Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘Don’t be. What does he think?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘You don’t have to bad mouth him to please me, John.’ Brook was pleased anyway.

‘I know. It’s just…’

Brook’s breakfast arrived and he took up his knife and fork. ‘What?’

‘Have you seen him eat? It’s disgusting. And the way he sweats…’ Noble broke off when he realised Brook had stopped spearing a mushroom onto his fork. ‘Sorry. Bon appetit.’

‘Does he have any ideas?’

‘He thinks it was a neighbour with a grudge against Bobby Wallis.’

‘I wish he were right. What have Forensics come up with?’

‘Nothing yet.’

‘Have they examined Jason’s clothes yet?’

‘His clothes? No.’

‘They’re a bit slow, aren’t they?’

Noble seemed a little put out. ‘Maybe, but when we found no blood on his shoes, he was in the clear. He couldn’t possibly have been in that room. So we put his clothes on low priority. And you weren’t here to give them a hurry-up.’

Brook nodded. ‘Fair enough.’

Noble rose to leave. ‘Well, have a good holiday.’

‘Thanks. And good luck with B.O. Bob.’

Noble laughed. Was this really DI Brook? Going on holiday, tucking into a hearty breakfast, cracking wise. Noble pinched his fingers over his nose and Brook returned the laugh.

As soon as Noble left, Brook pulled out a pen and wrote ‘International Hotel’ on his paper napkin. He didn’t need to write down the man’s name.

After breakfast, Brook returned to his flat, retrieved the keys to the Sprite and climbed into the old car. The Mondeo was next to it. Being suspended, he wasn’t sure he should still have it, but nobody had asked for it back and he hadn’t thought to offer. But The International was only half a mile away and it would be as well to keep the Sprite ticking over.

Five minutes later Brook parked on the forecourt of the hotel and clambered out.

He entered the double doors, running his eye over the excessive Christmas decorations, and rang the bell at a deserted reception. A young girl appeared, trying her best to look helpful and confident. She was petite and full-figured with plenty of make-up and bright orange streaks in her hair. The studs in her ears reminded him of Laura Maples.

‘Can I help you, sir?’

Brook pulled out his warrant card and flashed it at her. The girl’s face betrayed a glimpse of alarm and Brook wondered what she’d been up to. Drugs probably. She was young and, no doubt, badly paid. What else was there?

‘No need to be alarmed, miss. I need some information on one of your guests. Apparently a man stayed here from the 16th to the 18th of this month.’

‘Ye-es?’

‘He registered under the name Sammy Elphick.’

‘Ye-es?’

‘I wondered if there was anyone here who might be able to give me a description of the man.’

‘Mr Elphick?’ She turned to the desk to flip through the visitor’s book. ‘That’s right. One of your constables rang to ask us about single men staying in the area. What’s he done?’

‘It’s just routine. Sally,’ he added after a glance at her tag.

‘Sammy Elphick? Yeah, here he is. I remember him alright. A right weirdo.’ She flipped the book round at him. Next to the name column the words ‘Harlesden, London’ glared out at Brook.

‘Was he?’

‘Yeah.’

Brook waited, wondering if Sally were some kind of comedian. When it became clear she wouldn’t be elaborating without further stimulus, he said, ‘Could you tell me about him, Sally?’

‘He wasn’t very well.’

Brook’s heart quickened. ‘How so?’

‘It was his hands.’

‘His hands?’

‘That’s right. Burnt they were. So he said. He had to wear gloves all the time.’

‘Did he? So that’s not his handwriting,’ enquired Brook, nodding at the folder.

‘No, it’s mine. He couldn’t write.’

‘And he paid his account with cash for the same reason.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Old, a bit sad-looking. He didn’t speak much.’

‘I’ll bet he didn’t eat in the restaurant either.’

‘No, he didn’t. He said it was too bright. He had bad eyes as well you see.’

‘Course he did. He’d need special glasses for that, wouldn’t he?’

Sally was impressed. ‘That’s right. Big thick frames with tinted lenses.’

‘So he didn’t take breakfast?’

Sally was starting to get into the swing of things. ‘No. We all wondered about that because it’s included in the price. We can’t knock anything off, you know. Not round Christmas. Not that he asked. I mean, Cook was a bit put out. He does a good breakfast. One of the best in Derby,’ she added, reverting to a professional voice. ‘But even if it was crap, people always make a point of having it, don’t they? I mean, when they’ve paid for it…’

‘Any other distinctive features?’

‘He wore a wig. I noticed that, though he kept a hat on most of the time.’ Sally was very pleased with her deductive powers. ‘Does that help?’

Brook nodded. ‘It would help more if you could tell me if he was bald underneath.’ Sally screwed up her face in concentration then shook her head. ‘I don’t know,’ she concluded, a little crestfallen. ‘Like I said, he had a wig on. And not a very good one.’

‘How tall was he?’

‘Quite tall.’

Brook looked up. ‘Tall? Sure?’ He looked Sally up and down. ‘How tall are you?’

‘I’m five feet three,’ she answered, a touch sensitive.

‘You look taller.’

‘I’m wearing platforms.’

‘I see. So, if you’re five-three, someone five-seven/five-eight would look quite tall.’

‘I suppose so. But I was wearing my platforms, so I guess not. He must have been taller.’

‘You’re sure you were wearing platforms when you met him?’

‘Certain.’

‘Why so certain?’

‘Because I always wear platforms.’ Brook looked a little dubious. ‘I do.’

‘If you say so.’ With a sudden inspiration Brook said, ‘Could he have been wearing platforms?’

‘Possibly I didn’t notice.’ Sally was a little defensive after being branded unreliable.

Brook whipped out the old photo of Sorenson and handed it to her. ‘Was that the man?’

She studied carefully then handed it back. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Well, thanks for trying.’ He pocketed the photo. ‘What time of day did he arrive?’

‘It was the evening. Seven o’clock.’

‘Why so precise?’

‘Because I work nine in the morning to seven at night. I was just getting off when he walked in. Kept me here for a few more minutes. Missed my bus, didn’t I?’

‘That’s a long shift.’

Sally shrugged. She didn’t need his sympathy. ‘It’s a job.’

‘Do you know how he arrived?’

‘No. You could ask Mac-that’s Bert Mackintosh. He’s on the door five ’til twelve.’

‘Where can I find him?’

‘He lives in a flat down the road. Number twenty-five. Flat four. It’s only a hundred yards but I dare say he’ll be asleep now. He works late.’

Brook made to leave. Before he did, he rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a ten-pound note. He handed it to the girl who was surprised and pleased. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Get yourself a drink for New Year.’

‘Thanks a lot. I will. Happy New Year to you’

‘Didn’t she tell you I’d be asleep?’ The man yawned and covered his mouth. Not before Brook got an eyeful of false teeth shifting slightly as his jaw distended. Mac was past sixty with a thin white pencil moustache and short cropped white hair. He had a healthy sheen to his skin and his build and general demeanour added to the impression that he kept himself fit. A military man most likely.