guess.’
Grant nodded. ‘Well, he’s been in the wind for twenty years so I suppose he is. Just Brook’s luck to be in Derby for The Reaper’s comeback. Or is it?’
Hudson drained his tea and managed a half-note chuckle. ‘You think The Reaper struck there to send Brook a message? Could be. But here’s the measure of the man. The Reaper kills the Wallis family. Brook’s back on the case. A week or two later he gets himself suspended — why, we don’t know — but his career’s over for all money. Then a few weeks later he solves the Laura Maples case, after nearly twenty years. He confronts some rich old geezer on his deathbed — Svensson or Sigurdsson or something — gets him to confess to the rape and murder of the schoolgirl. On
‘SAVED.’ Grant looked down at the dregs of her drink and nodded. ‘Convenient.’ She looked up at Hudson, her eyes suddenly shining.
‘What’s wrong, luv?’
Grant ignored him and reached into the back seat for a file. ‘I know why he got suspended, guv.’ She handed a sheet of A4 to Hudson and indicated a date at the bottom of the page.
‘Fuck me. Good spot, Laura. Brook assaulted Harvey-Ellis six days after the Wallis murders. He went AWOL in the middle of one of the biggest investigations of his career because he found out about his daughter and her stepfather.’
‘And he came down to Brighton to sort it out.’
The man sipped on his glass of Californian Zinfandel and extracted a notepad from his rucksack. Caleb Ashwell had slipped back into unconsciousness, his head slumped on his chest, his double chin fanning out like a goitre.
Billy Ashwell shifted on his knees and eyed Brook. ‘What you gonna do, Mr Brook? Pop ain’t so good. He needs a doctor.’
Brook picked up the cup of coffee and put it on the floor next to Billy.
‘Drink it.’
Billy shook his head. ‘Ain’t supposed to drink coffee. It keeps me awake nights.’
Brook smiled. ‘That won’t be an issue, Billy. Drink it!’ he said softly, brandishing the gun and hoping the boy wouldn’t spot his lack of ease with the weapon. Again Billy shook his head. ‘Why? What’s in it?’
‘Don’t know. Pop makes it.’
Brook nodded. ‘Will it kill you?’
‘Nope. Knock you out though.’
‘Then drink it or I’ll shoot your father, then I’ll shoot you.’
Billy hesitated then withdrew a hand from his pocket and flicked the lid from the cup. ‘It’s cold,’ he said, before realising it would make no difference to Brook. He took a wary sip and scrunched his face.
‘More,’ said Brook. Billy stared back sulkily then took a huge pull on the cup, almost draining it.
‘Okay,’ said Brook. ‘That’s enough. Put the lid back on.’ Billy did as he was told. A few moments later his head began to roll and he couldn’t sit upright. Brook was able to take the cup from the burly young teenager without a whiff of resistance.
He retreated to a chair to watch and was pleased to be able to put down his gun. He began to write down all of Billy’s symptoms. At the top of the page he wrote ‘Sleep’, because that’s what Caleb had called it, followed by ‘Twilight’ and a question mark. After a few moments of writing he closed the notepad. Billy’s eyes were now just slits, he behaved with all the somnolence of a junkie.
‘Stand up.’ Billy lifted his head and tried to stand but his limbs wouldn’t obey. Brook smiled. ‘Perfect.’
A groan came from Caleb Ashwell, still slumped on the rocking chair. He shook his head and tried to right himself on the chair, but failed. Brook poured him some wine into a plastic cup. Ashwell drank, licked his lips, then opened his eyes.
‘Sorry I don’t have a proper glass.’
Ashwell blinked then fixed Brook in his sights. ‘You lousy bushwhacking son of a bitch. Get these cuffs off me, you fucker, or I’ll kill you.’
Brook smiled back but remained perfectly still. ‘I see you’re not a wine drinker, sir. Can I get you a beer instead?’
‘A beer? Fuck you. I said, get these cuffs off, dammit, ’fore I take a baseball bat to your ass.’
‘Do you think abusing and threatening me is the right way to secure your release?’
‘I don’t give a cold shit in hell what you think, you Limey fucker.’ He tried again to right himself. He noticed Billy on the floor beside him. ‘What you done to my boy?’ Then he saw the cup. ‘You son of a bitch. You fed that coffee to my boy?’
‘Sleep you called it. Would that be from Twilight Sleep?’ Ashwell didn’t reply. ‘Twilight Sleep, caused by a mixture of scopolamine and morphine. In small doses it can create a zombie-like compliance — in larger doses, death. I’m impressed. Where would you get that sort of knowledge? And, more importantly, where do you get your scopolamine?’ Still Ashwell remained mute. ‘Maybe you know it better as hyoscine.’ Brook took a sip of wine. ‘Let me assure you, sir, that unhesitating and well-mannered cooperation is the only way you and your son have a chance at seeing the dawn.’
Ashwell continued his sulk, but the barriers in his mind had crumbled. ‘Used to be a fly boy down South America. Had my own charter service. When I went to Colombia I found out about scop. They use it a lot down there for robbing folk. Rape too. It comes from Borrachero trees. Brung some saplings back with me to grow.’
‘Where?’
‘Oh, around,’ Ashwell said with a grin. ‘You want some, I’m sure we can come to an understanding.’
Brook took another sip of wine. ‘So when you got back from South America you set yourself up in a lonely gas station miles from anywhere and started using it on people.’
‘Not people, Mr Brook. Tourists like you.’
Brook smiled at the distinction. ‘They get a spiked coffee and young Billy follows them in the tow truck until the drug takes effect.’
‘S’right. When the drug kicks in, they pull over for a sleep. Then he robs them. And that’s the operation, right there.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Sure. When they wake up they don’t know what’s happened to them — scop causes amnesia, see. They just go on their way. No harm, no foul. Eventually they work out they been robbed. But what the hell? They’re insured, ain’t they?’
Brook smiled. ‘Surely when they wake up and realise they’ve been robbed, there must be some evidence they’ve been here.’
‘What evidence? We don’t got no till receipt. We say it’s broke and if they want one, we just write a chit. And we only take the ones who pay cash.’ Brook smiled suddenly, his black eyes disappearing under a concertina of skin. ‘You knew, didn’t you? That’s why you put your credit card back.’
‘One of the reasons.’
‘How in the hell you know what we was going to do? ’Bout the coffee an’ all?’
‘Let’s just say I had a feeling.’
‘Bullshit. Are you police?’
Brook fixed Ashwell with a wintry eye. ‘You’re going to wish I was.’
‘Why? What you going to do? Nuth’n. You’ve had your fun. Now take our money and get on out.’
‘You’d make a great salesman, Mr Ashwell.’
Brook pulled off his black gloves. He had a pair of latex gloves underneath. Then he stood, zipping his boiler suit up to his neck. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got no great art to remind you,’ he said. A cutthroat razor gleamed suddenly in his hand.
Ashwell saw it and began to talk a little faster, grinding his wrists against the handcuffs. ‘Remind me of what?’
‘Of how wonderful the human race can be if it aspires to greatness instead of evil. Ideally, you should die beneath a beautiful painting, with wondrous music as your companion to oblivion. Alas…’
