‘How do you know?’
‘They left the murder weapon in his hand.’
Noble nodded, without showing much sign of understanding. ‘How many? Bodies, I mean.’
Brook took a deep breath. ‘Six.’
‘Jesus.’
* * *
An hour later the house and garden was a hive of activity. The first of the arc lights had been hooked up to a portable generator and were illuminating the Scene of Crime Officers as they worked. One officer was directing the erection of two large marquees to shield the evidence from the elements, as well as from the enterprising journalists who would soon be mobilising to cover the story.
At Brook’s prompting they also removed the piece of shiplap fencing in the backyard. As they took it away, Brook held his hand up to stop them. He peered intently at it and could clearly see the blood on the top panel where the killer — he refused to use the word Reaper — had brushed his bloodstained clothing as he made his escape.
‘Okay, thanks.’ Brook waved on the lead Scene of Crime Officer, who winked in acknowledgement.
The neighbour’s house beyond could now be accessed. It was in darkness and though officers banged on the door to explain to the occupant what they were doing in the garden, there was no reply.
Brook returned to the front of the Ingham house. A small but vocal crowd was gathering at the edge of the hastily erected police tape, some drinking cans of beer, most just trying to stay warm, but all taking an interest. Mobile phones were glued to ears, grins were glued to faces as they basked in the glow of their newfound worth. They had news that friends and family would want to hear, news that people would listen to without interruption. This was their chance to make their mark, maybe even get on the telly. For years to come, the untalented would regale the barely conscious down the pub with stories of their involvement.
‘Our Billy used to knock around with the Inghams!’
‘Mrs Ingham used to do my hair!’
‘You can see their garden from our roof.’
‘Them fuckers nicked me hubcaps.’
‘I reckon it was their Stephen done our house over that Christmas. Thieving little cunt.’
‘The mum was a right slag. Good riddance to the fat cow and her brats!’
‘I wonder who’s having their telly? It’s forty-two inch.’
‘They’ve even got fucking helicopter out. Wave, we might be on the box tonight.’
Just after five in the morning, Brook stepped carefully along the roped path, even though the Scene of Crime Officers had already checked the ground. Behind him came Noble. As they rounded the side of the house, both men’s eyes darted around greedily for the details recently illuminated by the large arc lights.
‘That’s a lot of claret,’ remarked Noble, glancing at the three corpses on the sofas.
Brook nodded; his eye was a little more measured, as he’d already observed the scene, albeit by the glow of a spent fire. He glanced across the fences to the window of the Wallis house a few doors away, from where he’d stood looking down at the Ingham garden just three hours before. The protective board was missing, as he’d left it. He knew at some point he might have to direct Forensics to it, if he could come up with a justification that wouldn’t incriminate him. For now, to Noble’s mild bemusement, he’d merely stationed an officer at the front of the house. ‘In case people decide it’s a good place to sneak a look at what’s going on,’ was how he explained it to Noble.
‘Where are the other three bodies?’ asked Noble, his breath steaming in the cold.
‘Upstairs bedroom. Two adults, one male, one female, and one male child, about ten years old,’ replied Brook, turning his attention back to the scene before him.
Two sofas sat at right angles to one another, facing towards the heat of a fire, as they might in any living room. In this case the near-dormant fire was a brazier made from a discarded oil drum in the bare backyard of the Ingham household. The closest sofa supported two bodies next to each other, stretched out, feet towards the fire. The second sofa held just one corpse, similarly positioned. The seat where Jason Wallis had been unconscious was now vacant and, as promised, the bloodied scalpel and mobile phone were on its arm, waiting to be photographed and bagged. On the ground were discarded plates, some with dirty cutlery, and some with remnants of the condemned boys’ last meal. Burgers and hot dogs in half-chewed buns, stained by blood and ketchup. There were also a dozen or so discarded Special Brew and other assorted beer cans, some crushed and thrown at a bin some ten yards away, others upright, probably unfinished, by the side of the sofas. In addition Brook could see at least four empty two-litre bottles of Diamond White cider, the drink of choice for seekers of oblivion. Most of the revellers had not been disappointed.
Noble kneeled to examine one of several handrolled cigarette ends that littered the yard like confetti. ‘Smells like zoot to me.’
Brook looked over. ‘Got a hole in your tooth, John?’
Noble returned a bleak smile. ‘Marijuana, sir. Street name, zoot. I’m down with the kids.’
Brook nodded and rolled his eyes towards the sofa supporting the single male corpse. The boy, a teenager, sat upright, though his head, baseball cap still in place, was twisted backwards over the back of the sofa, his gaping wound fully exposed. They’d both seen the twist of pink gristle of a severed windpipe before. The cleanness of the cut was consistent with The Reaper’s MO — no hacking, no panicked slashing, clean, cold, efficient and almost matter-of-fact. A job to get done, then move on. Who’s next?
‘Good question,’ muttered Brook.
‘Sorry?’
‘Nothing.’
Brook ran his eyes over the empty space next to the corpse. He had to peer round the still warm oil drum to get a view, but grunted when he saw what he was looking for. Or rather, what he was expecting to be absent. He motioned to Noble.
‘Is that where Jason Wallis was sitting?’ Noble asked.
‘It was.’
‘Which means Wallis can’t be our killer,’ said Noble. ‘You were right.’
Brook nodded his approval. ‘Good spot, John.’ He switched his attention to the other sofa. Again both male victims were young, probably seventeen-year-olds if they were contemporaries of Wallis. Like the other boy, their heads were pulled back so their severed windpipes winked up at the heavens. All the young men wore similar clothing — baggy jeans exposing designer underwear, padded jackets or hoodies and grubby Nike training shoes. A peaked cap, espousing support for the New York Yankees, still clung to one boy’s head, in spite of the muscle spasms he must have endured as his life had convulsed to a close.
Brook moved away towards the car that stood on bricks at the rear of the house. It was an old Toyota, battered and rusty and had flames daubed amateurishly on the side. The portable CD player sitting on the roof had been turned off. Brook was tempted to start the music again but resisted. It didn’t stop the soundtrack from other Reaper crime scenes rolling around his head — Mozart’s Requiem in Brixton and Mahler’s Ninth from the Wallis murders two years before. His eye followed the extension cord through the back door to the now brightly lit kitchen.
‘John.’ Noble looked up at Brook, who nodded towards the internal wall through the kitchen window. ‘SAVED’ was written in large, bloody letters. All the letters oozed red tiny tears, as if of condolence, which had pooled on the grease-caked linoleum floor. Noble nodded back to Brook in recognition. The Reaper’s unique sign-off.
For years Brook had puzzled over who was SAVED until his final apocalyptic night with Sorenson. The worst petty criminals on the estate would have died tonight, The Reaper having seen fit to save honest neighbours from their malevolence. Summary and absolute justice as before — but it didn’t make it any easier to look at.
One of the SOCOs working near Jason’s sofa stood up and turned to Brook, holding two clear plastic evidence bags in front of him. One contained the bloody scalpel, the other a mobile phone, also stained with blood.
The officer pulled down his mask. ‘Mobile’s not been dusted but it looks like there’s a print in the blood.’
‘Sounds promising,’ said Noble. ‘Bit careless for The Reaper though.’
‘It could be Jason’s,’ noted Brook.
‘Or the ambulance man’s.’
‘No, I moved it off Jason’s lap so they could take him to hospital. Can we get a list of the last calls and any
