The Reaper. Steven Dunne

Brook. It was a dark and cold night with a dusting of snow. A good thing. It discouraged the ghouls who gravitated to such gore. Even the reporters were absent, having been given bigger leads to follow by Brian Burton.

      ‘All quiet, Constable…?’

      ‘Feaver, sir. Yes, sir. All quiet.’

      ‘Dark round here, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes sir. Most of the street lighting’s been vandalised. Kids.’

      Brook nodded and bent under the police tape. He went into the dying room. It seemed bigger than his first visit but then it was virtually empty now. No corpses cluttering the place. He didn’t go further than the doorway as a SOCO was still working in the room even at this late hour.

      He’d seen everything he needed to the night before. He went into the bedrooms as he had before but, as then, there was nothing of interest. If he looked hard enough he knew he could probably find something incriminating in Jason’s room. But to what end? Brook had never been concerned about small time drug abuse or under age drinking. Even the unpleasant porn videos they’d unearthed under a creaky floor board were of no concern to Brook. All such matters fell under Brook’s Law of Victimless Crime. Although the nation’s legislators disagreed, Brook was unconcerned about citizens sitting at home drifting into a narcotic stupor and masturbating themselves to sleep. Best place for it.

      And whatever Wallis and son got up to in the privacy of their home, legal or not, had not been the motive for their slaughter.

      Eventually Brook sauntered away, like a tourist leaving a disappointing museum, and returned to his car. He paused as he opened the driver’s door and looked across to the house next to number 233. After a moment’s thought he reached into the Mondeo and pulled out the cassette tape of Mahler. ‘Constable Feaver,’ he shouted, waving him over. ‘Have you got a mobile?’

      ‘Mr Singh. It’s DI Brook. Sorry to bother you at this time. We’ve got a few more questions to ask you. May I come in?’

      The slightly-built, middle-aged Asian man lifted a pair of bloodshot eyes towards Brook’s warrant card. He wore an old-fashioned dressing gown and pyjamas. His feet were bare. He hesitated briefly before turning away from the door and leading Brook into his neat living room, a mirror image of the Wallis murder scene on the other side of the wall. The furnishings were perhaps a little fussier and the colours a little brighter but the rooms were essentially the same, even down to the fireplace.

      ‘I told the other detective everything I know. I’m very tired…’

      ‘I understand.’ Brook noted a small but plump valise resting on a chair. ‘Going somewhere, sir?’

      ‘My brother’s house. In Leicester. I’ve…’

      ‘You’ve had trouble sleeping after what you witnessed. I’m not surprised. But if you could find somewhere to stay in Derby it would be better. We need to be able to contact you…’

      Mr Singh sat down on his plush sofa, indicating a chair for Brook. ‘I see.’

      ‘Do you live here alone?’

      ‘My wife and daughters are in India for a few weeks. But yes, I’m alone…’

      ‘A lot of worry, aren’t they?’

      ‘I beg your pardon.’

      ‘Daughters. A lot of worry. I’ve got a fifteen year old.’

      Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. They can be difficult.’ He wouldn’t look at Brook, who sensed Mr Singh was probably picturing the difficulty Kylie Wallis had encountered next door. Finally his eyes turned to Brook. ‘What questions?’

      ‘Just routine. Like how did you get on with the Wallis family?’

      ‘Mr and Mrs Wallis are…were racists. And their son Jason. They were unpleasant people and we had nothing to do with them.’

      ‘So things were strained between you?’

      ‘Not really. As I said, we had nothing to do with them. We kept out of each other’s way.’

      ‘What about noise from next door? Was that usual?’

      ‘Sometimes. Things got a good bit quieter when they had the baby though. Do you mind if I smoke, Inspector?’

      ‘As long as I can join you,’ replied Brook.

      ‘Of course.’ Mr Singh took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his dressing-gown pocket and lit up with a heavy sigh then studied Brook, wondering why he hadn’t done the same.

      Eventually Mr Singh retrieved his cigarettes, shook one out for Brook and handed him the lighter.

      ‘Thank you. I left mine in the car.’

      ‘No problem. That’s where I’ll have to hide mine when my wife gets home.’

      Brook smiled but resisted the invitation for man talk. ‘What about Kylie?’

      Mr Singh was puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘You said Mr and Mrs Wallis and Jason were racists. You didn’t mention Kylie.’

      Mr Singh hesitated for a moment then smiled sadly. ‘She was a lovely girl. Lovely. They didn’t deserve her, the rest of them. They were scum. I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but they were. They were trash and won’t be missed. But Kylie was always nice to my girls.’

      Brook nodded. ‘When you went next door, you went into the living room first and turned off the CD player.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You turned the volume down first?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Were you aware that Jason was in the kitchen at that time?’

      ‘No. I turned the CD player off then turned the big light on at the wall…’

      ‘You could see to do that?’

      ‘Yes. The hall light was on.’

      ‘Then what?’

      ‘I saw…’ Mr Singh took a more urgent draught of tobacco and hung his head. ‘…then I went to the kitchen to phone 999.’

      ‘You didn’t touch the bodies?’

      ‘No!’

      ‘Not even to check for signs of life?’

      ‘No. They were dead. Or I thought they were. I was glad to hear about the baby…’

      ‘Then you saw Jason in the kitchen?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘What did you do?’

      ‘I called the police.’

      ‘You didn’t check Jason’s pulse.’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I don’t know. I assumed he was dead.’

      ‘Then you went outside to wait.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you saw no-one and heard no vehicles?’

      ‘That is correct.’

      Brook nodded and pocketed his notebook. ‘May I use your phone, Mr Singh?’

      ‘Please.’

      Brook drew out a piece of crumpled paper from a pocket and proceeded to dial. ‘Constable Feaver, it’s me. Okay. Half way.’ He put his hand over the receiver and smiled at Mr Singh.

      From the Wallis house a barely audible noise could be discerned. Brook listened, watching Mr Singh closely. Singh nodded. ‘That’s how it started out.’

      ‘What time would that have been?’

      ‘Twenty