‘When are you out of here?’
‘This afternoon, sir.’
‘Report for duty to DS Noble, he’ll have some chores for you. Who’s your partner?’
‘WPC Jones, sir.’
‘Wendy Jones.’ Brook felt a tic of apprehension. ‘Good officer. Take her with you. This order is direct from the Chief Superintendent and you take your orders from DS Noble and myself. Understand?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’
Brook made to leave but turned back. ‘And Constable. The next time you feel peckish at a crime scene, send out for a bag of chips.’
Aktar’s foolish expression returned. ‘Yes sir. Thank you, sir.’
Brook drained his third plastic coffee of the day and shuddered. He tossed the thin beaker into the adjacent bin. ‘What have you got, John?’
Noble flicked a notebook. ‘Pizza Parlour didn’t send anyone round to the Wallis house with anything last night and you were right, they don’t deliver in vans. I spoke to the manager. He said they did have an identical order to the one at the crime scene. A Four Seasons, an American Hot and a Seafood. All family size…’
‘Let me guess. They were collected, not delivered and the customer paid cash.’
‘Right.’
‘What about CCTV?’
‘They don’t have it.’
Brook smiled. ‘Our boy’s determined not to make it easy for us. Description?’
‘Nothing useable. A man. Middle-aged maybe.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Nobody remembers who picked it up. They only look at the money–as you suspected.’
‘Yeah, it’d be nice to be wrong for a change. What else?’
‘DC Morton took a formal statement from Mr Singh next door. Singh said he went round to the Wallis house about half an hour after midnight. The front door was open but he didn’t suspect anything. The CD player was on loud so he turned it down and then off. He said he had no idea the Wallis family were dead because the lights were off. When he turned on the lights–bingo!’
‘And the volume?’
‘He said the music was distorted.’
‘So it must have been on full. Interesting. Okay. Have Forensics got his clothes and shoes?’
‘They have.’
‘Prints?’
‘Yep.’
‘Did we ask him about times?’
‘He said he didn’t go round straight away. He said he heard the music start earlier but it got really loud just past midnight–he looked at his watch. He stood it until half past before going round.’
‘So our killer turned the music up and left just after midnight.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘And Jason got home soon after and had his pizza.’
‘Wouldn’t he have heard the music?’
Brook nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s a strange one. Even out of his head you’d think he’d hear it and investigate.’
‘Maybe he thought it was the TV.’
‘Even so.’
‘And there’s the baby. Surely it would have woken up.’
‘Babies are funny, John. They can sleep through anything. Maybe it did wake up, maybe not. But unless she was screaming her head off who’s going to notice? With Aktar struggling to stay conscious that leaves Mr Singh, who’s in a situation for which he has no training.’
‘I suppose.’
‘What about the CD?’
‘Sent for dusting. It was’–Noble checked his notes–‘Symphony No. 9 by Mahler. I thought he was reggae.’
Brook smiled at Noble. ‘Bob Mahler and the Wailers. You know your music, John. And the case?’
‘No sign. Looks like the killer brought the CD and took the case with him. So we’ve very little chance of tracing the purchase.’
Brook nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah. DC Cooper found a phone number for a Mrs Harrison at the Wallis house. Apparently she’s Mrs Wallis’ sister. A nurse. Divorced. Lives in Borrowash. She’d just heard the news and was obviously in a bit of a state. Says she hasn’t seen the family for a couple of weeks, though Mrs Wallis phoned her two days ago. Nothing in her manner to suggest she was worried about anything. I sent a WPC round for tea and sympathy. She says she’s willing to do the formal ID.’
‘Good.’
‘We got a fax from BT. Every call to the Wallis house up to two days before the murder came from numbers listed in Mrs Wallis’ address book, except one. That came from a public phone the day before.’
‘So he could check out the menu before ringing to take their order. Is it close to Pizza Parlour?’
‘Near enough. And it’s coin-operated not card.’
‘Really?’
‘Hard to believe they still exist, I know. Forensics is giving it a quick once-over but there’s no telling how many people have been in there since.’
‘What about enemies?’
‘We asked Mrs Harrison. She says not. Bobby had an occasional
word
with a neighbour or someone down the pub at chucking-out time. But nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing on this scale.’
‘And nothing in his jacket about dealing?’
‘Not even a sniff of drugs, no joke intended. He wasn’t the type.’
‘Check with the Drug Squad anyway. Just to tick it off.’
‘A message from the Chief. There’s a press conference at four, in time for the local evening news and she wants you there.’
‘Damn. I wish brass could jump through these hoops by themselves.’
‘I reckon she needs a man there to give the public a bit of confidence.’
Brook turned to Noble, this time without amusement. He had to stop letting these remarks slide, if only for the sake of balance. ‘That’s right. Evelyn McMaster knows exactly what kind of small-minded bigots are out there, John. And to her credit she’s big enough to swallow her pride and pander to their intolerance if it will bolster confidence in what we’re doing. That makes our job that bit easier, don’t you think?’
Noble was suitably abashed.
‘Here,’ continued Brook, pointing to the photograph of the Wallis fireplace. ‘You’ll have to follow this up now. I’ll speak to Jason on my own. What do you see, John?’
‘A bottle of wine.’
‘Not quite. It’s a bottle of expensive wine. A Nuits-Saint-Georges to be precise. From Burgundy.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Noble, with a hint of suspicion. It was still an offence in most station houses to drink anything other than lager and cheap whisky.
‘Because I spent my honeymoon on a barge in Burgundy and that was a wine we could never afford. We weren’t well off, but I imagine it would still cost you
at least fifteen to twenty pounds in a supermarket. Assuming you can get it round here. I doubt the Wallis family are oenophiles,’ he flicked a glance at Noble but his constable was maintaining the face of a stoic, ‘so get someone to find out where it was bought and by whom, if you can. Who else is on the team apart from Cooper?’
‘DC Morton, DC Bull, DC Gadd.’
‘Jane Gadd? Good officer,’ said Brook evenly, ignoring Noble’s quick glance. Jane Gadd was Noble’s girlfriend. Brook wasn’t supposed to know that–nobody was–but receding proximity to sexual relationships had sharpened his antennae in such things. More importantly she was young and hungry for promotion, as were DCs Dave Bull and Rob Morton. This was a big opportunity for them and he knew they’d toe the line and work hard.
‘Try the big supermarkets centrally. They’ll know if they stock it. When Aktar’s discharged get him and Wendy Jones to help. Send them round the off licences.’
WPC Wendy Jones was reading a magazine as Brook peered through a crack in the curtains. He hesitated. This could be difficult and Brook wasn’t sure how to play it. That was nothing new. He hadn’t been sure on any of the chance encounters since their little fling the previous New Year’s Eve had left them both with a severe case of embarrassment.
Nearly a year ago. Brook could scarcely believe it. The power of alcohol had a miraculous power to transform behaviour. Brook could scarcely tally the demure, black-stockinged professional before him now with the reckless passion of that night. The energy and the urgency of her
lovemaking had left its mark on Brook, a casualty of a more repressed generation.
It had been the best sex he could remember–and he had a good memory–and had offered him a glimpse of a happiness he thought he could never experience after his divorce.
He hated to admit it, but the touch of young flesh had thrown open the stable door on emotions he hadn’t allowed free rein in a long, long time–lust, the poignancy of retreating youth, the urge to retrieve his wasted life. For the first time in years, Brook had experienced fleeting optimism. It was a very unhealthy period.
He coughed as he entered to allow her a few seconds to prepare. Her generous mouth dropped open briefly to reveal a glimpse of her perfect teeth. Her large dark eyes met his and she stood up. Brook was reminded of her long legs and stunning figure–what one of his poker-playing colleagues in the Met used to call a ‘Full House’.
‘Sir!’ she said her eyes almost level with his. She was only a couple of inches shorter than Brook’s six feet.
‘I didn’t know you were riding shotgun, Constable.’ Brook decided only at the last second not to call her Wendy.
‘Only while PC Aktar’s in here, sir.’ She fiddled with the grip restraining her long brown hair.
‘I’ve just seen him.’
Jones seemed very nervous and Brook was reminded of her acute awkwardness at waking up, not just with a senior colleague, but in his hovel of a flat. She’d scuttled back to her riverside development as quickly as she could. ‘How is he, sir?’
‘He’s feeling a little sorry for himself.’
‘I daren’t imagine what he saw to cause him to pass out like that.’
‘No. It was pretty bad,’ he added, deciding not to expand. ‘How’s this one?’ Brook enquired, nodding towards Jason Wallis who was unconscious.
‘The doctor says he’ll be fine–unfortunately.’
Brook gave her a quizzical smile.
‘Sorry, sir. But the little girl…I didn’t see her.’ She looked to the ground, suddenly embarrassed, as though she’d let down her sex by not forcing herself to see such a sight. ‘And this…lowlife gets away with a headache and even more celebrity. There’s no justice.’
‘Celebrity?’
‘Young Wallis, sir. After that hoo-hah a few weeks back. He assaulted a teacher in a lesson at Drayfin Community School. Threatened to rape her.’
Enlightenment creased Brook’s features. ‘That was Jason?’ He nodded with satisfaction. ‘Thanks for the reminder, Constable. Has anybody spoken to him?’
‘About last night? No sir. He’s not really been conscious. Why?’
‘So he hasn’t said anything?’
‘Not a dickey bird,’ she replied with an unexpected, if hesitant, smile which vanished before it had a chance to wrinkle the edge of her mouth. ‘Doesn’t he know?’
‘I don’t think so. Given the state he was in, I’m pretty sure he couldn’t have killed anyone and…’ Brook tailed off, unsure of the words.
‘Would you eat pizza if you’ve just found your family
butchered?’ concluded Jones with a nod. ‘Do you need me to stay?’
She seemed very efficient all of a sudden. There was also the merest whisper of affection in her voice and a small seed of pleasure took root in the barren soil of Brook’s ego. He smiled, trying to imagine the question in a different context. ‘No, take a break, but keep yourself handy. Shouldn’t there be a social worker with him?’
‘She’s gone for a coffee, sir. She’ll be back in a minute.’ Brook nodded. She made to leave the cubicle then turned. ‘One thing. Jason’s under technical arrest, as a suspect…’ she hesitated.
‘Go on.’
‘We emptied his pockets. He’s got a hundred pounds on him. And a strip of tablets. Ecstasy, I think. Might be helpful.’
She left and Brook turned to young Jason. He stared at the childlike face for a moment trying to square his innocent expression with a threat to commit rape. He was just a kid. What had gone wrong with the world when little idiots like this felt they could threaten such violence?
Jason’s mouth lay open and a small stalactite of saliva was hanging from his bottom lip. Brook frowned and shook his head. How old was he? Fourteen? Fifteen, same as Terri? Just a kid. Oblivious. Snarling defences taking a time out. Without the posturing, without his warped sense of self, Jason Wallis was just another scared little baby, needy and lost and dribbling.
If he was lucky–or unlucky–Jason might live another sixty years and Brook knew he could map out his sorry
life now. From birth to death it was a story he’d heard many times before.
Drugs, booze, fags, the search for cheap thrills, school’s boring, skip it, hanging out with friends, no qualifications, no future, hanging out with more friends, now petty criminals, stealing for fag money, destroying stuff, windows are good, milk bottles, bus shelters, phone booths,
yeah I did it, what you gonna do about it?
He does what he likes. No-one to stop him. Jason and his friends aren’t nobodies no more–they’re big fish in a tiny puddle of piss. They’ve got power, the power to change things, not people, people can’t hear them, people walk by them, unless it’s dark, then they cross the road. Not people. Inanimate objects. They can’t run; they’ve got to listen; they can be changed by the power, from one state to another; the alchemy of destruction.
And sex? Plenty of that. Sex with a minor, still at school, willing to bury her despair under his. No need to take precautions, that’s the girl’s job. So what if she’s up the duff? Her problem. But wait. There’s a baby, that’s a nailed on income, your own place. Respect. Give it a whirl. I can walk away any time.
Shut the fucking brat up! I’m off out. Few beers. With my mates. Roll a couple of drunks. I’ve got to live, haven’t I? They’re insured.
I’m better off in pokey. I’ve learnt some good stuff. Get out. Get some dosh together. Go back in. Lesson learned. If only I’d listened in school, made more of myself. Too late now. Gotta tough it out. Can’t admit I’ve gone wrong. What’s wrong with driving a minicab? Life’s okay. We’re coping, waiting for those numbers.
Doing fine. Kids have left. We’ll get by. Is this it? All there is.
Brook looked at his watch. He had a lot to do. He looked around to see if anybody was watching then cocked his leg back to kick the bed but then thought better of it.
But suddenly the patient snorted and began to stir. Brook looked through the gap in the curtain for the social worker but saw no sign.