‘From my nephew. Very talented, don’t you think?’
‘Nephew? Your brother’s son?’ Brook asked, remembering the photographs of Sorenson and his twin.
‘Not any more, Sergeant. My brother Stefan died.’ For once Sorenson was unable to meet Brook’s eyes for fear of revealing too much. The hurt was clear in his expression.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. It’s been two years. I’m over the worst. Losing a twin, they say, is like cutting off a limb. For once, they are not wrong. Twins are aware of each other from the moment they’re born. Did you know that? Fifty years with a different person who is in fact you. A person who knowswhat you know, feels what you feel, says what you were about to say. Fifty years.
And then nothing. No more. You’re alone. You stand by the bed and watch as your own being withers and dies. All that you took to be a reflection of yourself changes into a caricature of what you are and becomes a kind of sick celestial joke. No rats, Sergeant. Just cancer. Eaten, yes, but not post mortem. My brother, part of myself, eaten alive, from the inside, knowing it will not stop hurting, ever, until everything stops.
And, God, does it hurt. To see the agony in his eyes, fear cloaked by the lions smile, pierce you, beg you to help, to do something, to put a stop to it. Then when you don’t, when you can only stand and watch and shrug and smile back, see the look in the eyes turn to hate. Why me? Why not you? Do something. Are you enjoying this? Did you cause it? Do you want me to die? Help me!
‘That’s the worst thing I’ve seen, Sergeant. That’s what I dream about. You’re not leaving?’ This time it was a question suffused with human warmth, revealing a loneliness that mirrored Brook’s. It put Brook on his guard.
‘It’s late.’
‘Perhaps it is. I’ve enjoyed our talk. Thank you for coming.’ He rose to show Brook out. Brook watched him walk across the study to open the door. What a piece of work Sorenson was. Easy company. Brook was rarely at ease, even at home. Perhaps he was home.
‘My pleasure.’
‘You can see yourself out, I’m sure.’
‘Of course.’
Sorenson returned to his chair and this time slumpeddown in a manner guaranteed to show his fatigue. Brook wasn’t convinced. Was he really going to sleep or was this an invitation? After a moment’s thought he decided he couldn’t pass up such an opportunity.
‘Goodnight.’ Brook closed the study door behind him and clumped noisily down two flights to the front door. He opened and slammed it shut with exaggerated force.
For a few seconds he stood completely still, waiting, listening for the noise of the study door opening. When a moment later, nothing had registered he picked his coat from the rack and kicked off his shoes. He wrapped them in his coat and set off back to the first floor, all the while listening for movement from the floor above.
The first door he tried opened into a small room dominated by a large wooden chest with slim drawers, the kind used by artists and architects to store sketches and paintings. Brook flicked on the light and inspected a couple of drawers at random. They were full of neat sketches and plans separated by tissue paper and appeared to be designs for some kind of building. Notes on the designs were in a foreign language Brook assumed was Swedish. Sorenson was a dual national, Brook had discovered, and had moved to London from Stockholm in 1960 as part of his father’s chemical company expansion.
Brook extinguished the light and moved onto the next room. This time the door creaked slightly but after a moment’s panic on hearing footsteps from the study, Brook was relieved to hear the strains of music once more, followed by footsteps, presumably returning to the chair. He waited a moment longer.
No door opened but there was something-another noise, closer to home, in the room he had just entered-and the hairs on the back of Brook’s neck began to tingle. Somebody was whistling quietly, behind the door he’d just opened. Brook stiffened, assessed his alternatives, then realised what it was. The light was off. Somebody was sleeping.
He listened for a sign that he’d disturbed the occupant but the breathing remained regular and deep. Who was in there? Brook was sure from his skimpy file that Sorenson was a bachelor who lived alone. Then again the file wasn’t very up-to-date. But married? No. There was nothing in Sorenson’s manner or lifestyle to suggest that he’d recently found his soul mate.
Brook decided he had to risk a look. He inched his way further into the room and peered tentatively round the door clutching the bundle of coat and shoes in his moistening palms.
What he saw made him stand erect, relaxed, forsaking the tension of defensive readiness. A small nightlight softened the gloom and in its glow stood a bunk bed with two small children fast asleep, contorted into positions only young physiques can master.
The girl was on the bottom, her face turned to the light for comfort. Her eyes were screwed tight but her mouth lay open allowing its liquid contents to seep along her cheek and into the pillow. Her light brown hair was matted and she gripped a glassy-eyed teddy bear to her throat.
The top bunk was much darker and quieter than the girl’s. Brook fancied that its occupant was male but he couldn’t be sure. If he’d had a sister, he’d have bagged the top. The girl looked about five or six. He couldn’t see the boy but he looked smaller.
Brook felt the need to linger, to see that no harm came to them. He had no idea how long he watched the children sleep. He realised, when he thought about it later, that he had forgotten where he was for that moment in time, that he was in the house of a suspected child killer.
And as he gazed at the sleeping infants, Brook remembered that he himself was a father and for the first time the thought moved him. He had responsibilities now. And until he could get home to his own family, to protect and care for them, he felt the need to safeguard these surrogates.
Finally, he closed the door as softly as he could and crept back down to the ground floor. Either he’d misjudged Sorenson completely or he’d been set up. Was it possible that he was meant to see the children to shatter all the presumptions Brook held about Victor Sorenson-The Reaper?
Yes it was. But that still didn’t account for the fact that two young children, possibly his brother’s orphaned children, felt so safe in Sorenson’s midst, so able to abandon themselves to sleep, under his roof.
Even if it was a set-up, Brook knew one thing had changed in his perception of Sorenson. He didn’t hate children, not enough to kill without reason, at least. That had been the hardest thing to square away in Harlesden- the Elphick boy-and it was clear now that Sorenson hadn’t killed him out of some pathological loathing for young people-if he’d killed him at all. Brook began to harbour his first doubt.
He stood by the front entrance and contemplated his next move. The front door beckoned to him. He wanted togo home to his family. He wanted to fall into the arms of his wife and make everything right. He wanted to sneak with her into Theresa’s room and watch their new baby sleep, that foolish smile, exclusively patented for new parents, deforming his face.
Instead he stepped through the door that led off the main hall, snapped on the light and closed the door behind him. He was in a spacious living room, sparsely furnished. It wasn’t as cosy as the study and Brook guessed it was rarely used. What furniture there was seemed thrown together as though this room contained all that was left of the pieces that didn’t belong in other, more organised rooms.
There was an oddment of a suite. A winged chair, in a dark blue material, sat on one side of the cold black fire grate with a two-seater sofa, in faded brown suede, on the other. There was nothing on the walls but a large mirror over the fireplace flanked by a pair of ornate wall lights. The screen he’d seen from the road on his first visit guarded the lace-curtained bay window.
Brook was already retreating through the door and was about to switch off the light when he spotted something that made his heart leap. In a corner of the room, partially covered by curtains drawn across French windows, sat a pile of sturdy boxes.
Brook put down his bundle and scampered over to examine them. The delivery note on the top box revealed that the boxes had been dispatched nearly three months ago and yet, the seal on the boxes hadn’t been broken-a brand spanking new Compact Disc player, top of the range, and not even unpacked. The most expensive new technology not even opened or examined.
Brook’s eyes narrowed. He knew. It was time. Time for No. 2 and this was the Reaper’s entrance ticket. For video recorder to Harlesden, read Compact Disc player to the next family of victims.
