The Disciple

swerve, you punk ass bitch.’

Reassured that gayness had been uniformly rejected, they all relaxed and continued tucking into Bargain Booze’s finest apple beverage as they ambled along the misshapen pavements of the estate, scraping their trainers to mark their passing as they went.

‘I’m starving, man. Let’s go chippy.’

‘No need, bredrin,’ said Stinger, checking his mobile. ‘My mum and Uncle Ryan are having a barby remember — to big up Jason’s release. If you’re okay about passing your folks’ old place?’

‘It’s just a building,’ replied Jason, resurrecting his toughest expression. ‘And if it’s like you say…’

‘Swear down, Jace. I told you. We teafed a brand new barby last week and fuck me, if we don’t go and win a load of meat and booze and stuff. They were bringing it all round tonight.’ He flicked through his texts until he found the right one. ‘Yeah, we’re on. ’Bout an hour.’

Jason looked at Stinger for a minute, unable to speak. Maybe it was the Diamond White, but for a second he was incapable of understanding why he had a lump in his throat. ‘And you definitely won it right?’

‘S’right.’

‘In a competition?’

‘Like I said.’

Jason stood frozen in time for a second, eyes like nuggets of coal. ‘They just rung you up out of the blue?’

‘S’up, Jace?’ asked Grets.

Jason failed to answer. A moment later a strange grimace deformed his face and he nodded at some private revelation. ‘Nuttin. I’m ready.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘I … I love you, man,’ he said, adding a loudly blown kiss.

‘I thought you were mi mate, you fucking queer,’ laughed Stinger, and the rest of the Drayfin Dogs joined in, punctuating their shambolic walk with more mock brawls and bellowed insults.

Jason’s grin was a little more forced than the rest. Looking around as they jostled their way to Stinger’s house, he wasn’t skimming the floor looking for stones to throw at lampposts and parked cars. He was looking for The Reaper. The Reaper was near. Yeah, I’m ready.

Grets came to a halt and laid an arm across the others. ‘Who’s that?’ he said, peering into the gathering gloom and pointing at a figure walking towards them. A young Asian boy stopped and stared at the four of them.

Banger stepped forward, pulling a Stanley knife from his pocket. ‘These fucking terrorists think they can walk about in our block. We’re having ’im,’ he screamed, darting towards the figure, who’d already turned to sprint away. Banger, Grets and Stinger hurtled after him, Jason bringing up the rear.

Brook glared at the computer screen then lowered his eyes. At that moment, DS Noble walked into the office so Brook quickly minimised the internet window.

‘Bit late for you, John?’ Their shift had finished an hour ago.

‘I’m meeting some mates in town for a drink,’ he said.

‘The pub? At this hour?’

Noble smiled pityingly. ‘We’re off to Restoration.’ Brook gazed back at him, none the wiser. ‘It’s a new bar in town. Nobody under the age of thirty-five goes to pubs any more, unless they’re married.’

Brook found it difficult to digest this cultural insight. ‘If you say so.’

Noble made to leave then turned back. ‘If you’ve nowhere to go, sir, you’re welcome to join us.’

Brook looked up. He was almost touched. ‘Thanks, John, but I’ve been going nowhere for years and I know the way.’

‘Sure?’ Noble persevered, against his better judgement. Brook fixed him with a pointed stare. ‘Understood.’ He turned to mask his relief.

‘You’re a computer boffin, John.’

Noble turned back from the door. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘How easy is it to trace an email?’ asked Brook, ignoring Noble’s modesty.

‘Not too difficult if you’re an expert, which I’m not, and providing you’re not tracing another expert who doesn’t want to be found.’

‘I see.’

‘The first thing is to identify the server. If you’ve got it up, I can have a look and…’

‘Don’t worry, John. It’s not important,’ smiled Brook. ‘How are you getting on with Brian Burton’s book?’ he added to close the subject.

‘Put it this way. I don’t need sleeping pills. Night.’

‘Goodnight.’ Brook clicked on the toolbar to reopen the inbox of his Hotmail account. The second email from The Reaper had already been opened and read. But Brook stared at the subject line again. Tonight. He stood and went to look out across the low horizon, lighting up again as he gazed out through the darkness at the twinkling lights of Derby. With a deep sigh he looked at his watch and returned to his desk to log out.

Drexler pulled the car across the highway and into the drive of an unseen house. He and McQuarry stepped from the car and peered through an imposing pair of iron gates, following the course of the drive as it wound its way towards the lake. They couldn’t see the house but the icy waters of Lake Tahoe were visible, lapping calmly against the shore in the pale sunshine — a waterfront property in one of the most expensive real estate zones in the US. It didn’t seem feasible that a resident here would have any connection to the late Caleb Ashwell and his son Billy.

McQuarry checked her notes. ‘879 Cascade Road. This is it, Mike.’

Drexler rattled the gates, but McQuarry took the trouble to find the intercom on the wall and pushed the button. There was a crackle.

‘Yes?’

‘Federal agents, sir. May we speak with you?’

No answer but the gates swung open noiselessly. The two words that struck fear and often loathing into everyone who crossed their path had barely registered. Not a moment’s hesitation. Normally, even the most righteous couldn’t help but take a second to review their ancient and recent past for forgotten transgressions. Reasons to be fearful, McQuarry and Drexler called it. But not today.

‘Somebody’s got a very clear conscience,’ observed Drexler. The agents jumped back into the Chevy and drove slowly up to the house, taking in the splendour of the surroundings — large grounds shaded by mature white fir, lodgepole pine and aspen trees interspersed with bark-covered flowerbeds. As the trees thinned they saw the huge cabin-style house facing the shore, built with natural wood and local stone. The house stood on a bank, maybe ten metres above the water level and about twenty metres back from the lake. A wooden pier, bleached by the seasons, stretched its arm into the heart of the lake, though no boat was moored.

‘Feel intimidated?’ smiled Drexler.

‘I’m quaking in my boots, Mike.’

They parked near a three-car garage at the side of the house, though there was only one car in residence — a small red Toyota.

‘No sign of a Dodge Ram 250,’ said Drexler.

‘Care to give me odds it’s been stolen, Mike?’

He smiled. ‘No sale.’

A slightly built middle-aged man seemed to appear out of nowhere and strolled across the lawn to greet them. Drexler and McQuarry exchanged a private smile of recognition. But instead of the full head of wiry red hair from his passport photograph, the man’s shaved head was as it was on Caleb Ashwell’s CCTV monitor.

‘Detectives, what can I do for you?’ he said in an approximation of an English accent. He smiled at them, though his shrewd black eyes didn’t seem to be in sympathy with his mouth.

‘FBI, sir. This is Special Agent Drexler and I’m Special Agent McQuarry.’

‘Special agents, how thrilling,’ he said with an effort to be impressed. ‘Just like in the movies.’

Drexler flipped open his notepad. ‘And you are Mr Victor Sorenson?’

The man grinned, perhaps distracted for a moment by an echo from the past.