The Reaper

‘Fuck that. I’m no grass.’

‘Where did you get a hundred pounds?’

‘I won it on a horse,’ Jason sneered with the standard and-you-can’t-prove-otherwise leer.

‘Really Well as you’re too young to legally place a bet, that money will have to be confiscated.’

‘You can’t do that…’

‘And the Ecstasy?’

Jason’s triumphant manner subsided. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve planted that on me. I’ve been out cold. Anyone…’

‘Look,’ began Brook then paused for a deep breath to compose his thoughts, ‘I’m not interested in your…habits, Jason. If you want to pop a few pills to brighten your drab existence, who am I to care?’

Jason prepared to protest but was unsure how to go about it.

Carly Graham eyed Brook with concern. ‘Inspector, I don’t think…’

‘Under the circumstances, I can overlook possession. If you co-operate,’ said Brook, making an effort to keep to the script.

Jason withdrew his unformed objection and stared down at the bed, sullen but yielding. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Take me through what happened when you got home.’

Brook took a few notes although it wasn’t really his forte. Jason told him little that he didn’t already know so he didn’t have much to record. But he confirmed that his parents had ‘won’ a competition at the local Pizza Parlour and that he’d nearly stayed in. He had no idea what time he got home, though he had a feeling it was after closing time–he was self-absorbed enough not to worry about admitting he’d been in a pub. He’d got home starving and headed straight for the kitchen. He tucked into the first pizza to hand. And then…nothing. Until now. No, his parents didn’t drink wine and no, they didn’t listen to any of that classical bollocks.

‘But did you hear it when you got in?’

‘Don’t know, alright. I don’t remember.’ Jason lowered his head in despair at the thoughts and images crowding in. He sighed and looked up at Brook. ‘I don’t think I heard no music. Okay.’

‘Fair enough.’ Brook flipped his notes shut and stood up to go. Jason was leaving a lot out but it could wait.

Suddenly the patient seemed animated, as though Brook’s imminent departure left unfinished business. Then his face brightened. ‘What about the telly?’

‘Telly?’ asked Brook. ‘It’s still there.’

‘No, you know. An appeal for witnesses and stuff. They can interview me and I can ask people for help to catch the bastard. I can handle it.’

Brook stood motionless for a second, unable to think of a suitable response. He could see Carly Graham open-mouthed. ‘I bet you can,’ he said, and walked away.

Brook passed Jones at the coffee machine. ‘What happened about Jason’s clothes?’

‘Bagged up with his shoes and sent to Forensics, sir.’

‘Good. And you’ve booked in the money and the drugs?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Which means we’ve got Wallis on possession, possibly dealing. We’ll leave out suspicion of triple homicide.’

‘Sir?’

‘He’s a suspect, Constable. Possibly dangerous. Cuff him.’

‘The doctor said…’

‘Never mind the doctor. It’s procedure. Cuff him.’

Chapter Five (#u9fac6d3e-ef46-5785-ae5f-f3bdd4517686)

The press conference started promptly at four in the revamped media centre of D Division. Brook hadn’t been in there since McMaster had been promoted. He knew she’d refurbished the place but hadn’t realised how much. The last time he’d taken part in a press briefing, he’d sat at the end of a long table by the door, facing the window. The sun had slammed into his eyes throughout and he’d become bad-tempered and impatient with the stupidity of a local reporter, who took his dismay out on the Force in print the next day.

Being a consummate politician, Evelyn McMaster had spotted this handicap and had set about changing the layout of the room. The harsh colours were gone, the acoustics had been improved but, most significantly, the officers now doing the briefing sat with their backs to the windows and the journalists had any sun shining in their eyes.

The police had another advantage; the psychological benefit of a raised platform, boxed in to afford a view of head and upper torso only. They could now look down on the journalists literally, as well as metaphorically.

Brook sat stony-faced throughout McMaster’s briefing-by-numbers, allowing his eyes to wander round the room at all the unfamiliar faces. A chord had obviously been struck with the nation’s editors, because all the nationals were here, as were the BBC, ITV and other TV crews. The local media were all present, including Brian Burton from the Derby Telegraph, whose nose Brook had so firmly put out of joint a couple of years back. He was also the reporter who’d splashed important details of the Plummer rape case the year before, causing a great deal of damage to the prosecution, not to mention arousing suspicions between officers at the station about who’d provided him with key information.

McMaster drew to a close and invited DI Brook to add his own observations.

‘I can only reiterate the comments made by Chief Superintendent McMaster,’ Brook began. ‘From the brutal nature of these murders, we know this man is extremely dangerous. Any information, relating to his movements in Drayfin last night, or any other suspicious occurrences, that could help us catch this man, will be gratefully received. All such information will be treated in strict confidence and will be followed up, no matter how insignificant it may seem.’

‘What progress have you made so far, Inspector?’ ventured one reporter, squinting to counteract the glare from the setting sun.

‘Our enquiries are under way and no stone will be left unturned but at the moment we are awaiting the results of forensic and post mortem examinations. Until that information is available, it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.’

‘Have you found the weapon?’ asked an attractive young woman with a microphone.

‘Not yet.’

‘But you do know what type of weapon was used?’ she said.

‘As I say, it would be inappropriate to comment further at this time.’

‘Could somebody be shielding this man?’ asked a man with a BBC microphone.

‘It’s possible,’ Brook nodded, unsure of the relevance of the question.

‘You don’t seem too sure,’ jumped in Brian Burton.

‘I’m sure it’s possible, Brian.’ Brook winced from a warning tap on the ankle bone from McMaster–another benefit of the enclosed panelling

‘I’m sure that most normal people, Inspector, find it hard to imagine that anyone could knowingly shelter such a monster.’

‘Then you don’t know a great deal about people, Brian.’

‘And you do?’