The Reaper

‘Threatened? My wife is on tranquillisers. That bastard got her by the throat and pushed her back onto the desk. Then he forced himself on top of her, laughing, running his hands over…’

‘I’m sorry.’ Noble’s attempt to retrieve the situation was in vain.

‘My wife was terrified. She couldn’t move. She could feel him…lying on her…ready…’ Mr Ottoman looked down at the floor and wrung his hands. His voice had softened as though he were confessing to a priest. He looked up briefly. ‘He would have, you know, if…’

‘You don’t have to relive this, Mr Ottoman. You’ve told us where you were. That’s all we came for.’

There was a long silence before Ottoman could manage, ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. When things like this force their way into your life it can be a shock to the system. You will get over it. Trust me.’

‘Get over it?’

Brook looked at Noble, inviting him to get up but Ottoman’s voice made him pause.

‘Do you know what the worst thing was?’

‘Tell me.’

‘When he was on top of…my…wife…he turned to the other kids, kids Denise has known and helped, some of them for years, and said, ‘Who’s after me?’ And you know what they did? They laughed. They laughed and cheered. They thought it was funny. Even the girls. Maybe they were just glad it was her and not them, I don’t know but…what’s happening to people, Inspector? At the risk of sounding Victorian, things…it didn’t used to be like this. What happened?’

‘I don’t know.’

All this time Ottoman had been staring into space. Now he engaged Brook’s eyes. ‘She can’t go back, you know. Twenty years of her life and she can never go back. Never. Can you imagine it? Standing in front of that bunch of animals, trying to help them. Can you imagine the message that sends? Can you? Yeah. Fuck me over any way you want. I’m a teacher. I’ll take it because I’m worthless.’ He paused for a second and ran his fingers through his hair before looking back at Brook. ‘Sorry. There’s no excuse for that language.’

‘Don’t be. We’re not nuns.’

Ottoman laughed without mirth. ‘Do you want to know another thing? That piece of shit could be back at school the week after next if the appeal goes his way, which it will, after what’s happened. Sympathy vote.’

Brook stood with an air of finality, Noble following suit. ‘I see no reason to trouble you again, Mr Ottoman. I’m sorry for the intrusion. Thanks for the tea.’

‘Inspector.’ Ottoman remained seated, looking at the floor. ‘Is it true what the papers said? About poor Kylie, I mean. Having her throat cut.’

‘Yes but she didn’t…’ Noble was cut short by his superior’s interruption.

‘Didn’t stand a chance. It was a terrible sight.’ Mrs Ottoman was standing by the door now, wrestling a handkerchief around white knuckles. She gave a little whimper. Mr Ottoman was grave and narrowed his eyes in a good approximation of suffering. ‘She begged for her life but it didn’t do any good. I shouldn’t be telling you this.’ Brook hoped that under their current level of stress the Ottomans wouldn’t spot such an obvious lie. They didn’t show it if they did.

Mrs Ottoman looked at her husband who shook his head. ‘Poor kid,’ he said with a sigh. ‘She didn’t deserve that. Not when her brother is still alive. Her classmates are devastated, absolutely devastated.’

‘Classmates?’ inquired Brook with an arch of the eyebrow.

‘Yes. I’m her teacher, as you know. Was her teacher.’ He corrected himself. Brook glanced at Noble without expression. Noble was less able to hide his surprise. ‘Well, one of them. Not her form teacher. She’s in my literacy group. I teach at Drayfin Lane Primary, when I’m not on leave to look after my wife.’ He held out an arm for her to slip under which she did after the briefest indecision.

‘Yes.’ Brook nodded. ‘Devastated.’

‘What do you think?’ asked Noble in the car.

‘Ottoman teaching Kylie Wallis? Interesting coincidence. Though that’s probably all it is.’

‘There’s something wrong about those two, don’t you think?’

‘They’re married, John. What could possibly be right?’

Noble emitted a curt laugh. ‘I don’t mean that, sir. I mean…’

‘I know what you mean. You mean the house and the garden.’ Brook nodded absent-mindedly.

Noble covered his blank look well but when Brook refused to elaborate he had to concede his ignorance. ‘What about them?’

‘So neat. Well organised.’

Chapter Eleven

Brook closed the door to his flat with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was grateful for the chance to cut himself off from the world, on the other, secretly dreading the invasion of private thoughts. Poor Terri. He’d barely thought about his daughter all day, cut his emotions off at the knees, absorbing himself in his work until he could do no more. What kind of father was he?

But now he was home, alone with nothing else to distract him, at the mercy of images of his daughter and her stepfather. His daughter, little Terri, in bed…

Brook pressed the play button on the flashing answering machine. Someone had called but there was no message. He tried 1471 and recognised the Brighton code although it wasn’t the Harvey-Ellis home number. He dialled and waited.

‘This is Hall Gordon Public Relations. Our office hours…’

Brook rang off and re-dialled. ‘Who’s that? DC Morton. Can you get me an address? It’s in Brighton. Hall Gordon Public Relations. I’ll hold.’ He grabbed a pen and paper. A few moments later he jotted it down and replaced the receiver.

He thought for a moment, staring at the address then made a decision. He looked round for the folder he’d been reviewing the night before and suddenly realised, with a jolt, it was gone. He’d left it on the table, next to the phone. There was a note instead.

Thanks again for your generous offer. I’ve nipped out for some food (you’ve only got penicillin cultures in the fridge) and I’ll do the cooking. My treat.

Vicky.

P.S. Love the cat.

Now Brook saw the girl’s carpetbag on the sofa. He’d forgotten about his spur-of-the-moment offer that morning. Stupid! Or perhaps he’d been shrewd. Perhaps he’d invited her to share the lonely hours, deflect him from himself and thoughts of his daughter. And it wasn’t all bad. She loved Cat and she was intelligent. She could spell penicillin and use apostrophes. Most young people whose writing Brook encountered, petty criminals and fresh- faced coppers, ground out statements like they were pulling teeth. Even then Brook would have to skip through them and correct all the text message spellings. Apostrophes were something to sling on any word ending in s. Just in case. In a few years the English language would be dead. Ageing rappers would be the new English teachers. 4 shore.

Brook saw the folder on the floor next to the sofa and leapt over to it. A cursory check revealed nothing missing-as far as he could tell. There’d been a lot of loose stuff in there-he might have forgotten. At least Laura’s necklace was there. He took it out of the folder and put it in his trouser pocket, then slipped the address he’d jotted down into the front of the straining folder.

Brook felt ashamed. He was getting old. Paranoid. Of course she’d moved it. She’d shifted everything but the phone, ready for a meal. There were Brook’s two spoons and forks-from odd sets-two glasses, one with a stem, the other a tumbler, looking as though they’d been cleaned, of all things. She’d also brought in the salt and pepper, a cheap, if matching set he’d filched from the canteen.

Brook went to his room and threw the folder onto his bed then pulled a small suitcase from underneath. He opened it and tossed in sufficient clothes for a two-or three-night stay. For once he took a little more care over his