Steven Dunne - The Reaper

He sipped on his Navy rum and ran the mellow heat around his mouth as an antiseptic. He could hear Charlie snoring heavily upstairs. Alcohol-induced stupor was the only medicine for him now.

Brook kicked off his shoes and warmed his feet before the gas fire. It had been a difficult two days but now they were over. He’d done it, he’d faced Sorenson and come through. He knew he could win now. Sorenson would confess, he was certain. Then he’d know why. That would be his victory.

Brook dragged the carrier bag from ‘Uncle Vic’ towards him on the sofa. He pulled out the parcels and examined the labels. The bottle-shaped parcel read, ‘To my old friend Charlie Rowlands. Sleep well.’

Brook snorted. This terminal illness deal was something else. He looked at his package. It felt like a book. His label read, ‘To Inspector Brook. So near yet so far. Don’t judge this book by its cover. Victor.’

Brook slid off the paper and turned the book. He could make out the title on its white background by the glow of the fire. His mouth fell open. It was an A-Z of Leeds, published 1993.

DS Brook trudged through the office, aware that he looked wilder than usual. He hadn’t shaved or changed his wet clothes, his eyes were red-rimmed and his hair was dank and matted against his skull. Even the DCs, and other assorted grunts, who generally avoided his passing, were moved to stop what they were doing and stare.

Brook, aware of inquisitive eyes, locked his attention onto the plastic cup of black coffee he carried, holding it like a bar of plutonium. He didn’t go out of his way to indulge in that fiendishly difficult small talk that others found easy so he hurried to the sanctuary of his office.

Once there, he slumped into his chair, took a mouthful of the black unction and rummaged through a drawer for cigarettes. He pulled out a dented pack, cracked the cellophane and lit up, closing his eyes to the bite of the smoke. Then he reached for the phone and dialled.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s me, darling.’

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Working.’

‘All night? In that terrible weather?’

‘Fraid so.’

There was a pause from Amy. She’d been down this route before. Since Harlesden. Since Laura Maples. Her husband was unreachable, not of this earth. But she couldn’t let him off lightly. He had responsibilities. ‘And were there no phones where you were working?’ She was about to add his name but thought it might signal weakness.

‘I…It was difficult, darling. There was another family killed last night. It’s The Reaper. He’s taken another family.’

‘Oh God. Where?’

‘Brixton. Can you hear me? Do you understand? It was The Reaper again.’ Brook closed his eyes and recalled Amy peering out of the window of the house the night before, ignorant of his presence, unaware how her simple reaction to a car horn had released such a tide of relief and self-loathing in him. He remembered the cold hand of fear tightening its grip on his shoulders, holding him, pushing him down into his seat, numbing him.

‘Does this mean another year like the last one, Damen?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t lie to me. I can’t stand it any more. Never seeing you and all the time dreading seeing you. You come home, sit in a chair and stare…I can’t stand any more…’

Brook took the silver chain from his pocket and draped it around his fingers, playing with it. For a moment, he forgot he was on the phone and just stared at the necklace with its little hearts glinting in the pale light. He spoke again, his voice a mere croak.

‘You can rest easy now, Laura. Don’t worry any more.It’s over, Laura. It’s over.’ He replaced the receiver and slumped forward onto his desk.

The door opened. ‘Brooky. Fucking hell! Are you all right, old son? You look like shit.’

Brook opened one eye at Rowlands from the cradle of his trembling arms. He lifted his damp head and caught a waft of the brewery from his boss. He drained the last of his coffee. ‘Sorry, guv. Didn’t sleep last night.’

‘Was that at home or in your car outside Sorenson’s?’ Brook opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. ‘I thought so,’ nodded Rowlands. ‘Well,’ he said, looking at a wad of papers in his fist. ‘That might be a blessing in disguise.’

‘Why?’

Rowlands smiled. ‘Because now you’ll know Sorenson ain’t The Reaper. There’s been another.’

Brook nodded. ‘I know.’

‘What do you mean, you know?’

‘The Reaper killed another family. I followed him.’

Rowlands was speechless, his face pained. He turned away from Brook and slumped into the nearest chair, pulling out his flask. After a longer pull than usual, he offered it to Brook, as was his custom. For once Brook kept the tip of his tongue from the neck and allowed the cheap whisky to burn his throat.

‘You’re right.’ Rowlands was sombre. ‘In Brixton. A black man, name of Floyd Wrigley and his girlfriend and daughter. What happened to you?’

Brook looked away. ‘I lost him. In Battersea.’

‘What?’

‘He went to my house first to remind me what he could do.’

‘Jesus, Brooky! Then you don’t know for sure it was Sorenson.’

‘It was him, guv.’

‘Fucking hell, lad. When will this thing end? You can’t go on like this. You’ve got to get on with your life.’ Rowlands seemed like he was about to burst into tears. ‘Look, I’m your friend. You have to drop this now. Another year like this will kill you…’

‘Guv!’ Brook held up a hand. ‘Stop worrying. Sorenson’s finished with me now.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘He’s beaten me, he’ll move on.’

‘Talk sense, man.’

Brook smiled at his incomprehension and decided not to disturb it. ‘I’ve nothing left to give. He knows that. After last night. That’s why he went to my house. To show me he can do what he wants and I won’t…I can’t stop him.’

Rowlands took another pull on his flask and looked off into space. After several moments he began nodding and even managed a smile. ‘Good. We’ll let someone else worry about it. And you don’t want any details then?’

‘No.’

‘You really mean it, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you don’t want to reccy the crime scene?’

Brook paused. ‘No need.’

‘I’d better ring the Brixton Boys then. They were expecting you on a consult. I’ll tell ’em we’ve got complete confidence in ’em.’ He winked. ‘They’ll lap that up. Go home, Brooky. You’ve got a beautiful wife and baby waiting for you.’

‘Thanks, guv. I will.’ Brook stood with some difficulty. He seemed to be on the verge of complete collapse. He shuffled to the door.

‘What’s this?’

Brook turned to see Rowlands fingering Laura’s silver necklace, which lay on the blotter. He held out his hand and his boss dropped it into his palm.

‘It’s a present for Theresa.’

Brook pulled his collar up against the cold and headed for the sanctuary of the cafe. He bought a tea and hesitated, surveying the available food. He was hungry but not that hungry.

The Leeds-Derby service was delayed but Brook didn’t care. He needed time to think. He knew now what he had to do, but he needed support from McMaster and had to work out how to get it. Suspended or not, he must have her backing to go to Glasgow, even if unofficial, just drop her name into the conversation to get the jocks to speak to him about Roddy Telfer’s background and try to find a link with the other Reaper killings.

It would be difficult. His visit to Leeds had been a mistake. He’d been refused any co-operation without back-up from a senior officer. Now McMaster would be hearing about Brook treading on toes in the North, sniffing around on a case from which he’d been suspended.