Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘It’s complicated, John, and I’m tired.’

‘That’s not going to cut any ice with…’

‘Odd.’

Noble stopped to look at Brook. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Look at the row of houses facing the crime scene.’

Noble scanned from side to side. Of the dozen houses backing onto the crime scene only the one opposite was in darkness. Every other household alerted to the calamity in their midst had numerous lights beaming, some of which outlined a human frame peering out to catch a glimpse of the horror. Only the house, past which the killer may have made his escape, was dark.

‘Empty house maybe? Or whoever lives there could be away. Lucky.’

Brook arched an eyebrow at Noble. ‘The Reaper? Luck? I don’t think so. Get Duffy and Parker to knock on doors and find out who lives there and where they are. We need to get in there. And station someone out front for the foreseeable.’

Fifteen minutes later the two detectives climbed the now bare stairs to the Inghams’ first-floor master bedroom and prepared to enter. They approached the door as a bright flash illuminated the dingy room to reveal a child’s bare feet suspended in the air. Once Brook would have reeled from such a sight. Now he was detached enough to just wrap it into his calculations.

Twenty years had passed since Brook had gazed at the corpse of a boy hung from a ceiling in the flat of Sammy Elphick, a petty criminal who lived with his wife and son in a slum in North London. A family had died that day too. How many more would it take before The Reaper was satisfied?

Brook stepped just inside the door to survey the scene but Noble, following right behind, let out an involuntary ‘Jesus!’ The various SOCOs looked up from their different activities then grinned at each other. They always relished the shock and awe of the unprepared.

‘You’re not going to blow chunks are you, detectives?’ said one. Noble speared a contemptuous look his way.

‘I reckon the Chief Super will be losing his bran flakes when he gets here,’ said another and the low chuckle was taken up by the rest, but just as quickly died away.

‘Just like the first one. Harlesden, wasn’t it?’ asked Noble quietly.

Brook nodded. Another camera flash made him realise how tired his eyes were. He tried to focus despite the fatigue. He looked up at the young boy swaying minutely at the end of a rope which reached up through a trapdoor-cum-skylight in the ceiling into the roof space. The same MO as Harlesden all those years ago when Sorenson had removed the Elphick boy’s fingers, settlement for a V-sign the boy had flashed at him in the streets of Shepherd’s Bush. Had that been this youngster’s offence this time around? It seemed an extraordinary coincidence.

He couldn’t look at the boy’s face so busied himself with other details. The Derby County FC pyjama top had a small breast pocket with a slight blood-stained bulge; Brook knew the two removed fingers would be in there.

He checked the stumps on the boy’s disfigured hand. The cuts were clean, surgical. Noble bent to examine the boy’s feet. The soles were dirty and scuffed, except where several trickles of urine, expelled at point of death, had cleared small channels through the grime. A teat of liquid still clung to the right big toe.

Brook looked at the boy’s ankles, visible under his pyjama bottoms. They were a bluish pink with the accumulating blood of post-mortem lividity.

Noble followed Brook’s gaze. ‘I thought lividity created a deeper purple than that,’ he remarked.

‘It does,’ agreed Brook. ‘After eight hours. It’s nearly seven now. He’s only been dead about six hours at the most.’ He leaned in towards the boy to examine more closely. As he did, the body swayed gently round and Brook was forced to see his face. ‘Full circle.’

‘Sir?’

‘We’ve come full circle, John. This is a copy of the first Reaper murder in Harlesden.’

‘A copy?’

‘The hanging, the removal of the boy’s fingers. See the spots of blood under the body.’

‘I assume the fingers are in the pyjama pocket. And he would have been dead or dying before he was strung up, right? That’s the same as Harlesden.’

‘You’ve done your homework.’

Noble looked a little guilty. ‘Brian Burton, I’m afraid.’

They moved past the boy to the centre of the room and were assaulted by other odours beside urine, smells Brook knew well. Emptied bowels and the sickly sweetness of ageing blood had temporary dominion over the stench of stale beer and tobacco, which hung in the air and leached from the peeling, yellowed wallpaper. But now the room also had a chemical edge as the forensic officers applied their sprays and gels.

Like the other Reaper crime scenes, the room was sparsely furnished. It was important that only death and its key details would take the eye. A large double bed and wardrobe had been pushed close to the far wall, and beyond that was an ancient oak wardrobe, the doors of which were no longer flush. The doors had no handles, only holes for fingers to prise them open. There was no other furniture except for the chair that The Reaper probably used to hoist the boy into the noose.

Brook berated himself with a small shake of the head. Sorenson was dead. The Reaper was dead. This bore the hallmarks of The Reaper’s method but it wasn’t the same. Something wasn’t right. Something was different. Brook moved gingerly towards the bed for a better look, careful to avoid the officer kneeling nearby who was combing through the bare carpet. Two adult bodies were in the bed: on the far side the male, young and naked from the waist up; on the near side, the female in a silk slip, older and heavier. Both were still under the deepening red duvet, but neither was sitting up to face the boy. Brook narrowed his eyes to ponder this and made a mental note.

As ever, after the first Reaper killings in Harlesden, Brook searched for something tasteful, something wonderful, if only in reproduction, to give the dying a glimpse behind the curtain of humankind’s lofty ambition. In Harlesden it had been a painting, ‘Fleur de Lis’, for the Wallis murders a poster of Van Gogh and the grandeur of Mahler, beautiful sights and sounds to usher the dying towards the pit with smiles on their faces.

Brook looked around at the bold and colourful posters that had been displayed to enliven grubby walls, but knew The Reaper hadn’t brought any of these. Famous football players grinning for the camera adorned several walls, while other sporting posters suggested a passion for both Formula One and topless female motorbike racing.

‘Well, Burton can write down the details but never having been at a Reaper crime scene, he wouldn’t be able to tell you that this isn’t original Reaper.’

‘Why not?’ asked Noble.

‘It’s not a carbon copy. It’s not how…’ Brook was about to put himself into the frame but managed to stop himself. ‘It’s not exactly how The Reaper would’ve done it.’

‘You once said The Reaper liked to vary his MO from crime to crime. You know, to fool the profilers.’

Brook looked at Noble and smiled. ‘That’s it. Prove me wrong with my own words again. Derby CID will be in good hands when I finally head for the elephants’ graveyard, John.’

Once Noble would have beamed with childlike joy, but now he merely looked away before muttering, ‘Had a good teacher.’ A few seconds later he nodded at the walls. ‘There’s no poster, no art for them to enjoy while they die. That what you mean?’

‘True. But assume the music’s on loud enough to be heard in here. Maybe that was enough splendour to usher them across the Styx.’

As usual, Noble was able to breeze past Brook’s baffling rhetoric. ‘Okay. So what else is different?’