This time the girl’s throat was cut, unlike the Elphick boy. And she’d been drugged like young Kylie, I assume to limit her suffering.’ Brook turned towards Jones to ensure she saw his approval. ‘She was innocent you see-as you spotted the other day.’ Her colour darkened.
‘It says here that the man, Floyd Wrigley, had a deeper cut than the woman and the girl. The blade hit a bone and the cut didn’t run from ear to ear.’ She turned to Brook. ‘That’s different.’
‘Maybe.’ Brook was sombre now. Jones caught his mood and stopped herself, thinking she might be digging up unhappy memories. He, in turn, recognised the change in her and tried to lighten up. ‘He worked out in a gym. Had strong neck muscles which were difficult to cut.’
‘Wouldn’t he have been hard to overpower then?’
‘He was also a junkie. If you can believe the two go together. Heroin. He was high as a kite. They both were.’
‘Any hint that race was significant?’
‘I don’t think so. Just the criminal tendencies. Wrigley was a thief and a violent man. All round scumbag. Had a couple of ABHs on his CV, and a Wounding, some guy he knifed during an argument about paying for sex with Tamara. The things people do for their fix.’
‘He pimped his eleven-year-old daughter?’ Jones looked into the distance, her voice little more than a croak. Brook was annoyed with himself. He’d been carried away. Such embellishments were out of character. Unnecessary. It rarely happened with him, the adrenaline rush of the showman. Perhaps, unconsciously, he’d been trying to degrade her a little-all her sex. A little payback for, well, where to start?
He looked across to see the mark his words had left. Too often he forgot that even fellow officers hadn’t waded as deeply into the sewer as he had. They could all identify and acknowledge the stench of society’s entrails, but
His inability to gauge the emotional threshold of others was a terrible weakness, and he was ashamed. Wendy Jones was still an innocent abroad, a provincial girl with an endearing ignorance of the world as dung heap. He tried to soften the blow.
‘Actually that was just a whisper. Probably not true, otherwise they’d have had him on toast, wouldn’t they?’
‘How did The Reaper gain entry?’ asked Jones.
‘Brixton? Same as Harlesden and the other night-bearing gifts. A VCR in Harlesden, though you won’t find that in the file, and an expensive new compact disc player for Mr Wrigley and family. Once inside he had the element of surprise. Not that he needed it with Wrigley and his girlfriend doped up to the eyeballs.’
‘He still tied them up?’
‘Sure. Adrenaline at the point of death can be a powerful ally.’
‘But he didn’t tie up Bobby Wallis and his wife.’
‘No. He’s had a long time to polish his act. He’d found a way to disable them without force.’
‘The last one was 1993 in Leeds. Although I couldn’t see any…’
‘Don’t bother. There’s nothing in there on Leeds. I could only photocopy Met documents. Besides, I’ve never been convinced about Leeds. It was a copycat and a pretty ropey one at that.’
‘Did the Leeds Force speak to you?’
‘Sure. They were taking no chances after the Yorkshire Ripper. It was just wrong. As far as I could see it was a gangland thing. Drugs. Professional job. But the Leeds boys wouldn’t have it, I don’t know why. They insisted on chalking it up to The Reaper. You’d think they’d have been pleased to know a serial killer
‘Why so sure it was gangland?’
‘The victim was Roddy Telfer. He moved to Leeds from Glasgow in 1992. A real slime ball whichever way you look at it: junkie, pimp, thief, small-time, same as the others, but someone disliked him enough to put a sawn-off in his mouth and blow his head off.’
A shotgun? That’s not The Reaper’s MO.’
‘No. Far too messy.’
‘Then why think it was The Reaper?’
‘Because, using what was left of Telfer’s brains and a gloved finger, a leather glove I might add, he wrote ‘SAVED’ on the wall. Actually, he only got as far as the E when he was interrupted by Telfer’s girlfriend…’
‘Interrupted? Wasn’t she there from the start?’
‘No she wasn’t. She came home during, or straight after, Telfer’s murder. It doesn’t fit. That sort of chance occurrence wasn’t, isn’t, a feature of The Reaper’s method. He’s too careful. He would have had them both there at the start.’
‘So what happened to her?’
Brook hesitated but decided that he couldn’t avoid cast iron facts. ‘He strangled her, which wasn’t easy. His hands were covered in Telfer’s blood, so it was hard to get a grip. She wasn’t easy to manoeuvre. She was eight months pregnant and…’
‘Oh God!’
‘You didn’t know that?’
‘No, why would I?’ Jones put her own leather-gloved hand to her brow and then her mouth. She closed her eyes, composing herself the best she could.
‘I’m sorry…’
Brook said nothing. It would serve no purpose telling her the rest. Even the hardened Yorkshire CID officers who’d briefed him had blanched at the memory.
They were approaching a service station and he pulled into the inside lane. He was pleased in a way that she was so sickened by this detail. The death of an unborn child should sicken. Once Brook would have felt the same way. Now Brook’s distress could only ever be vicarious. After the Maples girl, all deaths could be squared away- even that of Roddy Telfer’s unborn child. The offspring of a criminal-rough justice certainly, but life goes on.
Moments later Brook pulled the car into the slip road of the service station and parked. ‘Open the window.’
Before he could soothe her further, she leapt out of the car and ran across to a clump of bushes. Brook listened to her retching. He picked up a packet of tissues and got out. ‘Here,’ he said offering a tissue as she emerged finally, brushing herself down. She wasn’t too ill to check her shoes for telltale splatters.
‘Thanks.’
‘Come on,’ said Brook, taking her by the elbow and leading her across to the restaurant.
Ten minutes later they sat over their coffees. Brook had drained his and was watching Jones for signs of returning nausea. But she simply stared into her untouched beverage, stirring superfluously at the sugarless black liquid. Brook knew what was coming. Ground that had been raked over many times by Amy.
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ She lifted her head to look at him. ‘The stuff you’ve seen.’
‘You sound like my ex…’
‘Doesn’t it?’
Brook was forced to appear to be addressing the question-another unlamented technique from his marriage. ‘Yes. But not in that way.’
‘Then how?’
‘Can we leave it, please?’
‘But…’
‘I don’t want to discuss it, Wendy.’
Her Christian name brought her up sharply. Brook smiled at her. Perhaps this frank exchange would destroy the barrier between them.
‘I’m sorry.’ She roused herself now. ‘I’ve got no right.’
‘Forget it.’
She smiled weakly at him. ‘I’m sorry about the delay.’
Brook smiled. ‘My fault. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.’ He looked into her eyes. On an impulse he put his hand on hers and was pleased to feel it yield in welcome. ‘Don’t ever lose that.’
