Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Yes, that’s Sally Bailey. George Bailey’s younger daughter,’ he added in a formal tone, as though familiar with the routine.

Drexler and McQuarry said nothing in reply and waited for the inevitable questions, but they didn’t arrive. Instead Sorenson continued to stare at the picture. Drexler raised an eyebrow at his partner.

‘You don’t seem too interested in who did this, Professor,’ said McQuarry evenly. ‘I find myself wondering why.’

Sorenson looked up at her. ‘Death is the only detail. The rest is window dressing. She’s beyond hurting now.’

‘In a better place?’ offered Drexler, with a hint of a sneer as payback.

Sorenson smiled bleakly and Drexler wished he’d said nothing.

‘Where were you last Thursday evening, Professor?’ ‘Returning from a trip.’ Sorenson didn’t even blink or try to pretend to remember his movements.

‘Where?’

‘I drove down to Yosemite for a few days.’

‘Looking for George Bailey?’

‘Not exactly,’ smiled Sorenson. ‘Though I suppose, taking a similar route to the one George would’ve taken to Tahoe, I was more than a little interested in the terrain.’

‘And what route was that?’

‘You don’t expect me to remember tedious road names, do you?’

‘What about California 89?’ asked McQuarry. Sorenson’s face brightened in childlike recognition. ‘Actually, I do remember being on 89. The Ghost Road they call it.’

‘Make any stops?’

‘Certainly. At my age I need the toilet more often than I’d prefer.’

‘And gas?’

‘Of course.’

‘On 89?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘What time would that have been, sir?’

This time Sorenson did make a bit more of an effort to play the game and stroked his chin, looking into the distance. ‘Let me see. It’s a bit hazy. I was tired.’

‘So it was late.’

Sorenson pointed a bony talon at Drexler. ‘Yes, you’re right. I stopped just as it was getting dark. Some rundown fleapit on 89.’

‘And what did you buy?’

‘Just petrol. Gas.’

McQuarry pulled another picture from her small case and placed it in front of Sorenson. It was in black and white but he was clearly recognisable. He was looking at the camera and carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag in the other.

‘That’s me,’ said Sorenson with a chuckle. ‘So the camera did work. He said it did though I didn’t believe him. You should’ve seen the place.’

‘We have,’ said Drexler.

‘You remember what else you bought now?’ asked McQuarry.

‘That’s right, I bought a knife. It had a can opener attachment. I lost mine at the camp…’

‘It also had a corkscrew.’

Sorenson grinned at Drexler. ‘I believe it did.’

‘And the coffee?’

‘Oh, I didn’t buy that. Mr Ashwell was kind enough to let me have it for free.’

‘You remember his name now?’

Sorenson smiled his assent.

‘Where did you buy the roses?’ asked Drexler.

‘Roses? I didn’t buy roses.’

‘The forecourt camera clearly shows red roses in your car,’ said McQuarry.

Sorenson smiled warmly but his eyes were cold. ‘Forecourt camera? I don’t think so. But show me a picture. It might jog my memory.’

Sorenson was sure of his ground.

‘And how was the coffee?’ asked Drexler.

Sorenson turned to him and grinned. ‘Surprisingly good.’

‘Do you still have the cup in your trash, sir?’

‘I’m afraid not. I left it in the Dodge so you’d need to ask the thief about its whereabouts. Tell me. Why all these questions about where I stopped on the road? Why don’t you speak to Mr Ashwell and his son?’

McQuarry allowed herself a soundless half-laugh this time. She wanted to punch him playfully on the arm and say, Cut it out, willya? We know you killed ’em. You know you killed ’em and you know we know you killed ’em but she settled for, ‘Mr Ashwell and his son are dead.’

Sorenson didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Indeed?’

Twenty minutes later, as the Chevy snaked its way back to the highway, Drexler ran his eye over the beautiful grounds again to confirm what he already knew. Victor Sorenson was a wealthy and successful man. He had a lot to lose. The game had begun.

Brook jumped into the BMW, fumbling for the ignition key. Finally he jammed it into the ignition and started the car. He froze for a few seconds, gazing off into the murk, seeing only his past. He slapped the lacquered wood of his steering wheel with the flat of his palm and turned off the engine.

‘Two years in the ground and still no peace.’

He took a huge breath and stepped out of the car. As though in a trance, he walked back along the road through the billows of mist. Instead of making his way to the Wallis house again, Brook stopped a few doors away, getting his bearings. He looked at the house on his right. Windows were closed but there was faint light coming from inside. He set off for the path at the side of the house, which might once have supported a garage but which was now a scrubby weed-infested driveway, along which two lines of paving slabs had been dropped rather than laid, to enable access to a car.

Brook approached the corner of the house and peered around it. He saw the smouldering glow of the brazier against the blackness. The music was clearer now, beautiful and gentle. He could see dark shapes ahead, barely outlined by the dying radiance of the coals. He took another huge breath and stepped towards the abyss.

Brook didn’t know how long he stood in that yard before brain function returned. Later, in the peace of his office, he would calculate it at two or three minutes. Looking back, he would try to remember what he’d been thinking as he stared at a scene that wouldn’t have been out of place in an abattoir.

In the aftermath, he could only liken the experience to some kind of seizure or maybe the deepest stupor of a heroin rush, inducing a paralysis so deep that he was powerless to move or prevent the flow of images from his past. The Reaper had returned and Brook stood in the gallery of the dead admiring the brush-work but feeling the detachment of the critic. The Reaper was outside looking in at humanity and Brook stood with him.

What brought him back was not a noise or a stray light, but a sensation in his nervous system so real, that he felt as though someone was rubbing a snowball up and down his bare spine. He wasn’t alone. Brook could feel eyes burning into his back. He turned slowly, panning round a pixel at a time, until he faced a newer section of the yard’s boundary, a single section of shiplap fencing that bridged the gap between two crumbling walls. The top of the fence was smeared and stained with what looked like blood and Brook took a step towards it. As he did so, another noise behind him made him turn again. For a moment he listened, but except for the music there was nothing. Brook gazed back at the shiplap panel but the sensation had passed, and some kind of thought process had returned.

He walked back to the front of the house, fishing in his pocket for his new mobile phone. A second later an arm folded around Brook’s neck while another arm pulled his hand down by his side, forcing him to drop the phone onto the ground. Brook began to struggle and instinctively put his free hand up to protect his throat from a blade.

‘Take it easy, mate. You’re going nowhere, so relax,’ said a voice into his ear.

‘Don’t struggle,’ said another voice, ‘and you won’t get hurt.’ ‘We just need to know what you’re doing here…’ said the first voice.

‘…and see some ID,’ continued the second.

Brook held his body limp to signal acceptance of the terms and conditions and the arm around his throat spun him around to push him back against a wall.