He reached for the screen and the message ended but began again at the start almost at once. Cooper silenced it with an emphatic digit.
Brook turned to walk back to his car, his face like granite. He ignored everything and everyone on his journey back to the light — the officers cutting down Len Poole’s body, the remains of the three teenagers he’d hunted for so long, the bizarrely dressed chef beginning to turn green under the make-up, even the rats scuttling around in the blood-soaked room near the entrance.
When he reached the sunlight he turned like a robot and stumbled through the weeds towards his car. Charlton approached from the other direction and slowed when he neared Brook.
‘Not good news, I hear, Inspector. At least the perpetrator didn’t-’
Brook walked past the spluttering Charlton without a word or even a glance of acknowledgement and continued on his way like an automaton, unblinking and ignorant of the increasing urgency and volume of the Chief Superintendent’s demands.
Brook got in his car and drove to the recently created gap in the perimeter fence, where a Constable on crowd control was exchanging banter with a couple of young kids. Brook wound down the window.
‘Constable. Have you got a cigarette?’
‘Don’t smoke, sir.’
One of the kids, a gap-toothed fourteen year old, chirped, ‘I’ve got fags. I’ll sell you one.’
‘How much?’ asked Brook.
‘A tenner,’ he answered, trying not to laugh. His friend cackled and held out a fist to tap.
Brook rummaged in his pockets and produced a twentypound note. ‘I’ll take two.’
Warily the boy approached the note. After checking its authenticity he took out two cigarettes and held them out to Brook, not letting go until he had a hand on the note.
Brook put the first cigarette in his mouth and pushed in his lighter while the boy showed the note to his amazed friend. He lit up with a sigh.
‘Those things’ll kill you, Inspector,’ said the Constable.
Brook looked at him as he pulled away. ‘That’s the plan.’
Twenty-Nine
Brook finished polishing his shoes and manoeuvred them on to his feet with some difficulty. The skin on his burned hand still felt tight, but an hour after taking the painkillers he was able to tie a vague knot in his shoelaces. He stood and flexed his feet inside them. The shoes felt harsh and uncomfortable, as did every other garment on his body. His white shirt was tight and his black suit and tie were shiny with wear. He hated funerals.
It was a beautiful sunny day as he set off to drive towards Derby. In the week he’d spent recuperating from his wounds, Brook had managed to spend quality time with his daughter until her departure for Manchester earlier that morning in her hire car. Terri was none the worse for her ordeal, having been unconscious for most of it after Ray/Rusty had knocked on Brook’s door. Her sunny disposition contrasted sharply with Brook’s as he continued to brood over the case. At least he’d found time to organise some basic creature comforts so that fridges were filled, grazing cats were fed and large quantities of cigarettes purchased.
Brook pulled into a lay-by and cracked open a new carton from those on his passenger seat. He lit up with something approaching pleasure. The pain would arrive soon enough.
Half an hour later, Brook reached the end of the A52 and turned off towards Markeaton Crematorium on the northern edge of the city.
After struggling to park, Brook located Noble and Gadd standing together in the crowd. The small chapel was overflowing with mourners, well-wishers and vast numbers of media, filming and recording the service. Noble and Gadd were both dressed in expensive black suits, though only Noble wore a tie. Despite his shabby attire, Brook manoeuvred his way to stand beside the two Detective Sergeants.
‘How are you, sir?’ asked Gadd.
‘Better.’
‘Hand okay?’
‘Better.’ Brook took out three packets of cigarettes, handed two to Noble, who pocketed them with a grin. He offered the other open packet around before lighting up himself. ‘Smoking too much though.’
‘Please don’t give up again. I can’t afford it.’ Noble exhaled smoke through his grin and Brook looked sideways at him.
‘Becky Blake. .’ began Brook after a suitable pause.
Noble rolled his eyes to the heavens. ‘Not this again. Why can’t you accept-?’
‘Because it was too easy, John. The accelerant, for one thing.’
‘So there were six bottles of embalming fluid in the car. We know Rusty or Ray or whatever you want to call him, was mixed up with Lee Smethwick. Maybe it was for him.’
‘But why put the bottles in Terri’s car? Why bring them to Hartington?’
‘Who knows? Maybe he was storing them at Rifkind’s cottage.’
‘John. .’
Noble shook his head. ‘Sir, it’s a decent result. There’s nothing we could’ve done. The kids were dead before they’d even been reported missing, and you hunted down the person responsible. The DNA from the body in the car is a match to the semen inside Becky Blake. It also matches the tissue on the plaster found at Alice Kennedy’s house and the toothbrush recovered from Yvette Thomson’s bedroom. What more do you want? Even the Chief Super’s happy we got a closure.’
‘But remember what Habib said about Becky when we told him she’d been raped.’
Gadd leaned over to pick up the reins. ‘But she’d been given Rohypnol, sir. It’s a relaxant. That’s why there was no sign of forced intercourse.’
‘But Habib was surprised she’d had intercourse at all.’
‘He didn’t say it was impossible,’ replied Gadd. ‘There were traces of condom lubricant in her vagina as well as semen.’
‘That’s another thing. Why use a condom at all if he’s then going to spray his semen all over her?’ said Brook, making an effort to keep his voice down. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Maybe he had an accident when he took it off,’ rejoined Noble. ‘Who knows?’
Brook shook his head and continued the conversation with himself. ‘It’s out of character. Sexual domination isn’t his thing. But he wanted me to know. He flagged up to me that he had raped her — and that gave us his semen. Why?’
‘Because he was a criminal,’ said Noble indulgently. ‘And criminals make mistakes.’
‘Then there’s the transport issue,’ continued Brook.
‘Transport?’
‘How did Rusty get to my cottage? His bicycle was at the hospital.’
‘What did Terri say?’
‘That when he arrived he was sweaty.’
‘There you are,’ said Noble. ‘He walked from Rifkind’s cottage. It can’t be more than an hour. And he’d have the VW at his disposal after he got to your place.’
‘But how did he get from Derby to Rifkind’s cottage? Not on a bike, it’s a forty-minute drive.’
