Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘Sure. They were taking no chances after the Yorkshire Ripper. It was just wrong. As far as I could see it was a gangland thing. Drugs. Professional job. But the Leeds boys wouldn’t have it, I don’t know why. They insisted on chalking it up to The Reaper. You’d think they’d have been pleased to know a serial killer hadn’t struck on their patch.’

‘Why so sure it was gangland?’

‘The victim was Roddy Telfer. He moved to Leeds from Glasgow in 1992. A real slime ball whichever way you look at it: junkie, pimp, thief, small-time, same as the others, but someone disliked him enough to put a sawn-off in his mouth and blow his head off.’

A shotgun? That’s not The Reaper’s MO.’

‘No. Far too messy.’

‘Then why think it was The Reaper?’

‘Because, using what was left of Telfer’s brains and a gloved finger, a leather glove I might add, he wrote ‘SAVED’ on the wall. Actually, he only got as far as the E when he was interrupted by Telfer’s girlfriend…’

‘Interrupted? Wasn’t she there from the start?’

‘No she wasn’t. She came home during, or straight after, Telfer’s murder. It doesn’t fit. That sort of chance occurrence wasn’t, isn’t, a feature of The Reaper’s method. He’s too careful. He would have had them both there at the start.’

‘So what happened to her?’

Brook hesitated but decided that he couldn’t avoid cast iron facts. ‘He strangled her, which wasn’t easy. His hands were covered in Telfer’s blood, so it was hard to get a grip. She wasn’t easy to manoeuvre. She was eight months pregnant and…’

‘Oh God!’

‘You didn’t know that?’

‘No, why would I?’ Jones put her own leather-gloved hand to her brow and then her mouth. She closed her eyes, composing herself the best she could.

‘I’m sorry…’

Brook said nothing. It would serve no purpose telling her the rest. Even the hardened Yorkshire CID officers who’d briefed him had blanched at the memory.

They were approaching a service station and he pulled into the inside lane. He was pleased in a way that she was so sickened by this detail. The death of an unborn child should sicken. Once Brook would have felt the same way. Now Brook’s distress could only ever be vicarious. After the Maples girl, all deaths could be squared away-even that of Roddy Telfer’s unborn child. The offspring of a criminal-rough justice certainly, but life goes on.

Moments later Brook pulled the car into the slip road of the service station and parked. ‘Open the window.’

Before he could soothe her further, she leapt out of the car and ran across to a clump of bushes. Brook listened to her retching. He picked up a packet of tissues and got out. ‘Here,’ he said offering a tissue as she emerged finally, brushing herself down. She wasn’t too ill to check her shoes for telltale splatters.

‘Thanks.’

‘Come on,’ said Brook, taking her by the elbow and leading her across to the restaurant.

Ten minutes later they sat over their coffees. Brook had drained his and was watching Jones for signs of returning nausea. But she simply stared into her untouched beverage, stirring superfluously at the sugarless black liquid. Brook knew what was coming. Ground that had been raked over many times by Amy.

‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ She lifted her head to look at him. ‘The stuff you’ve seen.’

‘You sound like my ex…’

‘Doesn’t it?’

Brook was forced to appear to be addressing the question-another unlamented technique from his marriage. ‘Yes. But not in that way.’

‘Then how?’

‘Can we leave it, please?’

‘But…’

‘I don’t want to discuss it, Wendy.’

Her Christian name brought her up sharply. Brook smiled at her. Perhaps this frank exchange would destroy the barrier between them.

‘I’m sorry.’ She roused herself now. ‘I’ve got no right.’

‘Forget it.’

She smiled weakly at him. ‘I’m sorry about the delay.’

Brook smiled. ‘My fault. You haven’t seen what I’ve seen.’ He looked into her eyes. On an impulse he put his hand on hers and was pleased to feel it yield in welcome. ‘Don’t ever lose that.’

‘What?’ She cocked her head to one side and quizzed him.

Brook found it very attractive. ‘The capacity to feel.’ She nodded, though she seemed uncertain of its value.

They had driven a few more miles in silence before she spoke. ‘Can I ask one more question, about the case?’ she said disarmingly ‘Then we’ll drop it, sir.’

Brook saw his chance to finally bury the harm he’d inflicted at the briefing. ‘Look. First, don’t call me sir when we’re on our own. Second, I brought you along for your intelligence and your deductive powers, Wendy. You don’t need to ask permission to get the information you require or to make an observation, no matter how trivial it may seem.’

She maintained her equilibrium well but Brook could see she was pleased. She reached into the file and produced a glossy photograph of Professor Victor Sorenson leaving his desirable residence in Holland Park. It had been taken by Brook during what the division counsellor had called ‘a period of obsessive stalking as a result of guilt transference.’ Brook must have been the only officer who’d understood Dr Littlewood’s jargon because nobody else had ever pushed him over his couch.

‘Who’s this middle-aged bookworm?’

‘Him?’ replied Brook as blandly as he could. ‘Oh, that’s The Reaper.’ He fixed his gaze and his mind on overtaking the lorry in front.

Later that morning, Jones was surprised when Brook pulled the car into the entrance of the Kensington Hilton, though she tried not to let it show. It had been a surprising day. First the Reaper file. Then hearing the story of Brook’s first meeting with Sorenson and how he’d decided he was The Reaper-though she tended to side with Brook’s old boss, Charlie Rowlands. There was no evidence.

Then they’d listened to a tape of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony at close to full volume to see how many times and for how long the music became so quiet that anyone listening in Mr Singh’s house next door might have thought it had been switched off altogether. And certainly there were passages when Mahler’s crashing cymbals and thumping horns gave way to more reflective melody, particularly during the Adagio, but nothing substantial enough to encourage Mr Singh to believe the CD player had been turned off for up to ten minutes.

Next DI Brook had taken her on a detour to Harlesden to see the site of the first Reaper deaths-like a pair of ghoulish tourists. They hadn’t left the car. Brook simply pointed out the metal stairwell running up to Sammy Elphick’s old flat. According to Brook little had changed except the launderette was now a betting shop.

And now this final surprise, staying at the Hilton, no less. It seemed unbelievable to Jones. That McMaster would okay such an extravagance, and an unnecessary one at that. There must be half-decent hotels for a lot less.

She darted a glance at Brook who, it seemed to her, was aware of her confusion and was trying not to acknowledge it. For some reason she had the impression that he’d stayed here before. It was something about the ease with which he negotiated his way onto the hotel’s forecourt. It wasn’t possible to turn right into the Hilton’s drop-off zone but, with barely a second beat, Brook took a circuitous route round a one-way street and emerged back on Holland Park Avenue travelling in the opposite direction, pulling up outside the main entrance a few seconds later.

Then, without a glance at his companion, Brook had gathered the evidence folders from the back seat and popped the boot. He handed the cases to a spotty-faced, eager youth and dangled the car keys at the doorman before ushering Jones to the entrance.