The Reaper

He read again the accompanying letter from Sonja Sorenson which said that it was always her brother-in- law’s wish that it be given to Brook. ‘For being my friend and understanding the importance of my work,’ was how he’d expressed it to her. And she echoed her brother-in-law’s claims from his first encounter with Brook. The painting was unknown to the art world but was a genuine Van Gogh.

Brook stared at the picture. It was magnificent. And if the Sorensons were to be believed, an undiscovered treasure worth millions nestled on the plastic sofa in his grubby flat. He found it hard to take in-harder even than the two handlers from Fine Art Conveyors who had marched the bubble-wrapped masterpiece through Brook’s hovel to its nicotine-stained dungeon. Their jaws had hit the floor when they saw the living room and they departed in stunned silence, eyeing each other all the while, unaware even of Brook’s attempt to give them a tip.

Brook removed his jacket, hung it on a chair to avoid the cat hairs and sat down. Something else had arrived that morning through the regular post. Unlike the painting, Brook had been expecting it since reading the transcript of Sorenson’s taped confession several days before. DCI Fulbright had refused Derby CID’s request for a copy of the videotape, so Brook had been forced to rely on the written word.

He’d examined the transcript thoroughly, but had found nothing that he hadn’t expected-a thorough account of Stefan Sorenson’s murder and less detailed confessions to the killings of Laura Maples and Annie Sewell.

What surprised Brook was the absence of a hidden message, something personal from Sorenson to Brook, something for his eyes only, that he alone could decipher. He didn’t know what he expected to find-a last goodbye maybe or a final plea for understanding. But there was nothing.

It was possible Sorenson had included a visual message on the tape but Brook thought it unlikely. Given their knowledge of each other’s thinking, it shouldn’t have been difficult for someone with Sorenson’s intellect to speak to Brook with a few well chosen buzzwords, a few coded references. But he hadn’t. The confession left in Sorenson’s study was for public consumption only. There had to be something more-something for Brook alone. It had bothered him for days until the morning post arrived.

Brook examined the padded envelope for the umpteenth time since it dropped onto his mat. It was postmarked London and had a return address. 12 Queensdale Road, addressee, Peter Hera. He squeezed the package trying to guess its contents. Finally he tore it open and pulled out a video cassette.

Brook checked his watch. He lit his first cigarette since leaving hospital and let the nausea wash through him. He fed the cassette into his shiny new VCR, pressed the play button and turned on the TV. All was white noise.

Sorenson’s face appeared and Brook exhaled nicotine relief. A grisly voice inside his head had warned him he might have to endure a filmed account of the Wallis family being torn open.

Instead Sorenson sat in a chair, at his desk in his study. The room was lit by lamps and Sorenson held his father’s cutthroat in his hand. He raised a glass to the camera.

‘Hello, my old friend. I’m dead. And you’re alive. I’m sorry to have let you down like that. I know how much you wanted to go.

It’s strange addressing you through the camera when you’re actually slumped in a chair on the other side of the room. I hope you understand my motives for makingyou think I was going to kill you. I had to make it real for you then you’d know how good the others felt when they went. I’d given them a gift. Life as it should be-every second precious. Don’t forget that.

‘I know you can forgive me for Laura. Floyd Wrigley has paid in full-we saw to that. I saw how she died in that terrible place. It was easy to convince the police I was her killer. Case closed.

‘And I’d have gotten away with it too,’ Sorenson smiled, ‘but you tracked me down, Damen, at great risk to yourself. Now you’re a hero. And so you should be. It doesn’t sit well, does it? But don’t fight it. It’s the credit you should have had for finding The Reaper. And it’ll make your work easier. There’ll be plenty of opportunities. You’ll see.

‘Look for fathers and daughters. Daughters are your speciality.’

Brook grunted. Even death didn’t stop Sorenson’s probing.

‘Remember, this is your time, Damen. Your time to be who you’ve always been. The person many would like to be but only you have the power and the knowledge. Use it wisely. I know you will. And if you still have doubts speak to your forensic people and then go to it. I hope you enjoy the painting. You always admired it. And, yes, it is genuine. It’s a long story and time, for me, has run out. So another occasion for that. Goodbye, old friend.’

He stood and raised his glass. ‘The Reaper is dead. Long live The Reaper.’ Then Sorenson walked out of shot. A couple of seconds later the screen was white again.

Brook rewound the tape and listened to the toast again. He froze the image with Sorenson facing the camera, arm raised. Then he paced around the room for a couple of minutes before disappearing into the cellar. ‘Something’s not right.’ He emerged with the sheaf of papers taken from Charlie’s kitchen, leafed through for a moment to find the section he needed, then read aloud.

‘And who says crime doesn’t pay? The little punk murders a stranger and it saves him from a date with The Reaper. Funny thing. Sorenson didn’t seem put out by that. In fact, he seemed pleased even though this Jason character deserves to have his throat cut worse than most. I even wondered if somehow that was all part of the plan but I don’t see how. What the fuck. I’ve wasted enough time thinking about it. You figure it out.’

‘Funny thing,’ Brook whispered. ‘Noble was right,’ he said to the screen. ‘Jason was at your mercy. Why didn’t you kill him? Why?’ He stubbed out his cigarette then re-read the transcript of Sorenson’s confession.

‘You always have a reason. Every action serves a purpose. One-you confess to killing your brother so Vicky can get on with her life. Two-you confess to killing Laura Maples so you can give me credit for tracking you down.

‘Three-you admit to arranging Annie Sewell’s murder. Reason:’-Brook hesitated then shrugged. ‘So you can put Jason and his low-life friends in the frame for her murder. So why haven’t you done that? Funny thing.’

‘What’s funny?’

Brook spun round. ‘Wendy!’

‘I knocked but there was no reply. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all.’ Brook turned off the TV and moved Charlie’s confession under the Sorenson transcript on the table.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing’s funny.’

‘You do realise that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness?’

‘Yeah, but it’s the only decent conversation I can get since the cat stopped confiding in me.’

‘You’ve got a TV,’ she breezed. ‘It’s almost like a home.’

‘Keep pushing.’

Now she giggled. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need. I’ve given notice. I’m looking for another place.’

Jones tried to hide her blushes at the possible reason for the move. ‘Oh? Nice painting,’ she added quickly.

‘Yeah it’s an original Van Gogh.’

‘Lovely Shall we go?’

Brook sat on the hard wooden bench with his head lowered in the traditional manner. It was good manners to hide the boredom. The priest was droning on somewhere in the back of Brook’s head but no words got through his blanket of taciturn solitude.

He hated churches. To Brook they were monuments to futility. Weddings were the worst. And christenings. All that misplaced hope of future happiness. At least funerals offered release-a way out. And now Brook was looking for his way out. He was suffering from mourning sickness. He smiled at his joke then covered his mouth with his hand to hide it. No funerals for years then-like busses-three happen along at once and each one a keepsake of his former life. Funny thing.

Charlie’s funeral had been first, a happy occasion for Brook, knowing the release his old boss felt at the end. No more pain. No more guilt. No more tiny faces to haunt him.