Steven Dunne - Deity

When Becky finished her monologue, Noble paused the film on her barely concealed smirk. ‘Did her speech bother you at all?’

Brook turned to him. ‘Becky?’ He thought for a minute. ‘She went through the motions of claiming she was unhappy, but actually she seemed excited.’

‘Agreed,’ said Noble. ‘And if she’s preparing to take her own life, where’s the fear? Fear of pain. Fear of the unknown. She wasn’t afraid.’

Brook looked at Noble. ‘Like maybe she’s unaware that she’s supposed to be committing suicide.’

‘Exactly. She’s smiling almost as if she knows she’s famous enough now to walk into the modelling contract of her choice. Charlton was right — now she’s famous, she can come home and milk the attention.’ He started the broadcast again. ‘Contrast with Kyle.’

They watched Kyle’s statement. He was edgy, his delivery halting and fretful.

‘Now that is someone who thinks he’s about to die.’

Brook nodded. ‘That friend of Becky’s?’

‘Fern Stretton.’

‘She’s always believed Becky was in no danger. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Let’s take another run at her. After tonight’s press briefing she might finally realise Becky is in trouble.’

DS Gadd and DC Smee walked into the room. Gadd’s face betrayed her mounting frustration.

‘Nothing?’ asked Brook.

‘No. Read and a couple of others are manning the phones. We’re working through any tips but nothing stands out as a viable location. Smethwick is a real loner. He has no relatives and no friends we can find. We’re hunting up his old employers but it’s slow going.’

‘You mentioned pubs before.’

‘Right. He worked in five altogether, mainly as a grill chef or barman. The problem is pubs change hands, even breweries.’

‘They’re all local?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Gadd turned to the large map. ‘Three in the city centre. The Brunswick. .’

‘Forget the city, he’s isolated. Where else?’

She consulted her list, pointing at the map. ‘The Crewe and Harpur in Chellaston. Then he seems to be off the radar for a while. A year later he started at the Malt Shovel in Aston-onTrent. That was seven years ago.’

‘Aston-on-Trent — that’s only a mile from Shardlow Marina,’ said Brook. ‘Get over there and have a word.’

Gadd looked at her watch. ‘It’ll be after closing when we get there.’

‘Jane, right now I don’t care if you have to burn the landlord out to speak to him, we need a break.’ He sighed, suddenly aware of how tired he was. ‘Just get them to speak to you,’ he said kindly.

Noble watched Gadd and Smee leave and pulled out a cigarette. Brook took his jacket from the back of the chair. His eye was held by the image of Adele Watson, frozen in time on the monitor, wearing her white dress and smiling confidently into the camera at the start of her manifesto.

‘Adele looks like an angel,’ said Noble.

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

‘You were right about her,’ continued Noble. ‘She was impressive. She does have a lot to say.’

Brook nodded. ‘Let’s hope there’s more to come.’

Noble lit up on the steps of the station as Brook’s phone began to vibrate. It was Terri.

‘Dad. When are you coming home?’

‘Terri, I know it’s late but I may not make it back tonight — things are hotting up here. Don’t wait up, okay?’

There was a pause. ‘Dad, I need you to come home.’

‘Terri, I-’

‘I need you to come home now.’

Brook paused. ‘What’s wrong?’

Another pause. ‘I’ve been depressed, Dad. About Tony. I’ve taken something. Pills.’

Brook pushed his face closer to the phone as if to be better heard. ‘Terri, listen to me. What have you taken?’

Again a pause. ‘I don’t know, but I had a lot of them. I don’t feel so good.’

By this time Noble had cottoned on to a problem and was also listening intently. ‘Terri, listen carefully. I want you to hang up and dial 999.’

Another pause. ‘I’ve called the ambulance, Dad, but I need you to come home.’

‘Okay, darling. I’m on my way.’ He covered his phone for a moment. ‘John. Can you see Fern on your own?’

‘She’ll keep,’ said Noble firmly. ‘I can drive you home.’

‘John, I’m fine. I’ll be quicker, I know the roads. Talk to Fern and let me know.’

Brook sprinted to his car and jumped in. He screeched away from the car park, speaking into his phone. ‘Darling, I’m here. Terri, I want you to stand up. If you can, walk around until the ambulance gets there. Make coffee. Whatever you do, don’t lie on your back.’

‘Why?’

Brook shook off an image of his daughter choking on her own vomit. ‘Just do it and stay awake. If you can, make yourself throw up. I’ll be there in half an hour.’ He threw the open phone on the passenger seat and slammed the BMW into a lower gear to make the lights next to the Radio Derby building. The black car hurtled along St Alkmund’s Way then Brook flung it sharp right on to Ashbourne Road, heading for home.

Gadd and Smee pulled on to the green in Aston-on-Trent and parked by the Malt Shovel. Once inside they strode to the near-empty bar, pulling out their warrant cards. The young barmaid eyed them uneasily.

‘We’ve stopped serving,’ she said before she saw their ID.

‘Is the landlord in?’

‘He’s on holiday. I’m the relief manager.’

Gadd and Smee exchanged a resigned glance. ‘Never mind.’ Gadd turned away but hesitated. ‘How long has the current landlord been in the pub?’

The barmaid smiled blankly. ‘No idea.’

‘Ten years,’ said a tarry voice from the far end of the bar belonging to an overweight, grey-whiskered old man, who wore a flat cap and straining woollen cardigan despite the warmth of the evening. ‘What’s Austin been up to? Watering the beer again?’

‘And you are, sir?’

‘Who wants to know?’ he demanded. Gadd thrust her ID in his face. ‘Name’s Sam,’ he muttered resentfully.

‘We’re trying to locate an ex-employee. Lee Smethwick.’

‘Lee Smethwick.’ Sam snorted. ‘I remember that weirdo, all right.’

‘You knew him?’ said Smee.

Sam blew out his cheeks. ‘Not so much to talk to, thank God. He was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. You’d finish your pint and you might be the only soul in the bar but he’d just stand there like some stuffed dummy, staring into space. When you finally got his attention, you’d think you’d disturbed a sleepwalker.’

‘He lived on a boat in Shardlow Marina but he’s missing,’ said Gadd. ‘Did he have any haunts that he mentioned, any special places he liked to go? Somewhere big and private, say.’

Sam glanced down at his nearly drained pint then meaningfully back up at Gadd.

‘It’s past closing,’ began Smee.

‘Can we get another pint over here?’ Gadd called to the relief manager. She hesitated over her glass-drying. ‘It’s okay. He’s a local,’ said Gadd, as though it were some new by-law.

‘Thanks,’ said Sam, taking a large pull on the freshly drawn pint, a minute later.

‘Well?’

Sam just sat there, smiling inscrutably.

‘What can you tell us?’ said Smee.

‘Feel a bit of a fraud, accepting your pint,’ he said chuckling. ‘See, he did voluntary work at the Village.’

‘The Village?’

‘Aston Hall Mental Hospital — but they called it the Village. Make it sound welcoming, I suppose. You can see it from the end of the road. Just a lot of empty buildings and broken windows now. They closed it six, seven year ago after the fire. Lee volunteered there then did the odd shift in here. You ask me, he should’ve been a patient.’