‘Then you don’t know a great deal about people, Brian.’
‘And you do?’
‘One man’s monster is another man’s saint. The man we’re looking for kills without pity, quickly, efficiently and for what
he
considers valid reasons, even if we can’t understand or condone those reasons.’
‘You sound like you know him, Inspector Brook.’
‘It’s my job, Brian, to get inside this man’s head, to see what he sees, think what he thinks. It’s not pleasant but that’s the nature of offender profiling. And although our picture of this man is far from complete, we are able
to extrapolate certain scenarios from the details of the crime. So in a sense, although I can’t go into detail, we know things about him…’
‘And when you’ve finished
extrapolating scenarios
, Inspector, are you able to tell the public at large whether this man has killed before and if he’s likely to kill again?’
Brook eyed Burton, barely masking his distaste.
McMaster, sensing the rise in temperature, stepped back into the fray. ‘Obviously this man is very dangerous, Brian. Certainly he could kill again which is why we need to catch him before he does.’
‘But is it likely he’s killed before?’ asked another reporter, spotting the omission.
‘There’s no possible way we can answer that until…’ Brook rejoined.
Burton interrupted. ‘So, Inspector, your profile contains no mention of the similarities between the murder of the Wallis family last night and the unsolved Reaper killings of the early nineties, in which investigation you played a leading part when you were stationed in London?’ The silence deafened Brook. He was vaguely aware of many faces looking at each other for assistance or clarification. ‘Well, Inspector?’
‘We’re not here to listen to wild speculation, Brian. Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,’ McMaster said hurriedly, ‘and feel free to contact my office at any time.’ She stood, an amiable smile covering her face, and nudged Brook to leave.
‘Are you going to answer the question?’
‘We cannot give out specific details of last night’s
murders until the appropriate time…’ began McMaster.
‘Is there a connection between the killer using the blood of the Wallis family to write on the walls and the Reaper murders in Harlesden and Brixton in 1990 and 1991 and Leeds in 1993?’
Brook became aware of the low muttering of journalists, trying to gather scraps of information. He wanted to speak but McMaster had him by the elbow as discretely as she could and, ignoring the clamour for more sound bites, was pushing him through the door of the small antechamber at the back of the room. She closed the door behind them and turned on Brook.
‘What the hell was all that?’ she blazed, for once dispensing with the reflex niceties of her position. ‘Where has that hack got his information?’
‘I don’t know, ma’am.’
‘Don’t know. That’s not good enough. Now every crank and Edward the Confessor out there knows what we know.’ McMaster was silent. She strode to and fro, examining the floor, trying to regain her equilibrium. Eventually the pacing slowed and deliberation returned.
‘The Reaper. Yes, I remember. Ritual executions. Families cut up. They never caught him.’
‘I never caught him,’ said Brook bitterly.
‘You
were
on that enquiry?’
Brook nodded. ‘I was a DS.’
‘Is it true, Damen? Could there be a connection after all these years?’
‘There are one or two similarities but, as you say, it’s
been a long time. All the same, I’d like your permission to go to London, check it out.’
‘You have it.’
‘Then I’ll need a larger pool of officers here, ma’am. To help DS Noble.’
‘What do you need?’
‘We need the computer manned for logging in any information. We need the Incident Room phones manned to sift through calls from the public. We need the murder book compiled. There’s house-to-house to co-ordinate, the van and weapons search, family background…’
‘How many?’
‘I’ve got enough CID but I’d like to second the two uniforms who answered the call. If we keep them in-house, they’re less likely to gossip…’
‘Fine, fine,’ she replied, putting up a hand.
‘And authorisation for any overtime and unlimited uniform back up when needed.’
‘You have it.’ McMaster suddenly seemed very tired but her anger pulled her round almost immediately. ‘Where did Brian Burton get all that information?’
‘He’s local, ma’am. He’s got local contacts.’
‘But a crime scene is supposed to be sacrosanct, damn it. It’s the Plummer rape all over again.’
‘There were a lot of people there last night, ma’am. Not all on the Force. He’d only need a couple of details and any decent internet search engine would have done the rest. It would have come out sooner or later.’
McMaster narrowed her eyes at Brook. ‘It shouldn’t have come out sooner than it was mentioned to me. Why wasn’t I informed?’
Brook kept his gaze on the floor. ‘It’s not definite, ma’am. I didn’t want to jump the gun before I was sure.’
‘It’s a bit flimsy but we’ll gloss over that for the moment. When’s the full briefing?’
‘Eight-thirty in the morning.’
‘If I don’t make it, I want you to read the Riot Act on this. Somebody in this station is feeding titbits to that journalist. I don’t want anyone on the enquiry with loose lips. Clear?’
Brook was home late that evening. After the press conference he’d made a conscious effort to clear away some of the unavoidable foot-slogging attached to the case. First he’d read up all that was available on file about Wallis and son, including Jason’s recent brush with notoriety in a back issue of the
Derby Telegraph.
There were few details and the teacher’s name had been omitted. Brook made a note to chase up the information.
Noble was out checking a lead on the van used for delivering the pizzas so Brook rang the lab to check if they’d unearthed anything of use at the scene. They had nothing preliminary, which Brook had expected. Things would be gummed up for a while, what with staff shortages and the occurrence of separate murders on the same night.
Then he rang Dr Habib, the pathologist, and was encouraged to hear that he was performing the Wallis post mortems at that precise moment.
Finally, he made a brief visit to the Wallis house, this time driving to the Drayfin Estate in his shiny new unmarked Mondeo. On his way he listened to a recently purchased tape of Mahler’s Ninth.
As he parked, a uniformed officer stepped towards the car to check out the occupant then nodded in recognition, if not respect, at Brook. It was a dark and cold night with a dusting of snow. A good thing. It discouraged the ghouls who gravitated to such gore. Even the reporters were absent, having been given bigger leads to follow by Brian Burton.
‘All quiet, Constable…?’
‘Feaver, sir. Yes, sir. All quiet.’
‘Dark round here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes sir. Most of the street lighting’s been vandalised. Kids.’
Brook nodded and bent under the police tape. He went into the dying room. It seemed bigger than his first visit but then it was virtually empty now. No corpses cluttering the place. He didn’t go further than the doorway as a SOCO was still working in the room even at this late hour.
He’d seen everything he needed to the night before. He went into the bedrooms as he had before but, as then, there was nothing of interest. If he looked hard enough he knew he could probably find something incriminating in Jason’s room. But to what end? Brook had never been concerned about small time drug abuse or under age drinking. Even the unpleasant porn videos they’d unearthed under a creaky floor board were of no concern to Brook. All such matters fell under Brook’s Law of Victimless Crime. Although the nation’s legislators disagreed, Brook was unconcerned about citizens sitting at home drifting into a narcotic stupor and masturbating themselves to sleep. Best place for it.
And whatever Wallis and son got up to in the privacy of their home, legal or not, had not been the motive for their slaughter.
Eventually Brook sauntered away, like a tourist leaving a disappointing museum, and returned to his car. He paused as he opened the driver’s door and looked across to the house next to number 233. After a moment’s thought he reached into the Mondeo and pulled out the cassette tape of Mahler. ‘Constable Feaver,’ he shouted, waving him over. ‘Have you got a mobile?’
‘Mr Singh. It’s DI Brook. Sorry to bother you at this time. We’ve got a few more questions to ask you. May I come in?’
The slightly-built, middle-aged Asian man lifted a pair of bloodshot eyes towards Brook’s warrant card. He wore an old-fashioned dressing gown and pyjamas. His feet were bare. He hesitated briefly before turning away from the door and leading Brook into his neat living room, a mirror image of the Wallis murder scene on the other side of the wall. The furnishings were perhaps a little fussier and the colours a little brighter but the rooms were essentially the same, even down to the fireplace.
‘I told the other detective everything I know. I’m very tired…’
‘I understand.’ Brook noted a small but plump valise resting on a chair. ‘Going somewhere, sir?’
‘My brother’s house. In Leicester. I’ve…’
‘You’ve had trouble sleeping after what you witnessed. I’m not surprised. But if you could find somewhere to
stay in Derby it would be better. We need to be able to contact you…’
Mr Singh sat down on his plush sofa, indicating a chair for Brook. ‘I see.’
‘Do you live here alone?’
‘My wife and daughters are in India for a few weeks. But yes, I’m alone…’
‘A lot of worry, aren’t they?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Daughters. A lot of worry. I’ve got a fifteen year old.’
Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. They can be difficult.’ He wouldn’t look at Brook, who sensed Mr Singh was probably picturing the difficulty Kylie Wallis had encountered next door. Finally his eyes turned to Brook. ‘What questions?’
‘Just routine. Like how did you get on with the Wallis family?’
‘Mr and Mrs Wallis are…were racists. And their son Jason. They were unpleasant people and we had nothing to do with them.’
‘So things were strained between you?’
‘Not really. As I said, we had nothing to do with them. We kept out of each other’s way.’
‘What about noise from next door? Was that usual?’
‘Sometimes. Things got a good bit quieter when they had the baby though. Do you mind if I smoke, Inspector?’
‘As long as I can join you,’ replied Brook.
‘Of course.’ Mr Singh took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his dressing-gown pocket and lit up with a heavy sigh then studied Brook, wondering why he hadn’t done the same.
Eventually Mr Singh retrieved his cigarettes, shook one out for Brook and handed him the lighter.
‘Thank you. I left mine in the car.’
‘No problem. That’s where I’ll have to hide mine when my wife gets home.’
Brook smiled but resisted the invitation for man talk. ‘What about Kylie?’
Mr Singh was puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You said Mr and Mrs Wallis and Jason were racists. You didn’t mention Kylie.’
Mr Singh hesitated for a moment then smiled sadly. ‘She was a lovely girl. Lovely. They didn’t deserve her, the rest of them. They were scum. I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but they were. They were trash and won’t be missed. But Kylie was always nice to my girls.’
Brook nodded. ‘When you went next door, you went into the living room first and turned off the CD player.’
‘Yes.’
‘You turned the volume down first?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you aware that Jason was in the kitchen at that time?’
‘No. I turned the CD player off then turned the big light on at the wall…’
‘You could see to do that?’
‘Yes. The hall light was on.’
‘Then what?’
‘I saw…’ Mr Singh took a more urgent draught of tobacco and hung his head. ‘…then I went to the kitchen to phone 999.’
‘You didn’t touch the bodies?’
‘No!’
‘Not even to check for signs of life?’
‘No. They were dead. Or I thought they were. I was glad to hear about the baby…’
‘Then you saw Jason in the kitchen?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I called the police.’
‘You didn’t check Jason’s pulse.’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I assumed he was dead.’
‘Then you went outside to wait.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you saw no-one and heard no vehicles?’
‘That is correct.’
Brook nodded and pocketed his notebook. ‘May I use your phone, Mr Singh?’
‘Please.’
Brook drew out a piece of crumpled paper from a pocket and proceeded to dial. ‘Constable Feaver, it’s me. Okay. Half way.’ He put his hand over the receiver and smiled at Mr Singh.
From the Wallis house a barely audible noise could be discerned. Brook listened, watching Mr Singh closely. Singh nodded. ‘That’s how it started out.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘Twenty minutes to midnight.’
‘Why so exact?’
‘When you’re disturbed by neighbours you look at the
time. In case…’ He hesitated, then looked away, unwilling to finish.
‘…in case you want to charge round there and have it out with them.’ Brook smiled politely.
‘I suppose so. I wouldn’t have. My wife…’ Again he left the sentence hanging.
Brook spoke into the phone. ‘All the way up, Constable.’ The music was no longer muffled. It pounded through the wall and crashed onto Mr Singh’s floor which vibrated in tune. Then it died somewhat but that was more down to Mahler’s composition. Before long the horns were hammering on the floorboards again.
‘And it was midnight when it became that loud?’ Singh nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks Constable,’ said Brook into the phone. ‘Turn it off.’ Brook replaced the receiver and turned to Mr Singh. ‘I admire your patience. I would have gone straight round and hammered on the door.’
‘I was going to but they turned it off a couple of minutes later.’
‘Sorry. I thought you told DC Noble you put up with it until half past twelve before going round?’