Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Brook opened the door before Mrs Harrison rejoined them. Jason was still outside so Brook pulled the door back as far as he could to let him see the re-covered corpses. ‘Jason, why don’t you wait outside in the fresh air?’ If Jason heard, he didn’t react. Instead he stared, saucer-eyed, beyond Brook towards the stainless steel trolleys, eyes wide but not appearing to see.

Then Jason clamped his eyes shut and began to pant. Brook grabbed his arm and held it tight, feeling him trying to peel away. He felt Jason shivering beneath his grubby jacket and guided him away from the piercing winter sunlight back towards the gloom of the corridor. Then the boy started to sob. Carly Graham appeared at Jason’s other arm to help support him.

Out in the cold air, Jason could hold his stomach no longer and he ran behind a parked car to vomit. Eventually he was able to stand upright. DC Gadd produced a bottle of water.

Brook offered Jason one of Noble’s cigarettes, which he accepted and smoked urgently. From time to time he would spit to expunge any stray morsels of his last meal. He wouldn’t, couldn’t speak.

Brook watched him, guilt tugging at him. He felt sorry for the lad now but was still pleased with the result. That was the reaction he wanted. The reaction that showed him not only had Jason not killed his family-which he knew-but that in there, somewhere deep inside his layers of hatred and mistrust, Jason was hiding a proper person, someone who could distinguish right from wrong, someone who knew how to treat others and could be a useful member of society. Perhaps it wasn’t too late for Jason. Perhaps he could be saved. Saved? Brook nodded. Saved. The writing was on the wall.

Gadd and Noble stood by the car talking in low tones. Brook directed Jason to it. DC Gadd prepared the cuffs.

‘There’s no need for that, Constable. He’s no longer under arrest. Take Jason and Mrs Harrison home.’

‘Yes sir.’ She opened a door and Jason scrambled inside. Carly Graham got in beside him, clucking and patting and talking in low tones designed to bring comfort.

As DC Gadd drove away, Brook looked after her. ‘Nice girl that. You should ask her out, John.’

‘Not my type,’ he replied. ‘So young Wallis is off the hook?’

‘Not completely. We may still need to interview him. About the drugs and the cash. But it’ll keep.’

Brook walked up the path towards the neat red brick semi, admiring the garden as he went. The house was for sale but it was clear from the loving care that had gone into the garden that the move was a reluctant one. He glanced next door at the two decaying cars perched on piles of bricks in the front yard, a large black and white cat watching Brook and Noble from the bonnet of one.

Brown paint peeled from a front window. A grimy curtain blocked the view into the house, sparing further blushes, if shame the residents felt.

The contrast with the house Brook approached now was stark. The Ottomans were clearly proud of their little empire and had done a lot with what they had, a corner house with a larger than average garden.

The small lawn was manicured and the flowerbeds were free of weeds. The hedges were trimmed, save the one that adjoined the neighbouring property, which had been allowed to grow tall to blot out the view. The garage was in a good state of repair too, with newly painted doors. A shiny Nissan snuggled between the open doors and a Volkswagen sat on the drive, minus its badge.

Even the gate, which Noble was now closing behind him, had been carefully maintained. It opened and closed without a sound save the click of the latch. As Brook neared the house, a slight man, about five-six, mid-forties, was scrambling to his feet with a small basket of weeds, pulled from cracks between the stone flags of the path. He looked round at Brook’s approach.

‘Mr Ottoman?’

The man narrowed his eyes against the wintry sun. He nodded as he spoke. ‘Ay. And you’d be the police I suppose.’

‘DI Brook, and this is DS Noble,’ said Brook offering his ID which Ottoman took longer than was polite to examine.

‘You’re here about the Wallis murders.’

‘What makes you say that, sir?’ inquired Noble.

‘Well you showed bugger all interest in what that bastard, Jason Wallis, did to my Denise so unless you’ve come about some other…’

‘Quite right, sir,’ Brook interrupted. ‘We’ve come about a crime that’s been committed, Mr Ottoman. Not one that’s been threatened.’

‘Threatened? That bastard…’

‘Can we go inside, sir?’ asked Noble with counterbalancing charm. ‘We shouldn’t be discussing this outside.’

Mr Ottoman hesitated and then gave in to a lifetime’s training. ‘I’m sorry. Yes. It’s been a difficult time. Come in. My wife…She hasn’t…she’s been under a lot of strain.’

‘Of course she has, sir. We understand.’

‘She’s not been back to work then?’ inquired Brook, still looking around. He glanced at the upper storey of the house in time to see a curtain fall.

‘She’s signed off until after Easter, Inspector. She’s had a nervous breakdown. You’ve no idea what that’s like.’ Brook allowed himself a thin smile and sneaked a glance at Noble to check his reaction. There was none.

Ottoman showed them through a small spotless kitchen and into the equally well-ordered lounge then went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Denise. We’ve got visitors.’

Brook and Noble sat and waited. Denise Ottoman evidently came down the stairs, Brook could hear the descending chord of each step, but she declined to come into the lounge. Instead she went into the kitchen to her husband. After some hushed conversation, she emerged a moment later behind Mr Ottoman, carrying a tray of four cups.

She was a plain woman of about forty, a little taller than her husband. Her hair was dark and long with grey flashes and was swept to the back of her head and held by a grip. She wore slacks and loafers with large socks crumpled around her ankles and a very baggy woollen polo neck, which completely swallowed any figure she might have had.

All the while her husband’s eyes followed her progress, like a new parent monitoring the first faltering steps of an infant.

Denise Ottoman placed the tray on a coffee table, declining, at first, to look up from the floor. Until she discovered her cigarettes were missing. Then her face became frantic and she cast her eyes around the room for them, a rising panic bubbling to the surface of her emotions.

Brook recognised the symptoms. The shock of innocence removed in one brutal corruption, her vision of the world soiled and crumbled to dust at her feet. She now had ‘victim’ written all over her, though not in red lipstick. Brook had seen it all too often and reached swiftly into Noble’s pocket to offer her one of his cigarettes.

She looked up at him now with her red-rimmed eyes, grateful. ‘Thank you.’ She lit up and they all sat at Mr Ottoman’s bidding. Denise Ottoman coughed up smoke as elegantly as she could. She was not a smoker.

‘What can we do for you?’ asked Mr Ottoman. He looked at Brook and then at his wife in turn. Brook stared back at Ottoman and waited for Noble to speak.

‘Well, sir, we just wanted to…’ Noble’s pre-arranged hesitation worked perfectly. Brook was a fine teacher.

‘You want to know if I’ll confess to the Wallis murders. Am I right?’

Brook smiled. ‘Not at all.’

‘Then why are you here?’ asked Mrs Ottoman. Her voice was little more than a squeak.

Brook turned his gaze to her. His voice exuded a detachment he didn’t feel. ‘We’re here to eliminate you from our enquiries, Mrs Ottoman.’ She looked away and Brook felt her pain. He didn’t enjoy this but it was his job. To be sure he got the truth he always pushed people as hard as he could, even when convinced of their innocence. ‘Although you have a powerful motive for wishing harm on Jason Wallis, and possibly Mr Wallis, we’re certain you or your husband didn’t commit murder. But there are formalities. We’d like you to tell us where you both were on Monday night so we can close the book on it.’