Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘So that wasn’t Vic?’ Carlson returned his disinterested eyes back to Drexler and cocked his head. The penny dropped and Drexler fumbled in his trousers for a five-dollar bill and handed it over. ‘See, he’s my best man and he’s cooking up something for my bachelor night and I’d as soon know what it was.’

‘Took a card. Wanted to know what our quietest night of the week was.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Tuesday.’ ‘Anything else?’

‘Yeah. He wanted to know if I’d be working Tuesdays because he wanted someone he could rely on. Someone with discretion.’

‘That all?’

The manager gave Drexler a cryptic smile. Drexler fished in his pocket for another five-dollar bill.

‘He gave me a twenty.’

‘That’s what I got, friend.’

Carlson shrugged and wrapped his podgy fingers around the money. ‘I told your friend I’m on every Tuesday. He booked all the cabins for a week Tuesday.’

‘All of them? He say what for?’

‘Nope. And I didn’t ask. I got…’

‘Discretion. I get it.’ Drexler turned to leave.

‘For another fi’ dollars I can tell you his name.’

Drexler turned. ‘It wasn’t Victor?’ The manager returned his interest to the football. Drexler pulled out his diminishing roll of bills. ‘All I got is three ones.’

The manager glared at him and muttered something which sounded like ‘Cheap motherfucker’, then gestured with his chubby hand. Drexler handed him the notes which he pocketed before answering.

‘Reservation’s under the name Hera. Peter Hera.’

The small pot-bellied stove was still giving out heat but the embers were dying. The kitchen door was open and Drexler was sitting at the tiny kitchen table, cigarette in hand, looking at a bunch of papers strewn across the surface. Brook watched him from the shadows, debating whether to turn on his heel.

Suddenly Drexler looked up and for a split second Brook imagined he saw fear there.

Brook stepped out of the dark. ‘Mike. I saw you were up.’

Drexler found his Californian grin and stood, casting a sly glance around his tabletop as if to check the sensitivity of the documents, before coming outside. He closed the door behind him, extinguishing much of the light.

‘Damen. Quite the stranger.’ He gestured towards a chair in the garden and brought out a pair of blankets, tossing one to Brook. He then busied himself feeding wood and newspaper into the small stove; the air was distinctly chilly now and both men were glad of the flames that began to catch.

‘Work, I’m afraid.’

‘I’ve been reading the papers. Six people. I won’t ask you about the case. I’m guessing you need to get away from it.’

‘You can ask me.’

Drexler studied him for a moment, but let the opportunity pass. ‘So what can I do for you?’

Brook hesitated, a little embarrassed to be scrounging for food. ‘I saw the light.’

‘God be praised!’ grinned Drexler, throwing his arms in the air.

Brook smiled politely. ‘We have a lot to talk about.’

Drexler’s smile disappeared. ‘Yes.’

Brook decided to deflect him until he was ready. ‘Your book for one thing.’

‘I thought you’d have questions. Hungry?’

Brook nodded, as if to suggest the idea hadn’t occurred to him. ‘I could eat.’

Drexler returned to the kitchen and Brook fancied he was using the time to hide his papers. But it also allowed more time for Brook to finalise his side of the ensuing conversation. Drexler returned with a ham salad sandwich and two bottles of beer. They clinked bottles and Brook ate in silence as Drexler chugged on his bottle.

‘That was good. Thanks.’

Drexler nodded, but his good humour had dissipated. He stared into the fire, waiting, but Brook wouldn’t be hurried.

Finally Brook was ready. ‘When did you arrive in England, Mike?’

Drexler stared into the fire. A moment later, he said, ‘Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. An interview technique my old FBI tutor taught me. I guess you had a similar mentor.’ Brook waited, his eyes piercing Drexler. ‘About a month ago.’

Brook nodded. ‘Then why tell Tom you’d just flown in from Boston when he picked you up last week?’

‘I flew to Manchester from Heathrow. I told Tom I live in Boston and he assumed the rest.’

‘But you didn’t bother to put Tom straight?’

‘I didn’t lie.’

‘So telling me you had jetlag wasn’t a lie?’

‘Actually I think I asked you if you had jetlag.’

Again Brook was silent, assessing Drexler, who didn’t appear to be flustered at all. In fact he seemed calm and untroubled.

‘And Brighton?’ Drexler’s eyebrow shot up. ‘There was a train ticket, which dropped out of your passport.’

Drexler nodded, sombre now. ‘I can see I’m going to have to beef up security round here. I didn’t have Hartington down as Sin City.’

Brook felt a pinprick of shame. ‘I’m sorry. I called round and your door was open.’

‘Was my passport open too?’ The two men stared into each other’s eyes, neither willing to be the first to drop his gaze. Drexler found his grin again. ‘No harm no foul, Damen. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘Lucky you. You haven’t answered my question.’

Drexler’s grin eased but a smile remained. ‘I went to Brighton to look up an old friend.’

‘This old friend wouldn’t happen to be called Tony Harvey-Ellis, would he?’

‘No. Who’s that?’

Brook was studying him for signs of deceit, but Drexler was a tough read. ‘Never mind.’ He took a final swig from his bottle of beer. ‘And why are you really in Derbyshire, Mike?’

‘I told you. I’m writing a book.’

‘I’ve read your book, Mike.’

‘All of it?’

‘No. I’ve been busy. But enough — enough to know the case was solved. It says as much on the sleeve, yet you say you’re writing a sequel.’

‘I am. But it’s nothing to do with solving the case.’

‘You’ll have to explain that.’

Drexler took a long pull on his beer and stared into the fire. ‘You’re a cop. You must have seen it, Damen. The aftermath. The effort that goes into explaining — the press, the TV, the psychiatrists, the writers, even the fucking clairvoyants get a piece.’ Drexler looked over at him. ‘I got tired of books about the killers, Damen. It sickened me how much people wrote about the upbringing which caused them to kill, about the psychology behind the murders, about how we need to understand the killing to correct our society. About what they had for fucking breakfast.

‘We’ve got to the stage where killers are so famous that we’ve got schoolkids taking weapons into school to kill their classmates. Sure, they do a little dance, make a videotape, upload something on to YouTube to say why they did it. The music made me. I’ve been bullied. I can’t get girls. My teacher gave me an F in English.’ Drexler laughed now. ‘Stupid little fuckers! Like we don’t know the real reason. Like we don’t know they’re just lazy and desperate. Desperate for fame. No one notices me. Gimme a gun. Success through hard work? Fuck that. Gimme a gun.

‘I’m ashamed of that first book, Damen. It’s about the killers. It’s about turning pieces of shit into historical figures. So I’m correcting that. I’m writing a book about the victims, about the families destroyed by those butchers. I’m giving them back their lives. Not the way the news media do it. To me the victims aren’t just names, dates and addresses, end of story. They’re people who lived and loved and dreamed. And died before they were supposed to. That’s why I’m in Derbyshire, Damen. I’m speaking for the dead.’