‘Ah, yes. That would be the bond created at the residence of the late Reverend Hunseth.’
Drexler turned towards Sorenson’s mocking smile, feeling his fists clench. The moment passed and Sorenson’s nose remained unbroken. His thoughts swam around his head like a draining sink. Where did this old man get the confidence to goad somebody like him? It was unnerving. Sorenson played a dangerous game but played it with a confidence that made Drexler uneasy. Everything Sorenson had said felt like an assault, his words like the most invasive probe, against which he was powerless to defend himself and his country.
For an instant he imagined being under Sorenson’s power and almost began to feel sorry for Caleb Ashwell. He imagined Sorenson opening his bottle of wine to drink a toast, grinning at his captives, telling them what he was going to do to them … and smiling as he did it.
After an age, Drexler’s lungs began to slow and his mind began to reassemble. But once more he was to be wrong footed.
Sorenson looked down at the ground, apparently ashamed. ‘Forgive me, Agent Drexler. I shouldn’t have flung that at you. It was crude.’
‘Who told you about Hunseth?’
‘This is America. I’m rich. And everything and everybody is for sale,’ said Sorenson. ‘But I didn’t need to pay for that information, Michael. May I call you Michael? Special Agent is so impersonal.’
‘It’s Mike.’
Sorenson nodded. ‘Mike. As you better than most must know, your government’s fantasy of a free society is maintained by a few clever gimmicks. Freedom of information is one. It’s all in the records.’
Drexler nodded. ‘But you have to know what you’re looking for, Professor.’
‘Call bme Victor. Now come and have that hot drink, Mike. You look cold.’
Brook slouched against the patrol car, sucking on one of Hudson’s cigarettes and watching a small crowd gather in the dusk. Brian Burton stood on the other side of the police tape, arguing with a uniformed constable about his right to trample all over potential evidence in the cause of free speech. Brook turned away from him and looked back towards the Ottomans’ home. He shook his head as a SOCO gingerly carried away the bloodstained mountain bike from the house.
‘Guess that’s a clincher,’ said Hudson, grinning widely. ‘It takes all sorts, Damen. You of all people…’
Brook looked up at him with a bleak smile. ‘I suppose.’
Laura Grant walked back towards them. ‘The neighbour two doors down said they set off on Sunday morning before nine o’clock. She said she hadn’t seen Denise out of the house for two years so it was a shock when she saw them loading up the car. And apparently they were having words.’
‘Okay, luv. Do us a favour and scrounge a few CID coffees off one of the neighbours, will you? Try the one two doors down. She sounds accommodating. We won’t be getting in until Forensics have strutted their stuff.’
Grant gave Hudson one of her looks then turned on her heel to pass the instruction to a PC.
‘They didn’t waste much time hitting the road,’ said Hudson.
‘What kind of car?’ shouted Brook.
Grant turned round. ‘What?’
‘Ask the neighbour what kind of car they were driving, Laura.’ Grant nodded and turned to leave. ‘And … Laura!’ She turned round expectantly at Brook’s call. ‘No sugar.’
She grinned at the two senior officers, mouthed a mute obscenity and walked away.
‘I don’t see them driving something black and powerful.’
‘Cars can be hired, Damen.’
‘They’re just not up to it, Joshua. They’re teachers, for God’s sake. The nearest they come to homicide is slapping an unruly pupil on the spur of the moment.’
‘They’re educated, Damen. You said yourself they had the intelligence.’
‘Really? Joshua, they didn’t even wipe the blood off the bike.’
Hudson shrugged. ‘Blind panic. You do what they did and try not to let it affect you.’
Brook looked up at him, but could discern no ulterior meaning. ‘When I visited last week, Denise couldn’t even open the door properly. You heard what the neighbour said. I doubt Denise ever leaves the house, especially at night.’
‘Well she’s left it now,’ replied Hudson. ‘Look, Damen. Stress does funny things to people. Then again, maybe she’s not involved. Maybe it’s just her husband looking for some payback…’
‘And leaving Jason Wallis alive again?’ Hudson shrugged at this. ‘Then who’s the woman watching in the bedroom?’
‘All good questions, Damen. Want some good facts to go with them? The Ottomans have motive. John Ottoman is the right age, build and height. He’s on the estate the night of the murders. He’s wearing black clothing. A bloodstained mountain bike with the same tyre tread found at the scene is in his home. The next morning the Ottomans pack their bags and make a run for it. Want another fact? DS Noble has been listening to the 999 call and thinks it’s Ottoman’s voice.’
Brook was quiet for a moment, trying to get past the accumulated evidence. For a second he was prepared to accept it, then he thought of Sorenson. ‘It’s not them,’ he muttered.
A Scene of Crime Officer walked down the path carrying several items in plastic bags. Cups, a telephone, a remote control — all items likely to carry fingerprints.
‘Where’s the other bike?’ asked Brook.
The SOCO shook his head. ‘Only one bike on the property.’
Brook looked at Hudson who shrugged again. ‘They can explain it when we catch them.’ Hudson grinned again and nodded towards the house. Brook turned to see an officer holding up a bloodstained black balaclava from the top of a bin bag.
Brook and Hudson waited with Charlton for the assembled journalists to be ready. Charlton and Hudson were in high spirits at the prospect of the press conference. They were determined to avoid triumphalism, but were finding it hard not to smile. This would be a huge feather in their caps once John and Denise Ottoman were in custody. Brook was less thrilled at the prospect. He could see Brian Burton in the second row preparing his questions; no doubt some would be fired in his direction. With the lights not yet on, Noble entered from the side door and passed a piece of paper to Charlton, who read it with satisfaction before passing it on to Hudson. Brook read it with a sinking heart. The thumbprint from Jason’s mobile phone belonged to one of the Ottomans. As Jason had heard a male voice at the crime scene, it was fair to assume the print was John’s. In addition, blood from the mountain bike had been matched to one of the victims — Stephen Ingham. DNA samples from various artefacts recovered from the Ottoman home were still being tested against the DNA taken from the fence panel.
‘Excellent,’ said Charlton, under his breath. ‘Now we all know what we’re going to say. The key thing is not to get ahead of ourselves, keep it simple and state clearly that our suspects are wanted only in connection with The Reaper killings in Derby. We make it clear that we have no evidence for the murders in London and Leeds until we interview…’
‘Wait a minute. I didn’t agree to that. We can’t connect them to the Wallis murders as well…’ began Brook.
‘Why can’t we?’
‘There was no evidence; they were never suspects. And there are still loose ends in the Ingham deaths.’
‘The Chief Inspector and I are agreed. As far as we’re concerned, the Ottomans are connected to Jason Wallis and have tried twice to kill him in revenge attacks for the assault on his wife.’
‘Then why is he still alive? Jason himself heard John Ottoman talk to the emergency services. If he was there for Jason, why didn’t he kill him first?’
Charlton noticed several journalists, including Brian Burton, start to take an interest in their conversation. ‘Keep your voice down, Inspector. I don’t need to tell you how criminal plans can go wrong…’
‘And I don’t need to tell you, sir, that both you and DCI Hudson were nowhere near the Wallis Inquiry. Trying to tie the Ottomans to that crime is not supported by any evidence…’
‘But fortunately we have a surfeit of evidence from the Ingham murders which provides circumstantial … Where are you going? Inspector, sit back down,’ Charlton hissed. But Brook was gone. Charlton turned around with
