Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘Especially Sonja.’

‘She knew about Vicky.’

‘Of course she knew, Damen. How can a mother not know these things?’ He shot Brook a penetrating glance and he looked away, remembering Amy and Terri. ‘That’s why Stefan put her in an institution.’

Sorenson took a drink and considered how to begin. ‘When we were born, Steffi and I, in Stockholm, our paths were mapped out as soon we left our mother’s womb. Steffi was first. The elder. The heir. Thirteen minutes. I took that as an omen. And so it proved for our mother. At the end of the thirteen minutes, she died. I left her body at the same time as her final breath.

‘If you hadn’t been there,’ Steffi told me when we were old enough to understand these things, ‘our mother wouldn’t have died. You killed her.’ Sorenson shook his head. ‘What sort of mind can conjure up that much cruelty? Steffi must have thought I was a complete fool. I knew I hadn’t killed her. He had.’

‘What are you talking about? You were babies.’

‘Identical twins, Damen. There’s a difference. You see even in the womb I could feel him, his presence, his evil, attacking me, suppressing me. I was supposed to be first, you see.’

‘What?’

‘I was supposed to be born first.’ He smiled and looked at Brook. ‘I know what you’re thinking and I know how it sounds. You can’t understand.’ Sorenson’s expression darkened. ‘Before we were born I could feel him. At first, just the occasional kick or fist, nothing important, but gradually, as we grew, I could feel him manoeuvring himself, pushing me behind him, thrusting himself to the fore. Even then he had to be first. He wouldn’t accept second place even if it meant doing down his own brother. And so he was first and Mother died of complications.

‘First in all things. Bigger than me, stronger, faster, healthier. I was the sickly one, prone to colds and headaches, minor things. I was smaller, thinner, not as confident, and Steffi lost no opportunity to keep me that way. Generally I was less than him and our father, who was a good man, strict but loving, he tried his best to hide his preference for Steffi, but being such a weakling, I was cursed with great sensitivity and not just in my health. I knew. I could read it in everything Father did, everything he said.

‘It didn’t matter too much when we were young. Boys will be boys. They can be very cruel, worse than girls sometimes. But they grow out of it. Steffi didn’t. And, as we grew up together, things became worse. This knowledge lay between us, what had happened to our mother. I knew what he’d done to hurt her and he knew I knew and never stopped punishing me for it. I hated him for that. But that would have been all right if he hadn’t made Father hate me with his tricks and insinuations and lies. Father always took his side. He couldn’t see what Steffi was.’

Sorenson took a sip of whisky. ‘When our twenty-first birthday arrived our lives changed forever. Until that point, I was able to keep a rough parity with my brother. We both went to university to study Chemical Science. My father wanted us to take an interest in the business. And so, to please him, I got a first class degree. But Steffi? Steffi could only scrape a pass, and even then I’d had to give him my notes. It was more important for Steffi to get drunk and sleep with as many women as he could, which was a lot. He could be very charming when he wanted something from you.

‘After university we were supposed to work at the plant and learn the ropes from the bottom up, like Dad had done. But I’d performed so well that Dad wanted me to go as far as my brains would take me. And I was happy to oblige, to shut myself away in academe. By this time I was having trouble coping with life. I was different. I’d discovered that I was more than sensitive. I was seeing things, visions, when I came into physical contact with people. Terrible things. Never anything beautiful. So I was happy to hide with my books while my brother went to work in the business.

‘And to be fair to him, he did well. He became a good manager, a good entrepreneur. Like father. And when I finally went to work, we had the ideal partnership. I could supply all the expertise for the new processes for product development and Steffi could wheel and deal-under Father’s watchful eye of course. But it wasn’t enough. He didn’t have control over his own destiny. That’s when he killed Father.’

Brook took a sip of his whisky, and rolled the burning liquid around his mouth. What he was learning was interesting and told him a lot about the psychology of his opponent but took him no nearer The Reaper.

‘You don’t seem surprised, Damen?’

‘This kind of rivalry is well known, particularly in twins. It produces all sorts of imaginary hatreds and jealousies. Each believing the other is their enemy, each trying to promote themselves at the expense of the other…’

‘I see.’

‘I mean he didn’t really kill your Father, did he?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘You have evidence?’

‘No.’

‘But you saw it- in a vision.’

‘No. Steffi knew. After they found Father with his neck broken at the foot of his office stairs, he never came near me. Never let me touch him. He was my twin. He could sense my abilities.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you have proof that I’m The Reaper?’

The directness of the question threw Brook for a second. ‘I did have. I destroyed it.’ Brook shifted a little in his chair and took another drink. ‘I searched your house that night, while you were asleep. The serial number on a CD system stored in your house matched the number on the system in Wrigley’s flat. I removed the delivery note.’

‘But you destroyed it?’

Brook shrugged. ‘An illegal search. It was inadmissible.’

Sorenson’s knowing grin was close to an outright laugh. ‘Inadmissible. Of course.’ Now he did laugh. ‘You couldn’t condone such corrupt practice. Another drink, officer? Or would that constitute a bribe?’

‘I’ll risk it.’

‘Brave man.’ Sorenson went to put on some music and returned with another tumbler of whisky. Brook took an immediate sip. The heat felt good on his tongue, he swirled it around like mouthwash. He felt relaxed, at ease with his host. This was where he was meant to be, where he’d been so often in his dreams.

‘So you can’t prove I’m this killer?’

‘I’ve proved it to myself.’ Brook decided against mentioning Charlie’s confession. That was an ace he’d only use if he needed it.

The music drifted over from the speakers. Beethoven this time. Brook wasn’t sure which.

‘The Ninth-von Karajan conducting,’ said Sorenson, as though answering an audible question. ‘You’ll enjoy it more than you can imagine,’ he said with a cryptic smile and set off round the room, switching on lamps to dispel the gathering shadows.

Brook looked at his watch. Nearly four in the afternoon. This could be a long night.

‘If you’ll excuse me, Damen, I’ve got some medication to take. I won’t be a moment,’ and he stepped through a door at the back of the room, behind one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

Brook picked up his glass and ambled around the room, wondering what Sorenson had meant by his remark about the music. He sniffed his glass and examined the bottom of the whisky bottle. If Sorenson had doctored his drink he couldn’t tell. He took another hearty swig and positioned himself to admire the ‘fake’ Van Gogh he’d seen on his first visit to the room. Everything about it was right-the bold brushwork, the light, the signature. It was an impressive mimic of Van Gogh’s style.

He picked up an instruction booklet from the desk. It was for the video camera on a tripod in the corner of the room. He flicked through it then tossed it back on the desk.