Steven Dunne - Deity

‘She wrote Miranda in a Poe anthology left in her room.’

‘Oh, she’s the main character in a film we started watching last week. There’s a version of a quote from Poe at the start. Typical of Adele to pick up on that.’

‘ Picnic at Hanging Rock ?’

‘Right. In fact, Adele and a few others were so taken with it they stayed through lunch to watch the rest.’

‘Others?’

‘Fern, Becky, Kyle and Rusty.’ Rifkind’s mouth fell open. ‘Oh my God.’

‘And what happens to Miranda — in the film?’

Rifkind was puzzled for a moment then said, ‘She disappears.’

Brook nodded. ‘Did Adele suggest watching it?’

‘Er, no, it was Rusty, Russell Thomson. He’s the film buff. Otherwise Wilson would’ve had us watching Saw IV .’

‘Wilson Woodrow?’

‘That’s right.’ Rifkind managed a smile at last. ‘Not the sharpest knife in the box. There was a row about it and Wilson stormed out after having a go at Kyle.’

‘Why did he have a go at Kyle?’

‘Why do bullies have a go at anyone?’ Rifkind shrugged. ‘Anyway, it was Rusty’s turn to choose so we watched Picnic .’

‘I see. One final thing — which way to the Principal’s office?’ Rifkind’s face fell. Brook smiled, but this time felt a twinge of guilt. ‘I’ll need to inform him or her about the inquiry.’

Brook dropped Yvette Thomson back at her house only when he was sure she was okay. She had no relatives and few acquaintances who could stay with her, and she spurned any attempt by Brook to get a FLO to stay with her. Instead, Brook took her phone number and promised to call round at the earliest opportunity.

He paused over the next question. ‘Have you something with Russell’s DNA on it? A comb maybe.’

She looked at the floor. ‘In case you find. .’ Then: ‘No, he doesn’t use a comb.’

‘It’s just procedure,’ said Brook hastily. ‘Nothing to worry about, only I noticed there was only one toothbrush in the bathroom.’

She looked at him curiously for a second then bounded up the stairs. She returned empty-handed. ‘It’s my new one. Rusty’s toothbrush has gone.’

‘Maybe that’s a good sign,’ said Brook quietly.

Her face brightened. ‘Yes.’

‘Never mind. It’s possible Forensics will find something in his room, if you could keep it locked. .’

Brook pulled the BMW on to Leopold Street a little after midday and walked into the bare outer office of the funeral parlour. He pushed a button on the counter then turned to look at the derelict house across the road. Everything seemed quiet.

A tall, stooped man glided from beyond a curtain with a sympathetic smile already fixed on his face. He looked up and down Brook’s physique in a flash. Slab happy .

‘Welcome to Duxbury and Duxbury. I’m Lionel Duxbury. How may I be of service?’ he asked in a voice of pure treacle.

Brook held his warrant card in front of the man’s hooked nose. He gazed balefully at it.

‘Inspector Brook. Why, yes, we currently offer a ten per cent discount for all members of the emergency services — even the ambulance crews and paramedics who attempt to whittle away at our profit margins.’ He allowed himself a self-congratulatory simper. ‘Your loved one would be in good hands for the final journey.’

‘I’m only interested in the corpses you process.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t cater for such appetites.’

‘Knock it off. You were contacted a few days ago by DS Morton, Derby CID, about recent employee turnover.’

Duxbury screwed his small eyes towards the ceiling. ‘We were?’

‘You were. We’re looking for somebody who may have worked for a funeral parlour as an undertaker or mortician.’

‘May have?’ enquired Duxbury.

‘Maybe he still does. His name might be Oz or Ozzy.’

Duxbury took a sharp intake of breath and tried to disguise it. Then he said weakly, ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Funny, if that bell in your head had rung much louder, I’d need ear plugs.’

Duxbury looked at Brook but said nothing. Brook just waited — it would come.

‘Someone’s complained?’

As no one had complained, Brook raised an eyebrow. What do you think? ‘What’s he done now?’ asked Duxbury eventually.

‘Just tell me who and where he is.’

‘About a year ago Oz worked for us for two weeks as a hearse driver.’

‘Not to work on the bodies?’

‘No. We had an illness and were shorthanded so I reluctantly took him on.’

‘But you let him go.’

‘Two weeks later. We had to. He wouldn’t give us a National Insurance number, kept asking for cash in hand. Well, payroll were having none of that, obviously.’

‘So you don’t have an address?’

‘No. He kept promising us his details but we never got them.’

‘Full name?’

‘Ozzy Reece.’

‘Description?’

‘Well-built, about forty, brown eyes, cropped hair.’

‘Any tattoos, distinguishing marks?’

‘I never saw anything.’

‘Local accent?’

Duxbury nodded. ‘I think so. But maybe from further north. He could be quite broad sometimes.’

‘You said you didn’t get an address.’

‘No, but I think he lived near Shardlow.’

Brook looked up sharply from his notebook ‘Why Shardlow?’

‘He must have mentioned it once.’

‘Did you take any pictures of him?’ asked Brook.

‘What on earth for?’

‘ID badges, computerised records, that sort of thing.’

‘I told you. .’

‘You don’t have any records of him. I think I’m getting it.’ Brook pointed at the derelict house across the road. ‘Did he ever take an interest in that house?’

Duxbury looked at Brook as though he were a genius. ‘Yes, he did,’ he replied. ‘Always going over to that window to look in, sometimes even talking to the tramps inside. Once I asked him why he was so interested.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He just laughed and said he was drumming up business.’

‘Was he friendly with any of your other staff?’

‘Not at all. He wasn’t the type to fit in.’

‘Did he have a locker or any place unique to him that might give us a DNA sample or a fingerprint?’

‘No. There’s the hearse, but he hasn’t been with us for over a year, so. .’

‘And how did he turn up for work?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Clothes? Transport?’

‘We gave him the suit to take away with him. He turned up in that.’

‘Where is it?’

‘He never gave it back.’

‘And how did he get to work?’

Duxbury shrugged. ‘I assumed public transport. If he had a car, I never saw it.’

Brook snapped his notebook shut after tearing out a page to write his number on. ‘Anything else you remember about him, call me. For now, I want a list of current and ex-employees who would’ve known him. Round your current staff up now, we’re going to need to interview them all.’

Brook stared at Duxbury until he started looking for paper and pencil, before ringing Noble. ‘John, we’ve got a lead on Ozzy Reece. Get DS Gadd and a couple of other officers over to Duxbury’s Funeral Parlour on Leopold Street. And see if you can rustle up a composite artist to come with them. Yes, now.’ He rang off and flipped round Duxbury’s completed list. ‘Only four people?’

‘Yes. And they’re all current. There’s not a high turnover in our industry.’ Duxbury coughed. ‘I’m sure you understand.’

Brook nodded. ‘So what did Ozzy do?’

‘Do?’

‘That might make people complain.’

Duxbury looked away. ‘It’s a bit. . weird,’ he finally said.