The Reaper

Brook.

With a Herculean effort, Brook managed to raise his arm to the door handle and pull it towards him. It opened but as it did so, Brook saw the tail lights of the van cast their crimson fire over his hand.

Sorenson was on the move again, pulling out and round the corner, in no particular hurry.

Brook switched on his ignition but at once turned it off. He slumped forward, head bowed, eyes closed. His faith had been rewarded but at what cost? He was finished as a viable father, husband and human being-at the end ofhis tether. Rowlands had seen it and tried to warn him. Amy too.

The thought of his beautiful wife forced Brook to sit up. He started the car and set off. As he pulled level with the house he sounded the horn. Once. Twice. Nothing. He made to step out but Amy’s face at the window, peering through the condensation, stopped him. She was safe. The Reaper hadn’t called. Nor would Brook. He couldn’t. He’d forfeited his wife and his daughter to the game. He’d lost them forever.

He sped away and followed the road back to the main street. He looked right and left. Nothing. Sorenson had lost him. Why? Why had he done that? That wasn’t part of the plan. Think.

Going south. Always south. Brook turned left and gunned down to the lights just turning red. He slammed his foot to the floor and hurtled across the front of a startled black cab, which came to a skidding halt in the nick of time. Brook looked back in the mirror to be sure only the cab’s horn had sustained damage.

On he sped. Onto Clapham Common. South. Keep going. Brook knew now why Sorenson had stopped outside his home. The game had softened Brook. He’d been civilised by it, by the genteel adherence to proper behaviour, to rules. That’s why Sorenson had been to his home. To remind him what could happen if he forgot what he was dealing with-The Reaper.

Brook was angry-angry at the dance Sorenson had led him, angry with himself. He’d been a fool and Sorenson wanted him to know it. That was good. He needed that reminder. It could help him stay sharp. And focused. And hungry. Now he could win.

Chapter Nineteen

Brook turned to walk back to Holland Park Avenue. He was going to be late meeting Wendy. Then an impulse overwhelmed him and he crossed the road and hauled on the brass pull of Number 12. He held his breath and listened.

No music. No sound. Nothing. He was about to turn away when a noise from within made him linger. The door opened.

‘Can I help you?’ The woman peered at Brook dubiously. Her voice had a heavy Scandinavian lilt. She looked about fifty years old with short blonde hair, tinted to disguise any grey, wide, clear grey eyes and a clear complexion. She was still a handsome woman and must once have been a great beauty. She held a hand over her eyes to shield them from the low sun.

‘Is this Professor Sorenson’s house?’

‘It is.’

‘Right.’ Brook was hesitant. He hadn’t expected the house to still be Sorenson’s. ‘I…used to be a friend of his…it was a while ago. I heard the news and came to pay my respects.’

‘That’s very good of you,’ she said without gratitude. She was suspicious, uneasy, gripping the door with one hand. ‘It’s a difficult time.’

‘Yes. Are you Mrs Sorenson?’

She hesitated. ‘Yes.’

Brook nodded politely. She didn’t trust him. Why would she? He didn’t trust himself. It was time to get personal. ‘I hadn’t realised Professor Sorenson…Victor had married. He certainly kept that quiet.’ He unfurled a smile that implied her husband had been a lucky son of a gun.

At the mention of his name, Mrs Sorenson seemed to thaw and she smiled back. ‘Oh no. I’m not Victor’s wife. I’m his sister-in-law. Victor never married.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry. You must be Stefan’s wife then. Widow,’ added Brook, glad he’d reviewed the file a couple of days before. His tone was regretful and he bowed his head in the appropriate manner. ‘I knew Stefan only slightly,’ he lied. ‘A terrible business…’

At the mention of Sorenson’s brother, the frost returned to his widow’s face.

‘Yes.’ She dropped her eyes and a hint of remembered pain clouded her features. Brook was surprised. She hadn’t got over it in all these years. There were others like him.

‘How are the children taking it?’ asked Brook, immediately realising that Sorenson’s nephew and niece must be her children.

‘Badly. Victor became a father to them.’

‘I know.’ Brook had nowhere else to go with this and wished he hadn’t bothered. He looked at his watch, keen to be away from the awkwardness. ‘Well, I must be off. Please accept my best wishes.’

‘Thank you.’ She held out a hand, more cheerful now that he was leaving. ‘Mr?’

‘Brook. Damen Brook.’ He shook her outstretched hand.

To Brook’s amazement Mrs Sorenson’s face lit up in a warm smile of recognition that changed her completely. She looked different now, different and yet, somehow familiar. Had he met her in the old days? He didn’t think he had.

‘Mr Brook! Why, of course. Victor used to mention you all the time. He was very fond of you, you know.’

‘Was he?’

‘Yes. You were always in his thoughts and prayers.’

Brook smiled back with as much warmth as he could manage. ‘And he in mine.’

‘Where are my manners? Won’t you come in and have some tea?’ She was positively gushing now and Brook found it unnerving. What had Sorenson said about him? The mention of his name usually had the opposite effect. Perhaps he should send Harry Hendrickson and a few others round for a reappraisal.

‘I can’t. Thank you. I have an appointment.’ Brook took a step back to try and close proceedings.

‘What a pity. Well, thank you for coming. If Victor were…’ Her lip began to wobble and tears filled her eyes.

‘I understand,’ Brook nodded and turned to walk back to the hotel, not noticing the curtain twitch at the porthole window on the second floor.

‘Interesting,’ he muttered. His impulsive act had thrown up an intriguing question. Why had Victor Sorenson been handed the responsibility of looking after his brother’s two children after his murder in 1989 when the mother was still around? Or had they just been visiting the night Brook had crept into their room all those years ago? He resolved to find out.

Wendy Jones looked at her watch as Brook stepped into the piano bar. He caught the gesture and smiled at her not to be embarrassed.

‘You’re right. I’m late. Sorry.’

‘No need to be. It’s just, twice in one day. It’s not like you. I mean…they say…’ Jones blushed.

Brook raised an amused eyebrow as he called a waiter over. ‘Really? And what do they say exactly?’

‘That you’re always punctual,’ she replied softly, looking at the ground.

‘Anything else?’

Jones paused, then looked up and smiled back. She stared at an invisible list on the palm of her hand. ‘Rich, arrogant, clever, obsessive, no sense of humour, likes old sports cars, difficult to get along with.’

Brook threw back his head and guffawed. ‘No sense of humour? I resent that.’

She laughed and her face brightened. It was a heartening sight. Brook was reminded of their night together, recalled having never seen anyone giggle as much as her. Though he’d assumed that was Breezer-induced.

Jones continued her own reassessment. She’d been misled. He’s just different to other people, she thought. Nothing wrong with that. And the things he’d told her, the things he’d seen. It would make anyone difficult to get along with. It wasn’t surprising he carried the scars. In fact, he should have been more damaged. She felt a brief twinge of desire. He was lost and maybe she was the one to find him.