Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

‘Don’t know. That’s not good enough. Now every crank and Edward the Confessor out there knows what we know.’ McMaster was silent. She strode to and fro, examining the floor, trying to regain her equilibrium. Eventually the pacing slowed and deliberation returned.

‘The Reaper. Yes, I remember. Ritual executions. Families cut up. They never caught him.’

‘I never caught him,’ said Brook bitterly.

‘You were on that enquiry?’

Brook nodded. ‘I was a DS.’

‘Is it true, Damen? Could there be a connection after all these years?’

‘There are one or two similarities but, as you say, it’s been a long time. All the same, I’d like your permission to go to London, check it out.’

‘You have it.’

‘Then I’ll need a larger pool of officers here, ma’am. To help DS Noble.’

‘What do you need?’

‘We need the computer manned for logging in any information. We need the Incident Room phones manned to sift through calls from the public. We need the murder book compiled. There’s house-to-house to co-ordinate, the van and weapons search, family background…’

‘How many?’

‘I’ve got enough CID but I’d like to second the two uniforms who answered the call. If we keep them in-house, they’re less likely to gossip…’

‘Fine, fine,’ she replied, putting up a hand.

‘And authorisation for any overtime and unlimited uniform back up when needed.’

‘You have it.’ McMaster suddenly seemed very tired but her anger pulled her round almost immediately. ‘Where did Brian Burton get all that information?’

‘He’s local, ma’am. He’s got local contacts.’

‘But a crime scene is supposed to be sacrosanct, damn it. It’s the Plummer rape all over again.’

‘There were a lot of people there last night, ma’am. Not all on the Force. He’d only need a couple of details and any decent internet search engine would have done the rest. It would have come out sooner or later.’

McMaster narrowed her eyes at Brook. ‘It shouldn’t have come out sooner than it was mentioned to me. Why wasn’t I informed?’

Brook kept his gaze on the floor. ‘It’s not definite, ma’am. I didn’t want to jump the gun before I was sure.’

‘It’s a bit flimsy but we’ll gloss over that for the moment. When’s the full briefing?’

‘Eight-thirty in the morning.’

‘If I don’t make it, I want you to read the Riot Act on this. Somebody in this station is feeding titbits to that journalist. I don’t want anyone on the enquiry with loose lips. Clear?’

Brook was home late that evening. After the press conference he’d made a conscious effort to clear away some of the unavoidable foot-slogging attached to the case. First he’d read up all that was available on file about Wallis and son, including Jason’s recent brush with notoriety in a back issue of the Derby Telegraph. There were few details and the teacher’s name had been omitted. Brook made a note to chase up the information.

Noble was out checking a lead on the van used for delivering the pizzas so Brook rang the lab to check if they’d unearthed anything of use at the scene. They had nothing preliminary, which Brook had expected. Things would be gummed up for a while, what with staff shortages and the occurrence of separate murders on the same night.

Then he rang Dr Habib, the pathologist, and was encouraged to hear that he was performing the Wallis post mortems at that precise moment.

Finally, he made a brief visit to the Wallis house, this time driving to the Drayfin Estate in his shiny new unmarked Mondeo. On his way he listened to a recently purchased tape of Mahler’s Ninth.

As he parked, a uniformed officer stepped towards the car to check out the occupant then nodded in recognition, if not respect, at Brook. It was a dark and cold night with a dusting of snow. A good thing. It discouraged the ghouls who gravitated to such gore. Even the reporters were absent, having been given bigger leads to follow by Brian Burton.

‘All quiet, Constable…?’

‘Feaver, sir. Yes, sir. All quiet.’

‘Dark round here, isn’t it?’

‘Yes sir. Most of the street lighting’s been vandalised. Kids.’

Brook nodded and bent under the police tape. He went into the dying room. It seemed bigger than his first visit but then it was virtually empty now. No corpses cluttering the place. He didn’t go further than the doorway as a SOCO was still working in the room even at this late hour.

He’d seen everything he needed to the night before. He went into the bedrooms as he had before but, as then, there was nothing of interest. If he looked hard enough he knew he could probably find something incriminating in Jason’s room. But to what end? Brook had never been concerned about small time drug abuse or under age drinking. Even the unpleasant porn videos they’d unearthed under a creaky floor board were of no concern to Brook. All such matters fell under Brook’s Law of Victimless Crime. Although the nation’s legislators disagreed, Brook was unconcerned about citizens sitting at home drifting into a narcotic stupor and masturbating themselves to sleep. Best place for it.

And whatever Wallis and son got up to in the privacy of their home, legal or not, had not been the motive for their slaughter.

Eventually Brook sauntered away, like a tourist leaving a disappointing museum, and returned to his car. He paused as he opened the driver’s door and looked across to the house next to number 233. After a moment’s thought he reached into the Mondeo and pulled out the cassette tape of Mahler. ‘Constable Feaver,’ he shouted, waving him over. ‘Have you got a mobile?’

‘Mr Singh. It’s DI Brook. Sorry to bother you at this time. We’ve got a few more questions to ask you. May I come in?’

The slightly-built, middle-aged Asian man lifted a pair of bloodshot eyes towards Brook’s warrant card. He wore an old-fashioned dressing gown and pyjamas. His feet were bare. He hesitated briefly before turning away from the door and leading Brook into his neat living room, a mirror image of the Wallis murder scene on the other side of the wall. The furnishings were perhaps a little fussier and the colours a little brighter but the rooms were essentially the same, even down to the fireplace.

‘I told the other detective everything I know. I’m very tired…’

‘I understand.’ Brook noted a small but plump valise resting on a chair. ‘Going somewhere, sir?’

‘My brother’s house. In Leicester. I’ve…’

‘You’ve had trouble sleeping after what you witnessed. I’m not surprised. But if you could find somewhere to stay in Derby it would be better. We need to be able to contact you…’

Mr Singh sat down on his plush sofa, indicating a chair for Brook. ‘I see.’

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘My wife and daughters are in India for a few weeks. But yes, I’m alone…’

‘A lot of worry, aren’t they?’

‘I beg your pardon.’

‘Daughters. A lot of worry. I’ve got a fifteen year old.’

Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. They can be difficult.’ He wouldn’t look at Brook, who sensed Mr Singh was probably picturing the difficulty Kylie Wallis had encountered next door. Finally his eyes turned to Brook. ‘What questions?’

‘Just routine. Like how did you get on with the Wallis family?’

‘Mr and Mrs Wallis are…were racists. And their son Jason. They were unpleasant people and we had nothing to do with them.’

‘So things were strained between you?’

‘Not really. As I said, we had nothing to do with them. We kept out of each other’s way.’

‘What about noise from next door? Was that usual?’