Steven Dunne - Deity

‘Enlighten me. Come on, let me in on the joke.’

Noble took a sip of tea. ‘How long is it since your transfer to Derby, sir?’

Brook looked briefly at the ceiling then back at Noble. ‘Six years?’

Noble shook his head in disbelief. ‘Eight — it’s eight years since you moved up from the Met and eight years we’ve worked together.’

Brook shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so. And you ask me whether you told me about Charlton trying to get you off the payroll.’

‘And did I?’

‘No, you didn’t. And if you had, it would have been the first time in those eight years that you told me anything that didn’t relate to a case. Everything else, every bit of gossip, every personal detail, I have to drag out of you. Sir.’

There was silence for a moment before Brook cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry. What do you want to know?’

‘We could begin with my question about Hendrickson.’ Brook sighed. ‘What should I do? Tear a strip off him?’

‘It’s a start.’

‘He never says anything that would look insubordinate on paper.’ Brook rubbed a hand on his forehead. ‘And frankly, I don’t care enough about what he thinks. Or Charlton. Or Pullin. As long as you’re okay with me, John, I can handle the rest. Or have I misread that situation too?’

‘No, you haven’t,’ said Noble. ‘It took a while, mind, and it’s only because I work with you day in, day out. I thought the same as everyone else when you first arrived. Toffee-nosed Londoner — you know what, lording it over us yokels.’

‘What changed your mind?’

Noble narrowed his eyes in thought. ‘Seriously — you have no ego, no agenda. You don’t care about the politics or furthering your career.’

‘I must care about my career if I resisted early retirement,’ reasoned Brook.

‘Oh, you care that you have a job to keep you busy, and you care that it’s done properly. But you’re not concerned about promotion or getting in the papers or a pat on the back from Brass. The only important thing to you is the case. That’s your strength.’

Brook smiled sadly. ‘I sense there’s a but coming.’

‘You sure you want to hear this?’

‘I’m a big boy, John.’

‘Okay. Your strength is also your weakness. You don’t care, full stop. You understand the work, the hunt, the detection — but you don’t care about the people you work with. That’s a weakness in their eyes and it makes your job harder because nobody is willing to put themselves out for you. So you’ve only got yourself to blame for the contempt people like Hendrickson show you.’

Brook looked up at Noble as though about to object, but he remained silent. Then: ‘That sounds like a terrible weakness,’ he answered softly.

‘It would be unforgivable except for one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The person you care about least is yourself.’

Brook nodded after a few moments of contemplation. ‘Thank you for your honesty. I can’t argue with any of that. You’re right, I tolerate the contempt. It’s the price I have to pay.’

‘To pay for what?’

Again Brook paused. ‘Keeping the blinkers on.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘You’re not making this easy, are you?’ Brook took another sip of tea. ‘It means that I’m so clueless about all that stuff people do to maintain relationships that it’s simpler just to opt out.’

‘What stuff?’

‘Small talk. Conversations about nothing, feigning an interest where there is none.’

‘It’s what normal people do to get by, sir.’ Noble searched for the right words. ‘Is this something to do with your. . thing?’

‘Mental breakdown, John. Never be afraid to use the correct vocabulary.’

‘Is it?’

‘It was a long time ago.’ Brook stood and walked across the room to look out of the window. ‘But, yes. Indirectly.’

‘How?’

Brook turned to face Noble. ‘Keeping control over the things that might threaten my state of mind means excluding distractions.’

‘Like remembering people’s names.’

‘It’s not deliberate, Jim.’ Brook apologised with a raised hand. ‘Not funny. Sorry. But — it’s hard to explain. Some days it’s like walking along a tiny ledge on a high cliff or across a tightrope strung between tall buildings. You need to concentrate. Always.’

‘On what?’

Brook uttered a half-laugh. ‘On not concentrating. On weeding out everything I don’t need to know.’

Noble nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you think if you have a conversation about the weather you might miss your next step on the ledge.’

Brook shrugged. ‘Something like that.’

‘Then why don’t you explain that to-’ Noble’s mobile phone broke the mood.

‘Saved by the Crazy Frog,’ said Brook under his breath.

Noble listened intently. ‘Where?’ He rang off to fix his eyes on Brook. ‘Shardlow Gravel Pit. We’ve got another body.’

‘I assume these are manmade,’ said Brook, gesturing at the flooded gravel pit.

‘So Keith Pullin says.’

‘How many are there?’

‘A lot,’ answered Noble. ‘There’s a labyrinth of other small roads criss-crossing the site under the A50. They dig out a pit, abandon it and then it floods.’

‘CCTV?’

‘Only at the main gate. Other access roads like the one behind us might have a barrier which is usually closed at night but they don’t lose sleep over gravel thieves. Even locals can get lost in here.’

‘Get what CCTV they have and a list of employees just the same. A body dump requires a vehicle.’

Noble nodded then pulled out his cigarettes and put one in his mouth. He held the packet out to Brook, who looked longingly at the contents.

‘I’ve given up, John,’ he said unconvincingly.

Noble held the pack steady. ‘Help you concentrate. It’s a long way down.’

‘That it is,’ Brook agreed. He took a cigarette and accepted the light from Noble’s cupped hand. He coughed up the first life-affirming lungful of smoke with a roll of his eyes to the heavens, oblivious to the late afternoon traffic screaming past on the sunbaked A50 a dozen yards away, hurtling towards Stoke in the west or the M1 and East Midlands Airport to the east.

Brook was broken from his tobacco reverie by the noise of a diver splashing to the surface of the flooded pit some sixty yards away. The diver thrust up a thumb at his partner in the dinghy who turned to start the small winch at the rear of the boat. The thin steel line tightened under its load but gradually began to wind up while the diver in the water put his head under to check progress.

At the water’s edge, Keith Pullin kept his eye on proceedings and Brook heard the indecipherable crackle of the radio attached to the breast pocket of his field vest. Pullin leaned into his shoulder to listen.

‘Copy that,’ said Pullin. For good measure, he raised an arm to his colleague in the boat before turning away from the opaque water to organise a body bag and PVC sheeting from the Support van. He squelched towards Brook and Noble, both standing on higher ground to keep their feet dry.

‘Any idea if it’s the same MO?’ asked Brook, as Pullin passed. ‘Keith.’

Pullin looked at Brook with restrained amusement. ‘Hard to tell, Inspector. Bob reckons this one’s been in a lot longer.’

‘Then why isn’t the body floating?’ asked Noble.

‘Maybe it’s weighed down.’

‘Or maybe it has no organs and intestines,’ offered Brook.

‘That would nullify a lot of the body gases, aye.’ Pullin was impressed, in spite of himself. ‘No flies on you, Inspector.’

‘There might be when we get the remains ashore,’ said Brook, taking another loving puff on his cigarette.