the kitchen.
‘So this is the only freezer they’ve got.’
‘We’re just about to lock up, sir, if…’
‘One second … Bernard,’ replied Brook, having another stab at being a people person.
‘Martin,’ replied the officer tersely. ‘And like I said…’
But Brook had already yanked open the freezer and was slinging the contents onto the table. Tupperware containers with labels in a neat hand and the occasional ready meal were strewn across the kitchen table until it was emptied. ‘Vegetable lasagne, mushroom risotto, pumpkin soup, vegetable curry, vegetable chilli, ratatouille…’ Brook read. When he finished he nodded with satisfaction and started to refill the cabinet. There was no meat from the butcher’s shop in Normanton. There was no meat at all — the Ottomans were vegetarians.
Brook was encouraged. It was only circumstantial and not enough to clear them, but this was a big red flag against the Ottomans buying and handling meat to set a trap for the Inghams. The Ottomans would be unlikely to countenance the idea of storing flesh in their freezer for three months and upwards while they prepared to murder the Inghams. Being local, and assuming they could even think in those terms, the couple would more than likely purchase meats no more than a day or two ahead of time.
‘Was beginning to think you were a no-show, Mr Hera,’ said Carlson, the night manager, dropping the key into Sorenson’s spidery claw. ‘Number 7 as requested — the bridal suite. Nice and secluded,’ he added with a chuckle.
‘And all the other cabins are empty?’
‘Just like you asked,’ he grinned.
Sorenson’s black eyes burned into him and the coolness of his Siberian smile wiped the leer from Carlson’s face. Carlson plucked a sopping cigar butt from his mouth and rubbed a chubby hand around his whiskers. ‘Well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Sorenson softly. ‘Do you have a rest-room I can use?’
‘Right there,’ said the man, nodding at a door in the corner of the office. Sorenson smiled his thanks and disappeared, counting out change in his hand.
Carlson loped over to the office door and, shielding his eyes from the neon above the entrance, squinted out at Sorenson’s car. A yellow-toothed grin slowly deformed his features and he returned to his reception desk, scratching his belly through his too thin T-shirt.
When Sorenson returned so did Carlson’s lascivious grin. ‘You get ever’ thin ‘you need in there, Mr Hera?’
This time Sorenson patted his breast pocket and returned his grin with a wink. ‘All set.’
Mrs Petras opened her door on the second knock and wiped her hands with her apron.
‘I’m sorry to call at this hour.’
‘Inspector Brook,’ she beamed. ‘Come in. I make coffee.’
‘I can’t, Mrs Petras.’ She looked crestfallen. ‘Urgent police business.’ Her face hardened. She understood duty. Brook offered her a cigarette which she accepted gratefully, taking a long pull when Brook lit it for her.
‘Do you remember seeing this woman, Mrs Petras?’ Brook brandished the photograph of Denise Ottoman.
Mrs Petras looked at it briefly. ‘Only from papers. She never see Dottie. Not see her before papers.’ Brook showed her a picture of John Ottoman for good measure but got the same result.
Brook paused, unsure of the right words. ‘Does Mrs North eat ready meals?’
‘No understand,’ she said.
‘Er, ready meals. Frozen food.’
‘Frozed. Never.’ She looked like she wanted to spit, so Brook smiled to disarm the unintended insult. ‘We proper cook. Go three times a week Eagle Centre. On free bus. We buy fresh. Young girls cook Iceland. Not me, not Dottie.’
Brook rushed back to his car. As he expected: pensioners bought fresh and cheap produce and cooked proper food. Meat and two veg. His late parents had been the same. It wasn’t just the desire to eat healthily that drove them to the corner shop or the greengrocer’s. It was also the daily balm of human companionship that drew them out of the house.
Five minutes later Brook removed keys from his pocket and opened the side door of Mrs North’s house. It opened directly into the kitchen in which Brook had previously stood, trying to turn a nagging feeling into a solid fact. Brook opened her fridge. It was empty and spotlessly clean.
This time Brook opened the small freezer compartment. It took some doing as it was frozen solid. When he finally did manage to prise open the flap, the tiny space contained what could have been a tray of ice cubes. There was no room for anything else. There could be no doubt. Nothing had been stored in that compartment for months, if not years.
Whoever had committed murder at the Ingham house had prepared long in advance, had bought meat long before it was needed and stored it, then defrosted it before offering it up to the Inghams. To do so they’d need access to a freezer. But where?
Drexler’s eyes had not left the office door all the time that Sorenson had been inside the office. McQuarry had readied her night-vision field glasses and was scanning the surrounding area for any activity. There was none.
When Sorenson re-emerged he returned to the Toyota and drove it across the lot to the farthest darkest corner, parking outside the end cabin. When the vehicle’s lights went out, Drexler found it hard to see what Sorenson was doing and nudged McQuarry for a look through the field glasses, an instruction that she ignored. Eventually the driver’s door opened and Sorenson stepped out of the vehicle, framed by the safety light, and opened the rear door.
‘There’s somebody else with him,’ said McQuarry.
‘There can’t be. We’d have seen.’ Drexler squinted across the ground. He saw a figure emerge from the rear of the car and close the door behind, extinguishing all light again. ‘You’re right. There are two of them.’
‘There must have been someone hiding in the back seat,’ said McQuarry.
‘Could it be a hostage or another victim? Drugged maybe.’
‘Can’t see any signs of it, Mike.’
‘Then maybe it’s an accomplice.’ Drexler thought for a second. ‘Maybe there are two Reapers.’
McQuarry lowered the glasses and looked over at him. ‘ You might be right.’
There was silence apart from intermittent gusts of wind. The car park was empty. Even the highway was near deserted. ‘What can you see?’ asked Drexler, laying his hand on McQuarry’s shoulder. The tension had pitched his voice a semitone higher.
‘See for yourself,’ she said, nodding towards the cabin.
At that moment the door opened and Drexler was able to see Sorenson illuminated against the bright room. The other person was already inside, carrying something in either hand. Maybe a small case. Drexler didn’t get a look as Sorenson closed the door behind him.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Drexler, a wave of frustration washing over him. He looked across at McQuarry’s arched eyebrow as she removed her binoculars.
‘We wait.’
Drexler opened the door. ‘I’m going in. He could be slaughtering someone as we speak…’
‘Mike! We wait,’ insisted McQuarry.
After a few seconds’ hesitation, Drexler pulled the door closed.
As Brook switched on the computer back in the Incident Room, a sense of dread began to overtake him. Two years ago The Reaper had murdered the Wallis family. The preparations were thorough and Brook had concluded that Sorenson must have spent time in the area. But, try as they might, they’d never discovered where the killer might have stayed. They’d scoured the local hotels and B amp;Bs but found no trace.
Eventually Brook had concluded that Sorenson had probably stayed somewhere out of town. After Brook was suspended from the inquiry, the question hadn’t been pursued and certainly had never been answered. But now the
