Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘Quite right, Sergeant.’

‘Don’t ask me how I know that,’ Brook added with a self-effacing expression.

‘Being a policeman, I suppose you’re bound to know it.’

‘Am I?’

‘Of course. Apart from lending his name to a selection of superior power tools, Bosch was obsessed by man’s inclination to sin, in spite of his fear of God’s punishment. And sin is your raison d’etre, is it not?’

He was being teased. But Brook was that rare breed, a copper who’d taken the time to think about his role. ‘Not at all. My concern is the law.’

‘Is there a difference?’

‘A huge one as I’m sure you know. I lock people up when they break the law. That’s my job. I don’t arrest a man for coveting his neighbour’s wife, or for being slothful, or proud, or vain.’ Brook gave his host a piercing look, which Sorenson greeted with an appreciative nod.

‘A good answer, Sergeant, though not quite correct. You lock people away after they’ve broken the law.’

Brook entered Sorenson’s study and sat down in the high-backed leather chair indicated to him. The embers of a coal fire glowered in the grate and Brook stretched his legs to allow small blue flames to nibble at his damp feet. ‘Don’t you ever question what use you are if you can only act in retrospect?’ Sorenson asked from the drinks cabinet, his back to Brook.

‘That’s a perennial frustration of police work, agreed. I suppose the best I can hope to achieve is the protection of the innocent from those who would steal from them or do them harm.’

‘But that can’t happen unless a crime has already been committed.’

‘True. But part of protecting the innocent is also seeing that they can’t be punished for something they haven’t done.’

‘A philosophy the guilty use to their advantage.’

‘Maybe. Nevertheless, arresting a killer, after the fact, can and does prevent further crimes.’

Sorenson turned and handed Brook a heavy glass containing a generous measure of the same whisky he’d had on his first visit. The name escaped Brook and he couldn’t make out the label. He took a sip and recalled the delicious smoke of his first tasting. For a second he speculated whether it might be poisoned and noted, with an amused twitch of the lip, his indifference to the prospect.

Sorenson sank into an identical chair opposite Brook and beamed at him. ‘Doubtless, that will be a great comfort to Mr Elphick and family.’

Brook’s answering smile was thin. He was in the home of a child killer, after all. ‘Unfortunately our after sales service seems to be more in-demand these days.’ Sorenson chuckled at this. ‘We can only hope to learn from what we see and be ready next time.’ The significance in Brook’s voice was not too clumsy.

‘You think there’ll be a next time? For this killer you seek? For this Reaper?’ Sorenson’s eyes answered his own half-hearted question. ‘I mean, it’s been a year now.’

‘I’m sure of it.’

‘And where do you think this killer might strike?’

‘Somewhere local. He’s not a young man.’

Sorenson chuckled again. ‘Isn’t he?’

Brook’s attempt to ruffle his opponent’s ego didn’t appear to have hit home. Perhaps Sorenson’s vanity applied only to his work.

There was a marked silence after that slingshot though it didn’t seem to be the result of any souring of the mood. Perhaps it was tactical, so Brook waited for his opponent to open the next door on their tussle.

When Sorenson did speak he had some difficulty phrasing what to say.

‘Do you ever dream, Sergeant?’

‘Dream?’ Brook shifted in his seat. This was a road down which he didn’t wish to turn. It was an odd question and one that provoked another. How could this man home in so accurately on Brook’s weak spots? It was unnerving. He became uneasy but tried not to show it. There was something about Sorenson that disturbed. It should’ve been his crimes but wasn’t-Brook had been unaffected by his handiwork. It was his mind, his thoughts, his questions, hisprobing. And what he said to Brook without speaking made even the silence between them seem like an interrogation. Sorenson was a man who could say more with his eyes than his mouth and when he did, when he looked at him with that mocking stare and amused superiority, Brook imagined himself being stripped bare and paraded for amusement, like some conquered chieftain through the avenues of Ancient Rome.

Those black eyes. They saw all. They had a power that enabled Sorenson to see through people. Through skin and bone and cartilage, right through to the essence of being. Several times Brook had experienced the feeling that events in his past, his feelings and even his soul were available to Sorenson for examination. Everything that made Brook tick, and more importantly, threatened to stop him ticking, was as accessible to Sorenson as a daily paper.

Again those eyes were doing their work. Boring into him. As they penetrated, Brook felt his whole life being downloaded, taken from him and placed on file in the brain of his opponent. If knowledge were power, Brook was at Sorensons mercy.

But how would he use the information, the psychological insight? Would he use it? Did he just want to know Brook or was there another motive? What did Sorenson want from him apart from stimulating conversation? An audience for his vanity? Someone to manipulate? Certainly Brook had no fear that Sorenson meant him harm.

But what did he want? And how did he know about what came to Brook in dreams? If he did know. Perhaps he was guessing. Perhaps Sorenson had merely stumbled onto the thing that was eating away at Brook’s mind, taking hisrest, threatening his sanity. Did he ever dream? Christ! Brook hadn’t stopped dreaming since finding the Maples girl.

‘I see that you do.’

Brook mulled it over, not knowing how to continue. ‘In my profession you see things…’

‘Of course.’ Sorenson made no attempt to prompt Brook further. He merely nodded sadly and gazed into the fire. Brook was wrong-footed by this sudden glimpse behind the curtain, a glimpse of affection for humanity, a glimpse of regret for Brook’s pain. He suddenly found himself willing to tell all but unable to articulate it. The moment passed but Sorenson wouldn’t be denied.

‘Tell me.’

Brook looked into the fire and remembered. It hadn’t been that long since they’d found her. Six months. Less maybe.

Brook hesitated then set off. Perhaps he could offload his burden onto someone who deserved it. ‘There was a girl. Laura Maples. She died a few months ago.’

‘Ah yes. Not far from here. I read about it. Ravenscourt Park. Who was she?’

‘Who was she?’ Brook was unprepared for the simplicity of the question. He spoke as though he hadn’t been thinking about it constantly. ‘She was nobody. A routine murder victim. Another street girl meets a sticky end.’

‘But she was more than that.’

‘She was a…No. To her parents perhaps.’ Brook stared blindly at the bright eyes and toothy grin of the schoolgirl smiling up at him from the fax tray-everything shiny and young. Her hair, her skin, her silver necklace with little hearts on it, strategically placed over her shirt and school tie to flag up her gentle rebellion.

‘She was seventeen when she arrived in London, and quite pretty in a fresh-faced kind of way. She’d left her comfortable, stifling existence in the country and headed for the golden paving stones of London. No reason. No family strife, no abusive father, no lack of love or prospects. It was just that, for some, that’s not enough. For some’-Brook managed not to add ‘of us’. Sorenson had enough psychological crowbars-‘the sheen of optimism, the embrace of life departs early.’