Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘Which is what?’

‘The Reaper is an entity, Damen, not a person. He’s an idea that cannot die. He is not motivated by ego. He doesn’t act for personal gain and takes no pleasure from his work.’

‘Semantic nonsense…’ Brook took a breath. He had his own agenda and realised he was being drawn from it. After a moment he nodded at Sorenson to signal acceptance of the rules. ‘So The Reaper meets his victims and discovers the crimes they’ve committed.’ Sorenson nodded. ‘And these meetings are social?’ Sorenson nodded again. ‘And accidental?’

Now he smiled. ‘Usually.’

Brook nodded. ‘Unless The Reaper needs a…project in a specific city like Derby. Then you, sorry, The Reaper has to find somebody suitable.’

‘Exactly.’ Sorenson nodded, suddenly animated. ‘But it depends who The Reaper is helping. Roddy Telfer was difficult to find because he’d moved away from Edinburgh by the time…’

‘By the time The Reaper wanted to help Charlie Rowlands.’ Sorenson smiled at Brook, taking no offence at his tone. ‘What about Floyd Wrigley? How could The Reaper prove he killed Laura Maples, even with all his time and money? There was no evidence to connect him once the rats had done their work.’

‘On the contrary, there was the best evidence of all. A witness.’

‘Second sight isn’t evidence, Professor.’ Sorenson said nothing but his eyes continued to bore into his opponent. Brook’s eyes narrowed. ‘You mean a proper witness-someone actually saw him? You?’

‘On the night of her death. I was in a cab, coming from Heathrow. I’d been in Stockholm for a few days. The cab stopped at lights, I looked out of the window and there they were, walking along Goldhawk Road together. It was very late. Three in the morning. But they held me, interested me. They were an odd couple. Ill matched. I knew something was wrong. She was nervous but he gave off an aura of tremendous self-assurance. But I could sense it was a sham. His inadequacy filled him with a rage I could almost touch. They turned into Ravenscourt Gardens and were gone.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I went home to bed.’

‘You did nothing?’

‘What was I going to do? I didn’t know he was going to kill her. It was only later. You said it yourself many years ago, on one of your first visits here. You can only act retrospectively. Your ‘after sales service’ you called it,’ Sorenson chuckled.

‘But afterwards you tracked him down.’

‘Not at first. It was of no interest until you told me how her death haunted you. And then…’

‘Then The Reaper wanted to help me.’

Sorenson beamed. He seemed pleased with himself suddenly. ‘Yes. Help you. Show you what was possible. It was the perfect opportunity.’

‘Why won’t you tell me about the Dentist Game?’

‘Vicky, darling. Where are you? Where’s Daddy’s Special Girl?’

Sorenson looked away. ‘My brother’s dead.’

‘Yes. The year before Sammy Elphick and his family were butchered. Cancer, wasn’t it?’ Brook’s face was hard. He’d trained for this moment, rehearsed every sentence and polished every nuance until the script gleamed like Greatorix’s forehead.

‘Vicky where are you? Where are you hiding? It’s Daddy. I’ve got something for you.’

Sorenson held his gaze for a long time. Brook didn’t look away. The old man nodded at him, forcing his cracked features into a pained smile-Charlie’s smile-communicating warmth and impending death.

‘There you are, Vicky. What are you doing under there?’

‘You’re everything I could have wished for, Damen. Everything.’

‘It’s okay, Daddy. My teeth are nice. See.’

‘You can’t protect him any more, Professor.’

‘I’m protecting her.’

‘But I know what he did.’

‘Then it needs no further discussion.’

‘Open wide. That’s good. Oh dear. I think you need some of Daddy’s special toothpaste. Keep still. You’ll wake your mother.’

‘My teeth are okay, Daddy. They’re new ones. Please Daddy! I don’t like it.’

‘It won’t take long. Open wider. Only the best for Daddy’s Special Girl.’

Sorenson’s faraway look as he stared into space reminded him of Charlie at the end. Charlie on the way to his Lizzie. The pair did have a lot in common. Brook too. They had Vicky, Lizzie, Laura. And now Terri. Fathers and daughters and the unspoken sexual bond that tugged at both. Daddy’s umbilical. Even death couldn’t sever such a tie. Especially death. Death strengthened it, magnified it. Only life could break the bond-when a blossoming young woman tired of vicarious sex with her father in the beds of men who weren’t him, yet were so like him. But sometimes Daddy insisted on first refusal. If she only wanted to sully herself, he figured he’d earned it. A reward for everything he’d done for her. And all the things he didn’t do because he was civilised.

‘Only the best. That’s it. That’s it, Vicky. It’ll come. Good girl. Good girl, good girl, good girl, good girl…Now swallow and rinse, Vicky, swallow and rinse.’

‘How long had it been going on?’

‘I don’t know,’ answered Sorenson. ‘He died before…’

The music stopped which broke their concentration. There was silence for a while as each considered their next utterance. Especially Brook. This wasn’t working out as planned. The spectre of death should have been a spur to confession but instead Sorenson had never been so reluctant to talk. The subject matter was delicate and perhaps too close to home. He decided to change tack.

‘So, in a way, Sammy Elphick deserved a medal…’

‘A medal?’ Now Sorenson became animated. He pushed back his blanket and hauled himself to his feet. For a second Brook wondered if he was about to be attacked and fingered the gun in his pocket. Instead Sorenson moved over to the cabinet-Brook was surprised how steady he was-and pulled out a pair of leaded tumblers. He didn’t ask Brook if he wanted a drink but came back with two generous measures all the same. Brook took his glass. ‘A medal for what? Bringing that brat into the world.’

‘Come on, Professor. Sammy Elphick was a petty criminal, and maybe his kid wouldn’t have amounted to much but neither deserved what you did to them…’

‘Didn’t they?’ Sorenson smiled at Brook’s anger. Control had changed hands with frightening rapidity and Brook was annoyed for letting it slip.

‘No they didn’t. I knew Sammy. He was small time. He wasn’t violent. Killing your brother was accidental, I’m sure. He was backed into a corner and probably struck out…’ Sorenson’s smile widened. Brook was on the verge of pulling out the gun just to wipe the expression off his face and had to control himself with a few deep breaths and a large slug of whisky.

When he spoke again his voice was deliberate, restrained. He’d waited too long to spoil it now. ‘What Sammy did to your brother saved Vicky. No matter how much you loved Stefan you must see that.’

Now Sorenson laughed but it wasn’t an articulation of pleasure. ‘Loved? Stefan?’ Suddenly his gaze was far away. He spoke almost to himself and Brook had to strain to hear. ‘I hated him. From the moment he was born I hated him. Stefan was a monster. And you’re right. He deserved to die.’

Brook held the drink from his lips, his face impassive but his mind in turmoil. All his carefully constructed assumptions lay in tatters before him. Then he knew. ‘You killed him.’

‘Of course.’

‘And Vicky?’

‘After what he did to her, she hated him then. She hates him still. Everyone hated him.’

‘And Sonja?’