Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘Great idea,’ purred Brook. ‘And find that van. It’s unlikely but he may have been careless and left us something. When you do find it, go house to house around it. I want to know where he went from there. Did he have another car waiting? Did he call a cab? Did he walk? He might not be in disguise at that point so any sightings will be more significant. Check all parking tickets issued up to two days before the murder in case he had another car and got sloppy. Get as many bodies as you need to help. But mum’s the word remember. The Chief wants this watertight. The media already know more than they’re supposed to.’

‘Right.’

‘I’ll get back to Jason in due course. There’s more to come from him but for now we’ll let him sweat. Where’s the aunt’s house?’

Noble flipped to the back of his notebook. ‘Mrs Harrison. 41 Station Road, Borrowash. The baby’s going there too.’

‘Good. It goes without saying I want the house watched round the clock for the time being. Set it up, John. That teacher Jason assaulted, Constable?’ Jones looked up.

‘Mrs Ottoman?’

‘I assume she has a husband.

‘Yes.’ She seemed wary.

‘I think it might be worth us paying them a visit, John.’ There was a pause as Brook gathered his breath.

‘What do you want me to do, sir?’ Jones enquired with a note of excessive deference. She was very ready to take offence, which made his reply all the more startling.

‘You?’ Brook was halted for a moment, trying to find the right approach, before deciding there wasn’t one. ‘You’re coming to London with me.’ Brook tried not to assess her reaction too closely and was impressed with her poise. She was smart. Her intelligence could be very useful on this trip. At least that’s what he told himself.

Brook pushed the handle of his cup around the saucer and stared into the dregs like a gypsy who’s forgotten how to read the leaves. There was so much to organise and delegate to his team, so much to consider from his past as well as the present, so much to try not to think about concerning his daughter. But none of that was bothering him at this moment.

Brook was thinking about Wendy Jones. Was he doing the right thing, taking her with him to London? She had made a good impression in the briefing. She was sharp and intuitive and wouldn’t be out of place in CID. Taking her with him could be justified. But that’s what was gnawing at him. His instincts were generally spot-on when it came to police work but disastrous when it came to personal relations. Which category applied here?

She’d certainly seemed pleased, if taken aback, when he’d pulled her to one side after the briefing. Her surprise appeared professional, that he should take her on such an important assignment. He knew she was ambitious and the glint in her eye showed she saw a big opportunity looming. For the moment she seemed to have forgotten their night of passion. That would be temporary though. Things could still be awkward.

He glanced at his watch then around the station canteen trying not to catch eyes. It was filling fast with packs of rowdy males, ribbing each other, eager for their something and chips-salad was for girls. Then a quieter group would latch onto the queue and Brook knew it would always contain a female officer. He sat at his usual seat at a corner table, facing the wall. He could only see the back of the lunch queue but it was enough-not for him the gunfighter’s seat, facing the room, scanning for potential opponents. He had no interest in his colleagues, or they in him, required no knowledge of who was in the room or who was coming in. Even Noble had been given special dispensation by Brook. ‘I know you’ve got your reputation to think of, John,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll expect you to nod politely, but you don’t have to sit next to me. You see enough of me as it is.’

But today would be different. Today, as people drifted in, Brook felt the urge to change seats to monitor conversations that normally would have passed him by but now pierced him.

There it was again. Things were being said, things about him. What things? He wished he’d taken the wall seat but now he was stuck, too self-conscious to move. All he could do was listen, aware that for once the invisibility he nurtured so keenly was gone.

People resented Brook. He didn’t mind. The less people liked him the less attention they paid him. He liked his life better that way. But today was different.

Today he could hear ‘nudge nudges’ and ‘wink winks’ being launched in his direction.

He listened to a familiar source: Hendrickson. What was he saying? He hoped he was still crowing over Brook’s climb-down the other night but feared there was a new focus for his comic gifts. Wendy.

Brook pricked his ears but couldn’t catch the drift. Perhaps they were signalling, pulling faces at him, pointing. He had almost dredged up the courage to change seats and face his tormentors when his fears were confirmed.

An upsurge of coughs and giggles and muted whistles began and he turned briefly to see Jones enter the canteen. They knew already. His impending trip to London had spread around the station and details of his fling with her the year before were now being resurrected for recent arrivals.

Brook pushed his cup away and began to rise but before he could lock his knees, DI Greatorix was at his table, tray of pie, chips and beans in hand. ‘Hello Damen. You look a bit rough round the edges.’

‘Do I?’ Brook retorted without surprise.

‘But then you often do,’ Greatorix beamed back. Brook looked back without expression. His fellow Inspector was such a sartorial disaster area that Brook accepted such admonition in the interests of balance. ‘Got a minute?’

Brook wanted to leave but didn’t know how to put Greatorix off. He hesitated then sat down again, at least grateful that he wouldn’t have to listen to any more banter.

‘Chip?’ Greatorix nodded at his plate and folded a laden forkful into his mouth.

‘No thanks. Make it quick, Bob. I’m due at Forensics.’ Greatorix smiled as best he could, indicating his inability to respond through his food. Brook waited and watched.

Greatorix was about ten years older than Brook. And about eighty pounds heavier. He had a sagging face-misshapen by heavy jowls-which was constantly covered by a film of sweat, visible even through his thinning head of slicked back hair. He was a healthy-or should that be unhealthy? — perspirer and his clothes always appeared to be in a state of accelerated condensation.

It didn’t help that he overdressed his ample frame to a ludicrous degree, the main culprit being the thick worsted overcoat, which he never removed, even in summer. His stained nylon shirt, which still had another couple of weeks to run, clung to a warm undergarment and, when the weather got really cold, below 20 degrees centigrade for instance, he had a tatty grey cardigan with overworked wooden buttons, which he wore to keep himself moist.

‘I was wondering if you’d like to swap cases. By rights the Wallis murders should have been mine, you know.’ Greatorix looked gravely at him before cracking into a baked bean smile. ‘Not a chance, eh? You wouldn’t want to plough through my boring old croaker. Poor old dear’-pause for another mouthful, two mouthfuls by Brook’s standards-‘but I was thinking you might need some help.’

‘Oh? Have you closed yours then?’

‘No. But it shouldn’t take long, if it can be closed. Burglary gone wrong. We haven’t got a lot to go on,’ he shrugged. ‘No, it’s just…you seem a bit short of experience in your team. Apart from you obviously.’

‘That’s the way the Chief wants it.’ Brook could smell something, something that surprised him though he knew it shouldn’t; jealousy. Brook had drawn the glamour case, the one with all the exposure. Greatorix was left with the dud, a no-hope case of murder, an old biddy killed during a robbery-a common crime, of little intelligence and little interest to anybody. Nobody cared about Annie Sewell, least of all Detective Inspector Robert Greatorix.