holes for fingers to prise them open. There was no other furniture except for the chair that The Reaper probably used to hoist the boy into the noose.
Brook berated himself with a small shake of the head. Sorenson was dead. The Reaper was dead. This bore the hallmarks of The Reaper’s method but it wasn’t the same. Something wasn’t right. Something was different. Brook moved gingerly towards the bed for a better look, careful to avoid the officer kneeling nearby who was combing through the bare carpet. Two adult bodies were in the bed: on the far side the male, young and naked from the waist up; on the near side, the female in a silk slip, older and heavier. Both were still under the deepening red duvet, but neither was sitting up to face the boy. Brook narrowed his eyes to ponder this and made a mental note.
As ever, after the first Reaper killings in Harlesden, Brook searched for something tasteful, something wonderful, if only in reproduction, to give the dying a glimpse behind the curtain of humankind’s lofty ambition. In Harlesden it had been a painting, ‘Fleur de Lis’, for the Wallis murders a poster of Van Gogh and the grandeur of Mahler, beautiful sights and sounds to usher the dying towards the pit with smiles on their faces.
Brook looked around at the bold and colourful posters that had been displayed to enliven grubby walls, but knew The Reaper hadn’t brought any of these. Famous football players grinning for the camera adorned several walls, while other sporting posters suggested a passion for both Formula One and topless female motorbike racing.
‘Well, Burton can write down the details but never having been at a Reaper crime scene, he wouldn’t be able to tell you that this isn’t original Reaper.’
‘Why not?’ asked Noble.
‘It’s not a carbon copy. It’s not how…’ Brook was about to put himself into the frame but managed to stop himself. ‘It’s not exactly how The Reaper would’ve done it.’
‘You once said The Reaper liked to vary his MO from crime to crime. You know, to fool the profilers.’
Brook looked at Noble and smiled. ‘That’s it. Prove me wrong with my own words again. Derby CID will be in good hands when I finally head for the elephants’ graveyard, John.’
Once Noble would have beamed with childlike joy, but now he merely looked away before muttering, ‘Had a good teacher.’ A few seconds later he nodded at the walls. ‘There’s no poster, no art for them to enjoy while they die. That what you mean?’
‘True. But assume the music’s on loud enough to be heard in here. Maybe that was enough splendour to usher them across the Styx.’
As usual, Noble was able to breeze past Brook’s baffling rhetoric. ‘Okay. So what else is different?’
Brook smiled at Noble. ‘You
Noble looked around the room with new eyes. He gave a half-smile to Brook, then called across to one of the SOCOs who was kneeling to dust a beer can next to the bed. ‘Are the bodies in the bed exactly as they were found?’
When Brook and Noble returned to the ground floor, DS Morton was waiting for them. He held up a rubbish bin containing a selection of discarded blue and white plastic wrappers.
‘Looks like our victims had a lot of meat in them, sir.’ Morton nodded at the contents. ‘Sausages, burgers, kebabs. Think we can rule out cholesterol?’ he added with a grin, which froze under Brook’s baleful stare.
‘What does it say on the packet?’
‘Moorcrofts,’ chipped in Noble. ‘It’s a local butcher in Normanton.’
Brook nodded. ‘Makes sense if the meat was a gift from the killer. Asda has CCTV.’
‘Also local butchers might struggle to pinpoint when the meat was bought.’
‘There’s a good chance they’ll remember someone buying barbecue food in winter. Get those packets bagged and get someone round there,’ instructed Brook.
At that moment DC Cooper popped his head round the door. ‘Chief Super’s here, sir.’
‘Thank God,’ said Noble. ‘I feel safer already.’
Brook and Noble left the kitchen. As they rounded the corner of the house, Noble muttered, ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ Brook followed his stare. DCI Hudson and DS Grant were donning protective clothing alongside Chief Superintendent Charlton. ‘Sir, they’ve got no place…’
‘Calm yourself, John. More pairs of eyes can’t hurt. Morning, sir,’ he shouted over the drone of the helicopter passing overhead.
‘Inspector. Sergeant. What’s good about it?’ returned the Chief Super.
‘Nothing if you’re a member of the Ingham clan, sir.’
‘Quite.’ Charlton hesitated, realising Brook, and especially Noble, expected further words from him. ‘I sent a car for DCI Hudson and DS Grant so they can have a gander and share their impressions with us — as they’re in the vicinity. More hands make light work, eh?’ he finished with a half laugh, unable to meet Brook’s eyes.
‘Morning, Joshua, Sergeant Grant,’ smiled Brook. ‘I thought you’d be back on the south coast by now.’
‘Lucky we weren’t,’ muttered Grant, a little louder than she intended, and Brook narrowed his eyes to divine her meaning. It didn’t take long.
‘You don’t look so good, Joshua,’ observed Brook.
‘No. I had a rough night. I didn’t have time to have all the vaccinations before we came up north.’ Noble took tight-lipped offence but Brook, not being a Derby native, just smiled. ‘Is it true?’ ventured Hudson. ‘Is it another Reaper killing?’
Brook paused for a second. ‘It has all the hallmarks.’
‘Hope you don’t mind us taking a look, Inspector?’ added Grant, clearly hoping that he did.
‘Not at all. The more the merrier.’
‘They’re here at my request,’ put in Charlton as though Brook had somehow voiced an objection.
‘It’s a good idea, sir. A fresh perspective would be useful,’ said Brook, glancing at Noble’s pained expression.
With that, the party set off for the garden and Brook set about removing his latex gloves and coveralls. As he scrunched up his protective suit, he noticed Grant turn at the corner of the house and run her eye over Brook’s clothing.
Brook caught her eye and nodded. She smiled mechanically and continued after the others. Hudson and Grant had come to Derby to nail Brook for the murder of Tony Harvey-Ellis. Now a new Reaper killing put him even more squarely in the spotlight as far as they were concerned. He shrugged. He had nothing to hide … at least nothing that wasn’t already well hidden.
Chapter Eleven
Sheriff Andy Dupree poured himself a black coffee and plucked a sugar-coated doughnut from the box next to his wide-brimmed hat. His Marine-crop haircut was severe and both Drexler and McQuarry realised this was the first time they had seen him without the hat.
Dupree took a small bite of the pastry and washed it down with a sip of coffee so strong it left a black slick along his upper lip. ‘What did he say when you told him about Ashwell?’
Drexler looked at McQuarry then at the table. ‘He said, “Dear me.’”
Dupree let out a laugh. ‘Dear me? Mr Sorenson, you just survived a visit with the Ghost Road Killers. And all he said was “Dear me”? These fucking Limeys, I gotta tell you.’ He shook his head and chuckled again. ‘He say why he didn’t come forward?’
‘He claims he didn’t know the Ashwells were dead.’
‘With all the media and shit. How’s he expect us to swallow that?’
‘He doesn’t have a TV, Andy.’
‘Well, there’s some weird shit right there.’ Dupree shook his head. ‘But he don’t deny being there?’
‘How could he?’ said McQuarry.
‘Or buying the knife and the coffee?’
