Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Is it important, Damen?’ queried Hudson.

‘Maybe not. But it’s the house backing onto the Inghams and the woman who lives there is away. With The Reaper I tend to be suspicious of helpful coincidence.’

‘I thought this was a copycat,’ offered Grant, almost smiling.

Brook looked across at her. ‘Either way.’

‘Is this usual, Damen?’ asked Hudson. ‘As Reaper crime scenes go.’

‘The Reaper always likes to mix it up. Assuming it is The Reaper,’ he added with emphasis for Grant’s sake.

‘You still say it’s a copycat?’

‘Method can be copied Joshua. And yes, I shall say it’s a copy.’ Sorenson’s dead. ‘There are too many differences and too much evidence.’ And Sorenson’s dead.

‘I mean the phone call for one. The Reaper would never do that.’ And did I mention Sorenson’s dead?

‘We’ll need to hear more on that in the morning. Okay, let’s walk through again.’

For the next half hour the four detectives re-enacted the crime for their own benefit, arguing over a detail here and miming an action there.

Brook, who knew from experience how things had probably played out, watched Hudson and Grant go about their business. He had to admit he was impressed. They seemed well matched, each with differing talents that complemented the other’s. They picked up on the significance of certain details and together sometimes came up with ideas that surprised or intrigued Brook. One such idea came to DS Grant as she had stood underneath the skylight in the bedroom ceiling. The rope that had hung the young boy was no longer in situ, having gone to the laboratories along with all the other evidence.

Brook noticed her as she stood gazing up into the roof space for several minutes, a finger twirling a few stray hairs.

‘What?’ he said.

Eventually she broke her reverie and looked at Brook. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But that rope seems desperately random,’ she added with a smile that suddenly softened her features.

‘How so?’ asked Brook.

‘Well, you say The Reaper’s MO is to kill the child in front of the parents?’

‘What of it?’

‘But why a rope?’ she said. ‘He didn’t need one to tie the parents up.’

‘I don’t follow, luv,’ put in Hudson, walking over to them on the now bare floorboards.

‘Why did he bring a rope?’ It seemed a simple question, the significance of which had escaped Hudson and Noble.

Brook’s brow, however, creased in thought. ‘Why did he bring a rope?’ he echoed, as though to hear the question again would help.

‘What are you getting at?’ asked Hudson.

‘Well, you say he has a fairly fluid MO,’ Grant reminded Brook, who nodded. ‘In Harlesden the parents were tied up and the boy was strangled before being hung from a light fitting. He’d taken rope for the parents, so he already had it there for the kid. That sounds improvised to me. In Brixton a year later the daughter was tied up as well and had her throat cut. He may have taken rope for the parents but didn’t need it because they were drugged.’ She looked at Brook for confirmation.

‘Heroin,’ nodded Brook.

‘Okay. There was no kid in the Leeds killings — not one that had been born anyway — and the Wallis girl was poisoned and her throat was cut.’

‘You’ve done your homework,’ said Brook, starting to see where this was going. ‘And you’re right. There was no rope at the Wallis house. The drugs did everything the rope could and more.’

‘So?’ asked Noble.

‘So follow the pattern, John. Different MOs in each case.’

‘To fool the profilers, you said,’ replied Noble.

‘Maybe,’ agreed Grant. ‘But look at how The Reaper’s polished his act, how he’s evolved. Harlesden and Brixton were twenty years ago, when he was younger and stronger.’

‘He’s making life easier for himself each time,’ nodded Hudson. ‘The physical effort required gets harder over the years, so he changes things.’

‘But not this time, don’t you see?’ exclaimed Grant, warming to her subject. ‘This time he’s back to the rope, lots of physical effort, even brute strength is needed — which would seem to back up Inspector Brook’s theory of a copycat.’

‘So there’s a younger healthier Reaper out there,’ said Hudson. ‘A disciple.’

Grant smiled and nodded at him. ‘Exactly.’

‘Seems to make sense,’ agreed Noble.

Grant frowned suddenly. ‘But even so, why not copycat the later killings? Even for a young guy, a rope isn’t that easy to carry to the scene, especially if you don’t know how much to bring. And another thing. How did he know he could get access to the roof space to tie it off? Unless…’

Brook looked excitedly at Grant. ‘You think …?’

‘Definitely,’ said Grant, catching the mood.

Hudson and Noble could only look at each other.

Brook led the way out of the Inghams’ master bedroom, down the bare stairs and through the brightly lit backyard to the street. He marched towards the derelict Wallis house, Grant at his shoulder, Hudson and Noble trailing along in their wake.

The uniformed officer on duty outside the Wallis house stiffened and hastily hid the cigarette behind his back as the four detectives approached.

‘Inspector,’ he said.

‘Constable…’

‘Hopkin, sir.’

‘Miserable duty, Constable,’ said Brook without evident sympathy. ‘Sorry you got lumbered. Why don’t you finish your ciggy?’

PC Hopkin wasn’t sure how to react. He’d only been in the Force for a year and didn’t know Brook very well, but what he’d heard had all been bad. ‘Sir, I…’

Brook smiled. ‘I mean it. Stand easy and enjoy your cigarette.’ He made a play to look around at the deserted streets now that all the spectators and journalists had packed in for the night. ‘Who’s going to know?’ With that, Brook and Grant eased past him and made for the front entrance of the Wallis house. The chipboard from the previous night had been removed by Forensics in the hope of finding some latent prints and Brook disappeared inside first, Grant following.

Hopkin’s cigarette remained firmly behind his back until all four CID officers were safely inside the house.

Brook’s eyes swept round the sparse but now well-lit room where he’d waited for The Reaper the previous night. But instead of the mock-up of the Maples girl’s miserable squat, the room was now completely bare, apart from the crime scene lighting and a single wooden chair. The mattress had been removed for further examination by Forensics officers. The picture frame, candle, stove and unopened cans of food had gone to the laboratories too, as had the wine bottle and the glasses from downstairs.

‘So there was a mattress here,’ said Grant, waving a hand at the bare floorboards, ‘and an empty picture frame on top.’

Brook nodded.

‘But no picture in it. Why?’ She looked expectantly at him.

Brook shook his head, remaining mute. Over the last few hours he was being forced to react to all sorts of information that had once belonged only to him. He wasn’t about to open another seam into his past and produce the picture of the girl who had once haunted his dreams … not even for Laura Maples’s namesake.

Hudson and Noble arrived at the top of the stairs and crowded into the derelict bedroom. ‘Why all the excitement?’ said Hudson.

Brook and Grant looked around. They both saw the stout wooden chair off in one corner and Grant picked it up to place in the middle of the room.

‘The houses on this street are identical, Joshua,’ said Brook, watching Grant climb onto the chair. ‘That has to help with planning.’

Hudson and Noble turned to follow Brook’s gaze and watch Grant lift her latex-gloved hand to the ceiling. She clenched it into a fist and gave the trapdoor a solid jab. At once the board fell on top of her, pushed down by the weight of something lying in the loft space above. She emitted a startled scream, lost her balance and tumbled off the chair, falling towards the floor. Fortunately Brook was well positioned and managed to catch her. He held his hands under her armpits and lowered her to the floor, their eyes locking briefly as her face passed his. Then they all turned to look into the roof space.