Steven Dunne - The Disciple

Charlton had been as unsubtle as he could manage without openly saying what he wanted.

‘How old are you, Damen?’

Brook had sat blankly in his chair, flicking a discreet eye towards the copy of Brian Burton’s book on Charlton’s desk. He didn’t like the Chief Super using his first name. It wasn’t that he cared about Charlton’s overfamiliarity, more that he resented its use as a tactic to soften him up for some ulterior motive that Brook was fairly certain he could guess. To make his point, Brook waited longer than was polite to respond, knowing that Charlton almost certainly knew the answer.

‘Forty-seven, isn’t it? Forty-eight just before Christmas. You know, I envy you, Damen.’

Brook eyed his superior coolly, trying to mask the contempt rising in him. ‘You wouldn’t if you knew the pain I’ve suffered, sir.’

Charlton was taken aback. ‘Oh?’

‘My parents tried their best to keep things special but it’s an expensive time of year. Uncles, aunts and grandparents always gave me one present for Christmas, which had to double up for my birthday as well. All told, I calculate I’m down about seventy presents from my childhood.’

Charlton briefly looked at Brook as though he were completely insane, then pressed ahead with his own agenda. ‘No, I mean that coming up to fifty, your thoughts must be turning towards retirement, getting out of all this … stress.’

‘Must they?’

‘Not that you’re not a valued officer. But I know it’s a young man’s game, eh? Let them get on with it while you go off and enjoy yourself.’

‘Enjoy myself.’ Brook lingered over the words and Charlton began to realise that he’d been a bit too obvious.

‘But that’s not why I wanted to see you…’ And he’d rapidly changed lanes to talk about the Brian Burton book and how much Brook was prepared to say on the record.

So, subliminal or not, Brook had left the meeting feeling a need to clear his desk, and had spent several hours doing just that. Whether it was the need to show he was still a competent detective, or a subconscious acceptance that he was ready to call it a day was more difficult to fathom.

Mike Drexler and Edie McQuarry sat at the table of the windowless room at Markleeville PD sifting through various papers. Some were faded faxes of car rental receipts; some were black and white images of driving permits. The most disturbing were the happy family portraits of the doomed families, grinning timelessly into the camera, shiny with hope and purpose, now immortalised as victims of The Ghost Road Killer — or killers. When the documentary makers moved in, these would be the pictures set beside the pictures of skeletons, like the rag doll found in the VW. And when the story became public property it might even weaken OJ’s stranglehold on the front pages for a day.

‘Okay, we got the Campbells from Brigham City, Utah, the Hernandez family from Prescott, Arizona,’ said Drexler, slamming down a missing persons folder for every family. ‘The Biscotti family from Las Vegas, Nevada, the Reeves family from Denver, Colorado and the latest victims, the Bailey family from San Diego, California. Five families matched to five different vehicles so far. That’s in chronological order.’

‘And the Baileys were the last family to go missing.’

‘Right.’

‘How long exactly?’ asked McQuarry, shaking out a cigarette and lighting up with a precautionary glance over her shoulder.

‘They were reported missing two months ago, but obviously may have been abducted before that. Or after. They were last seen on July fifteenth when their holiday started.’ Drexler looked over at his partner. ‘Ed, outside a restaurant may be a grey area, but now you’re definitely breaking California state law.’

‘You think state police give a hoot about a law forced through by a few rich anorexics in LA with too much money and time on their hands?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then stow it and tell me about the Baileys.’

‘Yes, ma’am. The Baileys. Four of them. Two daughters. Nicole and Sally. Fifteen and thirteen years of age,’ said Drexler, lingering over the last snippet without really knowing why. ‘Wife Tania Bailey, forty-one and her husband George, forty-seven. They were from England originally but were living full time in the States at the time of their disappearance. The husband is a chemical engineer and had been working in San Diego for two years. They were on vacation…’

‘Wait a minute,’ said McQuarry holding up a hand and closing her eyes. ‘Did you say George?’ Drexler nodded. ‘George Bailey?’

‘That’s what I said. Problem?’

She laughed. ‘George Bailey. Shit. Someone’s messing with us, Mike.’ Drexler showed no sign of understanding her. ‘It’s a Wonderful Life , that film I was talking about. The character James Stewart played was called George Bailey. He finds rose petals in his pocket that his daughter Zuzu has given him…’

‘You can’t be serious.’

‘I’m telling you, this is more than a coincidence. Someone’s sending us a message with these rose petals.’ ‘What message?’

She took a pull on her Marlboro Light and thought about it. ‘I think whoever killed Caleb and Billy Ashwell wants us to know that they were killed because of what they did to George Bailey and his family. George Bailey is the key to this. Where did you say he worked?’

Stepping out of his car in Hartington sometime after seven, Brook realised with a sinking feeling that his new neighbour was clearly the outdoors type. Framed against the dark sky, he could see the glow of a fire in Rose Cottage’s small back garden and knew that he would have to stay indoors unless he wanted to endure an evening of tedious chitchat. With winter fast approaching, Brook had wanted to maximise use of his garden while he still could, and this impediment was a nuisance.

When he reached his door, however, he found the situation far worse than that. A note stuck out of his letterbox.

Damen

Having a house-warming BBQ tonight. Come and have something to eat and drink.

Mike

Brook hovered over the note for a minute before screwing it into a ball and binning it. At least when the tenants had kids they didn’t have time to bother him. He went into the house and neglected to turn on any lights, without quite realising why. Eventually he flicked on a small lamp next to his computer and immediately began to feel self-conscious. He kicked off his leather shoes and squeezed his feet into a pair of deck shoes before padding back into the kitchen and opening the refrigerator. It was empty except for a carton of milk, a baked potato skin, an opened can of beans and a bottle of champagne left over from his last night with Wendy Jones the year before.

After a moment’s contemplation he closed the fridge door, but not before plucking the champagne from its cradle. He strolled next door, remembering to take a full pack of cigarettes with him. Despite his infrequent attendance at social functions in the last fifteen years, Brook remembered sufficient misery when plentiful alcohol and tobacco was not at hand.

As he knocked on the front door, Drexler came to greet him from the side path.

‘Damen! Good to see you. How are you doing?’

‘I’m fine. How are you?’

‘I’m good,’ nodded Drexler, unaware of the tic of annoyance his grammar caused Brook. ‘Champagne. Thank you. That’s thoughtful,’ he added.

Brook managed a smile as he followed Drexler round to the back. ‘The least I could do. Settling in okay?’

‘Pretty good.’ Brook looked around the garden of his new neighbour, half an eyebrow raised. ‘Yeah, it’s just us, Damen. Tom’s been and gone.’