Steven Dunne - The Reaper

Sorenson’s face appeared and Brook exhaled nicotine relief. A grisly voice inside his head had warned him he might have to endure a filmed account of the Wallis family being torn open.

Instead Sorenson sat in a chair, at his desk in his study. The room was lit by lamps and Sorenson held his father’s cutthroat in his hand. He raised a glass to the camera.

‘Hello, my old friend. I’m dead. And you’re alive. I’m sorry to have let you down like that. I know how much you wanted to go.

It’s strange addressing you through the camera when you’re actually slumped in a chair on the other side of the room. I hope you understand my motives for makingyou think I was going to kill you. I had to make it real for you then you’d know how good the others felt when they went. I’d given them a gift. Life as it should be-every second precious. Don’t forget that.

‘I know you can forgive me for Laura. Floyd Wrigley has paid in full-we saw to that. I saw how she died in that terrible place. It was easy to convince the police I was her killer. Case closed.

‘And I’d have gotten away with it too,’ Sorenson smiled, ‘but you tracked me down, Damen, at great risk to yourself. Now you’re a hero. And so you should be. It doesn’t sit well, does it? But don’t fight it. It’s the credit you should have had for finding The Reaper. And it’ll make your work easier. There’ll be plenty of opportunities. You’ll see.

‘Look for fathers and daughters. Daughters are your speciality.’

Brook grunted. Even death didn’t stop Sorenson’s probing.

‘Remember, this is your time, Damen. Your time to be who you’ve always been. The person many would like to be but only you have the power and the knowledge. Use it wisely. I know you will. And if you still have doubts speak to your forensic people and then go to it. I hope you enjoy the painting. You always admired it. And, yes, it is genuine. It’s a long story and time, for me, has run out. So another occasion for that. Goodbye, old friend.’

He stood and raised his glass. ‘The Reaper is dead. Long live The Reaper.’ Then Sorenson walked out of shot. A couple of seconds later the screen was white again.

Brook rewound the tape and listened to the toast again. He froze the image with Sorenson facing the camera, arm raised. Then he paced around the room for a couple of minutes before disappearing into the cellar. ‘Something’s not right.’ He emerged with the sheaf of papers taken from Charlie’s kitchen, leafed through for a moment to find the section he needed, then read aloud.

‘And who says crime doesn’t pay? The little punk murders a stranger and it saves him from a date with The Reaper. Funny thing. Sorenson didn’t seem put out by that. In fact, he seemed pleased even though this Jason character deserves to have his throat cut worse than most. I even wondered if somehow that was all part of the plan but I don’t see how. What the fuck. I’ve wasted enough time thinking about it. You figure it out.’

‘Funny thing,’ Brook whispered. ‘Noble was right,’ he said to the screen. ‘Jason was at your mercy. Why didn’t you kill him? Why?’ He stubbed out his cigarette then re-read the transcript of Sorenson’s confession.

‘You always have a reason. Every action serves a purpose. One-you confess to killing your brother so Vicky can get on with her life. Two-you confess to killing Laura Maples so you can give me credit for tracking you down.

‘Three-you admit to arranging Annie Sewell’s murder. Reason:’-Brook hesitated then shrugged. ‘So you can put Jason and his low-life friends in the frame for her murder. So why haven’t you done that? Funny thing.’

‘What’s funny?’

Brook spun round. ‘Wendy!’

‘I knocked but there was no reply. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Not at all.’ Brook turned off the TV and moved Charlie’s confession under the Sorenson transcript on the table.

‘What’s funny?’

‘Nothing’s funny.’

‘You do realise that talking to yourself is the first sign of madness?’

‘Yeah, but it’s the only decent conversation I can get since the cat stopped confiding in me.’

‘You’ve got a TV,’ she breezed. ‘It’s almost like a home.’

‘Keep pushing.’

Now she giggled. ‘Sorry.’

‘No need. I’ve given notice. I’m looking for another place.’

Jones tried to hide her blushes at the possible reason for the move. ‘Oh? Nice painting,’ she added quickly.

‘Yeah it’s an original Van Gogh.’

‘Lovely Shall we go?’

Brook sat on the hard wooden bench with his head lowered in the traditional manner. It was good manners to hide the boredom. The priest was droning on somewhere in the back of Brook’s head but no words got through his blanket of taciturn solitude.

He hated churches. To Brook they were monuments to futility. Weddings were the worst. And christenings. All that misplaced hope of future happiness. At least funerals offered release-a way out. And now Brook was looking for his way out. He was suffering from mourning sickness. He smiled at his joke then covered his mouth with his hand to hide it. No funerals for years then-like busses-three happen along at once and each one a keepsake of his former life. Funny thing.

Charlie’s funeral had been first, a happy occasion for Brook, knowing the release his old boss felt at the end. No more pain. No more guilt. No more tiny faces to haunt him.

And it was a pleasant surprise to be reminded what a legend Charlie was in the capital’s law enforcement annals. Anybody who was anybody in West London policing was there. They’d even managed to dig up a junior minister for the occasion.

DCI Fulbright and DS Ross were there and a few other faces from the past. No relations though. Charlie had outlived all the ones he’d ever bothered with. His ex-wife wasn’t there and Brook wondered if she was still in London but couldn’t think of anyone to ask.

Fulbright exchanged a polite nod with Brook but Ross wouldn’t even look at him, which was a disappointment as Brook had prepared a couple of visual taunts about his height.

After the service, in which he did a reading from John Donne, Charlie’s favourite poet, Brook swapped a few pleasantries with barely remembered colleagues and made his excuses. His main excuse being that he had another funeral to attend-Sorenson’s. Before he left, Brook lingered by Charlie’s newly dug grave, next to his Lizzie.

‘Goodbye, Charlie, and God bless.’ Then he bent over Lizzie’s unkempt grave and burrowed six inches into the soil. He pressed in the ring from which she’d been separated before her death, and filled in the hole.

Sorenson’s funeral was a much more sombre affair. The piercing winter light had given way to gun-metal skies and the whole process was suddenly oppressive to Brook as only he and the family were attending.

Petr looked more strapping than Brook remembered. He was flanked on each arm by Vicky and Sonja, sobbing throughout. He was the man of the family now.

Again nods-the chief currency of funeral communication-were exchanged. Nothing was said. No readings were given. No stories were told. Sorenson left this life without ceremony and without sentiment and Brook felt it appropriate to the way he’d conducted himself in life. Few words were needed for someone who had so much to say for himself.

As the priest rattled through the service, Brook left the tiny chapel. He didn’t look back. If he had, he’d have seen Vicky turn to watch him go. He would never see her again.

Outside stood Laura Maples’ father. Brook didn’t know him at first. He was a defeated old man. He stared at Brook leaving and walked towards him. Brook halted in sudden recognition and held out his hand. Maples ignored it.