Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘No. That’s what mum says.’

‘She’s right.’ She looked up into his eyes now, searching for comfort, for affection. ‘You must have loved him very much.’ Vicky blinked again and buried her head in Brook’s chest. He put his arm round her and patted her back in the manner required.

Incredible. All those years hadn’t healed the scars of Stefan Sorenson’s murder. And Brook thought he had baggage. Little wonder Sammy Elphick and family were despatched with such relish.

Suddenly Vicky drew back and fixed him with her grey eyes. ‘Why have you got a picture of Uncle Vic in your Reaper file?’

Brook stared back at her. ‘Don’t you know?’ he finally said, managing to keep bewilderment from his voice.

A door opened at the top of the house and Vicky shrank back. Suddenly she was a frightened rabbit.

‘Please. Don’t tell them.’

‘What?’

‘Please don’t say anything about us. Please! Promise you won’t.’

Brook was stunned. The closer he came to answers the more confusing things became. ‘I thought your uncle sent you…’ From the beseeching look she now gave him, he was wrong.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’ With that, Vicky turned and scuttled away leaving Brook nonplussed. Why would Vicky Sorenson go all the way to Derby to seek him out, if not with her mother or uncle’s knowledge and approval? And who had met her at Derby Station? Not Sorenson, that much was clear. The answer came to Brook before the question was formed-her brother. The young man he’d seen that night many years before, sharing a bunk bed with Vicky. The young man with the baseball cap and the fast car-Vicky’s lift to Brook’s flat. Knowing who didn’t help. Brook wanted the why.

‘Hello again, Mr Brook.’ Vicky’s mother held out her hand.

‘Mrs Sorenson.’

She stood on the bottom step, level with Brook. He could see the similarity with Vicky more clearly now-the same sad expression, the same fragility.

‘Thank you so much for coming. You don’t know what it means to Victor.’ She stepped aside to beckon Brook up the stairs. He walked past her towards the first floor then turned when he saw her declining to follow.

‘You know the way,’ she said. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

Brook paused on the stair and searched her face for clues to her reticence. Feeling foolish, he turned and climbed again. Past the Bosch triptych he’d been invited to interpret many years before, past the room he’d first encountered the sleeping Vicky and her brother, and on up to the study.

Brook quickened his step, keen to be there now, his trepidation replaced by burning curiosity to see his old quarry.

He held out a hand to push open the door but before he could reach it, it swung back sharply. A young Asian woman beamed at him. She was dressed in fresh white nurse’s clothes with plimsolls to match. Her hair was invisible under a net. She had an air of brisk efficiency.

‘Come in, sir.’ She ushered him into the room he knew so well then stepped outside, closing the door behind her. Brook swept his eyes around the study that was etched into his sub-conscious. He wasn’t disappointed. It was exactly the same as the day he’d first entered, except today the room was illuminated by lamps, not bathed in piercing sunlight. The only addition was a CD player next to the old stereo and off in one corner a video camera on a tripod. The books were the same. The desk was the same. The rest of the house may have changed, become friendlier under the guidance of a woman, but this was still a man’s room. His room.

Sorenson sat by the coal fire, his legs covered with a blanket-Charlie’s trick-his eyes closed, feeble hands gripping the arms of the chair loosely. He was completely bald as he had been that final, fateful night in 1991, the night the Wrigley household had been removed from the world. He was the same, perhaps the skin was a little more yellowed, but it was the only difference.

A chair waited across from Sorenson so Brook sat quietly, not wanting to break the moment. Sorenson opened his eyes. Those black pools. He smiled. It was a warm and welcoming smile. Like a friend’s. Like Charlie’s.

‘Welcome, Sergeant Brook. But it’s Inspector Brook now, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ Brook leant over to shake Sorenson’s hand. He didn’t want to shake hands. He only did it now out of suspicion. To be sure he really was wasting away.

It was only the second time Brook had ever touched the man. The first time had been in the derelict house near Ravenscourt Park. Laura’s squat. Sorenson had helped him to his feet before hinting to Brook that he would kill again that very night.

And it was true. He had the cold hand of death. It was limp, though not withered as Charlie’s were. There seemed little strength there. And the skin was almost translucent.

As they touched, Sorenson’s hand suddenly fastened round Brook’s with a strength that belied his appearance. Brook’s nerves ends tingled as though a mild electric current had been fed into him.

Brook tried to draw away. Sorenson’s smiling face pierced him. Brook tried again to remove his hand from Sorenson’s but his withered host held on, running a calloused thumb over Brook’s knuckles.

Brook pulled away. He flexed his hand to dispel the pins and needles then darted a look at Sorenson who held his gaze. Finally the old man broke away, waved a hand at the drinks cabinet. ‘May I offer you something?’

‘No. Why did you want to see me, Professor?’

Sorenson’s injured expression appeared genuine. ‘Why?’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t you know?’

‘If you’re ready to confess to The Reaper murders, I’m listening.’

Sorenson laughed, though without amusement. ‘I wanted to see you because you’re my friend. I haven’t got long…’

‘Then tell me. Confess to me, Professor. You’ll feel better.’

‘You’ve tried it?’

‘Trust me. Then I’ll be your friend. Talk to me. Tell me why you killed the children. Make me understand at least that.’

‘My friend, still you resist. Even now, with all the knowledge you’ve acquired, you plead ignorance. You’ll never understand unless you clear away the fog that surrounds you. Society puts it there to take your sight. I thought you’d lifted the fog. I thought you saw clearly.’

‘I’m happy to disappoint you.’

‘Happy? You?’ Sorenson chuckled. ‘Let me tell you about happiness, Damen. Two weeks ago I was in the happiest place in the world. Do you know where that was? The Terminal Ward at Hammersmith Hospital.

‘You think I’m joking. I’m not. All those dying people under the same roof, not for long, by definition the population are transients. But yes, they are the happiest people in the world. You want to know why, Damen?’ Brook shrugged. ‘Because they’re finished with this terrible world. They’ve been given their notice, they have no more cares, no reason to fear, no need to wear a mask for the outside world. Just human beings looking at themselves and saying, “Here I am. Take me or leave me. I’m happy either way.” Do you understand? You see, Damen, in that place, people on the edge of the abyss, realise something.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘That they can’t be hurt any more. Nobody can touch them. No body. No thing. Can you imagine the peace that brings?’

Sorenson suddenly laughed at a joke he hadn’t yet told. Brook, taken aback, smiled on a reflex. ‘There was a man, two beds down from me, Colin-we had no use for surnames. Lung cancer. He was dead two days later. That afternoon his wife was with him and I could hear her complaining that the car kept cutting out when she braked.

‘I remember looking over at Colin and as I moved my head, I must have caught his eye because he looked over at me and then down at his wife, blithering away.