Brook waited for an indiscretion but none came. ‘How is
‘Never better,’ Brook replied. He wondered if Sorenson knew about the break-up. He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
‘Your ex-wife remarried, didn’t she?’
‘How do you know that?’
Sorenson smiled innocently. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Yes she did. We’re still on friendly terms though.’
‘That’s good. What do you think of my niece, Victoria?’
‘She’s very beautiful-a credit to you. She’s grown a lot since I first saw her,’ Brook added mischievously.
Sorenson looked puzzled for a brief moment then beamed back at Brook. ‘Of course, you looked in on Petr and Victoria on your last visit.’
‘Amongst other things.’
Sorenson was grave all of a sudden. His sigh was suffused with tension. ‘Poor Victoria. She’s a very disturbed young girl.’
‘Oh? She seems pretty level-headed to me.’
Sorenson ignored Brook’s comment. ‘Since the death of her father. It’s not natural. Such a long time ago but she can’t get over it. She’s obsessed by Stefan’s death. What’s worse is that she seems to have got the idea that this Reaper you talk about had something to do with it.’
‘Really?’ Brook was suddenly alert. ‘I wonder how she got that into her head.’
Sorenson grunted his amusement. It was only temporary. ‘Not from me, I assure you-a very unsuitable fixation for one so young, so much life in front of her.’
Again he stared into the hot coals, thinking the unimaginable thoughts of the killer. He closed his eyes again.
‘I’m tired, Inspector Brook.’
‘Of course.’
‘Please would you give my best wishes to Charlie.’
‘How did you know Floyd Wrigley raped and murdered Laura Maples?’ Brook stood stone-faced, waiting for an answer to a question that had haunted him for years.
Sorenson smiled sadly at him. It wasn’t a smile to taunt Brook with his superiority and Brook knew then, no matter what happened, Sorenson saw Brook as his friend-perhaps his only friend. And friends share things.
‘You were at the house where she died. Couldn’t you feel it?’
‘What?’
‘The atmosphere, Inspector Brook. Never discount the power of atmosphere.’ Barely had the last syllable cleared his dry lips before his head slackened onto the wing of the chair. A soft snoring followed.
Brook flexed the hand that Sorenson had grabbed. He could still feel a tingle running through it. He waited a few moments then rose and left the study. The nurse was outside the door.
‘Is he sleeping?’ Brook nodded. ‘He should be having his injection.’
‘Is he in pain, nurse?’
‘Constant. He’s on morphine. I don’t know how he manages to keep his mind clear. He should be babbling like a baby. He’s very strong-willed.’
Brook headed for the stairs. He turned on the top step. ‘How long?’
‘A month. Two at the most.’
Brook nodded. Two months to closure. Not a chance. Not unless he confessed. Brook had to know everything. He knew then he’d have to come back, speak to him one more time. And Sorenson knew it too. And even if it meant Brook pouring out everything to Sorenson to gain an admission, he knew he’d have to do it.
As he descended the stairs, Brook considered the withered old man slumped in his study and wondered how someone so ill could have played a part in the deaths of the Wallis family. Everything in Derby pointed to The Reaper but Brook’s chief suspect sat shrivelled in a chair, pumped full of drugs, awaiting his own end.
Brook paused by the Bosch triptych and stared blankly at it. Then he nodded. Atmosphere. He could feel it all right. It clung to Sorenson even now. An atmosphere of unstoppable power. Brook had felt it the night the Wrigley family had died in Brixton, the night he’d sat outside his own house and waited for Sorenson to take the lives of Amy and Terri-unable to move, unable to intervene.
It was a power like no other, a power that allowed Sorenson to spend ten minutes in the place Laura Maples died and be able to identify her killer. He’d solved a case that couldn’t be solved and that same night, Laura’s killer-and every member of his family-was dead.
No, he couldn’t take Sorenson out of the equation-no matter how strenuous the deed, no matter what his physical condition.
Rowlands was in good spirits when Brook returned to the living room. Or rather, good spirits were in him. Booze gave him what little energy he had and he’d certainly filled the tank while Brook had been upstairs.
Rowlands looked at his friend’s sombre expression with the blank curiosity of the drunk.
‘How do you suppose Sorenson knows about my family’s marital history, Charlie?’
After taking so much energy on board, Rowlands failed to detect the insinuation in Brook’s voice. ‘Beats me, laddie,’ he replied.
Brook shrugged. He helped Rowlands to his feet and led him to the front door.
‘Damen.’
Brook turned to Vicky. She held out a carrier bag. Brook took it. There were two brightly wrapped packages inside. ‘Uncle Vic wanted you to have these for Christmas.’
‘Thanks very much, lass,’ Rowlands slurred. ‘It’s much appreciated.’
‘Thanks, Vicky.’ Brook’s affectionate tone was more of a surprise to him than to Vicky. ‘Look after yourself. And say hello to your brother for me.’
She smiled her goodbye but said nothing.
Two hours later, Brook sat in the warmth of Rowlands’ Caterham home, leaded glass in hand. It was dark outside and in. Brook didn’t want light. He wanted to be alone, cut off from everything and everybody. Time spent with Sorenson had a way of inducing sensory overload and Brook needed to let his mind drift for a while or he’d blow a fuse.
He sipped on his Navy rum and ran the mellow heat around his mouth as an antiseptic. He could hear Charlie snoring heavily upstairs. Alcohol-induced stupor was the only medicine for him now.
Brook kicked off his shoes and warmed his feet before the gas fire. It had been a difficult two days but now they were over. He’d done it, he’d faced Sorenson and come through. He knew he could win now. Sorenson would confess, he was certain. Then he’d know why. That would be his victory.
Brook dragged the carrier bag from ‘Uncle Vic’ towards him on the sofa. He pulled out the parcels and examined the labels. The bottle-shaped parcel read, ‘To my old friend Charlie Rowlands. Sleep well.’
Brook snorted. This terminal illness deal was something else. He looked at his package. It felt like a book. His label read, ‘To Inspector Brook. So near yet so far. Don’t judge this book by its cover. Victor.’
Brook slid off the paper and turned the book. He could make out the title on its white background by the glow of the fire. His mouth fell open. It was an A-Z of Leeds, published 1993.
Chapter Twenty-six
DS Brook trudged through the office, aware that he looked wilder than usual. He hadn’t shaved or changed his wet clothes, his eyes were red-rimmed and his hair was dank and matted against his skull. Even the DCs, and other assorted grunts, who generally avoided his passing, were moved to stop what they were doing and stare.
