantages, people that the wealthy, the well educated like you should be trying to help.’
Sorenson turned to Brook with a look of such scorn and disgust that Brook worried that he may have gone too far and be disqualified from the endgame. But then Sorenson laughed as if realising he was being teased. ‘You don’t believe that liberal nonsense for a second, any more than Charlie did. It’s tried and failed. We live in a jungle, Damen. In the jungle, if you hold out a hand to help a suffering animal, it will be ripped to pieces. You understand that much.’
‘I understand the power, the mania. I understand the insanity of other people’s lives and the desire to be God. But God
is
God, Professor. Only the Devil ever
wants
to be God.’
Sorenson laughed again. ‘You think I’m the devil? I’m flattered.’
‘No, any fool can have a God complex. You’re no fool.’ Sorenson accepted the compliment with a nod of the head. ‘So tell me.’
‘Tell you what, Damen?’
‘Make me understand. If
you
murdered your brother why kill Sammy Elphick and his family? What had they done to deserve that?’
‘Everything. Their entire lives were a monument to ugliness, to causing pain with their petty theft and casual violence. There was nothing to be achieved by extending their existence. Not when I could show them something better. Not when I could teach them how to appreciate life in those final minutes. I could show them beauty. They lived more in half an hour with me than they could in two lifetimes of drudgery and struggle.’
‘But how did you choose Sammy Elphick and his family?’
‘A detail, Damen. Suffice to say they were chosen…’
‘How?’
Sorenson’s expression was blank. Finally he nodded. ‘Very well. I was in Shepherd’s Bush one afternoon, trying to flag down a cab. A group of boys ran towards me. They were only young but they were very loud, very aggressive. I had no fear of what they might do to me but I was interested so I stopped to look. Fifty yards behind them I could see an old woman being helped to her feet and people shouting at these boys. One of them had the old woman’s purse.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I examined their faces as they ran past me. I watched them trying to look tough to discourage interference but I could see each of them was affected by what they’d done. They had that big-shot excitement on their faces but I could detect worry, some brief flicker that they knew what they’d done was wrong. Except one.’