Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘And on his face-I’ll never forget it-was the most comical expression I’ve ever seen. I remember at the end, he couldn’t contain it any longer and when she’d finished prattling away, he just said, ‘Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’ Then he looked back at me and started giggling. Then I started giggling. Then he giggled some more.

And do you know what happened next, Damen? The most amazing, terrifying, wonderful thing. Within half a minute, every other patient in the ward had joined in.

‘Do you see? They all knew. They hadn’t heard what Colin’s wife had said, how could they? But they knew what had happened to him, it had happened to them, this absurd euphoria you’d get when a visitor sat by your bed and tried to drag you back into their mundane little world-their world of sorrow and care-and suddenly you realised you didn’t have to go with them.’

Sorenson closed his eyes and took a large breath to extinguish the laughter. But still he smiled and shook his head. ‘Amazing.’ His enthusiasm had tired him. Brook stared into the fire, not knowing what to say. He was learning nothing and wondered whether to go. This whole idea had been a mistake. Sorenson would never confess.

‘Do you still dream, Damen?’ Sorenson kept his eyes closed.

‘Sometimes.’

‘About the rats?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘About Laura Maples?’

Brook was disgusted. What was this? Surely Sorenson didn’t need leverage now. He decided there was nothing to hide. Sorenson couldn’t touch him anymore. They were both terminal.

‘Sometimes.’

Brook’s host opened his eyes to look at him. He nodded, thinking. ‘Interesting. I thought you’d be able to achieve closure in her case.’

‘I can. But I still see her. It was never her killer that haunted me. It was her suffering.’

‘Of course. Families do engender great suffering, don’t they?’ Sorenson stared into the fire. ‘My family…’ Brook waited for an indiscretion but none came. ‘How is your family, by the way?’

‘Never better,’ Brook replied. He wondered if Sorenson knew about the break-up. He didn’t have to wait long for an answer.

‘Your ex-wife remarried, didn’t she?’

‘How do you know that?’

Sorenson smiled innocently. ‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Yes she did. We’re still on friendly terms though.’

‘That’s good. What do you think of my niece, Victoria?’

‘She’s very beautiful-a credit to you. She’s grown a lot since I first saw her,’ Brook added mischievously.

Sorenson looked puzzled for a brief moment then beamed back at Brook. ‘Of course, you looked in on Petr and Victoria on your last visit.’

‘Amongst other things.’

Sorenson was grave all of a sudden. His sigh was suffused with tension. ‘Poor Victoria. She’s a very disturbed young girl.’

‘Oh? She seems pretty level-headed to me.’

Sorenson ignored Brook’s comment. ‘Since the death of her father. It’s not natural. Such a long time ago but she can’t get over it. She’s obsessed by Stefan’s death. What’s worse is that she seems to have got the idea that this Reaper you talk about had something to do with it.’

‘Really?’ Brook was suddenly alert. ‘I wonder how she got that into her head.’

Sorenson grunted his amusement. It was only temporary. ‘Not from me, I assure you-a very unsuitable fixation for one so young, so much life in front of her.’

Again he stared into the hot coals, thinking the unimaginable thoughts of the killer. He closed his eyes again.

‘I’m tired, Inspector Brook.’

‘Of course.’

‘Please would you give my best wishes to Charlie.’ Charlie was it. Brook had underestimated the bonding they’d done together in hospital. ‘And feel free to call again soon. We still have a lot to discuss.’

‘How did you know Floyd Wrigley raped and murdered Laura Maples?’ Brook stood stone-faced, waiting for an answer to a question that had haunted him for years.

Sorenson smiled sadly at him. It wasn’t a smile to taunt Brook with his superiority and Brook knew then, no matter what happened, Sorenson saw Brook as his friend-perhaps his only friend. And friends share things.

‘You were at the house where she died. Couldn’t you feel it?’

‘What?’

‘The atmosphere, Inspector Brook. Never discount the power of atmosphere.’ Barely had the last syllable cleared his dry lips before his head slackened onto the wing of the chair. A soft snoring followed.

Brook flexed the hand that Sorenson had grabbed. He could still feel a tingle running through it. He waited a few moments then rose and left the study. The nurse was outside the door.

‘Is he sleeping?’ Brook nodded. ‘He should be having his injection.’

‘Is he in pain, nurse?’

‘Constant. He’s on morphine. I don’t know how he manages to keep his mind clear. He should be babbling like a baby. He’s very strong-willed.’

Brook headed for the stairs. He turned on the top step. ‘How long?’

‘A month. Two at the most.’

Brook nodded. Two months to closure. Not a chance. Not unless he confessed. Brook had to know everything. He knew then he’d have to come back, speak to him one more time. And Sorenson knew it too. And even if it meant Brook pouring out everything to Sorenson to gain an admission, he knew he’d have to do it.

As he descended the stairs, Brook considered the withered old man slumped in his study and wondered how someone so ill could have played a part in the deaths of the Wallis family. Everything in Derby pointed to The Reaper but Brook’s chief suspect sat shrivelled in a chair, pumped full of drugs, awaiting his own end.

Brook paused by the Bosch triptych and stared blankly at it. Then he nodded. Atmosphere. He could feel it all right. It clung to Sorenson even now. An atmosphere of unstoppable power. Brook had felt it the night the Wrigley family had died in Brixton, the night he’d sat outside his own house and waited for Sorenson to take the lives of Amy and Terri-unable to move, unable to intervene.

It was a power like no other, a power that allowed Sorenson to spend ten minutes in the place Laura Maples died and be able to identify her killer. He’d solved a case that couldn’t be solved and that same night, Laura’s killer-and every member of his family-was dead.

No, he couldn’t take Sorenson out of the equation-no matter how strenuous the deed, no matter what his physical condition.

Rowlands was in good spirits when Brook returned to the living room. Or rather, good spirits were in him. Booze gave him what little energy he had and he’d certainly filled the tank while Brook had been upstairs.

Rowlands looked at his friend’s sombre expression with the blank curiosity of the drunk.

‘How do you suppose Sorenson knows about my family’s marital history, Charlie?’

After taking so much energy on board, Rowlands failed to detect the insinuation in Brook’s voice. ‘Beats me, laddie,’ he replied.

Brook shrugged. He helped Rowlands to his feet and led him to the front door.

‘Damen.’

Brook turned to Vicky. She held out a carrier bag. Brook took it. There were two brightly wrapped packages inside. ‘Uncle Vic wanted you to have these for Christmas.’

‘Thanks very much, lass,’ Rowlands slurred. ‘It’s much appreciated.’

‘Thanks, Vicky.’ Brook’s affectionate tone was more of a surprise to him than to Vicky. ‘Look after yourself. And say hello to your brother for me.’

She smiled her goodbye but said nothing.

Two hours later, Brook sat in the warmth of Rowlands’ Caterham home, leaded glass in hand. It was dark outside and in. Brook didn’t want light. He wanted to be alone, cut off from everything and everybody. Time spent with Sorenson had a way of inducing sensory overload and Brook needed to let his mind drift for a while or he’d blow a fuse.