Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘So you are rich,’ she accused.

Brook’s grin faded to a smile as though he was ashamed. ‘It depends how you define rich.’

‘Why don’t you define it for me? Harry Hendrickson reckons over a million.’

‘Does he? Well, he’s way out. If you really want to know, I sold my flat in Fulham when I got divorced. It made?180,000 profit, all of which I gave to Amy and Terri. Last year I sold the house in Battersea for a profit of nearly?800,000, would you believe?’

‘Which you gave to your wife and daughter.’

‘No. She’s remarried so we split it. Okay?’

‘And you’re paying for the hotel yourself.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Just to take another look at this Sorenson’s house?’

‘Right.’ She didn’t seem convinced. ‘Atmosphere, Wendy. It was important to get back the old feeling. No matter how painful. I hope I didn’t embarrass you earlier?’

‘No. I understand how you must have felt. This Sorenson sounded very charismatic and you were young.’

‘I felt better telling you.’

There was a lull as both drank their coffee but the awkwardness had gone.

‘So what now?’

‘Now? It’s too late to see Charlie Rowlands. We’re going to check in with my old station, put out a few feelers and then I’m going to buy you a fantastic dinner.’

‘Sounds good. But as you’re down to your last four hundred grand, do you mind if we go Dutch?’

Brook sat naked on the edge of the bed and pummelled his wet hair as he talked into the phone. DS Ross, a wide boy from Hammersmith nick, was on the other end.

‘That’s right,’ said Brook. ‘Married to Stefan Sorenson. He was bludgeoned to death in his home in Kensington ’89. Right. How are you spelling that? S-O-N-J-A Sorenson. Got it. Belle Vue Park Retreat. What is that? Interesting. Four years? Sounds like a sick woman. Yeah. Thanks a lot. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’s nothing but you’ll be the first to know if I turn up a connection.’ An impatient pause. ‘I know I’m out of my jurisdiction,’ said Brook. ‘That’s why you’ll hear the moment I find anything. You’ll have to take that up with my Chief Super. Yeah. Yeah. Thanks again.’

Brook slammed down the receiver. ‘Moron.’ He’d forgotten the contempt the Met had for ‘Hillbillies,’ one of the many insults they hurled at coppers stationed outside the M25.

Still he had his information. Mrs Sonja Sorenson had spent four years in a ‘retreat’. From 1988 to 1992. Retreat-a sugar-coated name for a mental institution, according to Ross, though attendance was voluntary, not to mention expensive.

Her mental problems pre-dated both her husband’s murder and her brother-in-law’s subsequent atrocities. Natural then that after Stefan Sorenson’s murder, responsibility for his children would devolve to Victor.

And perhaps it was feasible that she knew nothing about Victor’s activities. But four years was a long time. Perhaps she knew what Victor had done. Maybe her husband’s murder, and her brother-in-law’s obsessive search for his killer, and his brutal revenge on Sammy Elphick and family, had prolonged her illness.

But that still didn’t explain why such a young mother, with two very young children should check into a glorified mental hospital the year before her husband’s death.

Brook knew he should have delved deeper into Stefan’s murder at the time, but he’d been so preoccupied with the Harlesden killings, and so thrilled to uncover a motive for them, that he hadn’t felt the need to be exhaustive. Perhaps he’d been right. Perhaps there was nothing in it.

But now he had a bigger problem. He had a dinner date with Wendy Jones and he wasn’t sure what to wear.

Wendy Jones chewed her final mouthful of baklava with her eyes closed. She swallowed, with an extravagant moan of pleasure, and resisted the temptation to lick the film of honey from her spoon. Instead she sat back, contented, and opened her eyes. Brook watched her, his chin resting on his knuckles, a half-smile playing around his lips. It was good to watch people, young people, enjoying life, satisfying their appetites with no thought other than self-gratification.

First Vicky, now Wendy.

The memory of his desperate night with Vicky, brought home to Brook the possibility of carnal pleasures.

‘What are you smiling at?’ asked Jones.

Brook filled her glass with wine. ‘Thinking how nice it is to see you eat.’

‘Don’t. I’m supposed to be watching my weight.’

‘What for?’

‘I’m getting…stocky.’

Brook took the opportunity to inspect her. It was less embarrassing than showing her he could rely on his memory. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Wendy.’

‘Don’t be too sure. I need more exercise.’ When she realised the implications of what she’d said, she flushed. Brook pretended not to notice. He ordered two large cognacs and the conversation dried.

Finally Jones broke the silence. ‘Sir?’

‘Please call me Damen.’

‘It wouldn’t feel right…’

‘Just for tonight.’ Again she went red so Brook followed up hastily. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Wendy?’

‘I prefer it.’

‘There you are then. What were you going to say?’

‘I was wondering how strong a connection there is in London with the Wallis killings.’

‘Only the MO.’

‘Then why are we here for three nights? There must be more valuable leads to follow in Derby.’

Brook shrugged. She was probing in that clear-thinking way she had. She was right. Unless they unearthed a concrete link soon, they might as well go back tomorrow. He wondered whether to mention Brighton but decided against it.

Two large cognacs arrived. Brook drained his glass and called for the bill. Jones went for her purse but Brook insisted on paying.

‘One thing puzzles me. It’s a bit personal…’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Well. If you’re so well off…’

Brook opened his mouth to raise an objection.

‘…relatively speaking,’ she added. Brook smiled his agreement. ‘Then…I don’t know how to put this.’

‘Just say it.’

Finally she found the words. ‘Why don’t you live properly?’

Brook stared at her, wondering if she was serious, then realised it was a good question, with no easy response. In the end he could dredge up only one answer.

‘I don’t know how.’

Brook slept as well as he had in years that night-his mind clear and clean. No guilt. No pain. It was the best therapy having someone to speak to, someone he could trust, someone he knew now he could spend time with.

When he slept that night his dreams didn’t drift into visions of feeding rats, or porcelain corpses, but to Wendy and his longing for her. Hope invaded him. He’d seen his desire reciprocated and it had taken an effort of supreme will to decline the offer of a night-cap. Such an effort that Wendy could see his refusal was not another snub but the gesture of a man thinking of her sensibilities, in case the morning awakened forgotten embarrassment.

Brook woke refreshed, infused with a rare energy. He jumped out of bed to busy himself. He wanted to be at Charlie’s house before noon. The sure way to get sense from him before the booze took hold.

After making tea and knocking gently on Wendy’s door, he packed with the efficiency of the single man and went down to stow his bag in the car.

Two hours later, Brook and Jones swung into the drive of a medium-sized detached house in the leafy suburb of Caterham.

There was no immediate answer to Brook’s pounding on the door and just when Brook had begun to think his old boss had gone out, the door opened.

‘Brooky! How the bloody hell are you?’ growled a voice laden with tar. There was also the tell tale aroma of mints. Charlie Rowlands stepped into the pale light and grasped Brook by the hand.