Insects, crickets and cicadas set the rhythm, accompanied by the birds who hunted them. The hoot of owls was familiar, watching for the scurry of rodents. Other calls, cries, warnings and death rattles he didn’t recognise but the performance filled him with awe nonetheless — the cacophony of the forest as it lived and died. And all the time the damp smell of the timber filled his lungs, with an aroma unsurpassed by the sweetest perfumes as the ageless woodland exhaled all around him.
He wasn’t sure how long he stood there in the night, composing himself for the task ahead, but it was difficult to pull away.
Eventually he flicked on his flashlight and started his walk to the forest at the edge of the tarmac. He could have driven onto the dirt track that wound its way through the trees but he couldn’t chance being heard. And if the ground was soft he would have run the risk of leaving an impression of his tyres. As usual he’d thought of everything.
As he set off, a pair of eyes shone back at him, but the animal wasn’t curious enough to stare for long and skittered away through the undergrowth. The distinctive three-note whistle of the Mountain Chickadee sounded nearby as it prepared to dip and dive for flying insects, but the man was now oblivious to all but the work in hand.
He walked steadily with the flashlight in one hand, drink in the other. It wasn’t the city terrain he was accustomed to and he found it hard going at first until he hit his stride. Twenty minutes of steady progress along the track brought the man to a clearing at the top of a small rise from which he could see a building next to the highway, bathed in moonlight below. He doused his light. The track he stood on wound back into the forest and took a leisurely and sinuous course that would eventually bring it out behind the main road. Before that though, the man could see a light from a house set back from the road — this was his destination.
Having recovered his breath, he made for the light. A few yards further on, however, he stopped. Another track, overgrown and near undetectable, wound its way off into the trees and would have been of no interest had the man not spotted a dark patch a few yards further along it. He edged closer and bent over the stain, flicked his flashlight on and touched it with his fingers. It was oil. He peered down the track as best he could. As his eyes adjusted to the blackness, he fancied he could make out two lines on the ground that might have been flatter than the rest of the vegetation. He hesitated briefly, then crept along the track into the darkness.
A few moments later the track widened out into a flat and well-tended clearing, completely surrounded by high walls of rock and dense foliage. It was deathly quiet in this sheltered bowl and unnaturally hot. The man’s recently shaved head began to itch in the heat. He guessed that this might once have been a disused quarry or part of an opencast mine. But interesting though the geography might be, what drew the man’s immediate attention was the line of vehicles parked along the far rock wall. There were eight different vehicles in various stages of decay, from vaguely roadworthy down to rusted hulks, and, from what he could see, all were some kind of motor home. The newest he recognised — a bright yellow VW camper — and its tyre tracks were still visible across the well turned soil.
The man closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Something brushed his cheek and he opened his eyes at once. He shivered now, despite the heat. Maybe it had been a flying insect or a bird’s wing because no foliage hung nearby. Maybe. What he couldn’t explain was the sensation he’d felt, like the scrunch of long fingernails dragging across his day-old beard and, more, the distant scent of a woman’s perfume hanging on the still air.
He turned the light back on and moved closer to the line of vehicles, stopping at the VW camper. His flashlight followed a line of five faint scratches along the side of the bodywork, travelling from the door handle back towards the rear door. The man shone his light quickly at the spot on the ground where the marks ended, cupping his hand over the beam to limit its visibility. A long painted fingernail, twisted and torn from its digit, lay on the ground — and beside it were more scratchings in the ground. He stared intently at the earth, which was firmer here.
‘HELP,’ he read. After a few minutes, he turned and made his way back to the main track.
Chapter Four
‘A new book released today offers a chilling insight into the horrifying events of two years ago when the serial killer known as The Reaper struck in the Derby suburb of Drayfin. The family of Robert Wallis were subjected to a brutal attack in their home which left both parents and their eleven-year-old daughter, Kylie, dead. All the victims had been drugged and their throats cut. The only survivors were teenage son Jason, who was out of the house that night, and baby daughter Bianca, who was there but was spared.
‘Brian Burton, crime correspondent at the
‘I covered this case from the start, Rose, and I felt it was important to share with the people of Derbyshire, and hopefully beyond, some of the reasons why this terrifying killer struck in our city and also to highlight some of the mistakes that have allowed this butcher to remain at large.’
‘In your book, Brian, you’re very critical of Derbyshire CID. Can you tell us why?’
‘I don’t think there’s been nearly enough analysis of what went wrong during the Wallis investigation and I hope the book sheds new light onto what more could have been done.’
‘You’re talking about the roles played by Detective Inspector Damen Brook and Chief Superintendent Evelyn McMaster.’
‘It’s no secret that I’ve been critical, particularly about Inspector Brook, whose competence for the investigation I questioned at the time. I think Superintendent McMaster’s main failing was not realising that DI Brook’s capacity to catch The Reaper was seriously in question. Her subsequent failure to remove him from the investigation showed a profound lack of judgement. But at least Evelyn McMaster paid the penalty for her failings and has since left her post. One of the most galling aspects of this case, in my opinion, is that the chief architect of the police’s dismal inability to catch, or even identify a suspect, is still in the Force.’
‘Why do you say DI Brook was unfit to run The Reaper investigation?’
‘Well, you have to go back to the history of The Reaper, which I cover in the book. The first documented Reaper killing was in 1990 in North London. The family of Sammy Elphick were murdered in their home in Harlesden. The killings were highly ritualistic, with messages written in blood on the wall, something that is a distinctive characteristic of all the Reaper killings. Again both parents and a young child were slaughtered. And perhaps even more startling was that, once again, DI Brook was on the case.’
‘To be fair, he was only a Detective Sergeant at the time though, wasn’t he, Brian?’
‘That’s true. But as you’ll see in the book, my research shows his superior, DI Charlie Rowlands, left the day- to-day running of the investigation to Brook. And in Harlesden, just as in Derby, no witnesses were found and no suspects were identified. Not one, even though DS Brook was on the case for more than a year, by which time a second family had also been killed — Floyd Wrigley, a petty but violent offender and heroin addict, his common-law wife and his young daughter Tamara. This time the killings took place in Brixton in South London and all three had their throats slashed.’
‘Returning to your book, Brian, you also allege that a mental breakdown suffered by Brook shortly after the Brixton murders in 1991 was no more than a smokescreen for removing him from the case.’
‘That’s right. By then I think the penny must have dropped and Brook was axed from the inquiry. And what many in the Derbyshire constabulary have personally complained to me about is that an officer who was patently unfit for duty in London should then be transferred to Derby. To me, and others, that sends the message that Derbyshire’s a second-class county. And, of course, what better place for The Reaper to strike than a city policed by a man who has already failed to catch him twice? And that’s exactly what happened. The Drayfin killings in Derby remain unsolved and The Reaper remains at large.’
‘But DI Brook was removed from that investigation at an early stage.’
