The Reaper

Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t think.’

Brook left and returned to the Wallis house to retrieve his tape then set off for home.

After a hot shower, Brook lay on his bed to rest his eyes for a few moments. He nodded off but woke a few minutes later. Nonetheless he felt refreshed and rang Noble for a progress report.

There was news on the van. They hadn’t found it but they’d had a hit from the partial plate. It had been hired locally. Brook had expected this. He made a mental note of the van hire company and told Noble to save the rest for the briefing.

Also, the bottle of wine hadn’t been bought in a Derby supermarket, Noble confirmed. They were checking French suppliers and off-licences the next morning.

Brook told Noble about the discovery of the drugs and cash on Jason. He also mentioned Jason’s involvement in the near rape of a teacher at the local school to see if it seemed equally significant to Noble.

‘Pity we can’t leave him unguarded so the killer can finish the job then,’ said Noble.

‘Maybe,’ replied Brook. ‘You know, his family are dead and all he could think about was getting on TV for his fifteen minutes of fame.’ Mr Singh was right. The Wallis family were trash. Only poor Kylie had ever held a thought for the sensibilities of others. Her death was the real tragedy. Suddenly Brook had a brainwave.

‘John, have you set up the ID with the aunt?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon. Why?’

‘Good. They’re releasing Jason from hospital tomorrow. Have him brought there so we can hand him over to his aunt for safe keeping. His reaction might tell us something.’

‘We’re not charging him with possession?’

‘No. His family are dead, John. Let’s give the kid a break.’

Their conversation meandered on for a few more minutes then eventually there was silence and Brook could think of nothing else to say. He noticed the puzzled tone creeping into Noble’s voice. Brook rarely spoke to him on the phone and had even chided him for it once. ‘Always better in our job to talk face to face, John,’ he’d said. ‘You get the full picture that way.’

All possible distractions exhausted, Brook rang off, then, with a deep breath, dialled his ex-wife’s number. He had to look up the number for Brighton and felt a pinprick of shame-it had been months since he last spoke to Amy and Terri. He told himself it was pressure of work but knew that was no excuse. Nor was it a lingering sense of awkwardness-he enjoyed talking to Amy, better than when they were married, in fact. Even Tony, Number Two Dad, was okay. For a PR man.

‘Hello stranger,’ said Amy smoothly. ‘It’s late.’

‘Is it?’ Brook was struck by the self-confidence his ex-wife had acquired since the divorce. Certainly her new husband was bland enough to make anyone feel worthy but there had to be something more to her new-found contentment.

Perhaps Tony was one of those weirdos who refused to spend his waking hours telling his wife that the world was a sewer and that death was their constant companion and, ultimately, their friend. It was also possible that he was a better lover than Brook-unlikely but just possible.

His favoured theory was that Tony Harvey-Ellis had that most compelling attraction to divorced women of a certain age: the outward appearance of sanity.

Now, Brook could see the funny side. That time in London, he had been losing it. His obsession with a girl had wrecked his marriage. And, if anything, the fact that the girl was already a corpse when Brook met her made matters worse.

‘How are you, Amy?’

‘Never better.’

A pause. ‘Is Terri there?’

‘She certainly is. Would you like to speak to her?’ she said with the suggestion of a tease.

‘That would be nice.’

‘Ther-es-a! It’s your dad. Can you hear me? Your dad. So Damen, on the telly, ’eh?’

‘Was I?’

‘Yeah. A small bit on BBC and ITV. Very exciting. Just like the old days.’

‘Yeah. I’m getting an agent.’

‘Good to see you haven’t lost your old detachment,’ she giggled.

‘Ha ha,’ said Brook without rancour.

‘Okay Mum. I’m on the other line.’

‘Bye Sherlock. And happy birthday.’

‘Bye, darling. How are you, Terri?’

‘I’m fine, dad. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Brook was a little taken aback at this smokescreen. He was suddenly uneasy, sensing that she was under strain. Brook decided to play ball.

‘Can’t a father ring his daughter, whom he loves, without opening a public inquiry?’ he breezed. Brook always managed to shunt declarations of affection into a subordinate clause. They were safer there. ‘I just wanted to see how you were.’ There was a click as an extension was hung up. Either his ex-wife or her husband had wanted to know why he was ringing. Brook didn’t like it. ‘What’s wrong, petal?’ he asked with more urgency.

‘Dad…I…’ Brook heard a noise in the background that might have been a door. ‘My mocks aren’t ’til June.’ The guard was around her voice again.

‘Can’t you speak, Terri?’

‘I’m afraid not, Dad.’

‘Can you ring me later?’

‘I don’t see how but I’ll try.’ The strain was audible in her voice.

‘Is it something to do with Mum?’ he asked.

‘Oh no, no,’ she answered back with a feigned jocularity.

‘Tony?’ he ventured.

‘Mmm, yes. That’s right.’ Brook’s veins turned to ice and he found himself catching at a breath.

‘What time does he go to work in the morning?’

‘Seven.’

‘Ring me here, as soon as he leaves. I’ll be waiting. Any problems, you just bluff him. Tell him I know everything, whatever it is, and I’m coming down to sort things out. Okay. Got that, darling?’

‘I understand. Bye then, Dad. Nice to hear from you. And happy birthday.’ The line went dead but Brook was unable to replace the receiver for a few seconds. Problems with Tony. He didn’t dare think. It was pointless jumping to conclusions. Terri was at a difficult age. It could be anything, he decided. Personality clash-he knew about those-or maybe she just needed some attention, needed to play the two dads off against each other for a while. That was the rational explanation.

He gleaned some surface comfort but a few fathoms down the fish were nibbling at his peace of mind. Tony Harvey-Ellis was a man. With men, at one level or another, everything could be reduced to sexual gratification. If that bastard had…

Brook sought solace with a familiar ally and made a conscious effort to return to the case so he trudged down the rickety steps to the dank and dingy cellar and from a rusty metal trunk recovered a large beige folder. He removed an antiquated rubber band, wiped off some of the dust, and what looked like mould, and returned to the discomfort of his living room.

The furniture in the room was sparse to say the least. Minimalism was the fashion but that implied design and expense. Most of Brook’s objets could have been recycled from the council tip or unearthed in the furthest backroom of a teeming, hand-me-down warehouse.

There was a squeaky plastic sofa nestling along the wall next to the never-opened front door. Just to ensure that the door was never used, Brook had placed a peeling formica-topped occasional table in front of it. In another corner, stood an old-fashioned standard lamp which vomited its dingy flower-studded light onto a sturdier table, on which had been placed the phone and an ashtray.

The overall colour scheme, if scheme it could be called, for that again implied planning, was a grimy light brown, save for the once-white ceiling which had been gradually stained tobacco yellow.

Brook unwrapped the cellophane from the next pack, lit up with a sigh more relaxed than he felt, and sat