The Reaper

‘…and was it lipstick?’

‘It looks like it. The hospital’s sending us a sample.’ Brook nodded. ‘Sir, I’m sorry about…’

‘It’s not your fault, John. I’m sorry I snapped.’

‘I didn’t check…’

‘You had a crime scene to preserve. You had every right to accept what Aktar told you. It’s his mess.’

‘Even so.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’m just pleased we found out before the PS arrived. That would have been embarrassing.’

‘How could Aktar have made such a mistake?’

‘I suspect he was already feeling unwell.’

At that moment, a scene of crime officer in bright protective clothing carrying one end of a carpet emerged from the house. The other end of the carpet followed supported by another officer. They placed it carefully in the back of the van.

‘Do you want a look round before the bodies go, Inspector?’ he said.

‘Please.’

Brook leapt up to the front steps with Noble in reluctant pursuit.

Inside more officers in bright clothing were photographing the victims before bagging the hands, feet and heads to preserve any trace evidence adhering to them.

Brook stepped across the now bare floor to the girl still lying face down on the rug. He examined the cuts on her back but saw nothing new. Then he looked hard at her ankles and wrists and finally, the back of her head.

‘No marks,’ he said across to Noble who was doing the same examination of Mr and Mrs Wallis.

‘Same here. No obvious contusions or restraint marks as far as I can tell.’

Brook nodded. ‘They were drugged.’ He went to look more closely at the wine bottle on the fireplace.

‘You think the wine’s drugged?’ asked Noble.

‘I don’t think so. The girl wouldn’t have had wine. The killer brought it for some reason. Maybe for himself–to celebrate a job well done.’

Noble managed a chuckle. ‘Yeah, good health. Perhaps he’s left saliva in the glasses.’

‘We’ll see.’ Brook walked back to the door and looked again at the scene as a whole. The TV was pushed back into the alcove, the CD player against the far wall. Brook had checked. It was an old one. Not like Brixton. No entry there. It was the pizzas. They were the way in. He approached the CD player.

‘This has been dusted, I take it,’ asked Brook of no-one in particular.

‘Yeah,’ answered a SOCO kneeling down by the fireplace.

Brook turned the power on with his knuckle and ejected the tray. A CD of Mahler’s Ninth Symphony lay there. There was no case nearby.

Brook smiled. Mahler: something to listen to, something beautiful. He pressed play. The tray returned to the body of the machine. Brook waited for the music. Nothing. The display told Brook that fifteen seconds of the first track had elapsed. He located the volume control and moved it round to the right. At once the low strains of Mahler’s melancholic lament could be heard. He held the circular button and turned it further round. Shuddering horns filled the room.

Brook turned it to full blast and everybody stopped what they were doing and turned to the source of the annoyance. The sound was distorted. Brook returned the volume control to its original position with an apologetic smile then turned off the power.

As he looked round the room for the last time, Brook knew the killer was a man, the man. It couldn’t be a woman. Course it couldn’t. It wasn’t just statistical. Women give life–at least biologically–men take it. No need for offender profiling to tell him that.

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

As the pale light of a December dawn broke over the city skyline, Brook’s weary eyelids began to close. Odd the way he always felt more tired when he was denied his eight hours of solid insomnia. He could lay awake reading and thinking–all night sometimes–and still feel viable in the morning, but if he wasn’t horizontal it drained him.

For the second time that morning the phone shattered his fragile peace. It was Chief Superintendent McMaster, before eight in the morning no less. She wasn’t usually sighted before noon, what with all the courses, seminars and consultations she had to attend. She had an endless timetable of heavy-duty liaison to get through, but here she was, in her office, at the end of the criminal rush hour, wanting to speak to him.

Brook hadn’t spoken to the Chief about a case in months, so little was she involved in criminal matters. The last time they’d spoken at all, McMaster had dialled the wrong extension. Brook knew that wasn’t the case this time. Local TV and radio had already been sniffing round and she had to have basic facts to release.

‘DI Brook?’ She had a mellifluous voice, a crucial selling point at her promotion interview.

‘Ma’am.’

‘Can I see you right away, in my office, please? I need to pick your brains about last night.’

‘Right away, ma’am.’

‘Thank God, you were on call last night, Damen. We can hit the ground running. I’ll have a coffee waiting.’

Brook replaced the receiver with a smile. Even at half past seven in the morning she felt able to play him like a violin.

Brook picked up his preliminary report and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was a mess. He knew he had a good excuse but he also knew that the Chief Super would be immaculate, even at this early hour.

Brook stood outside her office, hand raised to knock, when Noble turned the corner carrying a plastic beaker of coffee. He had a large envelope under his arm. He hadn’t slept either but at least he wasn’t wearing a tatty polo neck.

‘Are those the SOCO photos, John?’

He nodded. ‘I put a rush on them.’

‘Good. I’m going to brief the boss. You’d better join me.’

Noble examined his watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s actually here?’

Brook hesitated. He was sensitive to snipes at the Chief Super. They were alike–outsiders against the rest–and a dig at her was a dig at him. He decided to say nothing, then knocked and entered.

‘Morning ma’am. DS Noble’s with me to fill in some of the blanks.’

If McMaster noticed Brook’s dishevelled condition, she didn’t let it show. ‘Fine,’ she beamed, emptying a cafetiere into two solid French coffee cups, complete with matching saucers. The woman’s touch–a little strategy to make her male colleagues feel subliminally masterful and at ease. Brook knew the routine. At some point she’d feel compelled to water her spider plants. ‘I hope he’s brought his own. Black with sugar isn’t it, Inspector?’

‘Yes ma’am. The bitter and sweet,’ he said after a brief pause. She glanced slyly back at him and Brook felt he saw the ghost of a smile crease her 45 year-old features.

Evelyn McMaster was short, with wavy blond cropped hair and a tidy figure. And yes, her general appearance, make-up and all, was immaculate. She was what the politer elements in the division referred to as a handsome woman. To the less polite elements, this meant that while her looks wouldn’t make you vomit neither were they likely to induce an erection.

Brook liked McMaster. He enjoyed seeing somebody beside himself stir the simmering pot of resentment bubbling away in the division. But it was more than that. He admired the strength of the woman: not just the character she needed to drive her way to the top despite the Force’s inbuilt sexism–but also the will and the energy required to keep her mask in place, to play her role to the hilt, all day, every day.