time. ‘“They’re all dead.” That’s what the voice said. Jason heard him. We heard him.’
‘So?’ prompted Noble.
Brook’s smile faded and he shook his head. ‘But they weren’t, were they?’
Chapter Fifteen
Brook and Grant walked through the drizzle, eyes fixed to the floor to avoid the potholes and puddles. A splenetic pit bull marked their progress as they passed one house, yelping and straining at its chain. Brook checked Noble’s text message, with Grant’s amused assistance, and surveyed the small, redbrick semi. He had the correct address. Number 197 had a paved front yard and a simple wooden fence that was in a better state of repair than that of most of its neighbours. The barrenness of the yard was counterbalanced by the throng of multicoloured figurines on the sill of the front bay window — an area that could reflect the artistic expression of the household without fear of theft or vandalism. Brook could see several porcelain horses, dogs, ballerinas, cars and an amusing series featuring the same dishevelled leprechaun fishing, sleeping under a tree or leaning inebriated against a lamppost.
‘I’ll have five pounds on dogs playing snooker,’ said Grant, mysteriously.
Brook had no idea what she was talking about but smiled anyway. He lifted the latch on the gate and walked towards the side door, which was slightly ajar. Steam drifted through the crack and the smell of boiled cabbage wafted across the divide to assault their nostrils. The door was opened further at their approach and a stout woman, well into her pensionable years, beckoned them in. She had a small wiry goatee and a full head of wild grey hair swept back in a purple scarf.
‘Come in, sir. Come in, sir.’
‘Mrs Petras? I’m DI Brook, this is DS Grant. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Mrs North.’
‘Yes, yes, come in, sir, come in.’
Despite the lack of a personal invitation, Grant followed Brook into the tiny kitchen. She wasn’t offended by her nonexistence; it happened a lot with the older generation. They always addressed Hudson when they were on a call in Sussex and would often not speak directly to Grant at all. Mrs Petras was not only old school but old country — Ukrainian in fact — and men came first.
‘Hello, hello,’ smiled Mrs Petras, offering her hand to Brook and shaking his hand briefly. ‘Please go through to sitting room. I bring coffee.’
‘There’s no need…’ began Grant but was interrupted by Brook.
‘Thank you, Mrs Petras. We’d love a cup,’ said Brook. He was keen to escape the kitchen which was stifling from the steam carrying the last of the cabbage’s flavour. He turned to follow Mrs Petras’s direction towards a small back room with a table and four padded chairs. In the main room at the front of the house sat a frail old man, who either couldn’t or wouldn’t acknowledge their presence. He sat in pyjamas and slippers and had a blanket wrapped around his legs, in spite of the electric fire glowing from the hearth. Gaze unbroken and chin on chest he was staring at a TV with pictures but no sound. Several people in a TV studio were pushing and shoving each other above the caption: ‘My partner’s mum is having my baby.’
‘Hello, sir.’ There was not a flicker of response to Brook’s greeting.
Mrs Petras pushed past them and pulled the door of the front room closed. ‘Please sit. No mind Jan. He not hear you. Just back from hospital.’ She pulled her apron up to her eye and wiped away a speck of moisture, then gestured to them once more to sit. They went through to the tiny sitting room in which there was barely room to pull back the chairs, but Brook and Grant just about managed to slide their way onto a seat.
There was an ashtray in the middle of the table with several torn up cigarettes and unwrapped filters. Brook recalled his university days when his limited finances had meant he’d been forced to smoke rollups of old dog ends. He took out his own nearly full pack and looked up at the wall behind Grant. It was covered in a mixture of bright little trinkets and sepia photographs of stern-looking men and women. The largest picture was a print of several dogs sitting at a poker table, green visors on heads, playing cards. He indicated it to Grant with a flick of the head.
‘You owe me five pounds,’ he said softly.
She smiled. Something about the place made them feel they had to communicate in mime and whispers, and she was trying to communicate her reluctance to sit drinking coffee when Mrs Petras came in with a tray of cups filled with a tar-like black liquid.
Being the inferior, Grant was served first and she smiled her thanks. When Brook had received his cup he refused her offer of a pink cake from a plate of fancies, took out a cigarette and offered one to Mrs Petras. She accepted his offer eagerly and, after Brook had lit both their cigarettes, inhaled with a sigh of pleasure. The tiny room was instantly awash with smoke and Grant wafted her hand to fight for some unpolluted oxygen.
‘You talk about Dottie,’ said Mrs Petras, taking a gargantuan pull on her cigarette. ‘She good woman. Keep me company, have tea when Jan…’ She broke off to keep her emotions in check.
‘She’s gone away,’ prompted Brook.
‘Yes. Australie. I very pleased for her. She not seen her brudder sixty year. He in Sydney. She win competition…’ She pulled urgently on the cigarette again.
Brook’s eyes narrowed. ‘Competition?’
‘Yes. Someone come see. Say she win flight to Australie. All spends. Very nice. No pay a penny.’
Brook looked over at Grant. ‘Do you know who came to see her?’
‘No. People. She win competition and they look after house. Pay for taxi Manchester. All spends. She deserve. Very happy.’
‘So these people. How many were there?’
‘Not know. Not see. Maybe one, maybe two. Very happy.’ She took a final pull on her cigarette then delicately stubbed it out in the ashtray for future consumption.
‘But they took Mrs North’s keys?’ said Grant.
‘Yes. They look after house. Part of prize. I do but for Jan. Need me here.’
Brook drained his coffee and prepared to leave.
‘Do you have a spare set of keys to Dottie’s house, Mrs Petras?’ asked Grant.
‘Yes. I get,’ Mrs Petras answered, addressing Brook much to his amusement. ‘Glad she away. Horrible things happen. Tank God horrible people die.’ She looked around for somewhere to spit but thought better of it and instead made the sign of the cross. ‘Must not say. All from God. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be,’ said Brook. When she went to fetch the keys he added, ‘Nobody else is.’
After phoning Noble to update him about Mrs North, Brook and Grant walked back towards the crime scene.
‘So the house opposite the Inghams is empty for a reason,’ said Grant.
‘So much for luck and coincidence,’ replied Brook. ‘It’s all been arranged well in advance.’
Grant nodded. ‘I’m beginning to see why The Reaper’s been at large for so long. The scope of this is breathtaking. Not to mention the resources behind it.’
Brook stood by the gatepost of Mrs North’s house waiting for Forensics to arrive. He patted his coat pocket for his cigarettes.
‘You left them at Mrs Petras’s house, Inspector. I saw you drop them under the table.’
‘Did I?’
‘If you felt that sorry for her, why not just offer them some money?’ inquired Grant.
‘They’re not kids standing outside an off-licence Laura,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want her to lose her dignity.’
Laura Grant smiled and held her eyes on the back of Brook’s head as he turned towards the Scientific Support van pulling up outside Mrs North’s house. Noble approached them from the Ingham house, his mobile in his hand.
‘It’s legit, sir. Dorothy North did get on a plane to Sydney two weeks ago. The return flight is due back in a month. The ticket was bought in her name on a prepaid credit card assigned to a Mr Peter Hera — our old friend The Reaper using his anagram again.’
