Steven Dunne - The Reaper

He examined the man’s neck. Nothing. No sign of a wound.

Suddenly Brook was overcome by the impulse to find a quiet corner and sleep. He’d been awake for days and now it got to him. But he couldn’t sleep yet. Not yet. He’d missed his prey by seconds. For once he was there when it mattered-a living crime scene. Living but not breathing. Gone was the routine numb of detection, the banality of post-mortem bureaucracy. In its stead came the thrill and chill of participation. Brook was in the eye of the needle.

Then a noise-a hiss and a gurgle-and the man’s chest moved.

Brook snapped upright in terror, his heart punching its way out of his ribcage. Pinheads of sweat moistened his top lip, his hair follicles tingled and his mind spun on its axis.

Was the man alive? Why would The Reaper spare the father yet tear open the daughter? Had he been disturbed? Was he still…?

Brook was engulfed by the urge to flee, every sinew screaming at him to run, to stumble out into the cold Brixton night and fill his lungs with oxygen. He was in bad shape, he knew that. The last year on Sorenson’s trail had taken its toll. If he left now he could get away and never look back-never think of The Reaper again.

But he didn’t run. Couldn’t. He’d waited so long. So instead he stepped away from the sofa, like a daredevil, walking backwards along a tightrope slung between high buildings. Don’t look down. You’ll fall. Don’t think. You will fall.

Back he stepped, inching his way to the wall ’til he could go no further.

As his heels bumped against the wall, his arm brushed something. Suddenly there was music. Something beautiful, sensuous almost. Mozart. The Requiem. It shocked him, brought him back.

Only then did he blink and begin to register his breathing, harsh and rasping through the tar. Only then could he think.

It made no sense. Why the child and not the father? The Reaper was too thorough. The man was dead. The noise was the onset of decomposition. Body gasses. Had to be.

Brook took a few moments to compose himself, still staring at the man to be sure. No movement. No more noise. Only the music. He was glad of it. The silence would have scorched his ears.

Calm now, Brook turned to the CD system. It was brand new. A half-smile drifted across his face. He set about concluding his business and turned to the wall to examine the word smeared in blood over the fireplace. His eye caught a glimpse of something else and his features darkened-a photograph in a frame on the mantelpiece. He looked closer, staring hard for what seemed like hours. There was no mistake. His mouth fell open. He shrank back, his face frozen in wonder, his eyes unblinking, his mind in turmoil, trying to make sense.

Then he knew. It all fit together and he nodded, his face set, eyes like slits to block out the visions. Of course. Now he understood. He’d got The Reaper’s message. A smile cracked his features. Another noise behind him. Brook took a deep breath as he turned to face his nemesis.

Brook stood outside Sorenson’s house waiting for Rowlands to shuffle the last few yards. It was dark now, snowing lightly, and Brook recalled the last nerve-shredding night he’d been in Sorenson’s house, the night he’d found the brand new, still boxed CD player.

He sensed Rowlands looking at him, probing his reaction, waiting for him to be ready. ‘Well, lad?’ he panted.

‘Just a minute.’

‘What’s wrong?’

Brook put a finger to his lips. ‘I thought there might be music,’ he explained. ‘He played me something a long time ago. La Wally’

‘What did you call me?’

Brook laughed nervously. ‘Sorry, Charlie. You’re cold.’ Brook grabbed the bell pull and gave it a tug.

A light footfall crossed the interior and the door was opened by a vision of loveliness, an angel framed against the warm light of the hall.

‘Hello, Damen. Mr Rowlands.’

‘Hello, Vicky.’

She smiled nervously. ‘You don’t seem surprised,’ she said, looking sheepish. Rowlands looked from one to the other, trying to be included.

‘I wouldn’t go that far. You look nice. Different somehow. More like your mother.’

She smiled again. Brook wasn’t sure he’d said the right thing. But he wasn’t thinking his straightest. He’d suspected Vicky might be close to the case but seeing her now, at The Reaper’s house, was still a shock to the system. He hid it well.

‘Come in.’

Brook and Rowlands stepped into the warm. Vicky took their coats and hung them up. She was very beautiful in the pale light. Gone were the patchy jeans and multi-coloured cardigans. Instead she wore black figure-hugging cords which tapered down to an expensive pair of tan Chelsea boots. A superfluous belt held her flat stomach against a dark velvet V-necked top which caressed her sculpted torso. Her hair was scraped back into a clasp, showing off her swan’s neck and her ears, embellished by a pair of silver earrings-delicately worked filigree-shimmered in the half-light.

She led them to the room that Brook had cowered in, all those years before, waiting to be discovered by Sorenson. Then it was a bare room with only oddments of furniture, now it was warmly furnished, with plump dark armchairs and soft lighting. A blazing log fire crackled in the hearth.

Brook helped Rowlands to the chair nearest the fire. He gestured an inquiry at a decanter, warming on a table nearby. Vicky nodded and Brook poured a large measure for Rowlands and a less ample one for himself. Rowlands took a deep draught of his drink and closed his eyes. Brook took a sip and recognised the taste. All was as it should be.

Vicky threw a look at the door and Brook followed her back out into the hall.

‘Thank you.’ Her face was soft and full of invitation.

‘For what?’

‘For not saying how you know me. I don’t know Mr Rowlands very well.’

‘I’m surprised you know him at all.’

‘Uncle Vic and Mr Rowlands have become…’suddenly Vicky’s eyes filled with tears. She looked very young again, as vulnerable as Brook had seen her that first time, lying defenceless on the bottom bunk, snoring gently in the room upstairs. ‘They share a common bond.’ She gathered herself quickly and gave Brook a brave smile. Uncle Vic clearly provoked much love in some quarters. ‘So how did you know our meeting wasn’t an accident?’

‘I didn’t. Not for sure. Those ridiculous lies you told about the university gave me a hint, but that wasn’t the clincher.’

‘What was?’

‘Me.’

‘You?’

‘Me. This battered piece of mid-forties driftwood you see before you.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Well, you may find this hard to believe, Vicky, but I’m very careful to keep my awesome sexual magnetism under wraps-and with great success. A beautiful young girl like you could never be interested in a burn-out like me. Not without ulterior motives.’

When she laughed, Vicky’s eyes twinkled like diamonds. She contemplated his sad smile then cocked her head and leant up to give him the sweetest, softest kiss on the mouth. The merest hint of Gallic penetration aroused Brook more than a dozen skin flicks could have managed.

He felt her hot breath as she pulled back. Her eyes bored into his.

‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Daddy.’

‘I’m not your Daddy,’ he whispered.

She stiffened as if he’d flung an obscenity at her. Brook could almost smell the blood flushing her face.

‘No.’ She turned away from him.

‘I’m sorry. That was thoughtless. You still remember your father?’

When she turned back her face was streaked with tears. ‘No, I’m sorry. I’m embarrassing you.’

Brook put his hands on her shoulders. He could feel the tension in her frame. ‘Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t your fault.’