The Reaper

‘Did he? That’s interesting.’

‘Delayed shock maybe.’

Brook nodded. ‘Maybe.’ Avoiding the handle, Brook pushed the front door back with a latex finger. There was another door on the right off the hallway with red smears on the handle. The door was open just a crack and Brook noticed Noble make a conscious effort to suppress a shudder at the thought of what lay beyond. Ahead, in full view, lay the brightly lit kitchen, door wide open. The sink was visible, as was the lid of a cardboard pizza box lying open on the drainer.

‘How many have been in the living room?’ asked Brook, fleetingly aware of his unintended joke.

‘Mr Singh went in and found them. Aktar had to go in to check for signs of life. He went in the kitchen to check on Jason too. I only looked in at the door. I didn’t want to disturb anything.’

‘I don’t think we can compromise the hall any more than it is but watch out for any obvious bloody footprints, John. Step right up against the wall.’ With that Brook picked his way past the murder room, towards the kitchen, Noble following in his superior’s footsteps.

Once in the bright stark room, Brook knelt down to examine the linoleum. ‘What do you think that is?’ he said, indicating a small knot of dark red matter on the floor.

Noble felt his gorge rising. He managed to wrench out a, ‘Dunno,’ keeping his eyes averted from the offending unction.

Brook removed a pencil from his coat and prodded the floor then raised the red tip of the pencil to his nose. He sniffed, suppressing a smile, aware of the discomfort of his audience. This must be how the boy who ate earwigs at Brook’s primary school had felt. He stood and turned to look at the open pizza box on the drainer. Two closed boxes were neatly stacked under the top one.

‘Tomato sauce. From this pizza. Pizza Parlour’s Quattro Stagioni-Four Seasons to you and me,’ he added with a smile. ‘And very good they are too.’

‘You know your takeaways,’ said Noble.

‘I went to university, John. That’s how I was able to read it off the box. Note two pieces missing. One cut from the ham and mushroom segment, the other torn from the pepperami. Jason Wallis was found unconscious here, this is where he fell, but the rest of the family are in the living er…lounge?’

‘Right.’

‘Good. Remind me. Is PC Aktar heavy?’

Noble was taken aback but had become accustomed to not reacting to Brook’s odd questions.

‘Fairly heavy, yes.’

‘Right.’ Brook’s expression took on a faraway look. There was silence as both men realised they’d used up all their distractions. Suddenly, with a full swallow of air for Dutch courage, Brook sought the eye of his DS and nodded towards the living-room door. ‘Am I right in thinking the killer’s left us a message in there, John?’

Noble’s lips parted in surprise. ‘How did you…?’

As Noble’s voice began to falter, Brook, alive to his discomfort, tapped into one of his meagre seams of humanity-the mother lode had been exhausted long ago-and he threw Noble a straw to clutch.

‘I’d like a peek at the scene before SOCO start bagging and tagging. You’ve already seen it, John, so wait outside for the surgeon. I don’t want anybody else in the house until SOCO have done their stuff. No-one else comes through that front door.’ He paused before adding, ‘Okay?’ The two men, normally cloaked in layer upon layer of emotional cladding, looked at one another as men rarely do. Noble’s instinct was to turn away and adjust his protective layers but something made his eyes linger, the need to communicate his gratitude.

‘There’s a lot of blood on the floor. You might compromise footprints.’

‘I’m just going to look from the door not traipse round shaking hands and sitting on laps. If this has been staged I want to see it as the killer intended it to be seen. Atmosphere, John, remember.’

‘Right. Get a feel for the crime before anything else. Mind the handle. There are blood smears on it.’

As Brook prepared a finger to push open the bloodied door, he turned to Noble. ‘Get onto SOCO and the PS and give them a hurry-up. And get on to the hospital. They probably know but tell them they might need to pump Aktar’s stomach. Young Wallis too. Just to be on the safe side.’

It was the smell that hit Brook first. It wasn’t new to him, the smell of death, the sweet smell of ageing blood, the excrement expelled by a body no longer able to maintain its integrity, the sweat no longer evaporated by the heat of its host. These things weren’t new to Brook but the smell of a victim’s terror was. Almost. Only twice before. In London. Brixton 1991. And the first time, 1990. Harlesden. Harleshole of the Universe, as his old DI, Charlie Rowlands, had dubbed it.

And the same thoughts were intruding then, as now. Did his own fear give off the same scent on those rare occasions his nightmares overpowered his reason?

Brook wondered-no he knew-this was the smell discharged as people watched their own deaths unfold. Yes, he knew, as he knew the other smell, the hint of perfume-talcum powder. To keep sweaty palms dry inside latex gloves. He wished he had some now.

Brook stood to one side of the door and tried to take it all in. Bobby Wallis sat in his armchair, facing the TV. His body was contorted with effort, his fists clenched and spotted with blood. His head was tilted at an angle, as though puzzled by something. Brook peered at the half-closed eyes and turned to follow the victim’s sightless gaze, squinting above and beyond the TV to the word ‘SAVED’ daubed in blood on the alcove wall. Rivulets wept from all the letters except the D. This letter was fainter than the others though the writer hadn’t been short of ink. A message from the killer. SAVED. Who was saved and from what? Brook was no nearer knowing. The Reaper was back. He knew that much.

The memories came flooding in and Brook was tempted to move around the room as if physical activity could quell the images in his mind. But one of those images was of stepping in a pool of blood all those years ago in Brixton so he managed to anchor himself.

He noted the poster on the chimney breast and nodded in recognition. Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’. It didn’t belong in this house. Rich, vivid colours stood out against the grubby walls. The blue and golden flowers, the single white flower. But now the picture was different, scarred by the slash of red, like a giant approving tick on a piece of artwork. He was held for a moment. Harlesden in 1990, Brixton a year later. And now Derby. Why such a long gap? It made no sense.

Brook forced his mind back to the present and returned his eyes to Bobby Wallis. There was a new orifice under his chin and his dark blue sweater was saturated black with blood. Arterial sprays were everywhere. Walls, clothing, furniture, the small silver Christmas tree in the corner, the dark carpet probably, though it was difficult to tell.

There would be blood all round the bodies and footprints in the blood-the neighbour’s and PC Aktar’s-who would have had to tramp around the room checking for signs of life. They wouldn’t be hard to distinguish for today’s Scene of Crime Officers with their digital imaging technology. The killer’s footprints would eventually be isolated-for what it was worth. They’d still need a suspect before they could find a match.

Brook moved his head, trying to catch a look at the front of the man’s face. Then he saw it, reflected in the dim light, a faint glimmer scarring his cheeks. It was there as before. The man’s cheeks were encrusted with it-salt from tears. Something had made this man cry and sure as hell, it wasn’t Big Brother.

Brook remembered him now. Bobby Wallis had form and Brook was willing to bet he hadn’t cried since early childhood. He was a local hard man, a man’s man, a petty criminal, who graduated from years in the system and drifted in and out of menial work. Sometimes he got drunk and beat up those who were sure not to fight back. Not his family though. They were part of him. He’d protect his kids. He’d protect his wife. Love was another matter.

Brook remembered his own dead father, a miner in Barnsley. Although as different from Bobby Wallis as chalk from cheese, Brook recognised the symptoms. A life built on small successes, hungrily sought and endlessly trumpeted to drown the background hum of failure.

With his father it had been his work as a union official and coaching the church boys’ football club. With Wallis it would have been a good result at the bookies or the chance smile of a barmaid ‘asking for it’.

Brook turned his gaze to the ample figure beside Bobby. Mrs Wallis was on the sofa comically dressed in a towelling tracksuit that stretched itself, with more than a hint of complaint, around her abundant flesh. At least in