Steven Dunne - Deity

‘Inspector Brook,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘What brings you down to the vault?’ He turned back to the piece of clothing and continued dabbing it with the sticky side of the tape.

‘Don. Just thought I’d come and see how you were getting on,’ replied Brook, aware that his sickly grin wasn’t his best effort. ‘We’ve given you quite a workload, the last week or so.’

Donald Crump turned to Brook, his mouth opening to say something but he evidently thought better of it. He turned back to his work. ‘Aye, well, things generally pick up this time of year — all that summer drinking. If the twats aren’t driving into trees, they’re glassing each other over a funny look. Keeps us in a job, mind.’

‘That reminds me,’ said Brook, panting with the effort of pleasantry. What reminds me? What am I talking about? ‘I ran into an old friend of yours. Len Poole.’

Crump turned a sagging, red-rimmed eye to Brook. ‘Yeah, he’s back, I know. And I think you’ll find his full name is Len Fucking Poole and he’s no friend of mine so keep him out of my way if you know what’s good for him.’

Brook was taken aback. ‘DS Noble mentioned you’d spoken to him.’

‘I didn’t have a lot of choice. I’ve not seen the twat for years and he waltzes in here like he’s still in charge. I didn’t even know he was back in Derby until Gordon Grey mentioned it.’

‘So you two aren’t friends.’

Crump turned in open-mouthed horror. ‘I wouldn’t give that Welsh windbag the steam off my shit and you can tell him that from me.’

Brook grimaced. ‘I don’t think I will.’

Crump curled his lip at Brook. ‘Did you want something, Inspector, ’cos I’ve got a lot on?’

‘No, Don. I think I’ve got what I came for.’ Brook turned to leave, the fake smile still distorting his face.

‘I’m so pleased. And Inspector, the next time you run into Poole, use your car. Maybe that’ll stop him sniffing around me for favours he should know I can’t do.’

Brook turned back at this, his smile gone. ‘Favours?’

‘Damen.’ Yvette Thomson looked searchingly at Brook. His face was grim.

‘Miss Thomson. This is Detective Sergeant Noble.’

She smiled at Noble, holding her gaze on him.

‘Come in, Sergeant. Would you like coffee?’

‘No, he wouldn’t,’ replied Brook. ‘We don’t have time.’ They sat down in the spare, unkempt living room. A large TV that Brook hadn’t noticed before was on but the sound was turned down. Yvette picked up the remote, searching for the right button to turn it off.

‘I was waiting for the local news,’ said Yvette, as though her viewing habits needed justification. She alternated her gaze between the floor and Noble.

‘How are you feeling after this morning?’ asked Brook.

Yvette managed to find Brook’s eyes now but lowered hers straight away. ‘Not bad. Better knowing it wasn’t Rusty. .’

Her knuckles tightened around her knees. ‘But I keep seeing that poor boy. Was it Wilson?’

‘His grandmother identified him half an hour ago,’ said Brook. ‘They’re double-checking his dental records to be certain.’

‘His own grandmother didn’t know him?’

‘She knew him,’ said Noble. ‘But death changes things so we like to double-check. Even the recently deceased don’t look right to relatives.’

‘Poor Wilson — I wonder how long he was in the water.’

‘I can tell you exactly, if you’d like.’ Yvette stared at Brook, uncomprehending. ‘CCTV cameras filmed him jumping in,’ he explained. ‘And they have the time and date.’

She shot a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, how horrible.’

‘It was. But you can watch it on tonight’s news if you want to be sure.’

‘He was only eighteen,’ said Yvette, not picking up Brook’s tone.

‘And he always will be,’ replied Brook. ‘He’s immortalised on film forever but he’s far from beautiful now.’

She shook her head in confusion. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do I,’ replied Brook. He nodded to Noble who handed Yvette a photograph of the youth on the bridge.

‘This individual was watching us recover the body this morning. Could that be Russell?’

She stared down at it. ‘You’re kidding. He’s wearing a hoodie. He’s got sunglasses and a scarf over his face. How am I supposed to know if it’s Rusty at that distance?’

‘Okay. What about his build and body shape?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s possible. But kids wear such baggy clothing these days.’

‘Did Russell wear those clothes?’

She looked up at Brook. ‘I’m not sure.’ She peered at the picture again. ‘Why do you think it might be him?’

‘Because this person used a camcorder to film us recovering Wilson’s body,’ said Noble.

‘I see.’ She looked at the picture again. ‘I can’t tell. I’m sorry.’

Noble pulled his laptop from a case and loaded the CCTV film of the bridge. They watched in silence, Noble pointing to the unknown figure strolling into shot, Brook watching Yvette.

‘What about his mannerisms, his way of walking?’ asked Noble. Yvette didn’t reply.

Brook fancied there was the merest flicker of recognition but he couldn’t be certain.

‘I don’t know’, she said. ‘Maybe. I can’t be sure.’

Noble placed another picture in front of her. This time it was a grainier close-up of the camcorder. ‘Could that be your son’s camcorder?’

She stared, then nodded very slowly. ‘It’s possible. This morning, you say? Where is he now?’

‘We know from other CCTV that he had a bicycle. After leaving the bridge, he cycled east through the city, then along the bike path following the river, through Pride Park towards Borrowash. After that. .’ Brook shrugged.

‘Does your son know anyone in Borrowash?’ asked Noble.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t know Derby, Damen. I’ve never heard of Borrowash and I’m sure Rusty hasn’t either.’

‘And does your son own a bicycle?’ Brook went on.

‘He did. It was stolen.’

‘When?’

‘Six months ago — shortly after we moved here. Rusty went out on it and when he came back he didn’t have it. He said he lost it, but his T-shirt was torn. I guessed someone stole it from him.’

‘Did you report this?’

Her answer was a short sour laugh.

Noble placed another photograph in Yvette’s hands. ‘This is the best shot we’ve got. Is this your son’s bicycle?’

Yvette looked at the hooded cyclist riding his bike. ‘I can’t tell. Who remembers bicycles?’

‘Have you a record of the insurance claim?’ asked Brook patiently. ‘Maybe there’s a description of it from when you did remember his bicycle.’

Brook’s tone was unmistakable now and Yvette was taken aback. ‘We’d just arrived in Derby. We didn’t have insurance — I couldn’t afford it.’ She looked coldly at Brook. ‘I still can’t.’ The anger in her eyes was stark. ‘I thought you were my friend, Damen. Rusty is missing. He might be dead and you come in here asking about bicycles.’ She put her hands over her eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Brook evenly. ‘We have a job to do.’

‘Then do it and get him back to me.’ She looked angrily at Brook, then across at Noble with a timorous smile. ‘I miss him so much.’

Brook said nothing for a while. Noble knew there were more questions to come — hard questions — but Brook knew this attractive woman better than he did, so Noble waited too.

‘Are we finished?’ asked Yvette, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

‘We’ve done some digging into your background — yours and Russell’s.’ Brook paused for a reaction.

‘I suppose that’s to be expected,’ she replied quietly.