He took a deep breath. Two years. His ex-wife and only daughter were strangers. A misery he’d suppressed longer than he cared to think surfaced in him until he looked back at the reports of Harvey-Ellis’s death. Maybe things could change. Now Amy would have to face the truth about Tony; maybe after a suitable time, when the dust had settled, there could be contact, some kind of reconciliation. Maybe.
He glanced back at the phone. Terri had sounded different.
Brook realised now how much he missed her. The only good thing he’d ever done with his life was her. They hadn’t spoken in two years. Not even a phone call. Not since that day on the pier when she’d confessed to her affair with her stepfather — just fifteen years old — standing before him in her school uniform, laying claim to womanhood.
Brook sat down with another drink of whisky to gaze at the email purporting to be from the late Victor Sorenson. Everything about it was right, the laconic, gently probing style, the over-familiar yet stiff formality of the language.
A banging on the door made Brook’s heart lurch and, after clicking the message onto his toolbar, he padded to the porch. For the first time since his move to the crime-free peace of Hartington, Brook hesitated before opening the door.
‘Mr Brook. I saw the light was on so I thought I’d take a chance.’
‘Tom.’
Tom Hutcheson hesitated on the step, waiting for an enquiry. When Brook remained mute he pressed on. ‘Aye, it’s the cottage, Mr Brook. I thought I’d let you know … Are you all right?’
Realising that his manner was causing concern, Brook stirred himself to remember the social conventions. ‘Tom. Sorry. I’m tired. I’ve been away. Do you want to come in?’
‘No, that’s all right. I thought I’d pop round about next door. I saw you were up and thought you’d like to know that it’s let for the next six months.’
‘Oh, okay. I saw the sign was down.’
‘And no need to worry. No kids this time.’ Brook allowed himself a thin smile. ‘Some writer or researcher, or some such thing. I forget. He flew in from Boston this morning. Picked him up at the airport.’
‘That was good of you.’
‘Was it, buggery. He’s paying through the nose in advance till next May.’
‘That’s great news, Tom.’
‘Aye. And he seems like an okay bloke. About your age.’ Brook merely nodded, taking nothing in. When Tom saw he was drifting out of the conversation, he paid his respects and left.
Brook returned to his whisky bottle for a refill and took a pack of unopened cigarettes from the desk drawer. He cracked open the cellophane and lit up his first cigarette in six weeks or more, grimacing at the harshness of the smoke.
An hour later, Brook was still on his garden bench with a blanket, sucking in the country air. He’d stared at the email until his vision had blurred, but eventually had to give it up to let his overheating brain cool.
He shivered and looked at his watch. Gone one in the morning. Work tomorrow. Today. It was cold now, in spite of the blanket he’d brought out to swaddle him, and even though he knew he wouldn’t sleep, it was time to go to bed. He took a last pull on his cigarette, drained his glass and left the bench. As he prepared to go indoors, a noise made him spin round.
A darkened figure emerged from the gloom of next door’s garden and stepped towards the dividing wall between their properties.
‘Can’t sleep either?’ the figure queried in a mild American accent.
Brook hesitated for a moment then turned fully towards his new neighbour. ‘Same as yourself.’
‘But I’ve got an excuse,’ he chuckled. ‘Don’t tell me you’re jetlagged as well?’
Brook smiled on a reflex, though his new neighbour would be unable to see it. ‘No. I’ve been on holiday and I’m reluctant to let it end. Work tomorrow.’
The man nodded. ‘Holiday,’ he repeated in a low voice, as though the word was a complete mystery to him. ‘Must be nice. Go anywhere special?’
‘Just around the Peak District. Camping,’ Brook added, as though further explanation were needed.
‘Sounds good. This is a beautiful area.’
‘You’ve been before …?’
‘Mike. Mike Drexler. No, never. Only what I’ve read and seen from the car on the way from the airport.’
Brook waited, wanting to be away. He had already exhausted his quota of small talk. He realised the reason for the pause and stepped forward into the moonlight. ‘Damen Brook. Nice to meet you.’ Drexler also stepped forward. He seemed to be around the same age as Brook, perhaps a little older, with thinning brown hair, greying at the temples and sideburns. Brook’s garden was below the level of next door’s, so a handshake was problematic, and so they both settled for an upraised arm.
‘Damen,’ Drexler nodded. ‘Good to meet you. Interesting name. Perhaps we have a German ancestry in common?’
‘I’m from Barnsley.’ Brook smiled under cover of night.
Drexler hesitated, ‘I’m not that familiar with the homeland, Damen. Is that in Bavaria?’
‘It’s in Yorkshire, Mike. The nearest any of my ancestors came to Germany was a holiday in the Norfolk Broads.’
Drexler chuckled finally. ‘I see. And what about that cute black cat I saw earlier?’
‘That would be Basil and the guaranteed path into his affections is cooked chicken.’ Again Drexler chuckled. Brook had reached politeness overload and wondered how to withdraw.
Fortunately Drexler seemed to have reached the end of his own small talk. ‘Well, thanks for chatting, Damen. I’d better let you hit the sack. See you later.’
‘Good night. And welcome to Derbyshire.’
A few minutes later Brook was in his bedroom. As he opened his bedroom window, he noticed the orange glow of a cigarette in next door’s back garden.
Chapter Six
The next day, Brook drove to the Drayfin Estate. He bolted up the path to the house of John and Denise Ottoman. The middle-aged couple had been interviewed two years previously in connection with the Reaper murders at the Wallis family home.
On that occasion, Brook and Noble had remarked on their ordered existence, everything in house and garden spick and span. Now Brook looked around at how much things had changed. Their manicured front lawn was full of weeds and animal faeces. Their fence and front gate were rotted and the windows of the house sported curls of peeling paint that testified to neglect.
Brook knocked on the door, wondering if they’d moved. Eventually there was movement and the front door opened just a crack. He saw a haggard face and long straggly grey locks.
‘Mrs Ottoman. Inspector Brook. Do you remember me?’ The woman didn’t reply but lowered her eyes in pained recognition. ‘I’ve called as a courtesy to let you know, if you didn’t already, that Jason Wallis has been released.’ No reply, just a baleful red-rimmed eye lifted towards his own briefly. Brook could discern the formation of a tear, so brought matters to a close. ‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about and no reason to suppose that he’d be any threat to you or your husband, but don’t hesitate to contact-’
The door closed and Brook heard the figure shuffling back into her tomb.
Brook walked through the main door of the modern St Mary’s Wharf police headquarters, his mind churning from the contents of ‘The Reaper’ email from the night before.
As Brook walked through the reception area, Duty Sergeant Hendrickson lifted a brand new copy of
