knot in Brook’s stomach was telling him that Sorenson had property in Derby. Rented or otherwise, it would explain so much about the preparations for
He started with estate agents, listing then emailing all those he could find on the internet. He asked about rentals and purchases pertaining to the name Sorenson. Then he noted down as many telephone numbers as he could find for follow-up in the morning.
But two years ago Sorenson had been using a false identity. He’d shown a driver’s licence in the name of Peter Hera when hiring a van to deliver pizzas to the Wallis home. So Brook emailed the estate agents, again asking the same question but with the new name.
Brook had an idea. If a property had been purchased before the Wallis murders, the name might have found its way onto the voters’ register. He searched for the electoral roll and fed the same two names into the search bar. Nothing. As usual, Sorenson wasn’t making things easy for him.
He tried again, this time using Drexler’s name. Still nothing. Disheartened, he turned the computer off. He got up to go but found Chief Superintendent Charlton blocking the doorway.
‘Sergeant Hendrickson said you were here.’
‘Yes, sir. I was just on my way to see you, sir.’
‘I’ll bet you were — despite being too busy to answer your phone.’
‘Have you been ringing me, sir? It’s been out of order for some time.’
Charlton eyed him with studied contempt. ‘Modern policing is all about communication, Brook, but I can see I’m not getting through to you.’
Brook noted the absence of his title and tried not to smile. ‘Sir?’
Charlton looked up at Brook, trying to inject some swagger into his voice. ‘I suppose you’ve heard by now.’ Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘The Ottomans were arrested in France this evening. They’ll be on a flight to East Midlands Airport tomorrow afternoon. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t pass that titbit on to Brian Burton, no matter how many drinks he offers you.’
Brook stiffened. He could hold his hand up to mistakes, but corruption was a different matter and for a second he wondered whether to put Charlton on the floor. It passed swiftly but Charlton must have detected the change in Brook’s demeanour because his manner became hesitant.
‘Well. Suffice to say you’re not going to be involved with the case any further. Take a week off. Don’t come to the Incident Room again. Don’t talk to other officers on the inquiry. Clear?’
Brook nodded, declining to speak. His placid response stirred Charlton’s superiority complex once more and his lip curled. ‘You know, I was warned about you, Brook. There’s no future for your kind in the Force, certainly not in a division I’m running. Think on that.’ He turned smartly on his heel.
‘Where were the Ottomans arrested, sir?’
Charlton half turned. ‘In Paris — they were spotted in an Irish pub by some ex-pats.’ Brook couldn’t suppress his amusement this time. ‘Something funny?’
‘An Irish pub,’ Brook nodded. ‘Right. If I was a hunted serial killer, that’s where I’d go.’
Twenty minutes later, the door to the cabin opened. Drexler nudged McQuarry who sat up and opened her eyes. They watched intently. This time Drexler had the night-vision glasses. Sorenson emerged from the cabin alone. He still had on the overcoat and gloves he had been wearing when he’d arrived. There didn’t seem to be any sign of blood. He looked around before flicking off the light and pulling the door closed. As far as the agents could discern, he did not say anything to whoever remained inside.
Sorenson returned to the Toyota and started the ignition. Drexler reached for the keys but found McQuarry’s hand on his.
‘Let’s wait a while.’
Drexler looked at her, saw the sense in her suggestion and sank back onto his seat, breathing deeply.
‘You gotta take it easy, Mike. It’ll happen. You can’t force these things.’
Sorenson drove to the reception office and pulled up. He stepped out and strolled into the building.
Chapter Twenty
Brook got home late again that night. For once he’d stopped at the Coach and Horses and just managed to catch last orders. He sat in the snug there, nursing a pint, thinking about the Ottomans. He remembered Laura Grant asking him why Ottoman had spared Jason. An even more difficult question, he thought to himself, was why had he, Brook, spared him? The little thug had killed his cat. Smashed its head to a pulp and left the little mite for Brook to find. And there he was in the Inghams’ yard, helpless before him. Why hadn’t he done it? He didn’t know. The Reaper had slaughtered everyone else. There was no one to stop him.
The Reaper. Brook nodded. This was no copycat. Even from beyond the grave this carried Sorenson’s mark. No copycat would have lured Brook to the scene and left young Wallis for him to finish.
Half an hour later he pulled up outside his cottage. To his relief Drexler’s car was nowhere to be seen. Brook knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep so he made a cup of tea and fell into a chair, pulling out a notepad. A couple of minutes later Brook heard a car and pulled the curtain aside.
Drexler extinguished the headlights, locked his car and walked to his side door, unhurried and without the briefest glance over at Brook’s house.
Brook picked up his pen and tried to put himself in Sorenson’s shoes. If the professor had wanted a safe house in Derby how would he go about it, given his almost limitless finance? Brook made a list:
Brook crossed out M1. It was miles away. If it was too far from Derby, journeys to the Drayfin would become more hazardous. So instead he wrote:
Brook sat back and examined his list. Then he wrote down some of the problems he might encounter if he owned such a property:
He fell asleep in the chair, still trying to think of number 4.
Brook woke at six the next morning, still in the same chair. Without changing his clothes, he made a flask of tea and put it in his backpack along with the notes he’d made the night before and the folder on Mike Drexler. He drove through the darkness to St Mary’s Wharf and entered the deserted Incident Room before seven. Charlton wouldn’t be around until mid-morning, not that Brook cared about disobeying orders. He poured tea and began to distil some of his notes in order to create a profile of likely properties to send to estate agents. After sending out