Steven Dunne - Deity

‘S’why a cannae fuckin’ see.’ He heard a rasping cough far away, the echo sounding around the white-tiled walls. Jock strained towards the source of the noise. ‘Zat you, pal?’ He saw movement as someone carrying a torch entered and walked towards him, stopping at one of the slabs. He heard a clicking sound and saw it came from a battered old case being set down and unlocked. ‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s me,’ said the voice he recognised from. . before.

‘Never thought I’d say this, pal, but you got anything ti’ eat? You ken me?’

‘You look well.’ He sighed so even Jock could hear it. ‘Despite all that whisky.’ There was an unmistakable edge of disappointment in the man’s voice. Jock mistook it for male bonding and began to wheeze with laughter as he tried to right himself once more.

‘Whisky? I was drinking whisky out mi ma’s teet.’ He cackled asthmatically, and followed this up with a prolonged hacking cough.

The man chuckled back at him and looked in his case. He took out the pouch of surgical instruments and a bottle of methanol and looked regretfully at them. ‘Well, I was saving these for a special occasion but as you’re so set on an early death, I can hardly refuse a guest, can I?’

‘Can yer fuck?’ Jock scrambled to his feet like an Olympic athlete now and scuttled towards the man’s voice, holding out a filthy hand to be guided on to the bottle.

The man unscrewed the lid, located Jock’s hand around the neck and watched as he took a mansize slug. ‘Drink hearty, my friend, and soon you can be reborn.’

Thursday, 26 May

Brook checked the address against Noble’s scribble and stepped from the car. It was a bright morning with just a hint of a chilled breeze. Terri had been fast asleep when Brook crept out of the door at seven and, an hour later, he stood outside Russell Thomson’s Brisbane Estate home — a small, dog-eared semi-detached with large wooden-framed windows that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in a while.

Brook had very little information on Yvette Thomson. She was a single mum, according to Alice Kennedy, and had been in Derby for only a few months. Alice hadn’t got to know her well and didn’t know what she did for a living, but she had heard that her son Russell had had problems with bullying, hence the move to a new college in the middle of the academic year.

Brook knocked on the rickety glass door and stepped back to look for signs of life. All the curtains and blinds were drawn. He knocked again and this time fished in his jacket for his mobile. Noble would still be in bed, having left the surveillance on Leopold Street a couple of hours previously. Brook painstakingly tapped out a text for him to organise a briefing for four o’clock and a press conference for six. He made sure the punctuation was correct then sent it on his way with a hefty depression of the thumb.

The noise of a window opening lifted Brook’s head.

‘That better not be you, Wilson,’ croaked a sleepy voice. ‘I’m on evenings this week.’

‘Mrs Thomson.’ Brook shielded his eyes and followed the voice to the upstairs window. He could make out only the shock of black hair hanging down over a face.

‘Oh, crap. Is this about the meter reading?’

Brook flashed his warrant card even though she wouldn’t see it. ‘Detective Inspector Brook,’ he added for good measure. ‘I’d like a word with your son.’

There was a shocked pause and some attempt to focus on Brook through the hair. ‘Rusty? Oh God, is he okay?’

‘It’s nothing like that,’ began Brook.

‘What’s he been doing?’

‘He’s not in trouble, Mrs Thomson. I just need to speak to him.’

She nodded. ‘Okay. Catch.’ She jerked her hand and a set of keys fell towards Brook, who caught them before they hit the drive. ‘Let yourself in.’ The black hair disappeared only to reappear immediately. ‘And put the kettle on.’

Brook unlocked the front door which opened stiffly into a bare hall with a ubiquitous grey carpet that had seen better days. Unknown substances sucked at his shoes as he located and turned into the compact kitchen on the left and snapped on the kettle, which was full. A cafetiere stood nearby. It already contained fresh coffee grounds and there was a small gift card still attached to the handle. It read, Pour Eve. Merci, Phil .

Brook located the coffee jar and added another spoonful, then unearthed another mug from a cupboard. It contained four cups in total — all from different sets. Brook smiled. There was even a jam jar.

When the kettle boiled, Brook filled the cafetiere and opened the fridge. The only food was a half-full takeaway carton, a quarter of melon and a packet of butter. Brook plucked the milk from the door and made the coffee. He took a sip and opened another cupboard which was empty apart from three wine glasses.

‘Do you have a search warrant, Inspector?’

Brook turned. Yvette Thomson stood at the door. She was about three inches shorter than his six feet, slender but with a full figure that strained against her snug white T-shirt. She was strikingly pretty and could’ve passed for late twenties but Brook knew, with an eighteen-year-old son, she had to be early thirties, at least.

She grinned suddenly at Brook’s discomfort and her face lit up. ‘Sorry.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve been watching too much Law and Order . Coffee! You angel.’ She grabbed her mug, took a lingering mouthful and moaned with pleasure.

‘Sorry to get you up this early, Mrs Thomson,’ said Brook. ‘I thought I’d catch you and Russell before you went to work.’

‘It’s Miss, though I’d prefer Yvette. And you could have given it another six hours.’ She yawned. ‘I’m working behind the bar at the Mermaid at the moment. It helps pay the rent while I study.’

She seemed in no hurry to enquire about his visit so Brook dredged up some more small talk. ‘What are you studying?’

‘I’m doing a course in Beauty Therapy at Derby College,’ she replied.

‘It seems to be working,’ said Brook, for something to say.

She smiled at him and took another sip of coffee. ‘I’ve missed a lot of the course actually — didn’t start until November.’

‘Must be tough moving during the academic year, especially for your son.’

Yvette considered Brook from behind her cup. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘I need to ask Russell a few questions. Is he here?’

‘Sorry. Rusty’s hardly ever at home.’

‘Pity. Who’s Wilson?’

Yvette Thomson rolled her eyes. ‘Oh my God — one of Rusty’s mates at the college.’ She looked away briefly. ‘By mates, I mean fellow students. Rusty doesn’t make friends easily.’

‘And were you expecting him?’

‘Wilson? No, but he keeps popping round, asking if I need any jobs doing. Well, it’s a rented house so I’m not about to embark on home improvements, but that doesn’t stop him asking. It was sweet at first,’ she said, ‘but it can get on your nerves. Apparently, he thinks I’m a MILF.’

Brook emitted a one-note laugh. ‘I hate to say it, but I know what that is.’

‘So do I,’ she answered. ‘A girl at college told Rusty it means Mums I Like Fine. Poor Rusty — so smart, yet so naive.’

‘He’s meeting girls at least.’

‘Adele? She’s waa-aaa-ay out of his league.’

‘You’re referring to Adele Watson, I assume,’ said Brook. ‘She was at a party with Russell at the weekend.’

Yvette gulped back her coffee and narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that what this is about?’ She put a hand to her brow. ‘Shit, he’s not been filming people without permission again, has he? I should never have bought him that bloody camcorder.’