Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘I won’t do it.’

‘It’s better than a crack on the head or a bullet in the leg, sis. Do as he says.’ Expecting no argument, Petr dropped to his knees.

‘He wouldn’t do that. I know him.’

‘You don’t know me at all, Vicky. I’m a man. Capable of anything. Like your uncle-like your father.’

Vicky’s eyes widened. Brook saw fear there. She picked up the cloth and pressed it over her kneeling brother’s face. ‘I’m sorry, Pete,’ she muttered. Brook watched Petr inflating and deflating his chest. It took longer than expected but eventually his eyes rolled skywards and he fell on his side.

Brook prodded a finger into his ribs. He stood to face Vicky and nodded at the bed.

She kicked off her shoes, moved to the bed and lay down like a corpse. Legs together, toes pointed away from her, arms folded, eyes staring at the ceiling.

Brook knelt beside her then a thought crossed his mind. ‘Is your mother home?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve not been home for a while. We were waiting for you outside Charlie’s house. We followed you from there.’

‘How did you know I’d be…? Uncle Vic told you,’ he realised before he’d even finished the question.

‘Is Mr Rowlands dead?’ asked Vicky.

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. He’s not.’

Brook raised the cloth. Vicky held his arm.

‘Won’t you tell me? I’ve got to know.’

‘Tell you what?’

She gulped now and her eyes widened. ‘My father. Is he still alive? Is he The Reaper?’

Brook sat quietly in his chair and watched Sorenson sleep. He was content to wait. He’d waited a lot of years; a few more moments wouldn’t hurt.

The house was empty. Sonja was nowhere to be seen. The nurse had let Brook in then left at once, according to her instructions. Everything was ready.

As Brook waited for his host to wake he took out Laura’s necklace, slid Lizzie’s ring from the chain and put it in his pocket. He held the chain up to the light and examined it draped around his fingers.

He imagined he was there, in that hellish place where Laura died. Everything was dark but his senses were keen. He fancied he could almost smell the stench of decay in his nostrils. Human waste, old food, damp walls. Something else. Sweat, bad breath.

There was an empty can on its side, a small stove on the floor. And then he heard the tears, the muffled squeals of pain. He could see Wrigley’s face, teeth grinding, grimacing, moving towards the girl. Then away. Then back. And still the smell. The beer breath. The sweat. Another thing. Sickly sweet. The fear. Laura’s fear.

Wrigley smiles. It’s not a smile of pleasure, of happiness. It’s a smile of triumph. Conquest. The fight has gone. He can do as he pleases. He tears at the girl’s neck and the pain is fierce but quick. The necklace is taken. A keepsake dangled to taunt, to remind him of his greatest day. He’s already invaded the present. Now he seizes the past, receding glimpses of childhood tarnished. He puts it round his own neck. Yeah. Now he’s somebody. Now he exists. Laura knows. Brook knows. They won’t forget Floyd Wrigley in a hurry.

But the moment fades and his power is gone. Wrigley takes a neck at a bottle. He’s hungry. He wants back what he had. That power. To be a God and squash this ant. To take the future and complete the set. There is a way.

Brook let the necklace drop to his lap. Poor Laura. Poor Vicky. He thought of her lying unconscious in his hotel room. As Brook had sat beside her on the bed, Vicky had revealed every appalling detail of her torment.

Sorenson groaned and Brook glanced across at the sleeping old man. Even unconscious the pain came, though you wouldn’t have guessed from his countenance. Despite his years, despite the cancer, despite his every terrible deed, his expression was that of a dozing newborn.

Brook got up from his chair and tiptoed to the desk. After a moment rummaging in the shelves, he emerged with a disc and dropped it on to the turntable in the corner.

As he returned to his chair the first strains of the lament from La Wally rent the air. Brook waited for Sorenson to wake, pleased with his little conceit.

Sorenson filled his chest and sighed though he kept his eyes closed. ‘Is that you, Inspector?’

‘Yes.’

Sorenson’s lids lifted and his black eyes blinked up at Brook then creased into a smile of warmth and welcome. ‘I’m glad you came.’

‘I’m here for your confession.’

Sorenson grinned. ‘Why, what are you going to do with it?’

Brook was startled by the simplicity of the question, realising he didn’t know the answer.

Sorenson smiled an apology for putting his guest on the back foot. ‘Thank you for coming. I’m tired.’

‘Charlie’s dead.’

Sorenson looked down at the floor in genuine sadness. ‘He was a good man.’

‘Tell me about the Dentist Game.’ Brook saw Sorenson flinch. He recalled, years before, bringing up the subject of his brother Stefan’s death and seeing a similar reaction. Sorenson’s eyes closed for a moment and when they opened there was the ghost of a tear.

‘Ever since Vicky crossed my path, I’ve assumed you sent her to check on my progress. I was wrong. You didn’t know she came to Derby. And she has no idea what you are or what you’ve done. That’s why, when she stole a look at my Reaper file, she was stunned to see a picture of you there. Uncle Vic.’

‘She would be.’ Sorenson paused. This hesitancy was new. It pleased Brook. He’d finally got to Sorenson and would soon know it all. But a small corner of his mind told him to beware. He was in the presence of a heartless killer and manipulator.

Brook continued to wait but his normally garrulous host didn’t seem to know how to continue. Vicky was the key to Sorenson. She was the person he cared about most. Brook knew every sickening detail. Getting Sorenson to talk about it would be difficult. But when he did, if he did, the dam would burst.

‘Tell me about the Dentist Game.’

‘You’ve seen what Stefan did to Vicky?’

‘She told me.’

Sorenson nodded. ‘But you’ve seen other things, haven’t you? You’ve had episodes before.’

‘Episodes?’

‘Visions, a sixth sense which allows you to picture things that have happened, that are going to happen.’

‘We all have empathy. We can all imagine another’s plight.’

‘As you imagined young Laura’s.’

‘I’m a policeman. It’s my job. When I put a sequence of events together it’s almost like writing a script or shooting a film.’

‘And the future?’

‘Everyone gets a sense of something about to happen from time to time. Is that why you came to Derby for me? Because you think I have a talent.’

Sorenson smiled. ‘No. If put to good use it will be a useful tool, no more.’

‘Good use?’

‘Something to guide your future work.’

Brook laughed. ‘You mean arrest people because I’ve had a vision of them committing a crime. Is that how you choose? You’re crazier than I thought.’

‘The Reaper’s victims choose themselves.’

‘But you’re prepared to execute a family on the strength of a feeling or a vision you think you’ve had. You’re a madman.’

‘Your contempt would be deserved if so. Those feelings, as you call them, merely point the way. The Reaper has great resources of time and money. Only when he’s sure does he take his prey.’

‘So you see your victims before you kill them? Some kind of sixth sense. Do you touch them? Is that how it works?’ asked Brook, remembering the handshake on his last visit.

Sorenson was silent. ‘You continue to personalise these acts, Damen. Is it deliberate? I can only help you understand The Reaper’s work if you see it in its proper context.’