Steven Dunne - The Reaper

‘If that’s the way you want to look at it, ma’am.’

‘It’s how your enemies will look at it.’

‘They can think what they want. What about your enemies, ma’am?’

McMaster screwed her eyes and stared beyond Brook to the window. ‘I found out last night. I’m being transferred out.’

Brook nodded. He had no need to ask whether it was voluntary or not. ‘I see. But you fight on?’

‘Of course I fight on, Damen. I believe in what I do, and how I do it. I’ll be back. Mark my words.’ There was anger in her eyes.

Brook smiled to comfort her. ‘I envy you, Evelyn. And pity you. How can you keep going?’

‘What should I do? Take the easy way out, like you?’ Brook laughed. ‘I’m sorry, Damen. I didn’t mean that.’

‘Yes you did. And yes, you should take the easy way out. Caring can damage your health.’

‘I can’t. I won’t let them beat me.’

‘I didn’t for a minute expect you would.’

McMaster stood and gathered her dignity and held out her hand. Brook shook it warmly. ‘Good luck, Damen.

The Force needs people like you. I’ll hold onto this letter for forty-eight hours…’

‘Why?’

‘It’s standard practice-unofficially. In case you change your mind.’

‘I won’t.’

Brook gunned through the lights and roared up the Uttoxeter Road. As he approached the flat, he saw old Mrs Saunders standing on the pavement, arms folded, looking up and down the road. She was just a tiny thing, barely five feet in height. She raised an arm when she saw him and watched as he slowed to a halt and jumped from the car.

‘Anything wrong, Mrs Saunders?’

‘I’ve already called the police, dear. Some lads kicked your door in. I rang straight away but they weren’t in there long. They only left a few minutes ago. I’m sorry, dear, but I didn’t dare come outside until they’d gone.’

‘You did the right thing, Mrs Saunders. Wait there.’

‘Oh, Inspector.’ Brook turned. ‘One thing. I know it’s a weird name but I definitely heard one of the young men call another one Jay or Jace. Is that a help?’

Brook nodded. ‘Maybe.’

He ran to the flat’s wrecked kitchen entrance and stopped in the doorway. The door hung from its hinges now and Brook had to lift it to go inside.

He looked down at his feet and stepped back. The floor was flooded with the water still spurting from where the sink had once been. It had been hammered into three large pieces and water was sluicing around the floor.

Various plastic food packets bobbed on the water. The fridge, which had had its door wrenched off, had then been pushed over. Brook could see a selection of cocktail dips and cooked chicken being showered by the fountain from the decapitated cold water pipe. The fridge door itself had been thrown at the kitchen window and lay half in, half out, of the shattered frame.

Brook lifted up his trousers and tiptoed across the sopping floor to the hall. From the living room, an acrid stench assaulted his throat forcing him to clench a handkerchief over his mouth.

He kicked open the door through which he’d watched Vicky brush her hair those many months ago. The smoke hit Brook in the eyes, so he bent low and forced his way through the room to the front door, satisfying himself that there was no heat from a blaze. He flung open the front door and stepped through to let his lungs pull in the fresh air. The acrid smouldering of Brook’s sofa began to dissipate and Brook was able to see into the room.

He looked at the devastation. The brand new TV and video recorder lay pulverised on the floor. His chair and table were blackened by the smoke but were otherwise intact. The telephone and answering machine had also been placed on the sofa, to share its fate. They had begun to melt but were still recognisable. Fortunately the Van Gogh was in his new house.

The smoke cleared somewhat and Brook headed for his bedroom. He opened the door to the words ‘OINK, OINK. YOUR GOING TO PAY PIG’ daubed on the wall in red.

‘Oh no.’ Brook stepped to the bed and sat besides the remains of Cat. He placed a hand on its still warm body and stroked what was left. For once the cat didn’t careen itself around Brook’s hand. Its head was pulp though he could still identify the stub of pink tongue poking through broken teeth. Two grapefruit-sized splashes of dark red on the back of the door told its tale.

He closed his eyes to remember his only friend.

Sirens in the distance grew louder. He roused himself to look around. He reached to pick a towel from a hook and wrapped Cat reverently into a bundle.

He went outside to his car and placed the body gently in the boot. He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Cat. I should have named you.’ He closed the boot and turned to face the squad car screeching to a theatrical halt behind him.

It was after midnight when Brook returned to his new house in Hartington.

He pulled up to the kerb and silenced the ear-splitting cacophony from the Sprite’s exhaust, oblivious to the disturbance it must have caused in this sleepy village. He opened the boot and removed a carrier bag and newly-purchased spade. He took both in the house and returned to the car. He picked up the bundle containing Cat and took it to the back garden.

In darkness, he dug a small hole in a corner of the garden and placed Cat down. He replaced the soil on top and patted it down before putting a large stone on top to discourage scavenging foxes. ‘Rest in Peace, little friend.’

Brook climbed the path to the house and sat down on the patio bench. He pulled the bottle of whisky and two packets of cigarettes from the carrier bag, poured himself a large measure and lit up.

‘Cheers, Cat.’ He took a swig and flinched as the fiery liquid burned its way to his stomach. ‘Cheers, Charlie.’ He took another, smaller swig. ‘Professor.’ This time he merely held the glass aloft, declining to drink.

The next morning Brook was woken by birdsong. He was on the bench with a thin blanket for cover and a cushion for a pillow. He sat up and looked at his watch. Then he stepped into the kitchen and picked up the phone. He dialled, asked for an extension number and lit a cigarette in the pause to be connected. ‘Chief Superintendent McMaster. DI Brook, ma’am. About my resignation-I’ve been thinking it over…’