The Reaper

supreme will to decline the offer of a night-cap. Such an effort that Wendy could see his refusal was not another snub but the gesture of a man thinking of her sensibilities, in case the morning awakened forgotten embarrassment.

Brook woke refreshed, infused with a rare energy. He jumped out of bed to busy himself. He wanted to be at Charlie’s house before noon. The sure way to get sense from him before the booze took hold.

After making tea and knocking gently on Wendy’s door, he packed with the efficiency of the single man and went down to stow his bag in the car.

Two hours later, Brook and Jones swung into the drive of a medium-sized detached house in the leafy suburb of Caterham.

There was no immediate answer to Brook’s pounding on the door and just when Brook had begun to think his old boss had gone out, the door opened.

‘Brooky! How the bloody hell are you?’ growled a voice laden with tar. There was also the tell tale aroma of mints. Charlie Rowlands stepped into the pale light and grasped Brook by the hand.

He felt the warmth of the greeting with a lump in his throat, swiftly gulped away. Brook was unused to the affection of a friend. ‘Not too bad,’ he replied after a second’s thought. He never mouthed platitudes when asked even that simple question. ‘You?’

‘Couldn’t be better.’ Rowlands grinned at Brook. It was an obvious lie. His old boss had shrunk in the years since he’d known him. He had once seemed so tall, dominating the space in a room. To the young DCs of Hammersmith he was an intimidating figure-authority as well as physical presence. It was a potent brew. Charlie Rowlands had been a God.

But now he was diminished. Once he’d looked down into Brook’s eyes. Now they were level. His back was no longer straight as a ramrod but curved and compressed. He’d lost weight as well as the last of his hair, and he was painfully thin. His face was bright and robust, however, as the faces of drunks often are. The red tinge around the high cheekbones and nose mimicked a rosy sheen of health.

But the eyes had it, as always. That look of sunken pain, which repelled slumber, the look Brook had seen staring back from the shaving mirror many times.

Rowlands continued to smile unsure how to continue. He snaked a glance at Jones.

‘This is WPC Wendy Jones, sir.’

‘I can see she’s a W, Brooky I’ve still got some of me marbles. How are you, Wendy?’

Jones stepped forward to shake his outstretched hand, blushing with pleasure at a remark she might have admonished from a junior rank. ‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘Please. I’ve been retired a long time, luv. Call me Charlie. Got that, Brooky?’

‘Yes guv.’

Rowlands began to cough. His breath came in rasping bursts now and he held up his hand in apology.

‘Where are my manners? Come in out of the cold.’

‘That’d be a first,’ smiled Brook.

Rowlands laughed without getting the joke and led them into a bright, modern kitchen.

‘Still with the smart remarks, eh, Brooky. And it’s Charlie, remember.’

‘Right.’ Brook had only been to the house twice before-once for dinner, with Amy, to celebrate Charlie’s daughter Elizabeth’s eighteenth birthday. Then again a year later, alone, to put his boss to bed after her funeral had driven him to the brink.

That was a night not to be repeated. The two of them sat up together the whole night, Brook waiting for his boss to pass out into the safety of coma, Rowlands waiting for Brook’s vigilance to wane so he could destroy himself.

That night they drank and sobbed and drank and howled and drank and sometimes even laughed, before drinking some more. It was the laughter that signalled ultimate surrender, the laughter that kept the world at arm’s length-for a short time.

Near dawn, Brook, way over his limit, had passed out on the sofa, his arm clamped round his quietly shaking host. When he woke, his first blurred vision was the sight of his boss, his friend, sitting at the dinner table, drink in hand, staring saucer-eyed at Elizabeth’s doomed smile in the picture frame. His old Webley service revolver lay on the table but there were no bullets for it. By default, Charlie Rowlands had chosen life.

And now, perhaps, Charlie hadn’t lied. ‘Couldn’t be better’ was the truth because now he was nearer death. Nearer his Elizabeth.

It was the first time Brook had been back since that terrible night and as he glanced through the house, he realised he hadn’t expected the place to be in such good order. He’d assumed it would be more of a time capsule. Everything the same since Mrs Rowlands had given up on Charlie and left him to it. The pictures of Elizabeth still took pride of place but the parts of the house he knew were different. The kitchen was new and expensive. The lounge had also had a makeover. It was sparsely but tastefully furnished with none of the clutter wives felt obliged to scatter everywhere-objects accrued that told not of a life lived but an ambition to be someone else, someone better.

No flying ducks, barometers, carriage clocks. Give Charlie credit. Not everyone stopped trying. Not everyone gave up on creature comforts once their spirit was extinguished.

‘Breakfast anyone?’ asked Rowlands, plonking down two mugs of steaming hot tea.

‘Yes please, Charlie, if it’s no trouble. We didn’t have a chance first thing.’ Jones sounded a little tentative and searched out Brook’s face for signs of disapproval. Charlie turned to him.

‘I could eat,’ nodded Brook.

‘But only because it keeps the body going, eh, Brooky? Nothing changes.’

‘Some things do,’ replied Brook, rolling his eyes around the decor.

‘This? Yeah.’ Charlie suddenly seemed uneasy and busied himself laying rashers of bacon onto a grill pan. ‘My new hobby. I say new. I started the DIY when I retired. It keeps my mind off…things. I’m sure you understand, lad.’

‘You took a while answering the door. Did we get you up, sir? Charlie.’

‘No, lass. I was sitting in the garden reading the paper.’ His tone didn’t convince. ‘Where did you stay last night?’

Brook hesitated. ‘The Kensington Hilton,’ he finally said, looking intently at the bacon spitting under the grill.

Rowlands laughed. ‘Jesus, Brooky. Not the Hilton again. What the fuck for?’

‘Just to get the old scent back.’

‘I hope you were paying, lad.’

‘Of course.’

‘Can I use your toilet, Charlie?’ asked Jones.

‘Course, love. It’s the first on the left,’ Rowlands called after her, running a surreptitious glance over her retreating frame. ‘You’ve got a beaut there, Brooky.’

‘She’s a fine officer,’ Brook nodded, resisting the temptation for man talk.

Rowlands chuckled into a cough. ‘ A fine officer. Yeah. Full house an’ all.’ Brook nodded to condone Rowlands mocking. He’d earned it.

After breakfast, Jones got her case from the car to have a shower and change her clothes. While Charlie washed up, Brook stood on the patio and looked around the large sloping garden. It was slightly overgrown but generally in good shape. Charlie had been busy. But then he had a lot of memories to deaden.

The pine trees at the rear were mature and took most of the pallid sun out of the equation, even near noon. Most of the lawn was still covered in frost and emitted a satisfying crunch under Brook’s foot. It was cold out of the sun so he returned to the patio. He took out Jones’s mobile and dialled. While he waited, he checked that Charlie was still washing up then ferreted around the patio furniture.

He found the whisky bottle under the blanket draped over the sun lounger. It was a quarter empty. The mints were there too. Charlie’s full English breakfast.

‘John.’

‘Sir. Where are you? The Chief Super wants to know.’

‘Still in London, John. What’s happening there? Any developments?’