Noble nodded. ‘So it may all be in his head.’
‘Or Adele’s. Teenage daughters are younger versions of our wives, John, so it’s not a huge leap for that relationship to be corrupted. The boyfriend could have triggered something in him that caused conflict. Our daughters having sex with other men is the secret dread of all fathers, the first thing we picture when boys start looking their way. It’s even worse when older men are looking.’
Noble kept silent, waiting for a corroborating anecdote from Brook’s own past parenting. It didn’t arrive. He threw his butt to the pavement. ‘I’ll put in a call to Social Services tomorrow. See what pops up on the Watsons. So where does this leave us?’
‘With three unhappy kids looking to change their lives,’ Brook said. ‘Three abandoned mobile phones and three leaflets. This website. .’
‘Deity?’
‘We need to find out who’s behind it. Tell Cooper to start on it as soon as he gets in tomorrow. And get a warrant for the Watson house.’ Brook looked at his watch then back to the front door as the uniformed FLO closed it behind him. Brook stepped to the rear of his car and opened the boot. He took out the small tightly packed bin bag retrieved from the Kennedy dustbin. ‘It’s gone eleven, John. Can you get a lift back with. .?’
‘I can,’ said Noble.
‘Good, get some rest before your surveillance. Take this bin bag to the lab and give them the plaster. I’ll call on this Russell Thomson on my way in tomorrow and then we’ll see about going public.’
Thirteen
It was close to midnight when Brook finally pulled up to his cottage in Hartington. To his annoyance, a lime- green VW Polo was parked outside his house so he had to leave his BMW in the cramped drive of Rose Cottage, the empty rental property next door.
He trudged wearily to his tiny porch carrying one of the Deity leaflets in a plastic wallet — something to think about in the lonely hours to keep his mind off the mortal remains of Barry Kirk.
He fumbled for his door key, trying to ignore his grumbling stomach. He hadn’t eaten since his bacon sandwiches but hadn’t had time to buy food again. Worse still, he hadn’t bought cigarettes.
When Brook put his key in the lock and turned, nothing happened — the door was already unlocked. Had he forgotten to lock up this morning? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d wandered out in an insomniac fug. Once he’d even forgotten to close the door.
He returned his key to his pocket, but instead of opening the door, he paused to listen. Something felt wrong. He knelt to lift the empty flower pot in the corner of the porch. The spare key was gone.
Again Brook racked his brains, trying to remember if he’d moved it to another hiding-place but his brain was too tired to cooperate. He came to a decision and pulled gently down on the handle and eased the front door open. It moved without a sound and he peered into the blackness of the kitchen beyond and listened. Without flicking on the light he couldn’t be sure, but he sensed things were not how he’d left them earlier in the day. There were dark shapes on the kitchen table which he didn’t recognise. He knew they couldn’t be his. Brook didn’t have clutter, knick-knacks, objets d’art nor any of the mementoes of a life lived. His development as a human being had been in suspended animation for years.
Brook took a tentative step into the shadows, then another. When he reached the foot of the tiny crooked staircase he gazed up to the trapdoor in the roofspace on the first floor. He had an unlicensed gun in the attic, a legacy of his entanglements with The Reaper. It didn’t work but maybe that wouldn’t matter, and he wished he’d hidden it in a more accessible place.
Brook remembered his training — Defensive not Offensive. He slid off his shoes and then his jacket, wrapping it around his leading arm. Burglars often carried large knives, not principally for protection but to sever the wiring of desirable electrical goods for ease of carriage. That didn’t mean a surprised intruder wouldn’t use it when cornered.
Suitably protected, Brook tiptoed into the small lounge, where a figure lay on the sofa, legs splayed across one of the arms, its breathing shallow. Brook leaned over to switch on a lamp.
He squinted at the face of the intruder then stood upright in bewilderment. ‘Terri?’
The figure stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Dad.’
‘Terri.’ Brook flung his jacket to the floor, sat on the sofa and hugged his daughter. ‘It’s really you. What are you doing here? Never mind. How long have you been here? Never mind.’ He hugged her again, then held her by the shoulders in panic and searched in her eyes. ‘What’s wrong? Is your mother all right?’
Terri yawned and sat up. ‘Dad, she’s fine. Where’ve you been?’
‘Work.’
She squinted at her watch. ‘Nothing changes.’
‘Why didn’t you give me some notice?’
‘I did. I emailed you, Dad. Two weeks ago. To tell you I wanted to come and visit. How often do you check your emails?’ she said, swinging her feet to the floor.
Brook shrugged. ‘Every couple of weeks. At least.’
She shook her head then smiled. ‘You look well, Dad.’
Brook raised an eyebrow. He knew he was wasting away. ‘For a workaholic who doesn’t look after himself, you mean.’ He held her tight again. ‘
Terri smiled back. ‘No flaws?’
He peered at her neck and examined her red-nailed hands. Her arms were covered. ‘Still no tattoos?’
‘Da-ad. I’m twenty years old.’
‘So you’ve got one,’ he probed.
‘No, I haven’t. But not because
‘I never said that.’
‘Something very like it.’ She laughed. ‘Besides, I can’t stand needles — remember?’
‘Great. That rules out heroin as well.’
‘You can smoke heroin, Dad.’
Brook did a double-take but laughed when she laughed. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. I wish I’d known. I could’ve-’
‘What, Dad? Emptied the fridge of sour milk and filled it with food? That’ll be the day. After all these years, you’re still all over the place. You and that bloody job. I don’t know why you don’t retire. Mum says you’ve got enough money.’
‘I don’t do it for the money, darling,’ he said quietly. ‘I do it because. .’ He hesitated, unsure how to explain.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, putting a hand on his chest. ‘Mum told me.’
Brook sighed. The elephant of his mental breakdown was still in the room but taking up a little less space. Unfortunately, that would leave more space for the second elephant — her stepfather.
‘You must be starving,’ he said to change the subject.
Terri bounced to her feet and led him to the kitchen. ‘No, Dad. Far from it — I knew to come prepared. I brought wine and made spag bol. Would you like some?’
‘Terri, I’d love some.’
So Brook sat down at the kitchen table while Terri busied herself at the tiny old-fashioned stove that had rarely warmed a pan. She poured him a glass of red wine and he nibbled on some French bread while he waited for his meal. He couldn’t take his eyes from his daughter’s back as she reheated the sauce and boiled more pasta. She was taller and seemed even more self-assured than he remembered. Her hair was shorter and her make-up a little subtler than that traumatic day on Brighton Pier, the last time he’d seen her. And, of course she was no longer wearing a school uniform. Now she wore figure-hugging jeans and a dark velvet v-neck top with long sleeves that nearly covered her hands.
