Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Is that significant, Andy?’ asked Drexler.

‘You can’t fill an empty tank with ten bucks’ worth of gas, Mike. Know what I think? I think Mr Sorenson stopped at every station on the way to Tahoe.’

Drexler nodded. ‘So it was no accident he happened to stop at Caleb’s. Why?’

‘Because he didn’t know who killed George Bailey. He took a stab at what might have happened and went out there looking until he got the vibe.’

‘The hunter hunting — could be. At least now we know he’s not superhuman.’

‘I already knew that, Mike.’

They sat down at a large monitor and Jeff took up a sheaf of notes. The CCTV footage of Sorenson entering the Ashwells’ gas station flickered onto the screen. ‘Okay, the guy called Caleb is welcoming him to Alpine County and telling him his name. Pretty friendly. The bald man says “Evening”, and asks if he’s on the road to Markleeville. Caleb says yes, you’re on 89 and asks where he’s headed. Then he tries to get the customer’s name. Caleb calls him Mister and waits for the customer to fill in the blank. You can see the guy thinking about it. Then he replies and says he’s headed for South Lake Tahoe.’

‘What does he say his name is?’

‘It’s very short. I made a list of possibles.’

‘His real name is Sorenson,’ said Drexler. ‘Victor Sorenson.’

Jeff shook his head. ‘That’s not what he said. It’s one syllable.’

‘And what do you think it is?’

Jeff stopped the film and reversed over it two or three times. ‘See how abrupt he is. It begins with a B or P.’

‘Any suggestions?’

‘I think it’s Brook.’

Brook looked around the garden of the Ottoman house, then back at Noble who hadn’t been there for two years. Back then they’d admired the care and effort that had gone into the lawn, the path and even the condition of the gate which had once opened smoothly and without noise. But now, Noble and Brook were required to scrape the gate along the ground to gain access to the weed-encrusted, flagged path.

‘It’s hard to believe,’ said Noble.

‘That’s what being a victim does to you, John.’

There were further signs of decay. The fence had several missing and rotted pickets, and the paint on doors and windows was peeling. At one time a punctilious and well-ordered couple, the Ottomans it seemed, had succumbed to the traumas of victimhood. Brook had seen it all too often. Denise Ottoman couldn’t be the woman in Mrs North’s house. He doubted she had the courage to leave her own.

He walked across to the garage, looking for either of the two cars he remembered they owned, but it was empty. He looked towards the house. All the curtains were drawn. Either the Ottomans were away or they wanted to give that impression.

Noble stood on the step and rapped on the door again, then shrugged at Brook, who signalled him away.

‘Let’s try the school.’

The headteacher of Drayfin Primary, Mrs Grace, seemed very tight-lipped about John Ottoman’s absence. ‘I don’t know what more I can tell you, Inspector. John rang me on Monday morning to tell me, not ask, tell me he wouldn’t be in and was taking a fortnight’s leave. His wife…’ She waved her hand in the air.

‘Denise, yes, we know what happened.’

‘Of course. But it was two years ago for goodness’ sake. I suppose this latest … it’s brought it all back, what with Jason Wallis being involved again.’

‘It would,’ nodded Brook.

‘The little sod,’ she whispered under her breath. Brook and Noble were both taken aback. ‘I’m sorry, but we had the little angel here before he went off to spray his scent over the secondary school. There ought to be retrospective abortions for some children, Inspector. I shouldn’t say that, I know. But no matter what you do, there’s a minority that are irredeemable. And to think he’ll soon be starting a family of his own. We had D’Wayne Ingham here too and, honestly, he made Jason look like Martin Luther King. He was due back in from suspension this week. You should see his tutor now D’Wayne’s … you know, gone. She’s walking on air.’

‘So Mr Ottoman was here on the Friday and rang in on the Monday; you didn’t speak to him face to face?’

‘Oh, no, he telephoned. Didn’t want to see my reaction, I expect. And I can tell you something else. I think he was already a long way away.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Long distance. You can just tell, can’t you? All the noises on the line. He couldn’t ask me in person, could he?’

‘What teacher would take a leave of absence and go away in term time?’ asked Noble, manoeuvring the car out through the primary school gates and ignoring the five mile an hour speed limit.

‘One who wants to get his wife away from Jason Wallis’s picture in the paper, I guess. It can’t be easy having to face what happened all over again. But you’re right. It doesn’t look good. The Inghams are killed in the early hours of Sunday morning…’

‘…and the Ottomans are gone by the Monday. Maybe sooner. The headteacher was less than supportive.’

Brook glanced across. ‘Know any management that are ever happy when you’re ill? I had the same thing in the Met after my problems. The first thing Brass does when you go on long-term sick is mark the calendar when they can put you on half-pay. It’s all about budgets.’

Noble was heading the car back to the Drayfin Estate when Brook received a call from Grant. It was a rare occurrence and Brook, under Noble’s amused gaze, managed to locate the answer button without disconnecting.

‘Hello?’ Brook listened for a moment then rang off with a massive depression of the thumb.

‘DS Grant. Head back to St Mary’s.’

The man draped his arm around his son to comfort him, but the boy stared ahead, terrified. ‘Ravi. You must tell the police.’

The boy’s eyes began to fill again and he started to sob. Unable to close his mouth properly because of the large plaster over his cheek, the boy dribbled as he cried. His voice turned to a high-pitched wail, ‘They said not to tell no one or else.’ He turned and buried his head in his father’s chest.

His father pulled him away and forced eye contact. ‘Ravi, they’re all dead.’ Mr Singh’s choice of words provoked a glance between Grant and Brook. ‘They can’t hurt you no more. Now tell the police.’

‘Have another drink, Ravi,’ soothed Grant, easing an opened can of Fanta towards the boy. ‘The sugar will make you feel better. You can tell us everything. Your dad’s right. They can’t hurt you.’

The boy reached obediently for the soda and took a large swallow, before looking up at Brook and Grant through red-rimmed eyes. ‘One of ’em’s still about though. Him in the papers. Jason.’

‘Tell us what he did and we’ll make sure he’s put away, Ravi,’ said Brook.

‘He din’t do much. It were the other three. He kept lookout.’ ‘Tell us,’ said Grant softly.

After a deep breath, Ravi said, ‘I were off home and it were getting dark. I stayed out too long…’

‘You know not to go across the Drayfin, Ravi, you’ve been chased before…’ said his father.

‘Please, Mr Singh. Let Ravi tell us.’

‘Sorry.’

Grant nodded encouragement and Ravi continued. ‘I came back across the Drayfin and they saw me. They chased me.’

‘For the tape, Ravi, by “they” you mean Stephen Ingham, Benjamin Anderson, David Gretton, as well as Jason Wallis?’

Ravi nodded so Grant gestured with her arm. ‘Yes,’ he said at the prompt.

‘And where did they catch up with you?’ asked Brook.

‘Near the field, before the bridge.’ His lip started to wobble. ‘They just started booting me, takin’ it in turns, while the others took pictures, innit? Then that big one called Stinger…’