Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘We were here, Inspector.’

‘All night?’ chipped in Noble.

‘Of course all night, Sergeant. Where would we go on a Monday night in winter, in Derby?’

‘Just the two of you?’

Ottoman looked at his wife who resumed her examination of the floor. ‘Just the two of us.’

‘And what did you do?’

‘Do, Inspector?’

‘Yes.’

‘We watched television.’

‘All night?’

‘All night. Every night.’

‘What did you watch?’ asked Noble.

Ottoman smiled for the first time. For Noble it was an odd thing to do. But Brook recognised the impulse behind it.

‘I haven’t the faintest idea. You see, when I say we watched television, what I mean is my wife sits on the sofa sobbing herself to sleep, unable to let me near her. And I sit here staring at the TV, unblinking, not listening, not taking notice of what’s on, not even realising it is on. It’s just white noise to me but more comforting than hearing my wife cry or the sound of blood throbbing in my ears.’

Denise Ottoman ran from the room. Brook heard the soft gulping noise trail into the kitchen before giving way to a more vivid wailing. Noble stirred to go after her but Brook stopped him with a motion of his hand.

‘Do you understand? There’s nothing else we can do. We can’t go out, we can’t have friends round. We can’t have a bloody life. I can’t even go to work without Denise ringing me to say she’s heard a noise…’

‘I see…’

‘No you don’t see, Inspector. You don’t know what that animal did to her.’

‘She was threatened, sir,’ chipped in Noble, at once seeing the reproving look on his superior’s face.

‘Threatened? My wife is on tranquillisers. That bastard got her by the throat and pushed her back onto the desk. Then he forced himself on top of her, laughing, running his hands over…’

‘I’m sorry.’ Noble’s attempt to retrieve the situation was in vain.

‘My wife was terrified. She couldn’t move. She could feel him…lying on her…ready…’ Mr Ottoman looked down at the floor and wrung his hands. His voice had softened as though he were confessing to a priest. He looked up briefly. ‘He would have, you know, if…’

‘You don’t have to relive this, Mr Ottoman. You’ve told us where you were. That’s all we came for.’

There was a long silence before Ottoman could manage, ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t be. When things like this force their way into your life it can be a shock to the system. You will get over it. Trust me.’

‘Get over it?’

Brook looked at Noble, inviting him to get up but Ottoman’s voice made him pause.

‘Do you know what the worst thing was?’

‘Tell me.’

‘When he was on top of…my…wife…he turned to the other kids, kids Denise has known and helped, some of them for years, and said, ‘Who’s after me?’ And you know what they did? They laughed. They laughed and cheered. They thought it was funny. Even the girls. Maybe they were just glad it was her and not them, I don’t know but…what’s happening to people, Inspector? At the risk of sounding Victorian, things…it didn’t used to be like this. What happened?’

‘I don’t know.’

All this time Ottoman had been staring into space. Now he engaged Brook’s eyes. ‘She can’t go back, you know. Twenty years of her life and she can never go back. Never. Can you imagine it? Standing in front of that bunch of animals, trying to help them. Can you imagine the message that sends? Can you? Yeah. Fuck me over any way you want. I’m a teacher. I’ll take it because I’m worthless.’ He paused for a second and ran his fingers through his hair before looking back at Brook. ‘Sorry. There’s no excuse for that language.’

‘Don’t be. We’re not nuns.’

Ottoman laughed without mirth. ‘Do you want to know another thing? That piece of shit could be back at school the week after next if the appeal goes his way, which it will, after what’s happened. Sympathy vote.’

Brook stood with an air of finality, Noble following suit. ‘I see no reason to trouble you again, Mr Ottoman. I’m sorry for the intrusion. Thanks for the tea.’

‘Inspector.’ Ottoman remained seated, looking at the floor. ‘Is it true what the papers said? About poor Kylie, I mean. Having her throat cut.’

‘Yes but she didn’t…’ Noble was cut short by his superior’s interruption.

‘Didn’t stand a chance. It was a terrible sight.’ Mrs Ottoman was standing by the door now, wrestling a handkerchief around white knuckles. She gave a little whimper. Mr Ottoman was grave and narrowed his eyes in a good approximation of suffering. ‘She begged for her life but it didn’t do any good. I shouldn’t be telling you this.’ Brook hoped that under their current level of stress the Ottomans wouldn’t spot such an obvious lie. They didn’t show it if they did.

Mrs Ottoman looked at her husband who shook his head. ‘Poor kid,’ he said with a sigh. ‘She didn’t deserve that. Not when her brother is still alive. Her classmates are devastated, absolutely devastated.’

‘Classmates?’ inquired Brook with an arch of the eyebrow.

‘Yes. I’m her teacher, as you know. Was her teacher.’ He corrected himself. Brook glanced at Noble without expression. Noble was less able to hide his surprise. ‘Well, one of them. Not her form teacher. She’s in my literacy group. I teach at Drayfin Lane Primary, when I’m not on leave to look after my wife.’ He held out an arm for her to slip under which she did after the briefest indecision.

‘Yes.’ Brook nodded. ‘Devastated.’

‘What do you think?’ asked Noble in the car.

‘Ottoman teaching Kylie Wallis? Interesting coincidence. Though that’s probably all it is.’

‘There’s something wrong about those two, don’t you think?’

‘They’re married, John. What could possibly be right?’

Noble emitted a curt laugh. ‘I don’t mean that, sir. I mean…’

‘I know what you mean. You mean the house and the garden.’ Brook nodded absent-mindedly.

Noble covered his blank look well but when Brook refused to elaborate he had to concede his ignorance. ‘What about them?’

‘So neat. Well organised.’

Brook closed the door to his flat with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he was grateful for the chance to cut himself off from the world, on the other, secretly dreading the invasion of private thoughts. Poor Terri. He’d barely thought about his daughter all day, cut his emotions off at the knees, absorbing himself in his work until he could do no more. What kind of father was he?

But now he was home, alone with nothing else to distract him, at the mercy of images of his daughter and her stepfather. His daughter, little Terri, in bed…

Brook pressed the play button on the flashing answering machine. Someone had called but there was no message. He tried 1471 and recognised the Brighton code although it wasn’t the Harvey-Ellis home number. He dialled and waited.

‘This is Hall Gordon Public Relations. Our office hours…’

Brook rang off and re-dialled. ‘Who’s that? DC Morton. Can you get me an address? It’s in Brighton. Hall Gordon Public Relations. I’ll hold.’ He grabbed a pen and paper. A few moments later he jotted it down and replaced the receiver.

He thought for a moment, staring at the address then made a decision. He looked round for the folder he’d been reviewing the night before and suddenly realised, with a jolt, it was gone. He’d left it on the table, next to the phone. There was a note instead.

Thanks again for your generous offer. I’ve nipped out for some food (you’ve only got penicillin cultures in the fridge) and I’ll do the cooking. My treat.