Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Where are the other three bodies?’ asked Noble, his breath steaming in the cold.

‘Upstairs bedroom. Two adults, one male, one female, and one male child, about ten years old,’ replied Brook, turning his attention back to the scene before him.

Two sofas sat at right angles to one another, facing towards the heat of a fire, as they might in any living room. In this case the near-dormant fire was a brazier made from a discarded oil drum in the bare backyard of the Ingham household. The closest sofa supported two bodies next to each other, stretched out, feet towards the fire. The second sofa held just one corpse, similarly positioned. The seat where Jason Wallis had been unconscious was now vacant and, as promised, the bloodied scalpel and mobile phone were on its arm, waiting to be photographed and bagged. On the ground were discarded plates, some with dirty cutlery, and some with remnants of the condemned boys’ last meal. Burgers and hot dogs in half-chewed buns, stained by blood and ketchup. There were also a dozen or so discarded Special Brew and other assorted beer cans, some crushed and thrown at a bin some ten yards away, others upright, probably unfinished, by the side of the sofas. In addition Brook could see at least four empty two-litre bottles of Diamond White cider, the drink of choice for seekers of oblivion. Most of the revellers had not been disappointed.

Noble kneeled to examine one of several handrolled cigarette ends that littered the yard like confetti. ‘Smells like zoot to me.’

Brook looked over. ‘Got a hole in your tooth, John?’

Noble returned a bleak smile. ‘Marijuana, sir. Street name, zoot. I’m down with the kids.’

Brook nodded and rolled his eyes towards the sofa supporting the single male corpse. The boy, a teenager, sat upright, though his head, baseball cap still in place, was twisted backwards over the back of the sofa, his gaping wound fully exposed. They’d both seen the twist of pink gristle of a severed windpipe before. The cleanness of the cut was consistent with The Reaper’s MO — no hacking, no panicked slashing, clean, cold, efficient and almost matter-of-fact. A job to get done, then move on. Who’s next?

‘Good question,’ muttered Brook.

‘Sorry?’

‘Nothing.’

Brook ran his eyes over the empty space next to the corpse. He had to peer round the still warm oil drum to get a view, but grunted when he saw what he was looking for. Or rather, what he was expecting to be absent. He motioned to Noble.

‘Is that where Jason Wallis was sitting?’ Noble asked.

‘It was.’

‘Which means Wallis can’t be our killer,’ said Noble. ‘You were right.’

Brook nodded his approval. ‘Good spot, John.’ He switched his attention to the other sofa. Again both male victims were young, probably seventeen-year-olds if they were contemporaries of Wallis. Like the other boy, their heads were pulled back so their severed windpipes winked up at the heavens. All the young men wore similar clothing — baggy jeans exposing designer underwear, padded jackets or hoodies and grubby Nike training shoes. A peaked cap, espousing support for the New York Yankees, still clung to one boy’s head, in spite of the muscle spasms he must have endured as his life had convulsed to a close.

Brook moved away towards the car that stood on bricks at the rear of the house. It was an old Toyota, battered and rusty and had flames daubed amateurishly on the side. The portable CD player sitting on the roof had been turned off. Brook was tempted to start the music again but resisted. It didn’t stop the soundtrack from other Reaper crime scenes rolling around his head — Mozart’s Requiem in Brixton and Mahler’s Ninth from the Wallis murders two years before. His eye followed the extension cord through the back door to the now brightly lit kitchen.

‘John.’ Noble looked up at Brook, who nodded towards the internal wall through the kitchen window. ‘SAVED’ was written in large, bloody letters. All the letters oozed red tiny tears, as if of condolence, which had pooled on the grease-caked linoleum floor. Noble nodded back to Brook in recognition. The Reaper’s unique sign-off.

For years Brook had puzzled over who was SAVED until his final apocalyptic night with Sorenson. The worst petty criminals on the estate would have died tonight, The Reaper having seen fit to save honest neighbours from their malevolence. Summary and absolute justice as before — but it didn’t make it any easier to look at.

One of the SOCOs working near Jason’s sofa stood up and turned to Brook, holding two clear plastic evidence bags in front of him. One contained the bloody scalpel, the other a mobile phone, also stained with blood.

The officer pulled down his mask. ‘Mobile’s not been dusted but it looks like there’s a print in the blood.’

‘Sounds promising,’ said Noble. ‘Bit careless for The Reaper though.’

‘It could be Jason’s,’ noted Brook.

‘Or the ambulance man’s.’

‘No, I moved it off Jason’s lap so they could take him to hospital. Can we get a list of the last calls and any texts?’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ said the officer. ‘And if any pictures were taken.’

Brook and Noble nodded their thanks and moved further down the garden towards a shiny new barbecue, still sporting a couple of scorched burgers.

‘This is a Weber, sir. Top of the range barby.’ Brook recognised the distinctive brand from his evening with Mike Drexler. ‘Looks new. Wonder where they nicked it,’ smiled Noble, looking over at Brook, who seemed distracted suddenly. ‘Something wrong?’ Brook looked into his sergeant’s eyes. To Noble he seemed to be wrestling with a different mystery a million miles removed from this blood-soaked scene. ‘Are you okay, sir?’

‘Maybe they didn’t nick it. Maybe they won it in a competition, John.’

Noble’s expression sobered as soon as the observation hit home. ‘You think? The same MO. Cheeky sod.’

‘Why change a winning formula? We’ll need those burgers and sausages bagged for analysis, John. They could have been … doctored.’

‘Twilight Sleep again?’

‘It worked last time.’

‘What happened here?’ asked Noble as they walked over to where the fence panel had been removed.

‘Best guess? Emergency exit. The killer has finished his work and is about to leave. Maybe he hears my car or maybe even sees me coming up the path…’

‘Pardon?’

Brook sighed, feeling suddenly very tired after his night’s labours. He looked up at the washed-out dusty sky, dawn still some way off. ‘It’s been a long night, John.’

‘You think you disturbed The Reaper?’

Brook hesitated, trying to find the right words. Ahead of him the path forked into two. One way required honesty and promised awkward questions, suspicion, maybe even removal from the investigation. The other was the path of deceit and would require a balancing act of exhausting proportions. He’d already taken a pace along it with his lie to PCs Duffy and Parker about his presence on the scene. ‘I don’t know for sure.’

‘How long have you been here?’

He looked back at Noble. ‘A lifetime, John.’

The house adjoining the Ingham backyard was still in complete darkness. Brook ran his torch around the neat little back garden. ‘What are we looking for, sir?’

‘Assuming our killer vaulted over the fence and landed in here covered in blood…’

‘Panicking after you turned up.’

‘…there might be bloody footprints on the path, maybe some fibres, maybe he left DNA on the front gate.’ Brook was trying his best to ignore Noble’s piercing glance.

‘You realise what the Chief Super’s going to say when he finds out? Never mind Brian Burton and the rest of the media. What were you doing here in the middle of the night?’