The Reaper

‘Sir?’

‘Who is it?’

‘Wendy Jones.’

‘I’ve told you. Call me Charlie. Everything alright?’

‘No sir. It’s DI Brook. I think he’s had some kind of breakdown.’

There was a pause though not a long one. ‘Right.’

‘We got down to Brighton, no problem. Then we picked his daughter up after school. From what I could gather she’s having a relationship with a man. I think it might be her stepfather.’

‘Oh God. Not little Terri. How is he?’

‘I’m not sure. He seems physically and mentally exhausted. I can’t get him to talk. I can’t even get him to look at me. He just stares into space.’

‘I know the symptoms. Where is he?’

‘Lying down. I booked us into a B amp; B. I didn’t know what to do.’

‘You did the right thing.’

‘It’s like he’s in a trance. Should I get a doctor?’

‘No. He wouldn’t do anything. You did the right thing. He just needs complete quiet. Try and get him to sleep, that’s the main thing. Hot sweet tea and sugared rum. That’s the stuff. He’s in shock.’

‘You say this has happened before.’

‘It was a few years ago now.’

‘Was that down to The Reaper?’

‘Amongst other things. You see, luv, Damen’s got this brain-haven’t we all? But his…it never stops unless he switches it off. But he has to take the trouble to do it. Most of the time he can but this case, it’s got him thinking again and he’s clever, he can’t accept he hasn’t caught The Reaper. I’m not explaining this very well. Suffice to say the last time it took away his marriage, his home and part of his sanity.’

‘He told me about Sorenson. About his relationship with him.’

‘Did he? He hasn’t told anyone else, luv. I think he really trusts you, Wendy.’

‘Do you?’

‘I do.’

‘What should I do?’

‘Look after him. Stay with him and keep feeding him hot, sweet tea and sugared rum. He’ll be okay. If he drankmore he might not be in this state now. By the way, Wendy, your boss tracked you down to here. She’s hopping mad you haven’t kept her up to speed. I said you were working hard which took the wind out of her knickers for a while.’

‘You didn’t have to…’

‘I know. I did it for Damen’s sake. She also said if she didn’t hear from him tomorrow, he’d be reprimanded.’

‘Shit.’

‘Don’t worry about that. Damen wouldn’t. Look luv, forget all that ’til tomorrow. Just stay with him tonight. Ring me tomorrow morning, will you?’

‘I will, Charlie, and thanks.’ Jones replaced the receiver.

Half an hour later she returned to the Seaview carrying two Sainsbury’s bags. She retrieved her key from the tight-lipped landlady who made a point of glaring at Jones’ shopping. What an insult. To buy one’s own provisions, when even now a dozen contented residents were sitting down to a hearty meal of vitamin-free slop, was truly a slap in the face for Mrs Purley. Mr and Mrs Jones indeed-a likely story.

Jones pushed open the door to their room with a bag then dropped both to the floor with a chink of glass on glass. She winced but Brook didn’t move. He lay prone on the bed, fully clothed except for his shoes, snoring gently.

Jones decided not to disturb him. She ate her sandwich in the chair by the window and watched. Occasionally she crept to the toilet or made a cup of tea. Brook’s cup sat waiting-rum and sugar-waiting for him to stir. On she waited, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, wanting to climb on the bed next to him, but resisting.

He needed her and she needed to be needed so she sat on, keeping her motionless vigil, satisfying herself with the lightest stroke of his forehead, a taunt to the urgent physicality of their previous night in bed together.

And so the evening passed into night and night into early morning and still he slept. It was the sleep of the dead. His life, everything he’d worked for was gone, spoiled forever, and there was nothing left for Brook to do but concede and start from scratch, from the womb. Clear of all thoughts, all worries, all preconceptions and all conventions. Now he could sleep. Now he was nothing. Nobody. No job, no career, no family, no future and, for once, no past. None of it mattered any more. To worry about any of it, never mind try to influence it, was futile. He had landed on the longest snake in the game and it had crushed and swallowed him. He’d been so close but now he was back at the start. If he wanted to go again he had to throw a six. If he wanted to go again…

South. Always south. Brook checked his watch. He’d been driving around for over an hour since he lost Sorenson. Why had he let that happen? There had to be a reason. After all Brook had been through, to be discarded like this.

Disconsolate, he pulled up to the red light on the South Circular, at the crossroads of Brixton Hill. An hour ago he would have run the lights but now the urgency was gone. It was late. Near midnight. The tension of the chase had evaporated, the search fizzled out. Even the rain was stopping.

Brook had lost the game. He’d lost to Sorenson. He’d lost to The Reaper.

The lights turned and Brook drove on. He hung a left towards the city, intending to take a long loop through Brixton, back up to Clapham and home. It was over. Time to let go.

Home. Then a thought-an icy hand of dread squeezed his heart. What if he’d been tricked? Sorenson had lost him and then doubled back towards Amy and baby Theresa. They were alone. Helpless.

Brook blinked to gather his thoughts and get his bearings. Which way? He’d just missed the turn-off by Brixton Town Hall. Now he’d have to turn up by the Academy and gun it down there.

Brook changed down and floored the accelerator. As he did so, something caught his eye and he jumped onto his brakes and slithered to a halt. On the opposite side of Brixton High Road, Brook stared dumbstruck at a street sign. He gazed at it. Electric Avenue.

‘There could even be an electric storm. Very rare. Yes, sparks are going to fly.’

Brook stared on, his mind churning. A cabbie pulled past, glaring and gesticulating.

Finally Brook pulled into the outside lane and swung right, up towards Brixton Market, now deserted except for discarded fruit and vegetable boxes. He parked underneath the arches opposite the eastern end of Electric Avenue.

Brook’s family were forgotten. The hunt was back on. He leapt from the car and padded down the street.

Chapter Twenty-two

Jones woke from her third uncomfortable night in the armchair to the sound of the gulls feeding on dawn crabs. It took her a moment to realise where she was, before the pain in her back reminded her. She’d spent the whole weekend in vigil, watching Brook sleep, feeding him rum when he roused briefly, sneaking out for half an hour of exercise in the evening or a bite of toast in the morning. Now it was Christmas Eve and, like it or not, she’d have to try and find a doctor. This couldn’t go on. She couldn’t endure another night in that chair.

She looked at her watch. Gone eight. She shifted her position but it didn’t help. She sat forward and pulled the curtain aside and a finger of grey light crept into the room. Then she saw the crumpled bed. Brook wasn’t on it.