out every word.
The door flew open and the two agents barked ‘FBI!’ in unison. Drexler flicked on the main light and was through the door first.
‘Get on the ground,’ he shouted superfluously at Carlson, whose head was already sinking onto the floor. The two agents stared at the barrel of a man, rambling incoherently, unable to move.
‘Off the bed,’ shouted McQuarry to the girl. ‘Face the wall.’ The girl did as she was told, still clinging to the sheet to preserve her modesty.
McQuarry checked behind the door — ‘Clear’ — as Drexler headed for the bathroom. ‘You okay, honey?’ asked McQuarry to the girl, looking all around, both hands on her gun.
‘Clear,’ she heard her partner shout and he returned to the bedroom clipping his firearm back into his belt.
The girl nodded, her face set in a grimace of fear, her cheeks beginning to run with tears.
‘The girl’s clean,’ said McQuarry, holstering her own gun.
Drexler removed a pair of cuffs from his belt and went across to Jake. He placed the cuffs on him and turned him over, throwing a towel over his shrivelling manhood. The man groaned and Drexler helped him over to the wall and sat him up with some difficulty.
‘What happened here, honey?’ said Drexler to the girl. ‘Why did Sorenson bring you here? Why’d he leave you?’
The girl turned from the wall pulling the sheet tight. She was calmer now and looked back at McQuarry, who was busy rifling through Carlson’s clothes. Drexler could see she was no more than sixteen, possibly younger. She raised her chin but lowered her eyes.
‘Jesus Christ, Mike,’ shouted McQuarry. She stood by the chair where Jake had tossed his clothes. She examined a wallet in her hand. ‘That’s Caleb’s brother. This son of a bitch is Jacob Ashwell.’
Drexler looked over at the man still groaning, blank eyes open and glassy. ‘You sure?’
‘There’s a picture of him with Caleb in the wallet. And here’s his driver’s licence.’ McQuarry handed him the dogeared snap of the two brothers, both holding guns, in front of the line of wrecked motor homes in the bowl near the Ashwell garage.
Brook tried the light switch. Nothing. He switched on his torch and swung it around the room, pausing on the lone mountain bike. It was identical to John Ottoman’s bike, though the saddle and frame sported no discernible blood stains. One of the killers had been able to use it to get back to the flat — presumably the one with the greater need to be visible the next morning. Brook nodded. He knew now who that was.
He moved towards the large curtain-free window, catching his foot on a box as he did so and causing a sharp clanging noise. Brook slipped his hand into the box and pulled out a bottle of Nuits St Georges. Same label, same year as the two bottles left at the Wallis house. He tried a couple more. They were the same.
He rose from his haunches and moved over to the window. The moon was beaming down, bestowing sufficient light to pick out the various items stored in the room. One was a box packed with two bottles of a colourless liquid. One bottle was half empty. A different box, full of hypodermic syringes still in their sealed hygienic packets, sat beside it. Brook shook the colourless liquid then unscrewed the lid and gave the contents a tentative sniff. It was odourless. He replaced the top. Brook was willing to wager that this concoction was some incarnation of the drug used on members of the Wallis and Ingham families.
He swept his torch around the walls. In one corner rested a tripod, though it wasn’t supporting a camcorder at the moment. Three doors lid off the room he was in and all were slightly ajar. Brook stepped through the first one and tried the light again. Still nothing. Perhaps Sorenson’s account had run out of funds, though that hardly seemed likely. He shone his torch over the kitchen appliances, coming to a halt at what seemed to be a large chest freezer. He stepped over to it and opened the lid. He smiled faintly; there were at least a dozen of the same blue and white striped bags found at the Ingham home, containing meats from the butcher’s in Normanton. He closed the freezer. It was working normally, the green light winking on the display. Clearly there was power in the plug sockets. Perhaps the fuse for the overhead lighting had blown.
Brook looked through several kitchen units, searching for the fusebox without success. Instead he found a set of wine glasses identical to those from the Wallis house and a small box of Swann Morton PM60 scalpels. He took a deep breath. It was all here — all the evidence they needed.
He went into another room. This was less of a storage area than the main room and the kitchen, this was somebody’s space. He couldn’t see any personal items on display, but there was a bed and a small sofa, a desk with a laptop and a shelf full of books. Brook examined them as he had Sorenson’s library two decades before. He smiled when he saw
He turned on the laptop and approached the small stereo, next to which was a stack of about twenty CDs — all classical. Brook ran his eye down them. Debussy, Wagner, Faure, Beethoven, Mozart, Shostakovich. How many people would die before these discs were exhausted? He opened the Debussy case. It was empty.
Brook continued his sweep. His torch alighted on a large canvas lamp on the far side of the bed and he padded round to switch it on. It worked so he flicked off his torch. Now he had light, he saw the copy of
He moved to the window to look out over the flyover and beyond to the red ‘Westfield’ sign of the new shopping mall. His eye dropped to the laptop on the table beneath the window. The welcome page was waiting for a password. He typed in ‘The Reaper’, then ‘Sorenson’, then ‘Peter Hera’, then ‘Petra Heer’ in turn. No joy.
He turned back to the room. In one corner sat a pile of papers topped by a large colour photograph. Brook picked it up. It was a picture of Jason Wallis standing by a stretch limousine with several other young men. One he was sure was Stephen Ingham. He looked at the date on the back. This was taken just before Brook’s camping holiday had come to an end, the day young Wallis had been released from White Oaks. In the pile were more pictures of Wallis and friends, which Brook examined carefully. He paused before picking up the next picture. The image showed Brook stepping out of his car at St Mary’s Wharf.
And there were others — some taken at the crime scene with Grant and Hudson, some outside the Ottoman house, and several of Brook and Grant going door to door on the Drayfin. He sifted through and counted them. There were twenty-three pictures in total of Brook. The next one was taken at night and showed him walking away from the Midland Hotel towards Magnet House, chatting with Grant by his side. Judging by the angle, this photograph had been taken from the window of the flat. He turned these over and picked up the next batch, standing for several minutes examining them. He nodded. Grant walking her little circuit late at night, Grant looking up at the camera, a look of concentration on her face. He stared at the next one for a moment longer.
‘You don’t seem too surprised,’ said a voice from the doorway.
Chapter Twenty-One
Drexler looked at Ashwell. The resemblance was clear. Then he looked at the girl.
‘I don’t understand. Who are you?’ The girl set her jaw and looked away.
‘It’s Jacob Ashwell, Mike. What are we going to do?’ said McQuarry.
‘Why are you here?’ Drexler pressed the girl.
The girl’s eyes blazed back at him. ‘That man was going to rape me. He raped my sister.’
Drexler’s brow creased. ‘You’re English?’
‘It’s Jacob Ashwell, Mike. We have to do something.’
‘You’re English,’ said Drexler again, staring at her. His eyes widened when the resemblance hit him. ‘My God, you’re Nicole Bailey. You’re alive.’
‘That man raped my sister. He murdered her. He would have raped me…’
‘What did you do to him?’ said Drexler, picking up the hypodermic with a handkerchief.
‘I defended myself,’ said the girl.
‘But Sorenson said…’ Drexler ran his hand through his hair.
