The Reaper

eaten for over a day so he had to take on board some fuel.

As he smirked at the nursery school alliteration of the Page Three caption, he suddenly became aware of a tightening of lips and stomachs amongst the only other customers, two stout lorry drivers tucking in to two oval plates of saturated fat, at the table in front of him. Brook turned to follow their gaze and saw the girl. She closed the door and smiled at him.

‘Hello again.’ She passed Brook and ignored the other table with its four eyes moving up and down her body like a barometer in a British summer. She ordered a cup of tea and painstakingly counted out the change from a small beaded purse.

‘Nothing to eet, meese?’ enquired Jumbo, in his broken English.

‘No thanks.’ She returned to Brook’s table with a smile and a nod at the chair in front of him.

‘Please,’ said Brook, folding the paper away. She sat opposite him and took off her coat. Full House Brook noticed, trying not to stare. To sharp intakes of breath from Jumbo and the other table, she pulled her baggy sweater over her head, almost pulling her flimsy T-shirt away from her unfettered breasts.

Eventually she sat down, pulling her T-shirt back over her midriff. Heavy sighs were released around the room and Brook almost expected a round of applause to follow. He tried to ignore the looks of exquisite pain directed at her from the other table and hoped his own expression didn’t betray the same yearning. Unattainable pleasures were to be avoided at all costs. The emotional epidermis of this male was pocked with enough wounds.

Still, it wasn’t easy for Brook to find a place to rest his eyes. Even looking directly at her face couldn’t hide the dark rim of her nipples goading him. Fortunately his breakfast arrived to distract him and he tucked in with more gusto than he’d felt a moment earlier. ‘No joy, then?’ he mumbled, through a mouthful of toast.

‘No, you were right. It wasn’t a very nice place,’ she replied absently.

Brook looked up to try and fathom why she’d need to lie. He saw her looking at his plate and realised that she didn’t have enough money to buy herself any food. Come to think of it, when he looked again, her cheeks did seem a little hollow, gaunt even. He was savvy enough to avoid wounding her pride by offering to buy her something so he just rolled his two sausages to the side of his plate and shook his head.

‘I told him no sausages,’ Brook complained. ‘I hate sausages. Look, I’ve paid for them already. Would you have them? I can’t stand waste.’

She seemed to perk up a little. ‘Well if you’re sure you don’t want them?’

‘I’m certain,’ he said and before the last syllable was out, she’d fallen on them as delicately as she could manage. Watching her mimic fellatio, Brook wished he’d offered her some toast instead but they were gone in a trice and she smiled gratefully at him.

Brook returned her smile but was puzzled. What did she want? She hadn’t had time to get to the Casa Mia and back and he knew, as a graduate himself, there was little likelihood of entrance interviews in the week before Christmas. She looked far too classy to be on the game but you never could tell; it wasn’t the exclusive preserve of pressured single mothers and granite-faced fortysome-things. She wouldn’t have been out of place in better parts of London but this was the rough end of Derby.

‘Where will you go now?’ he asked, trying to get to the bottom of it. He didn’t have long to wait.

‘I’ve tried everywhere else. All full,’ she said, unable to look at him. ‘I’ll have to go back there, I suppose.’

Brook scrutinised her, chewing both his food and his thoughts. ‘How old are you?’

‘Twenty-two.’ She looked at him for the first time without the discomfort of deceit so Brook decided it was the truth. He had nothing to lose, certainly nothing valuable in his flat, except Cat.

‘Look. I go to work at eight. I’ll leave a key under a brick near the back door, right.’ She feigned surprise quite well. ‘It’s a bit shabby but if you can’t find anywhere else at all, there’s a sofa for the night, if you want it? No strings and no charge.’

‘That’s very nice of you,’ she said. ‘Why would you do that? For a complete stranger, I mean.’

‘Why? Because I was a penniless student once, for all the good it did me, and because you’re not much older than my daughter and I’d hate to think of Terri wandering around a strange city without a place to stay. Also I’m a policeman, so it’s my job to prevent crime.’ He looked hard at her for signs to betray that she was on the make in any way. There were none.

Instead recognition flickered across her features. ‘You were on the TV last night,’ she said, open-mouthed, pointing at him, ‘about those murders.’ Brook nodded his confirmation, basking ever so slightly in his new-found celebrity. Top of the world ma. ‘Well, I’d feel much safer under a policeman’s roof than some of the hotels I’ve seen. Thanks very much for the offer.’

She stood up to leave and held out her hand to shake his. ‘I’m Vicky.’

‘Damen.’ Brook shook her hand and shot her a mechanical smile, trying to mask his fresh doubts about her age. If she thought being a policeman was a guarantee of moral rectitude, she must be more naive than he’d assumed.

She reassembled her layers, drained her cup and headed for the door, throwing a beautiful smile over her shoulder at him. This time four pairs of eyes took the tour around her southern hemisphere.

Brook turned back towards the occupants of the neighbouring table who were radiating a mixture of resentment and respect. He shrugged his shoulders modestly and pulled his best ‘Yeah-I’m-a-babe-magnet’ face before resuming his breakfast.

The phone rang just after seven-thirty. Brook picked up before the end of the first ring.

‘Terri?’

‘Dad.’

‘Talk to me.’

‘Dad, stop panicking. There’s nothing wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean there’s nothing wrong. I just got worked up about some silly thing, that’s all.’

There was silence as Brook wondered what to say. He wasn’t able to square away his daughter’s reassurances with her barely contained anxiety of the previous day. He decided to gamble.

‘Has Tony been making…sexual advances towards you?’

‘No dad. It’s nothing like that. Everything’s fine.’

Bullseye! She’d failed even the simplest interview technique. From nowhere, beads of cold sweat studded Brook’s brow. His darkest fears were confirmed. His daughter and that…She was only fifteen. Fifteen.

Nowadays kids were au fait with these…matters, but what Brook had suggested was appalling. A fifteen year old girl-his daughter-sleeping with her stepfather. And yet there was no high-pitched squeal of shock, no incredulity that he could even think such a thing, no startled denial-‘I can’t believe you said that, dad.’ Nothing.

Brook swallowed hard but no tears came. Instead a volcanic anger bubbled in the pit of his stomach. His baby. And that bastard. He hung up without another word and stared at the wall, unblinking.

Chapter Eight

Brook rested his elbows on the desk and propped his head in his hands. His eyes were stinging so he closed them and massaged the lids. His head now throbbed and his mouth reeked of stale tobacco and bacon-flavoured sweet martini.

With an effort, which to casual observation would have suggested disability, he hauled himself to his feet and shuffled to the door. He didn’t want to face anyone so he locked his office door, hoping that no-one needed his attention. Fortunately he wasn’t included in station banter and most people left him alone, although Hendrickson had given him a passing sneer as he arrived.

Brook checked his watch. Ten minutes to briefing. He pulled a Greater London Street Atlas from a drawer and turned to the double spread of his old beat to reacquaint himself with it. Fulham, Shepherd’s Bush, Hammersmith