before she heard him padding back to his own bed.
Adele let out a long breath and raised the lid of her laptop again. She was about to exit Facebook when she spotted a new name had joined the online list. She highlighted the name but hesitated over the mouse. It was a big step. A second later she clicked on the name and typed a smiley face in the dialogue box. It was time.
Four
Detective Inspector Damen Brook woke to the sound of a barn owl hooting nearby. He still had his recently acquired reading glasses perched on the end of his nose so he pulled them off and laid them next to the reading lamp, still burning beside his bed. He inhaled the soft summer air nuzzling at his curtains and dozed for another minute, listening to the breeze ruffle the trees in the churchyard. Nothing else in the village stirred.
Brook felt the weight on his stomach and lifted the upturned copy of
He dragged himself out of bed and padded down the rickety stairs of his cottage, wearing only T-shirt and underpants. He flicked at the full kettle and sat at the kitchen table, his eyes wedged shut. As usual the cup and tea bag sat ready for this nightly ritual so Brook could postpone opening his eyes and engaging his brain. The fact that he’d learned to disengage his brain at all was a profound blessing and it was not to be curtailed until absolutely necessary.
For many years Brook had been rudely awoken, drenched in sweat, by visions of old cases, rotting corpses and mumbling half-forgotten names as he stirred. As the years passed, the dreams of ravenous rats devouring decaying flesh had faded as Brook had left his past in London behind. At the age of fifty he’d made some kind of peace with himself, and although his solitary life was no richer, he could at least wake up in dry sheets.
The kettle clicked off and Brook waved goodbye to semi-consciousness. He felt around in the dark for his cigarettes but realised with a sinking heart that, in the unlikely event that his resolve to quit smoking might weaken, he’d left his last pack in his station locker.
On his first sip of tea, the phone rang and Brook squinted at the kitchen clock as he picked it from its cradle. Nearly four o’clock in the morning.
‘Brook.’ He listened without enquiry to Detective Sergeant John Noble, looked sightlessly into the distance to get his bearings then rang off with, ‘I’ll be about an hour.’
Brook pulled his coat tighter and stared longingly at the welcoming disc of dawn creeping over the horizon, unseen birds heralding its arrival as nature began to shake a leg. He closed his eyes, blocking out the noise of activity behind him, and wondered how many millennia this little scene had been enacted. Man, vulnerable and reverent, mouth slackened by awe, gazing to the heavens to greet the sun’s approach, inspired and soothed by its promise of light and comfort.
Too often Brook’s insomnia ensured he was as familiar with this ancient ritual as the primitive cave dwellers of Stonehenge or Avebury, dancing, praying or sacrificing their way into the goodwill of the gods. But for once Brook wasn’t sitting on the bench in his cottage garden, nursing a tea and a smoke. Dawn found him shivering in the dank, misty fields to the east of Derby, awaiting the recovery of a body from the River Derwent.
He hated this part of the job — the wasted hours kicking his heels just to sign off on a suicide or a lone fisherman who’d waded in too far and been surprised by a deceptive current. Or maybe it was a show-off kid, swinging into the murky waters from a Tarzan rope and unable to clamber back up the slippery bank. Then more wasted hours, informing disbelieving relatives and ploughing through the paperwork.
Brook turned grudgingly back to the darkness of the river bank, itself burnished by the flashing orange suns of the emergency vehicles. He glanced resentfully across at DS Noble pulling on a Marlboro Light. Part of Brook’s own dawn ritual involved a cigarette but he’d made the mistake of giving up three weeks ago. Again.
He debated whether to cave in and ask his DS for a smoke. After all, it was his only vice. He wasn’t a womaniser or a heavy drinker like many in the job. He lived a sober, monastic life and did his work without complaint. He deserved to cut himself a little slack.
‘Christ,’ he muttered through a half-laugh and a shake of the head. The justifications for having a cigarette were kicking in early.
A shout from the river pierced the early morning mist and the two CID officers moved off the adjacent cycle path and closer to the water’s edge. Despite protective overshoes, their socks and trousers were already sopping wet in the heavy dew. A figure wearing waders and a bright yellow safety bib emerged from the gloom and splashed across to Brook and Noble through the boggy earth.
He waved to the two ambulancemen sitting in the warmth of their cab and made the hand signal for the gurney. ‘It’s a body all right,’ said the man. ‘Male Caucasian, fifty to sixty years of age. Been in a couple of days, I’d guess. Got caught on a fallen tree. They’ve got the harness on. They’ll have him out in a few minutes.’
‘Okay. Thanks. .’ Brook hesitated, an expression of panic invading his tired features.
‘Keith,’ finished the man with a sharp look at first Noble, then back at Brook. ‘Keith Pullin. We’ve met several times before at refuse collections.’
‘Of course. Sorry, Keith. It’s late.’ Brook had been caught off-guard, forgetting to take Noble aside and ask for the names he never remembered. He smiled weakly at Pullin but the damage was done and he was already stomping back towards the river.
‘Technically it’s early,’ grinned DS Noble, tossing his cigarette butt into a puddle and pulling out a fresh one.
Brook shrugged then caught the luxuriant scent of Noble, igniting another cigarette. Unable to stand it, he set off towards his car. ‘Give me a shout when they get him out, John.’
Noble watched as Keith Pullin, the portly, forty-year-old Special Constable, walked back over to him, sneering all the while towards DI Brook’s shabby BMW.
‘How’s it going, Tom?’
‘Very funny,’ spat Keith Pullin, without a trace of amusement. ‘Seriously though, how can you stand working with that knob?’
Noble shrugged. ‘He’s not a morning person, Keith.’
‘Fuck off — he’s not an afternoon or an evening person either.’
‘Okay. You got me there,’ admitted Noble. ‘Let’s just say he’s a little distracted.’
‘Why do you always defend him?’
Noble looked unswervingly back at Pullin but said nothing. Failing to get his answer, Pullin grunted and trudged sullenly back to the water’s edge, muttering obscenities all the way.
Noble pulled heavily on his cigarette and sighed. He was used to the barbs aimed at his DI and once he might have joined in, but the longer he’d worked with Brook, the more he felt the need to provide a little balance to offset the abuse that flowed his way.
This little rite was a common occurrence in the field. Brook’s inability to bond with fellow officers and the emergency workers they encountered — some Brook had known for several years — was always a source of mild amusement. But to the dozens working in D Division who’d gone unrecognised by Brook down the years, it remained a cause for deep resentment.
Noble wasn’t sure how much Brook’s time in London had shaped his behaviour towards colleagues, but since his move to the Peak District, Brook’s mind always seemed to be elsewhere — and forgetting people’s names was the most recurrent symptom. Twenty years had passed since Brook had started hunting The Reaper in London, as one of the rising stars of the Met. But according to all reports, the case had broken him, with years of failure taking their toll and finally forcing him from active duty.
His breakdown quickly became public knowledge when Brook transferred to Derby Division, eight years ago.
