Charlie looked up from his drinks as Brook strode into the Prince of Wales. He smiled. It was a smile of love and friendship. It was a smile of goodbye. His eyes were bonfire-red. They burned with the life that was seeping from the shrinking frame, hunched over Guinness and rum chaser. Blue smoke drifted from hand to face and he inclined his head slightly, like a sniffer dog, to secure maximum inhalation. Brook could see he was in pain.
‘Smoking again?’ smiled Brook, offering his hand. Charlie placed his bony claw in Brook’s as though about to receive a manicure, not shake hands. He had no grip left.
‘Seems daft not to. What’ll it be? Orange juice?’
‘I’ll get them.’
‘No you won’t, old son.’ Rowlands stood uneasily but with great distinction. This was an article of faith, affirmation that Charlie was still a man. Men bought each other drinks. Brook remembered the humiliation he’d heaped on old Mac the doorman and relented.
‘Thanks, Charlie.’
‘What’ll you have?’
‘Same as you.’
Charlie grinned, his face a dusty old accordion. ‘Welcome aboard, son. You won’t regret it.’
Brook watched him totter to the bar, fumbling for a note. Now he could see how wasted Charlie’s legs had become. He hadn’t noticed a few days ago but then he’d been on home turf, able to conceal such things under blankets and shapeless dressing gowns.
He returned with a tray of glasses and, like most career drunks, regardless of condition, was able to plonk it down not having spilt a single drop of the precious liquid.
‘Cheers. Happy New Year, lad.’
‘Cheers.’ Brook declined the second sentiment on behalf of them both.
‘Sorry it’s not the Hilton.’
Brook laughed. ‘Don’t start.’
They talked over old times for a while and behaved like men. Rowlands smoked and drank heavily, between bouts of guttural coughing, and Brook did him the courtesy of joining in. They were friends again. Equals. Not a sick man with a disapproving colleague. Death with dignity sat in their corner, waiting, listening and appreciating.
‘Tell me, guv, why are you here? I could have met Sorenson on my own.’
Rowlands’ face clouded for a second. ‘Don’t you know?’
Brook looked into his friend’s hooded eyes. The fruit machine couldn’t drown the noise of Rowlands breathing. ‘Perhaps I do.’
Rowlands smiled. A silence fell between them-not awkward, but of perfect companionship with no compulsion on either side. Finally Rowlands broke the silence. ‘It’s going to be so good being dead, Brooky. So fucking good.’
Drinks consumed, they rose without prompting and left the pub for the short walk to Queensdale Road. It was already getting dark and a cold wind was stirring. Brook experienced a tremor of disquiet and was grateful to be able to walk slowly, next to his friend. He was in no hurry to meet Sorenson.
Chapter Twenty-five
Brook knelt beside the girl. She was small but, no matter her size, The Reaper had seen fit to lash her to a chair, now on its side from the death struggle.
She looked eight, maybe nine years of age in physical development though she could have been older. Some kids, abused kids in particular, were often years older than their appearance, their bodies thin, malnourished, unable to grow. Sometimes only a look at the face could reveal how long they’d lived, how much they’d endured. The eyes had it. They had dead eyes.
This girl’s eyes were very dead, glaring at Brook without judgement. But the creases around her eyes suggested a smile and Brook was beset by an urge to untie her bonds and get the girl to her feet. It passed.
Instead he stepped back for a better view. He couldn’t see the girl’s mouth-it was covered by a large sticking plaster-but he knew her teeth would be clenched in the rictus of death. A grin of pain and determination as life convulsed to a close-risus sardonicus, it was called.
On her neck the terrible wound winked at Brook, across-section of windpipe visible, a mocking vowel amongst the twist of pink gristle.
Brook stared down at her, his eyes equally hollow and lifeless. This was his daughter now. He was acquiring quite a collection. Baby Theresa, Laura Maples and now The Reaper’s latest offering. He wished he knew her name.
He stepped away. The toe of his shoe was covered in blood. He cursed. Take care. A DS should know better. Do the job. Be a copper not a punter. Keep it together. He snapped on a pair of latex gloves to avoid further tainting of the crime scene and moved to the sofa.
The man and woman were side by side. Rope lapped their waists but they required no gag-Brook wondered why. Their heads lolled together in a sick approximation of romance. A pose staged by The Reaper as a parting joke, Brook was sure.
He bent to examine the woman, close enough to smell the blood which clung to her clothes as though they’d been freshly dyed-the deep slash across her throat had left no sanctuary for body fluids. Her T-shirt had a deep apron of gleaming scarlet still eating across its midriff. Only the material at her hips retained original colour. White to contrast with her brown skin.
Brook picked his way round to the man. There was something odd about him. Apart from a few lines of blood splatter from the woman, his clothes were dry and clean. How had he died? Maybe his heart had given out at the sight of his daughter being torn open in front of him. Shock-it happened. But this man was young, thirty perhaps, and looked lean and gym-fit, like many young black males in the inner city.
Brook stepped closer, being careful this time to skirt the blood pool on the bare boards. As he neared, he saw the bloody scalpel glinting from the man’s lap. No, it was a razor-it had a mother-of-pearl handle and looked old-a cut-throat, the kind scraped on leather belts in barber shops in Westerns.
He examined the man’s neck. Nothing. No sign of a wound.
Suddenly Brook was overcome by the impulse to find a quiet corner and sleep. He’d been awake for days and now it got to him. But he couldn’t sleep yet. Not yet. He’d missed his prey by seconds. For once he was there when it mattered-a living crime scene. Living but not breathing. Gone was the routine numb of detection, the banality of post-mortem bureaucracy. In its stead came the thrill and chill of participation. Brook was in the eye of the needle.
Then a noise-a hiss and a gurgle-and the man’s chest moved.
Brook snapped upright in terror, his heart punching its way out of his ribcage. Pinheads of sweat moistened his top lip, his hair follicles tingled and his mind spun on its axis.
Was the man alive? Why would The Reaper spare the father yet tear open the daughter? Had he been disturbed? Was he still…?
Brook was engulfed by the urge to flee, every sinew screaming at him to run, to stumble out into the cold Brixton night and fill his lungs with oxygen. He was in bad shape, he knew that. The last year on Sorenson’s trail had taken its toll. If he left now he could get away and never look back-never think of The Reaper again.
But he didn’t run. Couldn’t. He’d waited so long. So instead he stepped away from the sofa, like a daredevil, walking backwards along a tightrope slung between high buildings. Don’t look down. You’ll fall. Don’t think. You will fall.
Back he stepped, inching his way to the wall ’til he could go no further.
As his heels bumped against the wall, his arm brushed something. Suddenly there was music. Something beautiful, sensuous almost. Mozart. The Requiem. It shocked him, brought him back.
Only then did he blink and begin to register his breathing, harsh and rasping through the tar. Only then could he think.
It made no sense. Why the child and not the father? The Reaper was too thorough. The man was dead. The noise was the onset of decomposition. Body gasses. Had to be.
