Steven Dunne - The Disciple

Whether it was frustration with the case, or lack of sleep, or both, Brook felt a rare anger bubble up through him. When would this stop? What did they want from him? This constant prodding — was this his life now? What did he have to do to be left alone? Kill Jason Wallis? Would that stop it or did they want more murders, more victims?

Brook walked around the room to calm down. He returned to the computer and clicked on the email. It was blank but a file was attached. He clicked on the attachment and after a few seconds a film began to play. It was poor quality and badly lit, but Brook knew at once it was the yard at the Ingham house. There was no doubt. In the bedroom of Mrs North, one of the killers had set up a camcorder on a tripod and filmed the crime scene. The fire in the oil drum still blazed and provided sufficient light to pick out the faint outline of bodies on the two sofas. Brook watched mesmerised, his eyes gradually adjusting to the gloom either side of the fire. He stared at the side of the Ingham house by the drive, waiting for his own arrival. It never came.

Instead another figure appeared from the same spot, dressed head to toe in black, wearing some kind of mask of the same colour. He — it looked like a man — crept towards the warmth of the fire but seemed to be staring towards Mrs North’s house. A moment later he turned and approached the bodies. A few feet away the figure seemed to recoil as though in horror. Hands went to head and he was rooted to the spot for several minutes. Eventually the figure moved away towards where Brook knew Jason had been sitting.

‘Ottoman.’

The man bent down to the ground, as though to pick something up, and moved towards the boy. Brook could only guess what was happening as the shadows hid the man’s actions, but a few seconds later he could see the figure remove a glove then put something to his ear. After a minute or so the man threw what Brook assumed was Jason’s mobile, onto Wallis’s lap. His movements became jerky and his limbs seemed to have trouble obeying their master. Knowledge was starting to bite and panic would follow. A second later the man sprinted towards the shiplap fence and vaulted onto the top, climbing clumsily over. The film ended.

Brook was initially pleased — this could clear John Ottoman. But then he began to feel uneasy. Perhaps his own appearance had been filmed but had been edited out for later release. He wondered what it would show. According to the time and date display, the man (Ottoman?) had entered the crime scene some fifteen minutes before Brook. It seemed about right. And the fire would have been much dimmer when Brook arrived, making it even harder to see the action. Brook shook his head. He couldn’t worry about that. He clicked off the film and logged off.

One thing was certain. If Ottoman’s account tallied with the actions of the man in the film, he could be in the clear.

Brook stayed in the Incident Room most of the morning, hoping not to be noticed. At intervals the room began to fill up with CID who noted his presence but, unusually, said nothing. News of his disgrace was clearly on the grapevine.

Noble arrived at ten o’clock and smiled at Brook. ‘Morning, sir. Back on the case?’

‘Not exactly, John. Just here to see justice done. Pretend I’m not here.’

Noble nodded. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem — though you might be better in your office.’

‘I haven’t got my computer back. Where’s Charlton?’

‘Gone to the airport to pick up the Ottomans. DCI Hudson and DS Grant are driving straight there too.’

Brook nodded and resumed his work. When DS Gadd arrived to finish off some paperwork, Brook passed her some papers and began to brief her about phoning the estate agents. She looked over at Noble, who nodded, and she was able to listen more attentively before getting to work.

‘What are you looking for?’ asked Noble.

‘I think Sorenson has a safe house in Derby.’

‘Sorenson’s dead.’

‘But the house remains, John. And somebody used it to store the meat for the barbecue. And everything else probably.’

Noble didn’t seem excited by this theory so Brook returned to his notes. After half an hour he began doodling to soothe his overheating brain. He wrote ‘The Reaper’ at the top of a page followed by ‘Peter Hera’, arranging the letters in a disordered circle as he might when trying to solve an anagram from a crossword.

Finally he yawned and flung the pencil down. He put his hands behind his head and closed his stinging eyes.

Charlton led the way with Hudson, followed by John Ottoman in handcuffs being guided by a uniformed constable. Mr Ottoman was very pale and seemed to be in shock. Denise Ottoman, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, and a female constable were behind him, and Grant brought up the rear. She smiled weakly at Brook as she passed. She looked very tired from the strain of travelling down to Brighton and having to turn straight round and come back at news of the arrests; Hudson didn’t look much better.

Only Charlton seemed ebullient, a mood which faded quickly when he caught sight of Brook. To his credit, he said nothing in front of the throng of officers, instead busying himself directing the two prisoners to separate interview rooms. Then he turned back to Brook and glared at him for several seconds before marching off with Hudson, Grant and Noble. Brook leapt up to follow.

‘Forgotten something, Mr Hera?’ said Carlson.

‘Not at all. I’ve had what I came for so I’m checking out.’

The night manager’s grin returned. ‘What about your lady friend?’

‘She … will check out tomorrow. I don’t know what time, but don’t disturb her. And when she does wake, she may be a little groggy and confused as to how she got here. She’s a little forgetful. I’d appreciate it if you were the same.’ Sorenson grinned, as if to say ‘we’re all men of the world here.’

‘Discretion.’

‘Exactly. Now what do I owe you?’ smiled Sorenson and began peeling twenties from a roll. He stopped at four hundred dollars after a nod from the manager. ‘Nice to do business with you.’ Sorenson pocketed his remaining notes and made for the exit.

‘Same here, Mr Hera,’ said Carlson, counting his bills. ‘You come back and visit soon. Always welcome.’

‘This had better be good,’ said Charlton, sitting on his desk. Hudson, Grant and Noble all pretended to be absorbed in something requiring intense concentration.

‘Something’s come up, sir. Another message from The Reaper.’ Suddenly all eyes were on Brook.

‘Saying what?’ said Charlton.

‘It’s better if I show you — with your permission.’

Fifteen minutes later, Brook turned off Charlton’s computer and looked around the room.

‘You think that’s Ottoman?’ asked Grant.

Brook nodded. ‘It’s not me.’

‘According to that he came in by the front gate and didn’t even go in the house.’

‘And when he arrived the three boys were already dead,’ nodded Hudson.

‘He may have been in the house before that,’ said Charlton. ‘This could be a second visit.’

‘So he left a murder scene with six bodies, then came back to phone it in. Doesn’t make sense.’

Charlton accepted Brook’s point with a few sage nods, momentarily forgetting his animosity towards him.

‘So what are you thinking?’ said Hudson.

‘I’d say we treat Ottoman as a witness,’ said Brook. ‘For some reason he was on the estate and stumbled into the middle of the Ingham killings…’

‘What reason?’ asked Charlton.

‘Best guess: Jason Wallis. Maybe he was keeping tabs on him after his release.’

‘In a black ski mask?’ said Noble.

‘He’ll have a chance to explain himself,’ added Grant.