Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Jones smiled with pleasure but Brook was sombre. ‘Then why am I alive?’

‘He must have got the dosage wrong.’

‘I don’t think so. If I’m alive it’s because Sorenson wanted it that way. He staged it.’

‘Staged it?’

‘To convince me he was going to kill me. Otherwise it would have been phoney. I wouldn’t have believed it, wouldn’t have gone through what the others went through. It had to be authentic.’

Jones was baffled. ‘Authentic?’

‘The same as the other victims. He needed to show me things, the despair and the hope and the beauty of dying. The joy of letting go. Of being saved.’ Brook could see he was losing her. ‘He wouldn’t kill me. I was his friend.’ Brook took a sip of water. ‘He said I was a brilliant detective?’

‘Words to that effect-what’s wrong with that?’

‘He’s trying to manipulate me, Wendy.’

‘He’s dead. How can he manipulate you?’

‘You didn’t know him. He never said or did anything without an ulterior motive. And now, being a hero, I get to stay in the Force. That’s what he wants.’

‘Sorenson. Why?’

Brook pondered how to say it. ‘Access.’

Jones was mystified but Brook showed little sign of enlightening her. ‘Access to what?’

Brook had closed his eyes and was drifting off to sleep. ‘Deserving cases.’ In a barely audible voice he added, ‘He came to Derby for me, Wendy. And dead or alive, he’s not going to give up until he gets me.’

Chapter Thirty-two

The next day Brook demanded his clothes and insisted on leaving his sick bed despite the protests of Wendy Jones and the doctor. The toxin pumped from his stomach had yet to be identified.

‘What’s the worst that could happen, doc?’

‘You could collapse and die, Inspector Brook,’ she replied.

‘Then you better get me an organ donor card.’

‘If you died we couldn’t use them.’

‘You could if I stepped under a bus.’

‘Then take a cab.’

Having discharged himself, his first task was to recover his car from the Hilton. His bag, containing Charlie’s confession, was in the boot and Brook couldn’t risk leaving it. Jones refused to let him go alone in case he became unwell.

After picking up the car, their first call was the local police station for Brook to make a statement about the events at Sorenson’s house. Jones assured him it would be routine as McMaster had already liaised with the Met over Brook’s presence in London. The fact that Sorenson had confessed to a murder in Derby was a plus, but Brook knew how sensitive locals were about jurisdiction and suspected the Hammersmith crew would be gearing up to give him a hard time.

Sonja Sorenson, Vicky, Petr and the nurse had already been questioned about Victor Sorenson’s state of mind. All were able to suppose that Sorenson was a potential suicide because of the nature of his illness. But nobody could shed any light on his videotaped confessions or his relationship with DI Brook.

Sonja had been questioned closely about her husband’s death but could offer up no useful leads and because of her history of mental fragility she wasn’t pushed too hard. After all, the murder was an old one and they had a confession. Case closed.

Brook believed the Laura Maples murder would be the fly in the ointment, and for that the local CID would need to speak to him. It was his case. It was unsolved. Unsolved murders spawned obsessive behaviour. And if by chance the obsessed detective found his killer but was unable to prove it…

Jones was directed to the canteen when they arrived and Brook was ushered towards an interview room once his refreshment order had been taken.

He sat down in a bare, windowless room. It was illuminated by cheerless strip lighting, had a battered table and three chairs-two on one side, one on the other. A clean ashtray sat in the middle of the table. Bad sign-the room wasn’t left over from a previous interrogation, it had been chosen for a purpose and set up with forethought. Now he was alone with a chance to stew and coffee was being brought to maintain the pretence of routine friendliness. Brook knew what would come up-his breakdown.

The two detectives entered the room together and sat opposite Brook. One of them smiled a welcome. The senior man. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Fulbright. This is Detective Sergeant Ross.’

‘Detective Inspector Damen Brook, Derbyshire CID.’

‘Feel free to smoke, Inspector,’ said Fulbright.

‘No thank you.’ Brook wanted a cigarette but still felt queasy. He decided against it. In Brook’s experience, the guilty smoked like chimneys during an interview.

‘Given up?’ Brook turned to look at Fulbright more closely. ‘You don’t remember me, do you, Inspector?’

‘Should I?’ Brook knew he’d made a mistake as the words left his mouth.

‘No reason at all. I was just a lowly PC back then, on crowd control at the first Reaper killing. Harlesden. A family was butchered. Do you remember that case?’

‘It rings a bell. And no…’

‘No what?’

‘…I haven’t given up.’ Better. He smoked but didn’t need a cigarette because he had nothing to hide. Brook hoped that would cancel out the disrespect he’d shown.

‘Now…’ began Fulbright.

‘Before we start I think I need to see the video.’

‘So you can get your story straight?’ DS Ross had a thin wiry body and complementary mean features. He was quite small, close to minimum regulation, and Brook had never yet met a male officer of similar height who hadn’t overcompensated with an aggressive manner.

DCI Fulbright raised a lazy hand to intervene. ‘I think we’d like to hear your side of things first, DI Brook.’

Brook noted the emphasis on rank and studied Fulbright’s face. Yes. He remembered him. He’d transferred from uniform and had been an untalented DC ten years ago. He could recall Charlie once tearing a strip off him for some bumbling evidence gathering. Now it was payback time.

‘Is this the bit where I cross my legs so you can see I’m not wearing underpants?’ Ross half stood and was halted by a more urgent hand from Fulbright. Brook beamed to annoy them.

‘Funny.’ Fulbright held out a hand and Ross passed him a piece of paper. Brook knew what it was but continued to beam across the table at his two interrogators. ‘I’ve got a report here about your psychological condition. This report was compiled in 1992…’-Fulbright shot Brook a glance which aped a concern he didn’t feel-‘…and refers to a, and I quote, “period of obsessive stalking” by yourself, DS Brook as you then were.’

‘Can you tell us anything about this period, Inspector Brook?’

‘Is the report not clear?’

‘I’d like to hear about it in your own words.’

‘Can you remember who you were stalking, Inspector?’ put in Ross.

Brook continued to smile but it was wafer thin. He took a pause to think then decided he had nothing to hide. ‘It was a long time ago. Sorenson was a killer. Only I knew it.’

‘You admit you went off the deep end on this guy…’

‘It happens in this job. I did nothing illegal.’

‘As far as we’re aware.’

‘If you’ve got something to say, get it said.’

‘Okay. You’re a fucking fruitcake, mate,’ sneered Ross.

‘I’m not your mate.’

Ross stood over Brook, baring his teeth. A blue vein on his shaved scalp stood out and distracted Brook. As yet, his personal space hadn’t been violated but he felt it was a matter of time. ‘You’re finished as a copper by all accounts.’

‘So you decide to right a few wrongs from the past,’ chipped in Fulbright.

‘You went to Sorenson’s house, forced a confession out of him, cut his wrists and took just enough dope to make it look like you’d been poisoned.’ Ross stood with a leer and went to stand behind Brook. ‘And you thought we’d swallow it. What do you take us for?’