Deity

‘No. Hence their love is immortal. Nothing can get in the way,’ she looked up at him, her smile tinged with sadness, ‘until the girl is ready to move on. Didn’t this Adele have any crushes on the living?’

‘Some actor in something called True. .’

‘True Blood?’

‘Right. Alexander. .’

‘Skarsgard,’ Terri supplied.

Brook looked at the shadows of her face. ‘Why do I get the impression you’ve studied this before?’

‘Because I have. The True Blood series is a big deal in America.’

‘It’s about vampires. You’re not telling me you study it as part of your literature degree.’

‘Only insofar as it’s a cultural event, Dad. It taps directly into what I said — the desire for perfect, immortal love.’

‘So this actor’s dead?’

‘No, but he plays a vampire — so yes, he’s dead but, more important, he’s also immortal. That’s why millions of teenage girls are besotted with the idea of hot vampires. You can have your beefcake and eat it.’

Brook smiled. ‘How lucky am I to have a daughter so intelligent?’ Terri didn’t answer but Brook saw she was pleased. He yawned. ‘You’ll have to tell me more tomorrow. Right now I need to get some sleep. Listen, I’ll have the sofabed. .’

‘No, you won’t. This is your house. You get off to bed and get a good night’s kip. I can sleep late.’

‘Okay.’ Brook stood and walked to the house. He turned to Terri as she sipped the last of her wine. ‘Thanks, Terri.’

‘For what?’

‘Just thanks.’ Brook put some blankets on the sofa and trudged off to bed. He looked out of his bedroom window, feeling well-fed and happy. Terri was stroking Basil on the garden bench. Even Bobby, Basil’s painfully shy brother, had put in an appearance and was manoeuvring himself for some attention.

Brook glanced at the clock. It was a time at which he was more accustomed to being woken by insomnia. He lay back and was asleep in moments.

Diarmuid Strachan — Jock to his friends, enemies and anyone who might be likely to give him spare change — woke to the sight and sound of a rat nuzzling around at his feet, attracted by the putrid aroma of the fungus flourishing between his damp toes.

‘Fuck off, ye bastard.’ He kicked out a disintegrating leather boot at the beast, which skittered into the darkness. He sat up to scratch his whiskers, trying to focus on the small bar of light high in the vaulted roof. It was daylight. Right nuff. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the half-dozen watches he wore to occasionally barter for enough coins to buy a drink. He peered myopically at each in turn, but each gave a different time. After working his way through three bottles of cheap whisky since Oz had picked him up, he’d forgotten that none of them worked. He only kept them because if he was begging anywhere near a clock large enough for him to see, he could sometimes set one to the right time and sell it to some unsuspecting Sassenach.

Just slow like me. S’good watch, pal.

He let his sleeve drop and tried to stand but fell back on to his hands, and although he banged his head hard on the wall, he felt nothing. Instead he took another groggy sweep around his gloomy accommodation. His new pal Oz had brought him here, picking him up in the middle of the night promising a bath and a bed. But he had no idea where he was or how long it had taken to get here. He knew there were white tiles on the wall and several hard cold slabs on which he’d banged his knees, but he hadn’t yet been able to locate an exit. It was very dark but it was dry and warm and the bar never closed. Jock chuckled at his joke but stopped laughing when he realised he’d run out of whisky — the bar was now closed. Right nuff.

‘S’why a cannae fuckin’ see.’ He heard a rasping cough far away, the echo sounding around the white-tiled walls. Jock strained towards the source of the noise. ‘Zat you, pal?’ He saw movement as someone carrying a torch entered and walked towards him, stopping at one of the slabs. He heard a clicking sound and saw it came from a battered old case being set down and unlocked. ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s me,’ said the voice he recognised from. . before.

‘Never thought I’d say this, pal, but you got anything ti’ eat? You ken me?’

‘You look well.’ He sighed so even Jock could hear it. ‘Despite all that whisky.’ There was an unmistakable edge of disappointment in the man’s voice. Jock mistook it for male bonding and began to wheeze with laughter as he tried to right himself once more.

‘Whisky? I was drinking whisky out mi ma’s teet.’ He cackled asthmatically, and followed this up with a prolonged hacking cough.

The man chuckled back at him and looked in his case. He took out the pouch of surgical instruments and a bottle of methanol and looked regretfully at them. ‘Well, I was saving these for a special occasion but as you’re so set on an early death, I can hardly refuse a guest, can I?’

‘Can yer fuck?’ Jock scrambled to his feet like an Olympic athlete now and scuttled towards the man’s voice, holding out a filthy hand to be guided on to the bottle.

The man unscrewed the lid, located Jock’s hand around the neck and watched as he took a mansize slug. ‘Drink hearty, my friend, and soon you can be reborn.’

Fourteen

Thursday, 26 May

Brook checked the address against Noble’s scribble and stepped from the car. It was a bright morning with just a hint of a chilled breeze. Terri had been fast asleep when Brook crept out of the door at seven and, an hour later, he stood outside Russell Thomson’s Brisbane Estate home — a small, dog-eared semi-detached with large wooden-framed windows that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in a while.

Brook had very little information on Yvette Thomson. She was a single mum, according to Alice Kennedy, and had been in Derby for only a few months. Alice hadn’t got to know her well and didn’t know what she did for a living, but she had heard that her son Russell had had problems with bullying, hence the move to a new college in the middle of the academic year.

Brook knocked on the rickety glass door and stepped back to look for signs of life. All the curtains and blinds were drawn. He knocked again and this time fished in his jacket for his mobile. Noble would still be in bed, having left the surveillance on Leopold Street a couple of hours previously. Brook painstakingly tapped out a text for him to organise a briefing for four o’clock and a press conference for six. He made sure the punctuation was correct then sent it on his way with a hefty depression of the thumb.

The noise of a window opening lifted Brook’s head.

‘That better not be you, Wilson,’ croaked a sleepy voice. ‘I’m on evenings this week.’

‘Mrs Thomson.’ Brook shielded his eyes and followed the voice to the upstairs window. He could make out only the shock of black hair hanging down over a face.

‘Oh, crap. Is this about the meter reading?’

Brook flashed his warrant card even though she wouldn’t see it. ‘Detective Inspector Brook,’ he added for good measure. ‘I’d like a word with your son.’

There was a shocked pause and some attempt to focus on Brook through the hair. ‘Rusty? Oh God, is he okay?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ began Brook.

‘What’s he been doing?’

‘He’s not in trouble, Mrs Thomson. I just need to speak to him.’

She nodded. ‘Okay. Catch.’ She jerked her hand and a set of keys fell towards Brook, who caught them before they hit the drive. ‘Let yourself in.’ The black hair disappeared only to reappear immediately. ‘And put the kettle on.’

Brook unlocked the front door which opened stiffly into a bare hall with a ubiquitous grey carpet that had seen better days. Unknown substances sucked at his shoes as he located and turned into the compact kitchen on