Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘Two adjacent en suite singles please,’ Brook mouthed at the attractive receptionist with just the right amount of superior boredom. Another day, another capital city. ‘Top floor if you have them.’

‘Certainly sir. How long will you be staying with us?’ ‘Just the one night.’ Brook handed her a credit card and yawned, this time with genuine fatigue. It’d been a long night and a stressful day. A part of him began to wish he hadn’t brought Jones. Relaxation would be impossible in her company. The awkwardness had receded but it was still there, and the effort he was required to make in front of her was draining his reserves. He turned round to squint at the Piano bar, which was busy, even at 11.30 in the morning, though most people were waiting rather than drinking. Killing time. That was a skill he envied.

Jones divided her attention between Brook and the board on the reception wall with its gilt letters picking out the room rates-?210 per night for a single room. No way. She couldn’t square that with the penny-pinching grind of justifying even the smallest amount of overtime back in Derby. Also, they were staying only one night but Inspector Brook had told her to pack for three. It didn’t make sense unless they were going to be camping out the other two nights.

A thought struck her. She’d heard rumours even before her night with him. Afterwards, when the gossip had started to spread, Sergeant Hendrickson had joked about it-she remembered going crimson-had said that if she could overlook all that was wrong with Brook, she’d be making a very good match. ‘He’s rolling in it, I’m telling yer. Up to a million, they reckon.’ She’d shrugged it off at the time. Anyone with that sort of money wouldn’t be working in the Job, and they certainly wouldn’t live in the dump Brook called home. She liked the car, the Sprite, it showed class, personality even, but…

‘There you are, sir.’ The receptionist handed Brook two card keys. She called out to the boy who was holding the lift and he nodded.

Jones followed Brook into the lift. She was bursting to say something but didn’t. She couldn’t predict his reaction in front of a stranger.

Brook continued to avoid Wendy’s look. He assumed she was on to him. Would she be insulted, think this was to impress her? With a sinking feeling he suddenly realised that staying at the Hilton might look like a tawdry effort to get her into bed. It was too late to explain now so he resolved not to think about it.

With the business of the porter out of the way and the tip dispensed to a look that implied the porter had been handed the contents of Brook’s nose, Jones marched back into Brook’s room to clear the air.

Brook was at the window, concentrating hard. His case was open on the bed and he had a pair of binoculars in his hands, gazing down at the gardens of Royal Crescent, across Holland Park Avenue, and beyond that to the chimneys of Queensdale Road.

‘Do you mind telling me what’s going on?’

Brook started. ‘Wendy. Problem with the room?’ He hoped that was all it was.

‘The room’s fine, sir, very fine. That’s the problem.’

Brook nodded. Things could get…No. He had to stop being negative. Things would be awkward forever if he didn’t buck up his ideas. ‘This is my old room, you know.’

‘What?’

Brook laughed and sat on the bed, which made Jones even more uncomfortable. The parallel escaped him. He handed her the binoculars and motioned her to the window to take in the view. If in doubt, concentrate on the case. ‘You can almost see his study from here.’

Jones stared at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

Brook waited, assembling his thoughts. ‘You asked me today if what I’ve seen affects me. I think you deserve a response. I can’t answer yes or no-I can only tell you what happened, what I did.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘No. But I want to. One of the reasons I brought you.’ She didn’t argue. Her interest was aroused. She waited but Brook said nothing. For several minutes he stared at the wall, thinking. Jones began to think he’d forgotten her and was about to speak when Brook broke the silence. ‘I’ve told you how I met Sorenson. I haven’t told you what happened afterwards. To be honest, Wendy, I’m not that clear about it myself. Do you mind me calling you Wendy?’ Brook’s sudden piercing glance into her eyes raised the temperature between them. She shook her head, not wanting to staunch his momentum, though it was more a disinclination to hear how the tension, some of it sexual, affected her own voice. Fortunately he looked away again almost immediately.

‘For six months after my first encounter with Victor Sorenson, I hardly saw my wife and baby daughter. I admit I became obsessed. I’d found The Reaper, for a time the most wanted man in Britain. People hated him. People feared him, as they’d been taught. And people wanted to know who he was, wanted him caught so they could see him and understand him. Given a face, the monster could be removed from their nightmares.

‘But he wasn’t caught, couldn’t be caught. There was no evidence, there was nothing. Here was a monster that was invisible, a ghost who killed without pity, without emotion. Who was he? Where was he? Nobody knew. Only I knew and I couldn’t speak. Not legally. I had no proof. The only reason I knew Sorenson was The Reaper was because he wanted it that way.

‘Rewards were promised, by the papers, by the police, for information leading to a conviction. But, as with all these things, the real information, what people wanted more than his capture, was the gore, the visceral thrill of knowing what The Reaper had done and how he’d done it-you forget now the impact the first murders had in the tabloids-and for that they needed me.

‘It was my case. I had the inside track, the details they wanted. But, of course, they couldn’t have them. Not from a police officer. Charlie Rowlands, my old DI, and I couldn’t be touched, or pressured-the press knew that. Criticised, yes, but not hounded like ordinary civilians. We were trained. We could handle it. But we have families, Wendy. And what we know, what we’ve seen hurts them. He looked back at Jones with sadness. ‘One day you’ll understand.’

She smiled back at him, trying to radiate comfort. ‘I see it every day. It’s not news. Officers taking their moods home with them.’ She had an urge to put her hand on his arm but resisted.

‘My family, my wife and baby daughter. How can you share…?’

‘How can you share The Reaper’s work? No-one can describe what he did.’

Brook was puzzled for a moment then chuckled. ‘The Reaper? What he left for us to find was nothing…’

‘Nothing?’

‘I mean, not nothing, obviously, but not the worst by a long way.’

Jones waited, puzzled, not wanting to ask but not wanting to be denied. ‘What was the worst?’

Brook smiled and gazed out of the window and began the journey back. ‘A silver necklace with hearts,’ he breathed. He glanced at Jones. She looked confused but it couldn’t be helped. There were limits to be observed.

He couldn’t pour himself out too soon. There might be nothing left.

‘I envied my DI, Charlie Rowlands, after The Reaper. Before, I’d always pitied him, his dependence on booze and fags, deadening his senses to get him through. I hadn’t realised he was the lucky one. His family had already gone. His daughter, dead at nineteen from a heroin overdose. His wife remarried. It was my turn. And he knew. He tried to warn me but I thought I was…invulnerable.’

‘But you found The Reaper.’

‘Sure, but Sorenson and I were the only ones who knew that. It was like his private joke. Even Charlie wouldn’t wear it. He was like my own father but he just wouldn’t believe it.