Steven Dunne - The Disciple

The house was quiet now. His aunt was in bed resting before her next shift and baby Bianca had finally fallen asleep after her lunch of chips and beans. Thankfully his aunt hadn’t returned until half an hour after Jason had waddled home, soiled and scarred by his ordeal. He’d had time to bung his fouled clothing into the washer and set it going before showering and retreating to his room in shame and terror, once more pulling the chest of drawers across his door for safety. He’d collapsed into bed and lost consciousness almost at once — to call it sleep would have implied rest — and had woken with a start some time later, a film of sweat covering every millimetre of his skin. He’d sobbed quietly for the rest of the afternoon before finally succumbing to something approaching sleep.

When he woke again, he was surprised to discover waking didn’t involve panting and clutching at his throat. He merely opened his eyes gently and looked towards the window. The sun was beginning to set and Jason’s tight belly had begun to growl. Footsteps approached his door, followed by a soft knocking.

‘Jason?’ his aunt asked. ‘You in there?’ She knocked again. Still no answer from Jason who continued to lay mute, eyes burning into the ceiling. Finally his aunt tried the door but the chest of drawers prevented entry. ‘What are you doing, Jason? You better not be taking drugs, you little shit!’ She rattled the door but couldn’t shift the chest. ‘Let me in.’

Jason sat up. Necessity required a response. ‘I’m not. Don’t worry, Auntie. I’m all right.’

‘You sure you’re not doing drugs?’

‘You’re doing my head in. I’m okay, I tell you. What is it?’

His aunt hesitated, then, no doubt mindful of the time, said, ‘I’m off to work. There’s a chicken pie in the microwave for you and I’ve put your washing on the radiators.’

‘Cheers.’

‘If Bianca wakes up, let her watch cartoons. But make sure you put her to bed before seven. Got that?’ No reply. ‘Got that?’ she repeated.

‘I’ve got it,’ Jason replied, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.

‘You sure you’re all right, Jason?’

‘Oh my days, I’m all right.’ Jason’s aunt’s grunted and her footsteps receded along the landing. A moment later the stairs began to complain under the assault from her hefty frame. The front door slammed, her car coughed into life and Jason heaved a sigh of relief. He closed his eyes and a tear squeezed onto his cheek.

‘I’m all right,’ he muttered. ‘I’m all right.’

Hudson prepared a sly cigarette as Grant fired up the computer. Although she disapproved of him flouting the smoking ban so brazenly, she was disinclined to make an issue out of it.

There was a knock on the door and DCs Jimmy Crouch and Phil Rimmer came in without waiting for an answer. Hudson’s cigarette hand moved from behind his back and returned to his mouth when he saw it wasn’t the Chief Super. ‘Take a seat.’

Rimmer, a tall and well-muscled thirty-year-old with short blond hair and handsome features, and Crouch, a smaller and broader man with thickset features and wavy black hair, pulled up chairs. Both were holding large envelopes.

Hudson moved over to a board where a large close-up of the late Tony Harvey-Ellis, face slackened and eyes closed, was pinned.

‘Let’s get started.’ He pulled out his notebook from a pile of papers on the desk and flipped it open. ‘This is our victim. Tony Harvey-Ellis, wealthy local businessman and ladies’ man. As you know, Harvey-Ellis died in the early hours of Sunday morning sometime between 4 and 6 am, having left the Duchess Hotel to go for a run. His running shoes and kit were found on the beach, just past the West Pier. His body, however, was carried nearly a mile further down the seafront and was washed ashore just off Madeira Drive.

‘According to the pathologist he drowned after being drugged or, more accurately, poisoned, with a mixture of…’ Hudson broke off to peer at the preliminary forensic report pinned under Tony’s face ‘…scopolamine and morphine. The assailant injected Tony with the drugs, rendering him incapable of defending himself. He was completely docile within minutes and unable to resist when the killer helped him out of his clothes and into the sea where, suffering from muscular paralysis, he drowned. Laura.’

The two detective constables switched their gaze to DS Grant, who took up the reins. ‘As you know, his car was found in Preston Street NCP unlocked and with his luggage inside. It seems Tony had driven back to Brighton from London where he’d been at a conference and parked in Preston Street on Saturday around lunchtime…’

‘14.07,’ beamed Hudson.

‘14.07,’ echoed Grant, with barely a glance at him. ‘At this point he was alone so it’s reasonable to assume that the girl he was meeting is from the local area, although it’s possible he might have already dropped her off at the hotel in nearby Waterloo Street. Either way he’s booked a double room…’

‘I thought he lived locally,’ said Rimmer.

‘He lives locally with his wife , Phil,’ interjected Hudson. ‘Out near Falmer. But Tony is what we used to call a shagger.’

The two DCs smiled and nodded; Grant shook her head in mock disapproval. ‘Or a “ladies’ man” to anyone under sixty, although his taste seems to run to young girls,’ she continued, addressing Rimmer and Crouch. ‘Not very young,’ she added, ‘but borderline legal.’

Rimmer took this as his cue. ‘Theresa Brook goes to Roedean. She’s in sixth form now studying English and Media Studies — very bright apparently. The school won’t give us a picture though. Not without written authority from the Chief Super. They’re afraid of paedos.’

‘We may not need it, guv,’ interrupted Crouch. He pulled a black and white A4 photocopy from his envelope. It was divided into four smaller squares each containing a distinct image. ‘This is from the NCP on Sunday morning. The girl in this picture carried a case identical to the one we found in the car.’ He passed it round. ‘See, she’s even got a suit wrapped in plastic over her arm. Now we haven’t got her putting the case and suit in the car, but Forensics have lifted two sets of prints from the car and the case. One set belongs to the victim. Likely the other belongs to her.’

Hudson gazed at the picture of Terri Brook struggling under the weight of the luggage and nodded at Grant. ‘You were right, Laura.’

‘Is this our killer, guv?’ asked Crouch eagerly. ‘Not yet,’ replied Hudson. ‘For now she’s just someone with something to hide.’

‘Like what, guv?’ asked Rimmer.

‘This is Terri Brook, the victim’s stepdaughter,’ said Grant. The two DCs nodded with the gravity of it all but still risked a ribald glance at one another. ‘We can now surmise that Harvey-Ellis spent the night with his seventeen-year-old stepdaughter. Jimmy, show this picture to the landlord at the Duchess, a Mr Sowerby, to confirm.’ Crouch made a note.

Hudson crushed his lit cigarette between his yellowed fingers, sending sparks to the floor, then placed the tab in a drawer and strolled over to the window. ‘Terri Brook was probably the last person to see the victim alive and now, seen cleaning up after the fact, she has to be a viable suspect.’ Hudson’s voice trailed off and he put his hand to his chin and tapped it with his fingers, a mannerism Grant recognised as a sign that he was perplexed by something.

‘Guv?’

Hudson roused himself and turned to face Rimmer and Crouch. ‘What else have you got, fellas?’

‘Forensics are looking at the victim’s running gear from the beach,’ said Rimmer. ‘They found traces of fresh semen on his tracksuit so it looks like the victim had sex before he went for his run. It’s possible his partner’s DNA will be present. They’re following it up asap.’