Sergeant Harry Hendrickson, a curmudgeonly old desk jockey in uniform branch, had taken a peek at his file and gleefully reported the facts to anyone who’d listen. And when Noble had drawn the short straw and been assigned to work with Brook, everyone had sympathised with him.
But then The Reaper had struck in Derby, slaughtering two families in their own homes, and Noble had found himself in the eye of the hurricane. At close quarters, Noble was able to observe Brook’s extraordinary skills as a detective, in addition to the toll such a high-profile investigation took on him — especially as The Reaper remained at large.
‘Eight years,’ mumbled Noble, thinking back over their shared history. ‘I deserve a medal.’ He smiled at a memory of his early years working with Brook and his fruitless attempts to get to know him. He’d found out pretty quickly that Brook didn’t do small talk, on or off a case. Unlike most people, Brook never mentioned his past and never spoke about his private life. And just to maintain consistency, he’d never enquired about the lives of his new colleagues in return.
At first, Noble had felt awkward during the silences and would instigate conversation, mentioning something topical from the news or the TV. But he’d quickly learned to expect a blank expression from Brook and soon gave up trying, realising that many of the events that people used as common currency in conversation were completely unknown to Brook. He just wasn’t interested and often didn’t speak at all unless it was required. Even his daily greeting consisted of little more than a nod.
As a consequence, people thought Brook cold and distant, sometimes downright rude, especially those who rarely had a chance to work with him. It didn’t help that Brook wouldn’t attend official functions, didn’t socialise or go to parties, didn’t even go to pubs as far as Noble was aware — not with colleagues, at least — even after a big case had been cracked.
More often than not he’d turn up to work, do his job then just wander off after his shift to his little cottage in Hartington where he
Other aspects of Brook’s life were still as unknown as the day they’d first met. He didn’t seem to have a sex life, certainly not one that involved relationships, though there were rumours he’d had a fling with a WPC a few years back. That, and the fact that Brook was divorced with a twenty-year-old daughter meant he probably wasn’t gay — a conclusion his home furnishings would seem to support.
Not that Noble had ever been to Brook’s cottage: he’d never been invited. But just before his move out to the Peak District, Brook had lived in a grubby rented flat off the Uttoxeter Road in central Derby, and Noble had been forced to call round when Brook had been suspended. To his astonishment, Noble had discovered that his DI was living in the sort of hovel normally associated with squatters or junkies. No garden, no oven, no computer, not even a TV.
And yet, despite an unpromising start to their working relationship, their partnership had begun to flourish and a mutual respect had developed. Unknown to most, Brook generously underplayed his own role in an enquiry, going out of his way to give credit to subordinates for breakthroughs. And, although some colleagues persisted in thinking Brook arrogant, Noble had found the opposite to be true. Brook seemed to have no ego at all. He made absolutely no effort to make himself more popular and didn’t seem to care what people thought of him. Consequently, he was deeply disliked and even hated in some parts of the Division, the more so because he was such a damn good detective.
Further, Noble had discovered that Brook had a dark but undeniable sense of humour, dry and cutting and, what’s more, would actively encourage Noble to make fun of superior officers.
Perhaps the only thing that everyone admired about Brook was the hard moral position he took about police work and how it should be conducted. And if anyone deviated from his position, even his superiors, Brook was quick to take them to task. He had got himself into trouble several times for criticising Chief Superintendent Charlton to his face for his failure to see the value of a line of enquiry or for putting budgetary constraints above the correct course of action on a case.
Noble took a last pull on his cigarette and threw it in the same puddle as the first.
Brook clambered into the driver’s seat, pushing in the cigarette lighter out of habit. He closed his dry eyes to ease the sting of too little sleep and happily lost consciousness almost immediately.
He woke to the sound of Noble tapping on his window and stepped out of the car. Only ten minutes had passed yet he felt refreshed. The sun was higher now and Brook was able to walk across the drying ground, placing his damp feet with more confidence. They walked towards the still scowling Pullin and the other two Scientific Support Officers in their protective clothing, as they worked around the corpse, now laid out on a plastic sheet. Brook and Noble pulled on their protective gloves as they approached the pale cadaver, face up and completely naked.
‘No clothing,’ observed Brook.
‘Unlikely to be an angler then,’ retorted Noble with a wry grin.
‘A missing angler would have been reported,’ said Pullin, missing the joke. ‘This bloke’s been in the water a couple of days, I’d say. Any longer an’ he’d have started to bloat from the body gases. Could be an accident, could be suicide.’
‘Not usual for a suicide to undress,’ answered Brook.
‘Not unknown either,’ snapped back Pullin, ready to take further offence.
‘Anyone looking for clothes along the banks?’
‘We’ve got a couple of people walking upriver. Nothing yet.’
‘Where’s he gone in?’ asked Noble. ‘The bridge?’
‘That’s favourite,’ replied Brook.
‘Any clothes on the bridge?’
‘Not a stitch, Sergeant,’ said Pullin. ‘But if it was a couple of days ago, maybe someone moved them. Still, he must have gone in the water nearby. There’s a weir a quarter mile up there.’ He indicated west with a nod of his head. ‘And the river’s not swollen this spring, so he’s not come downriver from the city centre or he’d have been caught on the barrier.’
‘So he’s definitely gone in between here and the weir,’ nodded Noble, looking round at the bridge.
There was a crackle on Pullin’s radio. He listened for a second then replied, ‘Okay, work your way back. Keep looking.’ He turned to Brook. ‘My people are at the weir. No abandoned fishing gear. No sign of clothing.’
‘He’s not going to travel here naked,’ said Brook. ‘And if he’s a suicide, in my experience, he wouldn’t undress without leaving his clothes where they could be found, maybe with a note in the pocket
‘Goodbye cruel world,’ added Noble.
‘Okay, so maybe not a suicide,’ conceded Pullin.
‘Could be a skinny-dipper,’ offered one of the ambulance crew.
‘A swimmer?’ Brook looked down at the bleached corpse then bent to look at the deceased’s hands. They were open and empty. ‘No, he’s not a swimmer or a suicide for that matter. His hands are wrong.’ He looked back to the bridge.
‘The hands?’ asked Noble.
‘I’ve seen a couple of drownings, John. Even suicides jumping into the water will try and grab hold of something when they go under. They can’t help it. It’s a reflex.’
‘He’s right,’ Pullin said reluctantly. ‘Their hands usually clench tight with the effort to hold on to something. Any-one drowning in a river will have stones or weeds locked in their fists.’
‘And this guy’s hands are open.’ Noble nodded.
‘Is this even a swimming spot?’ asked Brook, darting a look at Pullin.
‘Hell, no. Far too dangerous,’ replied Pullin. ‘The current’s not slow and the bank’s too steep to be sure of getting out. Even kids won’t risk it.’
‘Someone might if they were drunk,’ added Noble.
‘But they’d still be able to struggle and grab on to things in the water,’ said Brook.
‘Maybe he dived off the bridge for a swim and was knocked unconscious,’ ventured Noble. ‘He wouldn’t be
