Steven Dunne - Deity

Brook drew to a halt. ‘What happened, Phil? Are you okay?’

‘He’ll be fine,’ said the man in uniform, not looking at Brook. ‘He’s just had a bad fall.’ He eased Phil carefully up the first step and on to a padded bench.

‘Where are you taking him?’ asked Brook.

‘The Royal,’ answered the man, closing the first door.

Phil gazed glassy-eyed at Brook, his head sagging, his eyes bleary with drink. ‘Zat you, Damen?’ He sat inside the ambulance, brought his hand to his mouth and took a long draught of barley wine.

Brook froze in realisation and he turned just in time to see a gloved hand holding something black and hard describe an arc towards the top of his head. The lights this time were multicoloured as Brook’s knees buckled and he fell to the pavement. He managed to stay upright long enough to watch the burly figure close the second door on a bewildered Phil, before plummeting to the ground with a thud.

Brook heard footsteps and tried to look up through the lights but blood had trickled into his eyes. He could just see the black shoes standing beside him and tried to store more information, but he couldn’t focus. Then he felt liquid splash over him, burning into his eyes and soaking his clothes. Whisky. When the bottle was empty the man placed it in Brook’s hand and the lights went out completely as he fell, spinning head first, into a bottomless black pit.

Friday, 27 May

Brook’s nose was the first of his senses to return. He could smell a sickly-sweet chemical odour that told him immediately he was in a hospital. He hated hospitals. People died in them. People he knew.

‘Welcome back, sir.’

Brook opened his eyes to pain and closed them at once. When the pain remained he opened them again to see Noble, grinning at him. Terri stood next to him and grabbed his hand.

‘Dad, are you okay?’

‘Never better,’ he groaned and tried to sit up but thought better of it immediately.

‘What happened?’ asked Noble.

‘Somebody hit me. I think.’

‘One of the tramps,’ began Noble.

‘Well, well,’ said another voice. ‘How’s my patient? No, I wouldn’t advise moving for an hour or two, Inspector.’

Brook brought his hand to his nose and sniffed. ‘Whisky.’

‘Yes, we thought you were a down-and-out at first, what with the clothes and all.’ Brook narrowed a beady eye at the young doctor, who continued to study Brook’s chart, oblivious to the implication. ‘Probably why people left you lying in the street so long.’ Terri and Noble stood by, trying not to smile. ‘But your blood alcohol was low so we had to rethink. It’s lucky no one took your mobile phone or we wouldn’t have been able to ring your daughter and your colleague.’

‘They probably looked at him and thought he couldn’t afford one.’ Terri laughed.

Brook ignored her. ‘Doctor. .’

‘. . Roberts,’ smiled the young physician. ‘No need to worry. You’ve had four stitches in a head wound and you’re going to have headaches for a day or two, but that will pass. You may have a slight concussion but I don’t think we need to admit you. Don’t drive for a couple of days, drink lots of hot sweet tea and see your GP in a week for a check-up. Peace and quiet should do the trick — shouldn’t be a problem for someone with only two contact numbers on speed dial.’ He joked, ‘I envy you, Inspector. My phone rings so often I can’t hear myself think.’

‘Lucky you,’ observed Brook drily.

The doctor moved to the privacy screen. ‘Back in a moment.’

‘What time is it?’ asked Brook, after Roberts had left.

‘Four o’clock,’ said Noble.

‘In the afternoon!’ exclaimed Brook. ‘We’ve missed the Deity broadcast.’

‘No, we haven’t,’ said Terri, indicating a laptop case under her arm.

‘You’ve seen it?’ he asked. And when Terri and Noble nodded, tight-lipped, ‘Well?’

‘Best you see it for yourself when you’re better, Dad.’

‘When’s the next one?’

‘Three o’clock tomorrow.’

‘And college?’

‘It wasn’t a complete waste of time,’ answered Noble. ‘We’re still collating.’

‘Oh, you’re collating, are you?’ Brook said tiredly. ‘When are you briefing?’

‘Sir, we can handle things without you for a couple of days,’ said Noble, looking at Terri for support.

‘You need to rest, Dad. I’ll take you home.’

‘I’m fine.’ He looked around for his jacket and began to sit up.

‘Dad, you heard the doctor.’

‘When are you briefing?’ Brook insisted.

‘In an hour.’

Brook nodded. ‘Good. Where’s my car?’

‘Outside,’ said Noble. ‘Terri gave me a lift so I could drive it back to St Mary’s. The ambulance-’

‘Ambulance,’ Brook remembered, staring at Noble. ‘It was an ambulance driver that hit me.’

Noble looked quizzically at Brook. ‘Sir, I. .’

‘Not a real one, John. I mean, it was a real ambulance, or had been at one time, but the driver must have been Ozzy Reece. He was taking Phil from the house to the ambulance.’

‘Phil?’

‘Phil Ward. He was one of the tramps.’

‘You got a name?’ asked Noble.

Brook hesitated. ‘I knew him once — at university. I ran against him.’ He decided not to mention the lap and a half. ‘He was there in the squat when I was undercover. And now thanks to me, he’s the next victim.’

‘Funny he’s abducted this Phil when he hasn’t dumped Jock’s body yet.’

‘We don’t know he hasn’t dumped him, just that we haven’t found it.’ Brook flicked his eyes in Terri’s direction to tell Noble they shouldn’t be discussing corpses in front of her. She caught it.

‘Dad, I’m a big girl now.’

‘How the hell does a university graduate end up sleeping rough?’ said Noble.

Brook looked into Terri’s eyes as he spoke. ‘Weakness.’

‘An ambulance,’ said Noble. ‘That does make sense. People are rarely suspicious of ambulances and it would be much easier for one person to manhandle a body off a bridge from a trolley. Did you get a look at him?’

‘Only briefly. Middle-aged. Well built. And a slight northern accent.’

‘Is that all?’

Brook remembered with a flush of guilt that he’d fallen asleep and was barely awake when he’d approached the ambulance. ‘The lights were very bright.’ He swung his legs gingerly to the floor.

Dr Roberts returned. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Don’t want to take up a valuable Casualty bed, Doctor. I’m fine.’

‘You’re not fine, you need rest.’

Brook thrust his hand into the doctor’s and shook it. ‘Thanks, Doctor, I know.’ Then he marched out a little unsteadily, flanked by Terri and Noble.

Brook examined the artist’s composite of Ozzy Reece.

‘Ring any bells, sir?’ asked Gadd.

Brook stared at the face, trying to place it. He had the feeling it was a face he’d seen before. ‘It could be the ambulance driver. It’s pretty nondescript.’ Brook glanced at Gadd — she was holding her head away from him. Brook sniffed his arm. He still stank of whisky but had no clean clothes in his locker. ‘How many people contributed?’

‘Two of the hearse drivers at Duxbury and Duxbury. They’re adamant it’s a good likeness.’

‘Okay. Put it out there. On the ambulance angle, assuming it’s a rogue. .’ began Brook.

‘. . we nail down the whereabouts of the bona fide fleet between four and five this morning and maybe we can match up some CCTV to The Embalmer’s vehicle,’ said Gadd. ‘On it. Also I’ve set DC Read and DC Smee on to the private companies who sell secondhand ambulances. There are more than you’d think.’