Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘It’s all about image these days, Brooky The top brass won’t stand for egg on their faces. Being a copper is all about politics. I’d barely get above DC if I had my time again.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Drink?’

‘Of?

‘Something to keep the cold out. Don’t worry. It’s after twelve. You used to be able to fake drinking strong liquor pretty well, as far as I can recall.’

‘Was it that obvious?’

‘Blinding, laddie. I didn’t mind. You kept me company, in more ways than just that.’

‘Just doing my job, Charlie.’

‘Fuck off, Brooky. It was far more than that. You were doing both our jobs.’ Rowlands tipped a little more brandy into his coffee and looked at the floor. ‘I never had the chance to thank you. Not properly. Please let me finish,’ he insisted. ‘You saw me through that time. If it hadn’t been for you I wouldn’t have made it, I wouldn’t have wanted to make it. You gave me the strength…’

With a cute sense of irony, Rowlands’ rasping cough returned and Brook stood to clap him on the back. He poured himself a small measure of brandy and raised his cup to Rowlands. ‘Cheers, Charlie.’

‘Cheers, Damen. Here’s to you and that lovely girl. I hope you make a go of it, I really do.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come off it, lad. You deserve a chance at happiness.’ Rowlands was beginning to well up. ‘I blame myself, you know, for Amy…’

‘What?’

‘If I’d been able to look after myself at work…’

‘Forget that now, Charlie. Don’t even think it. There was nothing you could have done to save my marriage.’ Brook took a drink and winced at the unfamiliar heat. If he was to drive in the afternoon, he could drink no more so he put the cup back on the table. He looked at the floor. He didn’t know how to say what he wanted. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to say it. He decided, as usual, to keep it simple. ‘How long have you got?’

Rowlands looked up and smiled. He shook his head in wonder. ‘The best damn detective I’ve ever seen, Brooky, I swear to God. How did you know?’

‘You haven’t had a fag since we arrived. Not by choice I assume.’

‘You’re right. Physically I can’t handle them. One puff will have me on the floor, bringing me guts up. Lung cancer. Both barrels. Six months. More likely three.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’

Jones walked into the kitchen. Her hair was still wet from the shower. She wore a pair of dark trousers, baggy at the ankles but figure-hugging at the high waistband. She placed an empty cup and plate in the sink. ‘That was great. Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it, love.’

‘Constable, we’re hitting the road again. You’d better dry your hair.’

‘Sir?’ She looked round at the two of them but their eyes were glued together, waiting to be left alone. ‘Right.’ She took the hint and went back upstairs. The blast of the hair dryer followed moments later.

‘Tell me about Sorenson, Charlie.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘When did he die?’

Rowlands grinned. ‘Around the same time as me.’

Driving or not, Brook needed another pull on the brandy. ‘You said he was dead.’

‘I said he was a goner.’

‘So he’s alive.’

‘Not really. Like me. Cancer. Getting in line.’

‘And how did you find this out?’

‘He was in hospital, same time as me. He came over to speak to me.’

Brook stared at the floor, eyes like flint. ‘Did he?’ he said softly. ‘I didn’t know you knew him.’

Charlie hesitated. ‘I didn’t know him. He knew me though. Knew I was your boss from the old days. He wanted…’

‘I know what he wanted.’

‘Do you?’ Rowlands smiled. There was pleasure in his expression but it was buried under a mask of pain. ‘Do you really?’

‘He wanted to know where I was.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you told him.’

Rowlands paused, examining Brook’s face. ‘Yes.’

‘When?’

‘A few months ago.’

Brook nodded. ‘And a family in Derby dies.’

‘You don’t know there’s a connection,’ said Rowlands.

‘Don’t I? So why speak to him at all, Charlie?’

‘Because he’s dying, Brooky. He said…’ Rowlands halted, unsure how to continue. His eyes began to water and Brook was eaten by guilt. He was giving his old boss a hard time but he had to know.

‘What?’

‘He said he had a bond with you-a friendship almost. He said he wanted to speak to you one last time. I understood.’ Rowlands darted him a look. ‘He said he had something to give you.’

Brook nodded. ‘What was that?’

‘Purpose. He said you needed purpose.’

Brook laughed bitterly. ‘And that’s what he’s given me, Charlie. Problem is he’s had to kill an innocent young girl to do it.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Come off it, Charlie. Don’t tell me about Sorenson. You don’t know the way he operates, the games he plays. Christ, I spent a year breathing the same air as him.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do say so.’

‘So you don’t want to see him then?’

‘No, I damn well…’ The venom in Brook’s retort took Rowlands aback. Brook took a breath and softened his features. ‘No I don’t. But what choice do I have?’

Rowlands smiled in sympathy. ‘None. Not if you want to be sure, son.’

‘I’m sure. He did it. He did the London killings and now he’s killed in Derby.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

Brook locked his gaze onto Rowlands. Odd. For a second there was something…something in his old boss’s voice that suggested he was probing. Probing not for impartial clarification, but for information he needed. Brook wondered whether to give it then answered softly.

‘Peter Hera.’

‘Say what?’

‘Peter Hera.’ Brook nodded. Back on the case he could put his baggage down and revel in the gratification of detection. ‘It didn’t take long. You see Sorenson thinks I do crosswords. I was doing one the night he first invited me into his house for a drink.’

‘So?’

‘It’s an anagram. Not difficult. Peter Hera. The Reaper. It was the name on the fake licence given to the van hire company in Derby. In case I was in any doubt.’

‘Just that?’

‘No, but that was the clincher.’

Rowlands nodded. ‘So The Reaper is back.’

‘So will you see Sorenson?’ Jones looked up from the map book to study Brook’s face. It was fixed on the road ahead.

He sighed, showed some signs of having heard her. A few minutes later, he said, ‘I can’t avoid it. When Victor Sorenson wants something he usually gets it.’ Brook pulled over to the kerb and killed the engine. ‘We’re here.’

‘What time does she get out?’

‘I’m not sure. Three-thirty?’

As if on cue, a stream of uniformed girls disgorged from the double doors of the handsome building at the end of the avenue and streamed towards the gates where the Mondeo was parked.

Brook took the time to run his eye over the beauty of the surroundings, the immaculate cut of the grounds, now covered in a patchwork layer of frost. As on his previous visit, he had to douse the fires of resentment against a system which allowed some children, through no merit of their own, to grow tall in these Elysian Fields, while others, through no fault of their own, huddled against the radiator of a dog-eared prefab.

Brook stepped out of the car, motioning Jones to wait, and walked to the gate. He tried not to appear careworn. He didn’t want to burden her with more of his woes. She might get the idea he was too much effort in the long term.