‘How should I know? Probably the same as you,’ she spat. ‘A two-minute quickie.’
Poole looked daggers at her as he zipped his shiny tracksuit top to the neck. ‘That was at least five, you cow. I looked at the clock. Is it really Inspector Brook?’
‘See for yourself. That’s his BMW.’
Poole crawled to the window. The knocking on the door sounded again. ‘Shit. I’d better go.’
‘Should I ring Alice and tell her you’re on your way?’
Poole darted back from the bedroom door and grabbed her by the throat. ‘Listen, you fucking whore, you go near my Alice and the game’s up for you — and then there’ll be a lot more coppers than Inspector Brook out there. Understand?
She nodded as best she could and Poole loosened his grip. Yvette massaged her neck and got her breath back as Poole darted out of the bedroom and down the stairs to the back door. He slipped out quietly and hopped over the fence at the back and scuttled away into the night.
Ten minutes later, Len arrived back at his car. The cul-desac was in darkness and he flicked at his key fob to unlock his car. The light in the cab of his Jaguar came on and Poole jumped on to the cracked leather of the driver’s seat, enjoying the tackiness of recent conquest along his inner thigh. Mental or not, that bitch certainly knew all the buttons to push. He grinned at his reflection in the rearview mirror but, as he glanced back towards the ignition, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and looked back to the mirror to see a yellow-toothed grin flashing at him from the back seat.
Brook watched the light go out in Yvette’s bedroom. He knocked one more time then returned to his car with his laptop. Maybe it was for the best. It had kept this long; it could keep for another night. He sent a text to Noble to prepare the ground for the next morning and set off through the estate towards the A52 for the drive to Alstonefield, the picturesque village about ten minutes from Brook’s home in Hartington.
Thirty-five minutes later, Brook banged on the door of a small stone barn on the outskirts of the village. He hadn’t needed the address given him by DS Morton, because Rifkind’s sleek black Porsche, sitting on the flagged drive, had been visible from the main road. Brook inspected it as he waited. No answer. He knocked again and stepped back to look for a light. The place was in darkness — no sign of life.
‘Mr Rifkind, I’m not a reporter, it’s DI Brook. I know you’re in there. I have a warrant for your computer and mobile phone.’ Still no answer. ‘If I have to come back we’ll be breaking down the door.’
He traipsed back to his car, defeated. Rifkind’s wife had obviously called him to expect a visit and he wasn’t about to surrender his precious computer without a struggle.
Ten minutes later, near exhaustion, Brook dragged himself from his car and almost sleepwalked his way into his own dark cottage.
‘Terri!’
No answer. No Terri. When he flicked on the kitchen light he saw the note.
Brook sighed and looked at his watch. It was past eleven o’clock. He was starving and his evening meal wasn’t on the table. ‘It’s just not good enough,’ he said, and smiled.
He left the cottage to walk down the hill to the village but caught sight of the pair staggering, arm-in-arm, back up the hill. He returned to the cottage and poured himself a glass of red from an open bottle then looked in the fridge. There was a bowl of cooked pasta from a few nights before. Brook gratefully swallowed three spoonfuls before the front door opened and Terri, singing badly out of tune, fell in.
‘Mr Brook, you’re here,’ said Ray, helping Terri to a chair. He stood awkwardly, the baseball cap still glued back to front over his bleach-blond head.
‘Actually it’s Detective Inspector,’ Brook replied tersely.
Terri squinted up in his direction ‘Dad. You’re here. Just in time for a drink.’
‘You’ve had enough,’ said Brook and Ray in unison.
Terri’s head swayed between the pair of them, trying to focus. ‘Don’t be so mean,’ she said. ‘It’s a celebration,’ she smirked before hiccuping. ‘Oops.’
‘She needs to get to bed, sir — Detective Inspector, I mean.’
‘Give me a hand, will you?’
Ray helped Brook hoist the mumbling Terri towards the sofa in the living room and place her down as gently as they could. She lost consciousness before they laid her out and Brook took off her shoes before ushering Ray back to the kitchen. Brook picked up Terri’s handbag and helped himself to a much-needed cigarette.
‘Is this your idea of a good time, Ray?’ he said, opening the front door to exhale. ‘Taking my daughter out and getting her drunk.’
‘Sir, honestly, we’ve had a great day out on the hills and I’m whipped. I tried to leave three hours ago but Terri wasn’t budging and. . I couldn’t just leave her there.’
After a moment, Brook nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Thanks for staying with her.’
‘No problem, sir. Where did your daughter learn to drink like that?’
Brook stopped raising the glass of wine to his lips and returned it guiltily to the kitchen table. ‘She didn’t get it from me.’
Ray smiled. ‘It’s okay. I’ve. . er, had the full version at the Duke. And so has half the village, I’m afraid.’
‘That bad?’
‘That bad,’ echoed Ray. ‘And don’t get me started on her swearing.’ He shook his head. ‘Terri’s a great girl, sir, but she’s certainly got. . issues.’
‘Issues,’ repeated Brook, risking a Methodist’s sip at his wine. He scraped back a chair and sat down. ‘Take a seat, Ray.’
Ray sat, rather reluctantly.
‘Drink?’
‘No thanks, I’m driving.’ He looked hesitantly at Brook. ‘Who’s Tony?’
Brook looked up from his glass, wondering if this was ground he wanted to cover. He decided to keep it simple. ‘Someone Terri got close to,’ he said after a moment. ‘He died.’
‘So I gather. Tel took it hard, didn’t she? It can’t have been easy.’
Brook declined to comment but took a larger gulp of wine.
‘She’s lucky to have you though, sir. You’re her hero.’
‘Hero!’ exclaimed Brook. He looked into his wine glass. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t seen her for five years.’
Ray shrugged. ‘You’re her father, sir. You’ll always be her hero. That’s how it works.’ He scraped his chair back against the slate floor. ‘I must be off. Work tomorrow.’
‘I thought it was half-term.’
‘It is, but essays don’t write themselves.’
Brook stood to see him out. ‘Got any tattoos, Ray?’
‘Tattoos? Not really my thing, I’m afraid. In my opinion, they’re for people who don’t have any personality. They get a tattoo so they’ll have something to talk about. Why?’
Brook smiled and held out his hand to shake Ray’s. ‘No reason.’
Twenty-Four
Brook fiddled with the strap of his laptop case as he looked up at Yvette’s bedroom window. The curtains were drawn. He checked his watch and knocked loudly on the glass door. After five minutes of rhythmic knocking, Brook heard footfalls and the door finally opened.
