knew the residents were away for a while he might even have stayed there.’
Brook put the phone down. He looked at his watch. He had half an hour before meeting Wendy.
Five minutes later he was strolling down Queensdale Road, hands in pockets, fingering the delicate metal with his left hand. He withdrew his hand and inspected the necklace with its small hearts. Why had he brought it? It was in the past and he should have left it in the file in the cellar. His heart was sad for the girl but she was in a better place now. Perhaps he should just send the necklace back to the Maples family. There was little justification for keeping it. Her parents might be glad of it-assuming they were still alive.
On the other hand they had plenty to remember her by and Brook still felt a responsibility towards Laura. He’d keep it for now, but he resolved to return it to the folder for good. No point trailing it everywhere, reminding him.
He strolled on. Yes, he ambled now. Like any tourist might. Not like before. Once upon a time he was in a hurry to get to Sorenson’s house, mind racing, in thrall to the chase.
He hadn’t been here for many years. Not since that last night in ’91. The night of the storm. Now it was like he’d never been away. The house was exactly the same. The same ivy, the same porthole window on the second storey, the same screen behind the lounge windows, the same brass bell pull.
Brook lingered in front of the house, though on the opposite side of the road. He stood under the shadow of a tree, which hung over the fence of a small circular garden for residents only.
The night of the storm…
Chapter Eighteen
It was tonight. Brook knew it. The preliminaries were over. The time was now.
And Sorenson was right. The weather was filthy-enough rain to make even Noah reach for his saw. It was a wild night, an end-of-the-world night. No-one would go out of their way to interfere with The Reaper on a night like this. It was down to Brook. No-one else mattered.
It wouldn’t be easy. Visibility was poor. If it weren’t for the ivy, he couldn’t have picked out Sorenson’s house through the rain beating down onto his windscreen.
He considered parking closer but rejected it. There were no spaces. Besides, Sorenson didn’t want to give him the slip. Not after all that had happened, all the tests Brook had passed. This was the final showdown and Sorenson needed him.
Brook glanced at his watch. It was getting late. Past nine. Not late by his standards, but late for most families to take delivery of a brand new, top-of-the-range CD player.
Brook rested his eyes for a moment. He listened to the rain lashing against the car and felt it rocking under the wind’s assault.
He opened his eyes at the sound of a vehicle approaching from the rear. A white two-seater transit van passed by. It had a sign on the door that Brook couldn’t see. A hire van maybe.
It slowed to a halt in front of Number 12. A figure hopped out. Impossible to see who it was. About Sorensons height and build certainly, but if it was Sorenson he wasn’t in his usual garb. The man was dressed head to foot in black. A black one-piece, overalls probably, black gloves, black sports shoes and, most striking, a black balaclava. Black to hide the blood.
The figure opened the back doors of the van and skipped up the step to Sorensons house. Obligingly an outside light was turned on and, just to make sure Brook hadn’t missed his entrance, Sorenson pulled off his woollen helmet.
Even at a distance of fifty yards, in poor light, Brook could see it was Sorenson. But what a difference. The version stood before Brook now was as bald as a billiard ball and, just to emphasise the point, Sorenson ran his hand over and around his shiny pate, feeling the rain on his skull, before disappearing into the house.
‘…even a hair follicle falling to the ground could be their undoing.’
The challenge had been thrown down. DNA sampling. Sorenson had told Brook how he might be caught, that very afternoon in Ravenscourt Gardens, and had shaved his head to prevent it.
Brook turned his attention to the van. There were things in the back but he could only pick them out in silhouette. One shape could’ve been a coil of rope. He was tempted to nip out and take a closer look but decided against it.
Sorenson wouldn’t be long if he were leaving the doors open. And there might be a limit on the latitude Brook was allowed. He could take nothing for granted.
Sure enough, a second later Sorenson reappeared, his black helmet back in place, arched under the weight of the boxed CD player Brook had seen on his previous visit.
With the boxes safely lodged in the van, Sorenson returned to the driver’s seat and drove away. The rain began to beat down harder as Brook pulled the unmarked squad car out into the road and sped after his prey, trying to maintain discreet distance. It would be difficult. Traffic wasn’t light in such weather. Fortunately Sorenson didn’t drive as fast as most Londoners, perhaps unaccustomed to driving, perhaps to be sure not to lose Brook.
They headed south. Progress was steady. Across the A4 on the Earls Court Road, on over the Fulham Road then left onto the Kings Road. The van now heading east turned south again towards the river, right onto Beaufort Street and Brook’s pulse quickened as a secret dread began to pull on his gut.
The van crossed Cheyne Walk and, as Brook had begun to fear, went straight onto Battersea Bridge. No. He wouldn’t let himself think it. Sorenson wouldn’t be so stupid.
Over the river now and on into the night. Still south. Latchmere Road. Not far now. He hoped he was wrong. He wasn’t.
Through the lights Sorenson slowed and turned left onto Knowsley Road and drew to a stop outside Brook’s new house. Amy’s house, really, he’d spent so little time there.
With some difficulty, Brook found a parking space a few cars behind the van. It was all he could do to leave it atthat. His every fibre screamed at him to pull across the van, drag Sorenson out and beat him to a mush.
He didn’t. He couldn’t. All he could do was sit, paralysed, his fear mounting. He watched the van but no-one got out. Sorenson was just sitting there, waiting. Waiting for what?
The rain pulverised the bonnet of Brook’s car and his wipers were on top speed. It was hard to see what was happening. And then a panic began to grip Brook. Was Sorenson still in the van or had he got out somehow, using that delicate touch for sneaking around he’d demonstrated before?
Wild ideas suggested themselves. Was there a hatch in the van, which even now Sorenson could be crawling through, before dragging himself along the blind side of the parked cars to the track which led to Brook’s back garden? Was it possible he was even now in the house?
Brook couldn’t think straight. He was suddenly hot and panting heavily. Sweat burned his eyes but he brushed it away quickly to avoid lowering his lids. Where was Sorenson? What was he doing?
Brook tried to keep his eyes on the van but he had to look at the house, just to be sure. He darted an agitated glance at the warm glow behind the living room curtains and suppressed a shiver. There was nobody outside the house. He was sure. But had The Reaper got out of the van? Was he already inside? What was happening to Amy and baby Theresa at this minute? Surely Sorenson wouldn’t…
Even as he rationalised Sorenson’s behaviour Brook knew he was making a massive assumption. Sorenson was TheReaper, a cold-blooded killer, a man who could execute a child without a second thought. Brook had forgotten. He’d been sucked into Sorensons world and had lost sight of what he was, what he’d done. Perhaps that had been the plan. To lullaby Brook so he could put his family under the knife.
He had to get out of the car. He had to look. This was his family. He must go look.
But he couldn’t. Brook was numb, burned onto the seat, drained of energy, of will, his eyes locked onto the van in which he hoped and prayed Sorenson sat. All he could do was hang on. Hang onto that kernel of faith that had taken root in his gut.
He likes me. We have an understanding. He wouldn’t do that to me.
Then it hit him and his face contorted with self loathing. He’d betrayed them. His own seed. His family. The wife and daughter he was willing to sacrifice to his faith-his faith in Sorensons need for him and his own hunger to be embraced by Sorensons grand design, to be there at the death, literally or metaphorically, it didn’t matter to
