Brook swung round at the sound of the door handle being turned. He looked feverishly for a hiding place. He didn’t dare slip behind the curtains for fear of them moving, opting instead to leap into an alcove, where he pushed himself back against the wall and held his breath. He closed his eyes briefly, then, recognising the absurdity, opened them at once.
He listened for the door opening but heard nothing. Then he saw and his heart fell into his socks.
Slowly, very slowly, and without a murmur, the door was swinging open. He saw it, frozen, in the mirror above the fireplace, which meant he could be seen in it, by whoever walked in.
Move, his nerve ends told him. Move. Slide down the wall, pull the curtain across your face, do something.
But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t wrench himself away. His eyes were locked on the door’s progress and he could do nothing but watch, his mouth dry, the moisture having fled to his brow which had erupted in beads of sweat.
Then it stopped. The door moved no further. It hadn’t swung open and he couldn’t be seen. But what was happening? Who was on the other side of the door? Was it Sorenson? What was he waiting for? Brook’s heart was about to implode. Still no movement. The door wasn’t opening, wasn’t closing. Why?
Brook couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He could feel though, feel the springs of sweat, now galvanised intorivulets, cascading down his face. He’d had too much whisky.
The whisky? Perhaps it had been poisoned. Or drugged. His pores were trying to tell him something. He was in a bad way and if he didn’t pull himself round…
Brook made a vow at that moment. If he got out of this house with his job, his liberty and his life intact he was going to clean up his act. No more stalking, no more nights away from home. He’d get help. It wasn’t too late. He could still be a husband, a father.
With a sharp and unavoidable intake of air, which sounded like a passing steam train, Brook watched Sorenson’s bony talon reach through the aperture between door and wall and flick off the light. Brook was caressed by the darkness.
The bar of light stumbling in from the hall narrowed to a shard and Brook began to regain his senses. But a sliver of light remained and Brook could hear no sound of Sorenson moving off. Then again, he hadn’t heard him arrive either. The man’s footfall was non-existent.
Brook waited for what seemed an eternity before moving. When his lungs were functioning properly again he tiptoed to his coat and slipped on his shoes. He moved to the door and put his eye to the crack of light.
His every fibre screamed as he stared directly into Sorenson’s baleful eye and he leapt back from the door with the yelp of a startled puppy.
He reached out a hand to the light switch and flooded the room with light and grabbed the knob to pull open the door, swaying back slightly for safety’s sake.
There was nobody there. Nobody. No sound of someoneon the stairs, hurtling through the house. All was quiet save the wheezing from Brook’s overworked lungs. He must have imagined it. A trick of the light. Or the product of his over-stimulated imagination. Whatever it was, Sorenson wasn’t there. He was in his study. Brook could just hear the comforting muffle of classical music. What was happening to him? He was losing it. He had to get out.
He slipped his coat back on and, in one bound, Brook was through the front door, closing it swiftly but with only a faint click. He ran to his car without looking back, not seeing the wind, if it was the wind, ripple at the curtains of Sorenson’s study window.
Only when Brook was hurtling through the deserted streets of Kensington did his equilibrium start to return. Finally he was able to slow the car to a more respectable speed. He began to feel again, began to be aware of things, sensations, noises. With a start, he looked down at his left hand and saw the delivery note from the unopened boxes lodged there, becoming smudged from the sweat of his palms.
At the next red light, he squinted at the document. With a sigh of pleasure, he found what he was looking for and nodded. The serial number of the CD player.
Brook forgot his promise. He was safe now. He didn’t need help any more, didn’t need to go home to his family. He had all the help he needed right there in his hand. ‘Gotcha!’
Chapter Seventeen
‘What do you think?’
Rowlands shrugged and looked over at his colleague in the driver’s seat, weighing his response with care. ‘I think I need a drink.’ Rowlands closed the folder and fumbled for a cigarette, lighting it with a trembling hand which he then held out for inspection. Three times he tried to cure the shakes with no more than an act of will. He failed each time.
‘About the file, I mean.’
‘How long are you going to keep this up, Brooky?’
‘Guv…’
‘I mean it. It’s been a year now and yet you won’t face it. This is nothing. We’ve got nothing on Sorenson and we never will have. I’m sorry, lad. I can’t cover for you much longer.’
‘What do you mean? I’m not asking you to. I get my work done.’
‘Do you think I give a toss about your work? This is the Met, Brooky. No-one gives a flying fuck as long as the villains are killing each other. I’m talking about Amy, lad. Remember her and your baby. I’m talking about your wiferinging me to complain to me about your workload and me having to pretend that it’s my fault you’re never at home.’
‘Guv…’
‘No, Damen, it’s got to stop. You’ve got to give it up. You’re still young…’
‘But he lied, guv. You accept that at least. His twin brother, Stefan, we talked about him. He told me he died of cancer…’
‘So what? So he didn’t die of cancer. So he was beaten to death in his home. Big fucking deal. It’s a touchy subject to some people.’
‘Guv!’
‘All right. What do you want me to say? He lied to you. What of it?’
‘So it got me thinking. Stefan Sorenson was beaten to death in 1989, two years ago, disturbing an intruder who’s never been found. Don’t you see? Sorenson didn’t want me to know that. Why? Because he found him. He knew I’d guess. That intruder was a burglar and maybe that burglar was Sammy Elphick…’
‘Maybe, maybe, maybe…’
‘It’s motive, guv. He waits for his revenge. He finds the man who orphaned his nephew and niece. He’s going to kill him and what’s more, to pay back the suffering inflicted on the Sorensons, he decides to take out Sammy’s family as a bonus. And what better way to do it than to make Sammy watch, make him suffer the way Sorensons suffered?’ Brook cast his eyes around, looking for a way to continue. ‘Do you know losing a twin is like losing a limb?’
‘I do now.’ Rowlands sighed and ran his sleeve over thecondensation on the windscreen. He stared out at the rain, avoiding Brook’s entreaties. He affected a dry cough and pulled out his flask to treat it. Brook took the offered flask and feigned a drink in his usual way.
Five brooding minutes later, Brook tried to resurrect a reasonable tone. ‘I just need two more weeks, guv. I know he did it and I know he’s going to strike again soon.’
‘Why? If he’s got his revenge.’
‘I think he’s got a taste for it,’ Brook offered weakly. ‘All I know is he’s planning it.’
‘How do you know?’
Brook pulled the delivery note from his pocket and thrust it at Rowlands.
‘What’s this?’
‘A delivery note.’
‘What’s it for?’
