Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘She did, Mr Mackintosh. But it’s important. And I didn’t think a military man would be lying in bed all morning.’

Mac’s eyes widened, unsure whether to be pleased that Brook had noticed his army bearing. His expression betrayed an injury. He tightened the cord of his dressing gown and waited a moment, assessing Brook and the situation. The habit of an old soldier used to giving orders. ‘When you work the hours I work, it’s the middle of the night.’ He waited for Brook’s acknowledgement that he knew he wasn’t a layabout before adding, ‘You’d better come in then, Inspector…’

‘Brook.’ He followed Mac into his two rooms, noting how the essential misery of the accommodation was kept at bay by the man’s sense of pride in his meagre surroundings.

The place was tiny and down-at-heel but spotlessly clean. The first room was a kitchenette into which the old man would have led his guest had there been space for two-it was only possible for Brook to join him in the doorway, where he leaned against the frame.

There wasn’t much in the way of amenities-a sink, a worktop over a noisy fridge, a small Baby Belling electric hob with two rings-the same model as Brook’s.

The worktop it sat on was old and warped and had been stained by the rings of hot pans lain on it over the years. A half full pan of water sat atop one of the rings. Mac took the pan to the empty stainless steel sink and doubled the amount of water from the solitary tap, before setting it down and switching on the ring.

Next to the hob was a small steel teapot with a teabag in. Mac added another. Next to the teapot was a bean-stained plate with knife and fork, neatly placed together. Mac picked it up and laid it in the sink. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘When you’re on your own…’ he shrugged.

‘Don’t worry.’

Mac nodded and busied himself with the tea. He added milk from a carton in the fridge that Brook saw was otherwise empty. The lone cupboard set back on the opposite wall had glass doors similar to the one in Brook’s kitchen. The supplies Brook could see consisted of ‘economy’ baked beans, outnumbered by dozens of tins of cat food.

For a second, Brook worried that this proud, impecunious old man had descended to getting his meat from pet food, until he heard the plaintive yowl of a cat in the room next door. At the same time he spotted the newspaper-lined litter tray on the far side of the fridge.

Mac must have seen him looking. For no other reason, he said, ‘I get most of my meals at the hotel. Go through into the other room.’

Brook stepped next door. Another small room, with a low ceiling. A bay window covered by lace curtains looked down and out over the centre of Derby, every roof slick and shiny under the brief illumination of rain and low sun.

Most of the room was filled by a metal-framed bed on which the cat lay. It glared nervously as Brook entered. It was a little black kitten with wide wary eyes. Brook cautiously held out a hand to stroke it and it immediately careened itself towards the pressure of Brook’s fingers.

From a flat nearby a dull thudding music sprang up. Brook continued to look around. There wasn’t much to see. A small coffee table, a wooden-framed armchair with a uniform draped over it, a gas fire and a straight-backed chair with a small TV resting on it.

Brook could only stand and stare. It wasn’t possible to move around, as the other pitiful scraps of furniture were jammed against the far wall. A deep sadness filled him. He couldn’t explain why. He took no great pains over his own living conditions and it wasn’t as though he hadn’t seen such poverty before. Perhaps it was the denial of the occupant. Like poor dead Laura in her pathetic squat, clinging to the pretence that she was in control of her own life, her own environment.

‘My alarm call,’ beamed Mac, holding a mug of tea towards Brook and nodding vaguely in the direction of the music.

Brook took it and had an appreciative swig. ‘Thanks. Just what I need.’

Mac set his own mug on the floor and lifted one end of the bed. ‘Off you get, Blot,’ he soothed, as he raised the bed into a recess and closed two doors on it. Now there was a little space and Mac moved the table and chairs to the middle of the room and sat in the stiff-backed one, resting the TV on the floor, before taking a sip of tea.

‘Mince pie?’ Mac held a plate towards Brook who took a mince pie and bit into it. It was stale.

‘Very nice.’

‘I get ’em from the hotel.’

‘Right. Nice view,’ nodded Brook.

‘We like it. The moggy and me.’

Brook smiled, glad of common ground. He didn’t know how to talk about the weather. ‘I’ve got a cat. It’s a pain in the neck.’

‘I know what you mean. Bloody nuisance, this little puss. Aren’t you? I’m stuck with you now though, aren’t I?’ Mac smiled with pleasure. ‘Found him out in the alley a couple of months back. Wet through he was. No bigger than my hand. Mewling and shivering. Must’ve been chucked out. Some people. Who’d do that to such a defenceless little mite?’

‘How long have you got?’ replied Brook.

‘Now what did you want to talk about, Inspector? A Mr Elphick, you said.’

‘That’s right. Do you remember him?’

‘Should I?’

‘He stayed a few nights the week before Christmas. Old, not very well.’

‘Oh, him with the gloves and glasses?’

‘That’s him.’

‘I remember. Only ’cos he was such an odd looking sort. I don’t know what else I can tell you, ’cept he wore a wig.’

‘Sally told me. Was there anything else? His voice? His height? Anything he said.’

‘He didn’t say a word to me, Inspector, and that’s a fact. Not even thank you, when I opened the door. Not that he weren’t polite. Just that he preferred to nod than speak, that’s one of the things that made him stick in the mind. That and his appearance.’

‘Did he tip you?’

‘He did. He was a good tipper for these parts. I only saw him twice and each time he gave me a pound. Tips like that make all the difference. My army pension goes nowhere. Not now I’ve got two mouths to feed.’ He beamed at Blot who was caressing his ankle.

‘And his height?’

‘Tallish. About your height I’d say. Even with a bit of a stoop.’

‘You’re sure he wasn’t smaller? Nearer five eight.’

‘Certain. I’ve seen over a lot of men and you gets to know these things without really looking. You’d know what I mean about that, Inspector.’

‘Yes I suppose so.’ Brook was unhappy. The waters were muddying. The Reaper had gone out of his way to get Brook’s attention and now all his long nurtured certainty about the case, about Sorenson, was being undermined.

‘Was there anything else? Did you get him cabs?’

‘No. He walked the night I saw him.’

‘Did you see how he arrived?’

Mac’s face widened. ‘That’s right. That was odd.’

‘What?’

‘Well, when he arrived he was dropped off down the road.’

‘By a cab?’

‘No. A cab wouldn’t have gone past the front entrance.’

‘And that was odd?’

‘There were no cars parked outside the hotel. Why not just drop him off there? And the car was on the hotel side of the road, so it must have driven past deliberately. It was almost as though…’

‘As though the driver didn’t want to be seen,’ concluded Brook. Sammy Elphick had been a dummy, a distraction. Sorenson had been driving not staying at the hotel. But why bring somebody else to Derby? To flag up a name so Brook would realise The Reaper had been to town? Why, when there were so many other pointers at the crime scene? It made no sense.

There had to be another reason. There had to be a purpose, a need for Sorenson to have company. Perhaps he was too ill for the ‘job’ and needed stronger hands to do the deed while he supervised-Brook had a momentary flash of Sorenson ticking off chores on a clipboard, with his assistant.