‘Professor Sorenson, in fact. How can I help you?’
‘I’m a police officer, sir,’ said Brook, flashing his warrant card. Sorenson peered at it then looked back at Brook as if there’d been a mistake. ‘May I come in?’
Sorenson stared at Brook for a few moments, still unable to comprehend. ‘Of course,’ he gestured across the threshold, ‘Detective-Sergeant-Brook.’ Sorenson lingered over the middle word with distaste.
Brook stepped inside and followed Sorenson into the hall. It was dark and he had a little trouble adjusting to the gloom after the sharp winter light outside. He had to screw his eyes to see his host, who gestured for Brook to follow him up the stairs.
As he climbed he tried to take in as much as his senses would allow. He was aware of plush carpet beneath his feet and the presence of numerous pictures neatly fixed to the panelled wall.
‘It’s a couple of flights, Sergeant,’ Sorenson threw over his shoulder. For a fifty-two year old, he was remarkably sprightly and he bounded up the stairs two at a time, challenging Brook to keep up. At the top of the stairs, Sorenson strode through a bright threshold and waited, like a footman, for his guest to enter. He closed the lacquered door behind Brook and swept a regal arm at the room. ‘This is my study.’
Brook looked around the vast room, adjusting once again to the change of light. It was a festival of air and brilliance after the melancholy of the hall. The low sun streamed through the porthole window catching the orbit of dust in the atmosphere. ‘Lovely,’ said Brook before he could stop himself.
Sorenson smiled. The flattery touched off a hidden corner in his icy personality, as if he approved of Brook’s manner and, in spite of his rank, perhaps even his suitability for the task ahead.
‘That’s nice of you to say. May I offer you a drink, Sergeant? I don’t know if you indulge on duty but I’ve got a sublime Lagavulin. Double distilled. A monarch among malts.’ His manner had changed swiftly. He now seemed eager to please, attentive, as though Brook’s appreciation had ushered him into a secret brotherhood over which Sorenson presided.
‘Thank you. I’ll have a small one.’ Brook was shocked by his answer. It was out of character. He wasn’t a big drinker and never on duty. Something he couldn’t explain seemed to draw him into compliance with his host. Or perhaps he was just buying a little surveillance time, if that was what was being offered.
Brook looked around as Sorenson opened a polished walnut cabinet and cleaned two chunky glasses with a white cotton cloth. It was a beautiful room, large and airy, the longest wall of which was lined, ceiling to floor, with books. He stepped closer to gain some clue to his host’s mind.
Brook could see this wasn’t the library of an old fogey, there were no dust-encased leather tomes, no brimming ashtrays or chaotic desktops. This was the working roomof an academic, slightly dishevelled and lived in, but generally neat and ordered.
He examined the shelves trying to affect an absent-minded interest. It seemed to Brook that no book had lain untouched and he sensed that each had been read-nothing was for show. And what a variety: philosophy, religion, psychology, anthropology, astronomy, geography, metaphysics, chemistry, wine, art, music, pathology and even heraldry. All life was here. And death. Death and history. The Third Reich, The Great War, The Birth of Israel, The Spanish Inquisition, The Cultural Revolution, The Great Plague, The Vietnam War and, most intriguing of all, An Encyclopaedia of Torture.
Anyone else might have thought the possession of so many volumes on death ghoulish, but not Brook. The greatest history entailed the greatest sorrow. That’s what made it so fascinating, so involving.
Death was a given, Life a treasure, a bauble to be snatched away, a nourishing oasis but always in the distance, something to struggle for but never reach, a mirage, a chimera, a rotten trick. The legerdemain of God. Now you see it, now you don’t. C’est la vie.
Brook continued to examine without interruption. More books. All neatly clustered into subjects: languages, architecture, medicine-endless books. What impressed Brook the most was that all the books were offering some kind of knowledge. There wasn’t a single piece of fiction in the entire collection.
He glanced over at the desk. A book on Italian opera lay open on the opulent leather. Every object his eye surveyed reeked of money and carefully understated taste.
There was a ledger with a gold fountain pen beside it, beyond that a silver-framed photograph of two children in old-fashioned clothing-two boys who were almost identical. The picture held Brook for a moment. The smiles were there as you might expect, but one of them barely covered the look of anxiety on one young face. There was an atmosphere between the two, a tension visible.
Another picture showed Sorenson arm in arm with a man who was clearly his twin. The two had been snapped in early middle age. They were the same, yet different. Sorenson’s brother seemed more thick set, a little taller perhaps, and most striking, had a confident air about him, which contrasted with the strain in Sorenson’s expression. It was as though he had his brother’s arm up behind his back, and was instructing him to look happy. The black eyes were the same though. Black as tar and equally lifeless.
In the corner stood the stereo, one of the few sops to modernity. A record span round, the stylus suspended above.
‘I enjoyed the Catalani, Professor. A beautiful aria.’ Brook wasn’t sure he should have confessed his knowledge but he felt he was being drawn into a game he could only play once his credentials had been thoroughly checked. He didn’t know how he knew, but this piece of music could be his passport to the next level.
Sorenson turned from the cabinet. His features cracked into a wide smile. This time his eyes took part. ‘Isn’t it?’ He surveyed Brook and nodded with contentment. ‘Unfortunately his only great piece.’
Brook turned to continue his reconnoitre of the room as Sorenson removed the seal from a stout green bottle. The wall opposite the bookshelves was dotted with oilpaintings, all old and tastefully framed in wood and gilt. No Fleur de Lis but a hefty quota of portraits and landscapes and what looked like a Van Gogh, though Brook hadn’t seen it before. It was of a table with a half-eaten meal of bread and cheese and a pitcher of wine next to it. He walked over to examine it more closely.
The light was interesting. Half the table was in harsh sunlight with Van Gogh’s characteristic broad strokes, and half was in the shadow thrown by somebody standing nearby, unseen.
‘What do you think?’ whispered Sorenson in Brook’s ear, offering a glass. Brook was startled by his host’s sudden proximity. He certainly had a delicate footfall. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ agreed Brook, taking a sip of his drink. He gazed into the heavy tumbler with approval as the harsh, smoky liquid flowed over his tongue. ‘Delicious.’
‘The Van Gogh I mean, Sergeant.’
‘Yes. Very fine. But I haven’t seen the original before.’
A slight pause for effect and then, ‘You have now.’ Sorenson beamed with a hint of poorly concealed glee. Like a schoolboy with a champion conker.
Brook turned to him and smiled back but he was disappointed. It was a stupid lie and had broken the spell that had fallen over him. Nobody could keep a picture worth millions in an unguarded townhouse, particularly as that same house had recently been burgled by an untalented thief like Sammy Elphick.
Brook put down the glass and fumbled for his notebook, keen now to get on with things. ‘You’re probably wondering why I’m here.’
‘I probably am,’ said Sorenson, still beaming.
‘Well, sir, you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve recovered the video recorder you reported stolen.’
‘Have you?’ Sorenson’s attempt at surprise was woeful. ‘After all this time.’ The black eyes didn’t waver. They watched Brook, probing his reactions.
The truth slammed Brook in the chest. He had nothing to offer but surprise but managed to conceal it. ‘Yes sir. We were a bit surprised. It’s not usual for thieves to hang onto a top-of-the-range video recorder for several months.’
You took it with you, thought Brook. You took it with you to gain entry and left it in Sammy’s flat so we’d find you, so you could gloat. What a piece of work. The poster, Fleur de Lis, was a calling card. Art. The song you just played for me. What are you trying to tell me? What’s the message?
Sorenson grinned back at Brook as if he’d heard his thoughts.
Brook tried to ignore the goading expression and pressed on. ‘Is that the VCR’s serial number you gave the officers who dealt with your case?’ asked Brook, showing Sorenson his notebook.
‘If you say so, Sergeant. I couldn’t be expected to remember that after so many months.’ The black eyes bored into Brook, mocking the puny attempt to wrong foot him. ‘Where on earth did you find it?’
