Steven Dunne - The Disciple

Brook smiled suddenly. ‘The Reaper’s dead, Jason. Did I forget to tell you? For all you know he could be waiting round the next corner or passing you in the street. It could be anyone. It could be me. Sweet dreams.’

Brook finished his tea and deleted the messages. He took out his brand new mobile phone and turned it on, confirming there was a text from Noble, but didn’t bother to read it. He wasn’t comfortable texting but had no desire to endure the how-was-your-holiday conventions of a phone conversation so he painstakingly tapped out: ‘Jason Wallis. Did anyone inform the Ottomans?’, making sure he took the time to add the capital letters and question mark.

A few minutes later Noble replied — ‘who’ — without punctuation or a capital letter.

Brook was disheartened on two fronts. ‘A pity we don’t remember the victims as we remember the criminals,’ he muttered and switched off the phone.

Then he booted up his computer and went to take a shower.

Special Agent Mike Drexler drained his espresso then turned his attention to the orange juice. He took a long slow sip and grinned at his companion.

‘Yummy. I never imagined things could taste like this and I could feel this good on top.’

Special Agent Edie McQuarry flashed him a sarcastic smile and exhaled tobacco smoke over him. ‘A month away from the weed and you turn into some kind of goddamn evangelist. It’s sickening.’

‘I got news for you, Ed. I haven’t had alcohol for three weeks either.’

‘Well, give the man a prize. While the rest of humanity is out getting drunk and laid, you’ll be able to stay home nights and brush up on your macrame.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’ve no idea but my sister says she does it on her coffee mornings.’

‘Sounds kinky.’

‘Well, if you ever get a hankering to wear a poncho I’ll hook you up.’ McQuarry eyed her partner before taking another long pull on her cigarette and twisted her mouth to exhale the smoke away from the other tables. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned sisters.’

Drexler looked up. ‘Ed, it’s been ten years now. I’m over it.’

‘Glad to hear it. So how’d it go last week?’

‘How’d what go?’

McQuarry raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s October, Mike. And I’m your partner.’

Drexler smiled bleakly into the distance. ‘How do these things usually go? You place the flowers, wipe the dirt off the headstone, say a few words. “Hey, sis, let me tell you about my year.”’ He smiled at his partner. ‘Gotta keep busy standing over the dead.’

‘You visit your mother?’

Drexler’s smile was a mask behind which words were carefully selected. ‘What’s the point? She doesn’t know who I am. I barely know myself. Since Kerry died…’ He shrugged. What else was there to say?

Opposite McQuarry, a large woman sitting next to her even larger husband and two grossly overweight boys, caught her eye to purse her lips in disapproval, before opening them to fork in a mouthful of syrupy pancakes.

Drexler followed McQuarry’s gaze to their table. ‘If anyone complains I’m going to have to arrest you.’

‘We’re outside, goddamn it, Mike. What more do they want?’

‘It’s a public place. There are laws.’ Drexler tried to keep a straight face but couldn’t maintain it.

‘My first smoke of the day ruined.’ McQuarry stubbed out her cigarette, then briefly examined her left hand.

‘How is it?’ asked Drexler.

She grinned at him, then flexed her hand more vigorously, trying not to wince at the discomfort from the scar tissue. ‘Good as new, Mike.’

Drexler nodded. A tension rose within him and McQuarry knew what was coming. ‘Listen, Ed…’

‘If you’re gonna start that crap again, Mike, we’re gonna have a problem. You’re my partner. You saved my life. I got cut ’cos I got careless, and if it hadn’t been for you I could’ve been filleted by that piece of shit. End of story.’

Drexler managed a smile. ‘Okay. You won’t hear me mention it again. But I never got to say thanks, you know, for still wanting to saddle up with me and backing me in front of the Board. I owe you.’

‘You don’t owe me shit, Mike, it was a good shoot. Just how many more times aren’t you ever gonna mention it?’

Drexler returned her grin. ‘Coupla hundred.’

McQuarry drained her coffee and they both stood in unison. Drexler counted out a few dollars and dropped them on the table. She eyed the morbidly obese family as they passed their table. ‘You know, I don’t complain about lardasses encouraging me to weigh my heart down with fat,’ she said, a little more loudly than was necessary, as she stalked away from the restaurant.

They walked down Placerville Main Street through the morning sunshine, back to their dark blue Chevy. They’d been partners in the FBI for nearly three years and were comfortable in each other’s company. Drexler was thirty-three, slender and tall with curly brown hair, a handsome face and a lopsided smile.

McQuarry was thirty-eight and two years away from being a fifteen-year veteran. She looked younger, or so Drexler always told her, and despite his occasional teasing she saw no reason to disbelieve him. Her hair was also brown, but darker and shinier, and she tied it in a ponytail when on duty. She was a foot shorter than Drexler and full-figured, though she tended to think she was overweight and had been ‘careful’ with her diet for most of her adult life.

‘Nice place, this,’ said Drexler.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘No. I can see myself living in a place like this in a few years. It’s safe, got great fishing…’

‘Safe,’ sneered McQuarry. ‘Sacramento’s not safe enough for you? It’s the most boring city in the world.’

‘You’ll never get over ’Frisco, will you, Ed?’

‘No, I never will — the most beautiful place in the world. And they got a ballpark. And another thing — the most dangerous activity in San Fran is being a tourist who says ’Frisco. It’s San Fran or SF — never ’Frisco. Got that?’

‘Go easy on me, officer, I’m just a country boy who don’t know no better.’

McQuarry threw the keys at him. ‘Amen to that. Now let’s move it, Mike. We got another hour on the road.’

Grant grabbed her small suitcase from the boot before Hudson could attempt to carry it for her. They walked from the residents’ car park to the reception area of the Midland Hotel and checked in. They found their adjacent rooms and Hudson paused at his door.

‘What do you fancy for dinner? French? Italian? Spanish?’

Grant tried not to laugh. Her superior had many qualities, but subtlety wasn’t one of them. She’d ridden this merry-go-round so many times since they’d first started working together and it always stopped at the same place. Hudson wanted a curry. He always wanted a curry, but he insisted on going through the motions of asking his sergeant for her preference before deciding.

Grant was tired and decided to shortcut the process. ‘You know what, guv? I quite fancy a curry.’

Hudson’s eyebrows rose, as if entertaining the proposal for the first time. ‘Curry? Good call. I think I can manage that.’

Grant tossed her case into her room and locked her door.

‘Going out?’

‘We’ve been in the car a long time, guv. I think I’ll stretch my legs.’

‘Scope out a curry house while you’re at it.’

Grant left the hotel and walked into Derby railway station next door. She looked around to get her bearings, saw the newsagents tucked in a corner and went to buy a local paper. She also bought a cheap baseball cap with ‘Derby Pride’ as its slogan. She fixed it on her head, briefly amused at her new cap. She’d never had clothing that endorsed one of the seven deadly sins before.