The Reaper

People feared him, as they’d been taught. And people wanted to know who he was, wanted him caught so they could see him and understand him. Given a face, the monster could be removed from their nightmares.

‘But he wasn’t caught, couldn’t be caught. There was no evidence, there was nothing. Here was a monster that was invisible, a ghost who killed without pity, without emotion. Who was he? Where was he? Nobody knew. Only I knew and I couldn’t speak. Not legally. I had no proof. The only reason I knew Sorenson was The Reaper was because he wanted it that way.

‘Rewards were promised, by the papers, by the police, for information leading to a conviction. But, as with all these things, the real information, what people wanted more than his capture, was the gore, the visceral thrill of knowing what The Reaper had done and how he’d done it-you forget now the impact the first murders had in the tabloids-and for that they needed me.

‘It was my case. I had the inside track, the details they wanted. But, of course, they couldn’t have them. Not from a police officer. Charlie Rowlands, my old DI, and I couldn’t be touched, or pressured-the press knew that. Criticised, yes, but not hounded like ordinary civilians. We were trained. We could handle it. But we have families, Wendy. And what we know, what we’ve seen hurts them. He looked back at Jones with sadness. ‘One day you’ll understand.’

She smiled back at him, trying to radiate comfort. ‘I see it every day. It’s not news. Officers taking their moods home with them.’ She had an urge to put her hand on his arm but resisted.

‘My family, my wife and baby daughter. How can you share…?’

‘How can you share The Reaper’s work? No-one can describe what he did.’

Brook was puzzled for a moment then chuckled. ‘The Reaper? What he left for us to find was nothing…’

‘Nothing?’

‘I mean, not nothing, obviously, but not the worst by a long way.’

Jones waited, puzzled, not wanting to ask but not wanting to be denied. ‘What was the worst?’

Brook smiled and gazed out of the window and began the journey back. ‘A silver necklace with hearts,’ he breathed. He glanced at Jones. She looked confused but it couldn’t be helped. There were limits to be observed.

He couldn’t pour himself out too soon. There might be nothing left.

‘I envied my DI, Charlie Rowlands, after The Reaper. Before, I’d always pitied him, his dependence on booze and fags, deadening his senses to get him through. I hadn’t realised he was the lucky one. His family had already gone. His daughter, dead at nineteen from a heroin overdose. His wife remarried. It was my turn. And he knew. He tried to warn me but I thought I was…invulnerable.’

‘But you found The Reaper.’

‘Sure, but Sorenson and I were the only ones who knew that. It was like his private joke. Even Charlie wouldn’t wear it. He was like my own father but he just wouldn’t believe it.

‘There was nothing I could do. Nothing I could say. It would’ve meant my job. My biggest case. It would make or break me. In the end, it did both. And neither. Does that make sense? It was my greatest success and my greatest failure, Wendy. I’d found The Reaper. I’d worked it out. Nobody else could have got close. Nobody ever did. Sorenson knew I’d got him. And yet I hadn’t. I’d failed.’

‘What happened?’

‘I hit the streets. Or rather I hit his street. I couldn’t do anything clumsy. I knew that much. None of the usual tactics would’ve worked…’

‘Usual tactics?’ enquired Jones.

‘Harassment at work, endless search warrants to go through his belongings, take his life away in bin bags, that sort of thing. Not that I could have got a search warrant. I had no probable cause. He was a wealthy and respected man. I was on my own. But even if I had, he would have…I’m not explaining this very well. Look, I told you about our first meeting, the music and the whisky and the painting and all that…’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, the longer I’ve had to think about it, the more I’ve come to realise that he was…playing me.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You weren’t there, you didn’t meet him. He wanted someone, needed someone capable of understanding what he’d done, what he was going to do for as long as he chose. Something special. Something remarkable. Murder, but with a difference-the taking of lives but not for personal gain or kicks. He was a soldier. He wanted me to know that somehow.

‘He hadn’t killed out of fury, out of passion, but for a reason that no-one could possibly comprehend. But he needed someone to at least try. He couldn’t tell the world unless he was caught, which he didn’t want, but he could show me; I could be his audience. I could be his muse.’

Jones stared back at Brook. He saw that she was having trouble taking it in. ‘Are you saying he was killing for you?’

Brook laughed and stared hard at her. ‘In a sense, I suppose I am.’

‘And if you’d started harassing him, you think he would have stopped including you?’ Jones said.

‘Exactly. Then nobody would have got close. There’d be nobody to point a finger, to know that Victor Sorenson was The Reaper. Of course, there was a selfish element as well. I didn’t want to be excluded, you see. This was the big one. The case that was worthy of me, that excited and thrilled me. The case I’d been waiting for all my life. I was hooked.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘What could I do? The case was dead. There were no leads to follow. So I waited and I watched.’ Brook stared at the floor, aware that this sounded pretty limp.

‘For what?’

Brook looked up at her and felt his powerlessness. ‘For the next one.’

Jones fell silent, tense, but not with the run-of-the-mill awkwardness that sometimes crackled between them. This pause was natural and unforced. She concentrated hard. ‘So the Wallis family were killed for you. The Reaper came to Derby because you were there.’

‘I think so.’ Brook was experiencing a calm he hadn’t known for many years. Middle age had shown him that tightening the lid didn’t work and the more he poured himself out, the better he’d felt. Discretion may be the better part of valour but for Brook, it was also the greater part of self-destruction.

‘But you said Charlie Rowlands told you Sorenson was dead.’

‘I know. I can’t explain that.’

Jones nodded. ‘Why is this your old room?’

‘I’d end up in here sometimes. Not often. A few nights when I’d had too much of his whisky. Sorenson didn’t want me sleeping over for obvious reasons.’

‘You stayed at his house?’ Jones couldn’t keep her voice down at this.

‘No. I just said.’

‘But you drank with him.’

‘A couple of times, yes. After a week of watching his house, he came over to the car and invited me in.’

‘And you went?’

‘Why wouldn’t I? He was my prey. I could stalk him more easily at close quarters, perhaps force an admission, an error.’

‘Are you sure you weren’t his prey?’ said Jones sombrely. She was sitting now, fixing him with her big eyes.

Brook smiled back at her-a smile of warmth and tenderness and affection that he hadn’t practised in years. His cheeks muscles strained at the effort. ‘Now you see why I brought you along. That’s a subtlety that would have escaped DS Noble’s attention.’

Jones ignored the flattery. ‘What did you talk about?’

‘Things. Philosophy, religion, politics.’

‘The Reaper?’

‘Sometimes, though not directly. He’d ask about the case, as though he were an interested observer.’

‘Did you question him? Accuse him?’

‘I didn’t have to. We both knew.’

Jones was silent now, thinking. ‘You drank with him a couple of times but stayed here a few nights. Why was