Deity

his old employers but it’s slow going.’

‘You mentioned pubs before.’

‘Right. He worked in five altogether, mainly as a grill chef or barman. The problem is pubs change hands, even breweries.’

‘They’re all local?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Gadd turned to the large map. ‘Three in the city centre. The Brunswick. .’

‘Forget the city, he’s isolated. Where else?’

She consulted her list, pointing at the map. ‘The Crewe and Harpur in Chellaston. Then he seems to be off the radar for a while. A year later he started at the Malt Shovel in Aston-onTrent. That was seven years ago.’

‘Aston-on-Trent — that’s only a mile from Shardlow Marina,’ said Brook. ‘Get over there and have a word.’

Gadd looked at her watch. ‘It’ll be after closing when we get there.’

‘Jane, right now I don’t care if you have to burn the landlord out to speak to him, we need a break.’ He sighed, suddenly aware of how tired he was. ‘Just get them to speak to you,’ he said kindly.

Noble watched Gadd and Smee leave and pulled out a cigarette. Brook took his jacket from the back of the chair. His eye was held by the image of Adele Watson, frozen in time on the monitor, wearing her white dress and smiling confidently into the camera at the start of her manifesto.

‘Adele looks like an angel,’ said Noble.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘You were right about her,’ continued Noble. ‘She was impressive. She does have a lot to say.’

Brook nodded. ‘Let’s hope there’s more to come.’

Noble lit up on the steps of the station as Brook’s phone began to vibrate. It was Terri.

‘Dad. When are you coming home?’

‘Terri, I know it’s late but I may not make it back tonight — things are hotting up here. Don’t wait up, okay?’

There was a pause. ‘Dad, I need you to come home.’

‘Terri, I-’

‘I need you to come home now.’

Brook paused. ‘What’s wrong?’

Another pause. ‘I’ve been depressed, Dad. About Tony. I’ve taken something. Pills.’

Brook pushed his face closer to the phone as if to be better heard. ‘Terri, listen to me. What have you taken?’

Again a pause. ‘I don’t know, but I had a lot of them. I don’t feel so good.’

By this time Noble had cottoned on to a problem and was also listening intently. ‘Terri, listen carefully. I want you to hang up and dial 999.’

Another pause. ‘I’ve called the ambulance, Dad, but I need you to come home.’

‘Okay, darling. I’m on my way.’ He covered his phone for a moment. ‘John. Can you see Fern on your own?’

‘She’ll keep,’ said Noble firmly. ‘I can drive you home.’

‘John, I’m fine. I’ll be quicker, I know the roads. Talk to Fern and let me know.’

Brook sprinted to his car and jumped in. He screeched away from the car park, speaking into his phone. ‘Darling, I’m here. Terri, I want you to stand up. If you can, walk around until the ambulance gets there. Make coffee. Whatever you do, don’t lie on your back.’

‘Why?’

Brook shook off an image of his daughter choking on her own vomit. ‘Just do it and stay awake. If you can, make yourself throw up. I’ll be there in half an hour.’ He threw the open phone on the passenger seat and slammed the BMW into a lower gear to make the lights next to the Radio Derby building. The black car hurtled along St Alkmund’s Way then Brook flung it sharp right on to Ashbourne Road, heading for home.

Gadd and Smee pulled on to the green in Aston-on-Trent and parked by the Malt Shovel. Once inside they strode to the near-empty bar, pulling out their warrant cards. The young barmaid eyed them uneasily.

‘We’ve stopped serving,’ she said before she saw their ID.

‘Is the landlord in?’

‘He’s on holiday. I’m the relief manager.’

Gadd and Smee exchanged a resigned glance. ‘Never mind.’ Gadd turned away but hesitated. ‘How long has the current landlord been in the pub?’

The barmaid smiled blankly. ‘No idea.’

‘Ten years,’ said a tarry voice from the far end of the bar belonging to an overweight, grey-whiskered old man, who wore a flat cap and straining woollen cardigan despite the warmth of the evening. ‘What’s Austin been up to? Watering the beer again?’

‘And you are, sir?’

‘Who wants to know?’ he demanded. Gadd thrust her ID in his face. ‘Name’s Sam,’ he muttered resentfully.

‘We’re trying to locate an ex-employee. Lee Smethwick.’

‘Lee Smethwick.’ Sam snorted. ‘I remember that weirdo, all right.’

‘You knew him?’ said Smee.

Sam blew out his cheeks. ‘Not so much to talk to, thank God. He was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. You’d finish your pint and you might be the only soul in the bar but he’d just stand there like some stuffed dummy, staring into space. When you finally got his attention, you’d think you’d disturbed a sleepwalker.’

‘He lived on a boat in Shardlow Marina but he’s missing,’ said Gadd. ‘Did he have any haunts that he mentioned, any special places he liked to go? Somewhere big and private, say.’

Sam glanced down at his nearly drained pint then meaningfully back up at Gadd.

‘It’s past closing,’ began Smee.

‘Can we get another pint over here?’ Gadd called to the relief manager. She hesitated over her glass-drying. ‘It’s okay. He’s a local,’ said Gadd, as though it were some new by-law.

‘Thanks,’ said Sam, taking a large pull on the freshly drawn pint, a minute later.

‘Well?’

Sam just sat there, smiling inscrutably.

‘What can you tell us?’ said Smee.

‘Feel a bit of a fraud, accepting your pint,’ he said chuckling. ‘See, he did voluntary work at the Village.’

‘The Village?’

‘Aston Hall Mental Hospital — but they called it the Village. Make it sound welcoming, I suppose. You can see it from the end of the road. Just a lot of empty buildings and broken windows now. They closed it six, seven year ago after the fire. Lee volunteered there then did the odd shift in here. You ask me, he should’ve been a patient.’

Brook skidded to a halt behind the bright green VW. No ambulance. No lights on. Maybe it had been and gone or worse, hadn’t arrived yet. As Brook hurried towards the cottage he heard the sound of an engine block cooling down. He put his hand on the VW. The engine was still warm. He tried the driver’s door but it was locked so he sprinted up to the darkened cottage and burst into the kitchen.

Peeping Tom. Directed in 1960 by Michael Powell, starring Carl Boehm as a serial killer who films people as they die. Cool.

Brook saw the red dot in the shadows and around that a sinister figure sitting at the kitchen table. In spite of the darkness, Brook saw the light.

‘What have you done with my daughter, Ray?’

Brook heard a low chuckle. He leaned back towards the door to snap on the light.