Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Brook released him and he slumped onto the floor. After a long pause for thought, Tony sighed with resignation. ‘Alright, I’ll leave.’ With that, his face crumpled and he cried like a smacked child. Brook picked him up and patted him again.

‘Good. That wasn’t hard was it? And don’t ever come back. Not ever. Understand?’

Brook gave Tony a friendly slap on the face and stood to walk cheerily out of the office, being sure to leave the door ajar for inquisitive spectators to get a clear sight of Tony’s humiliation.

‘Merry Christmas.’

Brook sat in his kitchen, drinking coffee and watching Cat vacuum his way through a plate of prawns, the traditional peace offering after being left to survive on the cheap cat food provided by Mrs Saunders while he was away. It had been five days since his return and one since his subsequent suspension-a month, on full pay.

‘The least I can give you,’ McMaster had said. ‘It’s out of my hands. DI Greatorix has taken over the Wallis enquiry.’

She’d seemed genuinely sorry, though it was difficult to be sure. Perhaps the best indicator of her state of mind were the telltale signs of neglect in her beloved spider plant.

‘Don’t worry, ma’am. I understand. I need to get away.’

‘A holiday?’ She looked him in the eye to check he was serious. ‘That’s fine, Damen. I envy you. Have a good rest and we’ll see you soon, fit and well.’

A holiday. Hardly that. But no matter. Now he was free. Free to dig deep. Free to do what he should have done all those years ago, what he would’ve done had he not been so blinkered, so certain.

All that remained was to be sure Jones was untainted by his folly and, by the time he left the Chief Super’s office, McMaster was in no doubt that WPC Jones had acted properly at all times and had even tried to object to some of DI Brook’s decisions.

As a result, Jones didn’t even receive a reprimand, just a quiet word, ‘one girl to another,’ as McMaster had put it.

But that was as good as it would get for Jones. Brook knew she could expect a harder time from colleagues. Nothing could stop the avalanche of comment from the rest of the station about their missing nights together in a seedy Brighton guest house.

It began for Brook as soon as he walked through the front door. He’d slipped into the station early that first morning, hoping to avoid the worst. But Harry Hendrickson was at the front desk when he arrived and his face broke into a malicious grin.

‘Well if it ain’t Romeo. Juliet still in bed is she, lover boy?’ he’d said with a smirk. ‘She loves me, she loves me not. She loves me, she loves me not,’ he crowed at Brook’s retreating back, before turning to PC Robinson for approval.

And this time Hendrickson wasn’t the lone source of barbs. Everyone in the division felt they had a contribution to make and lost no opportunity to present their material. A group of fresh-faced constables sang Dirty Old Man under their breath before subsiding into a hum. Others, WPCs in particular, not wishing to lower themselves to crudity, just giggled.

Even Greatorix had joined in, going out of his way to deliver the odd wisecrack, though for the most part he was content just to be smug. And why not? It didn’t get much better for a low-flyer like Bob Greatorix. Revenge was rarely so swift and so sweet and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to twist the knife-revenge for Brook’s superiority, revenge for his insinuations in the canteen, revenge for all Brook’s advantages-his money, his brains, his healthy glands.

But, to the annoyance of his detractors, Brook was at peace with the world. Once he would have recoiled from such attention, everybody knowing his business and talking about it. He still didn’t enjoy it, but since that day on the pier with Terri, he’d changed. He’d lost his daughter, the only thing of value to him. Now, nothing mattered. Now he was able to cope with the jibes, all the more since discovering that cheerful forbearance of the baiting diminished the pleasure of his tormentors.

Brook wasn’t worried for himself. He could handle it. He had handled it for years. But Wendy. The thick skin he’d acquired didn’t extend to her and he knew she’d been reduced to tears on at least one occasion.

It was easy for Brook. He’d only been in the station for a couple of days before his suspension kicked in. Wendy would have it tougher for a while. She’d get through it, he knew that, but at what cost to their relationship? Assuming they still had one.

She’d phoned him after her talk with McMaster-that was a good sign-but then the conversation had turned to Daddy’s Special Girl and that morning at his flat when he’d passed Vicky off as his daughter.

Even so, such was his new-found serenity that he couldn’t hold back a smile after putting down the phone on her frosty tone. Never before had one of his infrequent relationships been threatened by the notion that he was a womaniser.

Brook extinguished his cigarette and went to the bedroom to finish packing. He stowed the suitcase under the table and picked up the phone, dialled Directory Enquiries, noted the number and dialled again.

‘Belle Vue Park? Yes. I wonder if you might help me. I don’t know how to begin. Yes. Yes. I’ll try.’ With a theatrical sigh, he managed to control his emotions. ‘It’s alcohol, you see. I’ve been having problems. Yes. Well, not yet, but I think I’m weakening. It’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow and I…I’m sure it’s a busy time. Yes, I’ll hold. That’s great. Yes, tomorrow for three nights. Thank you very much. Brook. Damen Brook. B-R-O-O-K. You were highly recommended by a friend. Sonja Sorenson. Well it was a few years ago. Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow evening.’

Brook replaced the receiver and left the flat. He walked through the grey streets to Jumbo’s, pulling up his collar at the morning drizzle. Noble was already there, nursing a cup of tea. He looked up at Brook’s arrival and, before he could think, shot an involuntary glance at the clock.

‘Morning sir.’

Brook ordered his Farmhouse Special and sat down with a mug of tea.

‘I know. I’m late. It’s not like me and I’m not a millionaire,’ he added.

‘Right.’ Noble handed over a folder and indicated a Tesco bag half full of video cassettes.

‘Is that everything, John?’

‘Everything of use. The list is on top. I can’t let you keep it.’

‘What about the videos?’

‘Greatorix won’t miss them but I’ll need them back at some point. The list contains all men on their own who checked out of local hotels a day either side of the Wallis murders. There’s no Peter Hera though.’

‘Did you think there would be?’

‘I’ve no idea. Is it important?’

‘We’ll see. Even if he didn’t stay in the area, this is where we might trip him up, John.’

‘How?’

‘Because he was off his turf. Derby isn’t his town so he had to take risks. He had to deal with people to get things-vans, accommodation, pizzas. If we’re lucky…’

Brook flipped open the folder and worked down the list of names. For a moment he paused but then resumed before snapping the folder shut.

‘Nothing jumps out. Pity.’ He handed the folder back to Noble.

‘Should we extend the search?’ asked Noble. He was embarrassed at once.

‘It’s not for me to say, John.’ Brook smiled to wipe away Noble’s faux pas.

‘Maybe he’ll be on the tapes.’

‘Maybe. Any other developments?’

‘Not yet. We’ve done everything. Nothing much from around the van. If there had been another unknown car parked on the drive no-one saw it. No sign of any forced entry to the house, so the killer didn’t stay there. DI Greatorix thinks…’ Noble flashed another apologetic look at Brook. ‘Sorry.’