Steven Dunne - The Reaper

He roused himself, lifted a grimy curtain and peered into the crisp gloom of the night. Maybe Cat had been ferreting around in Mrs Saunders’ bins.

He licked his lips. The red wine had given him a thirst. He cursed, remembering his young guest. It was his habit to make tea when he first woke but, for obvious reasons, he didn’t want to disturb her. It wouldn’t be healthy to face such repressed yearnings twice in one night.

Recalling the earlier peepshow with a lurch of pain, he groped around on the bedside cabinet and smeared a tissue with spittle, then wiped the dry-tear tackiness from his cheeks.

Brook flicked on his bedside lamp and leant down to the floor for the two slim files. Work. That was the key. He could rearrange the deckchairs while the ship of his soul sank into the inky depths.

He read the Wallis file again but could find no fresh inspiration so he turned to Annie Sewell. Dr Habib was right. It was a bad business. Annie Sewell had died between 7.30 and 9pm, a few hours before the Wallis family. But the manner of her death diluted any thoughts Brook might have had about The Reaper being involved.

The poor woman had been beaten with a blunt object before being strangled with the flex of her bedside lamp. According to Dr Habib, at least two assailants had been involved because of the way the victim had been held down while the life was being choked out of her.

One odd thing. Traces of cocaine had been found in and around the victim’s nose as well as on a nearby table. Also, her nasal passages were torn and bruised. It seemed her killers had snorted coke in her flat before she died and had forced Annie Sewell to do the same. Apart from this final humiliation, there were no similarities to The Reaper’s style.

But Brook was still troubled. There was something about the timing. He couldn’t rid himself of the thought that had struck him during his conversation with Greatorix, that there could be a connection between Annie Sewell and the Wallis murders. Surely it was too big a coincidence that Greatorix should be called out on another murder on the very same night, leaving Brook free to pick up the case that only he could solve, that only he could recognise as the handiwork of The Reaper.

It seemed too neat, too much of a coincidence. Two different murders in one night. This was Derby, after all. Not London. Or even Nottingham.

Once again Brook felt the hand of The Reaper guiding him, moving him around the chess board like a pawn, ensuring Brook was on the case-nobody else would do. Somehow he’d engineered the death of this anonymous old woman to clear the way for his old adversary. The Reaper didn’t want an unworthy plodder like Greatorix getting his clumsy mind around his work of art. He wanted a foe that he could respect. He wanted Brook. Brook was the only one capable of getting close, the only one capable of understanding.

Brook smiled. The Reaper had overestimated him. At least that showed a lack of judgement. That was one weakness. Years of wrestling with the facts had got him no nearer. A killer who murders families but takes no pleasure in it. Why? Vigilantes know their victims and are driven by hate. They enjoy the killing at least while they’re doing it. If The Reaper was a God squadder, appalled by the behaviour of petty criminals, why kill the children as well? What were they being ‘SAVED’ from or for? Brook had speculated for years about religious imagery and biblical notions of sin and retribution, but it took him no nearer a solution that fitted the facts. Wendy Jones had got as close as Brook in five minutes. One reason he wanted her on the case.

And other questions still nagged at Brook. Why had The Reaper stopped for so long only to resurface in Derby years later? There was no logic to it. Most serial killers can’t control what drives them. They continue until they’re caught. Subconsciously, many want to be caught so they can unveil their masterpiece to the world and revel in their newfound status.

But The Reaper was different. He conformed to no profile. He didn’t want to be caught, didn’t want recognition. It seemed he wanted only Brook to see what he’d done, to be his audience. He didn’t crave attention, didn’t want the world to worship him as a serial killer nonpareil. Such publicity shyness shattered the profiling mould.

Brook returned the folders to the floor and turned off the lamp. He stared into the blackness, unseeing. Charlie Rowlands said Sorenson was dead. Sorenson was The Reaper. The Reaper had killed in Derby. Sorenson couldn’t have been The Reaper. Brook shook his head. He’d been so sure…

A faint noise disturbed him again. This time there was no mistake. This was no cat foraging, no external presence. His bedroom door was opening.

Brook didn’t move. His hands were behind his head. He tried not to make a noise or change his breathing though he didn’t know why. Wasn’t it best to show the intruder he was awake to scare him off?

Brook flexed his fingers ever so gently, inclining his head towards the door. All was black. But he hadn’t imagined it. He could feel a change in the air currents.

He didn’t know how he knew, perhaps it was the imperceptible changes in leg tension that signalled movement, but whoever it was, inched closer.

‘Daddy,’ whispered a voice. Brook guessed it was Vicky a split second before she spoke. He could still faintly remember the scent of a woman. Soap. They always smelt of soap. They like to wash.

Brook shivered as she pulled back his duvet and thrust her cold hands under his vest. ‘Hold me, Daddy.’

She was naked. To check Brook quickly ran his hand between her shoulder blades down to her downy buttocks, and just as quickly pulled it away.

‘What are you doing, Vicky?’ It was a stupid question because her hand was already on his pants, massaging him into an aching erection, one which had been waiting in the wings for months, and which now emerged with the eagerness of the understudy given his big chance.

‘Stop it!’ Brook’s voice carried a collapsing authority that she must have detected because she continued to move her thumb and forefinger delicately around his straining manhood. ‘Vicky. Stop it!’

‘Do you like that, Daddy?’ Brook liked it. But he had to put a stop to the fireworks exploding along his thigh.

Brook grabbed her hair and leant across to the lamp and flicked it on. ‘That’s enough.’ He looked down at her eyes which began filling with tears. He tried not to look at her body, her breasts pointing at him, the perfect curve of her groin down to her pubic hair.

‘Do you like my teeth, Daddy? I’ve been to the dentist.’

‘I’m not your Daddy, Vicky. Now snap out of it!’

‘Don’t worry, Daddy. I won’t tell. It’ll be our secret,’ she looked nervously at the door. ‘Mummy’s gone shopping.’ She closed her eyes tight and lay back, inviting him to her.

Brook shook his head. ‘Vicky. This is wrong.’

‘Please Daddy. I won’t tell. Promise.’ She opened her eyes again and looked at Brook and the despair in his face.

He loosed a groan from way down deep and closed his eyes to shut the door on his loneliness and self-loathing. ‘I love you, Daddy,’ Vicky sobbed, putting her arms around his buttocks and pulling him towards her.

‘Vicky, I can’t,’ whispered Brook, his voice dripping with distress. ‘It’s not right. Please go.’

‘But I’m scared, Daddy. It’s dark. I don’t want to be alone.’

‘I’m sorry. But this can’t happen.’

Brook held her away, trying not to look at her soft warm body. Vicky stopped struggling to reach him and her body relaxed. She looked at Brook. ‘Just hold me then? Keep me safe.’ The little girl voice had gone and she gazed up at Brook with large sad eyes.