The Reaper. Steven Dunne

case you want to charge round there and have it out with them.’ Brook smiled politely.

      ‘I suppose so. I wouldn’t have. My wife…’ Again he left the sentence hanging.

      Brook spoke into the phone. ‘All the way up, Constable.’ The music was no longer muffled. It pounded through the wall and crashed onto Mr Singh’s floor which vibrated in tune. Then it died somewhat but that was more down to Mahler’s composition. Before long the horns were hammering on the floorboards again.

      ‘And it was midnight when it became that loud?’ Singh nodded. ‘Okay. Thanks Constable,’ said Brook into the phone. ‘Turn it off.’ Brook replaced the receiver and turned to Mr Singh. ‘I admire your patience. I would have gone straight round and hammered on the door.’

      ‘I was going to but they turned it off a couple of minutes later.’

      ‘Sorry. I thought you told DC Noble you put up with it until half past twelve before going round?’

      ‘I did. I mean I got my slippers on to go round but it stopped completely. So I went upstairs to get ready for bed then it started up again. Really loud. As you said, I stood it for as long as I could then I went to complain.’

      ‘And that would have been at half past.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Why didn’t you tell us this before?’

      ‘I’ve only just remembered with you playing the music.’

      ‘And how long was the music off?’

      ‘A few minutes, Inspector. Maybe five, no more than ten.’

      ‘I see.’

      ‘Is it important?’

      Brook shrugged. ‘It could be.’

      ‘Is there anything else, Inspector? I’m very tired.’

      ‘Me too. Thanks for answering my questions at this hour, Mr Singh.’

      Singh took the hint and set off for the front door. As Brook passed through the entrance Singh smiled at him. It was a bleak expression which Brook recognised as that of a fellow insomniac.

      ‘When will my clothes be returned to me, Inspector?’

      ‘As soon as we’ve finished with them. Assuming you still want them. There’ll be blood on the shoes and probably the garments too.’

      Mr Singh nodded. ‘Yes. I didn’t think.’

      Brook left and returned to the Wallis house to retrieve his tape then set off for home.

      After a hot shower, Brook lay on his bed to rest his eyes for a few moments. He nodded off but woke a few minutes later. Nonetheless he felt refreshed and rang Noble for a progress report.

      There was news on the van. They hadn’t found it but they’d had a hit from the partial plate. It had been hired locally. Brook had expected this. He made a mental note of the van hire company and told Noble to save the rest for the briefing.

      Also, the bottle of wine hadn’t been bought in a Derby supermarket, Noble confirmed. They were checking French suppliers and off-licences the next morning.

      Brook told Noble about the discovery of the drugs and cash on Jason. He also mentioned Jason’s involvement in the near rape of a teacher at the local school to see if it seemed equally significant to Noble.

      ‘Pity we can’t leave him unguarded so the killer can finish the job then,’ said Noble.

      ‘Maybe,’ replied Brook. ‘You know, his family are dead and all he could think about was getting on TV for his fifteen minutes of fame.’ Mr Singh was right. The Wallis family were trash. Only poor Kylie had ever held a thought for the sensibilities of others. Her death was the real tragedy. Suddenly Brook had a brainwave.

      ‘John, have you set up the ID with the aunt?’

      ‘Tomorrow afternoon. Why?’

      ‘Good. They’re releasing Jason from hospital tomorrow. Have him brought there so we can hand him over to his aunt for safe keeping. His reaction might tell us something.’

      ‘We’re not charging him with possession?’

      ‘No. His family are dead, John. Let’s give the kid a break.’

      Their conversation meandered on for a few more minutes then eventually there was silence and Brook could think of nothing else to say. He noticed the puzzled tone creeping into Noble’s voice. Brook rarely spoke to him on the phone and had even chided him for it once. ‘Always better in our job to talk face to face, John,’ he’d said. ‘You get the full picture that way.’

      All possible distractions exhausted, Brook rang off, then, with a deep breath, dialled his ex-wife’s number. He had to look up the number for Brighton and felt a pinprick of shame–it had been months since he last spoke to Amy and Terri. He told himself it was pressure of work but knew that was no excuse. Nor was it a lingering sense of awkwardness–he enjoyed talking to Amy, better than when they were married, in fact. Even Tony, Number Two Dad, was okay. For a PR man.

      ‘Hello stranger,’ said Amy smoothly. ‘It’s late.’

      ‘Is it?’ Brook was struck by the self-confidence his ex-wife had acquired since the divorce. Certainly her new husband was bland enough to make anyone feel worthy but there had to be something more to her new-found contentment.

      Perhaps Tony was one of those weirdos who refused to spend his waking hours telling his wife that the world was a sewer and that death was their constant companion and, ultimately, their friend. It was also possible that he was a better lover than Brook–unlikely but just possible.

      His favoured theory was that Tony Harvey-Ellis had that most compelling attraction to divorced women of a certain age: the outward appearance of sanity.

      Now, Brook could see the funny side. That time in London, he had been losing it. His obsession with a girl had wrecked his marriage. And, if anything, the fact that the girl was already a corpse when Brook met her made matters worse.

      ‘How are you, Amy?’

      ‘Never better.’

      A pause. ‘Is Terri there?’

      ‘She certainly is. Would you like to speak to her?’ she said with the suggestion of a tease.

      ‘That would be nice.’

      ‘Ther-es-a! It’s your dad. Can you hear me? Your dad. So Damen, on the telly, ’eh?’

      ‘Was I?’

      ‘Yeah. A small bit on BBC and ITV. Very exciting. Just like the old days.’

      ‘Yeah. I’m getting an agent.’

      ‘Good to see you haven’t lost your old detachment,’ she giggled.

      ‘Ha ha,’ said Brook without rancour.

      ‘Okay Mum. I’m on the other line.’

      ‘Bye Sherlock. And happy birthday.’

      ‘Bye, darling. How are you, Terri?’

      ‘I’m fine, dad. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ Brook was a little taken aback at this smokescreen. He was suddenly uneasy, sensing that she was under strain. Brook decided to play ball.

      ‘Can’t a father ring his daughter, whom he loves, without opening a public inquiry?’ he breezed. Brook always managed to shunt declarations of affection into a subordinate clause. They were safer there. ‘I just wanted to see how you were.’ There was a click as an extension was hung up. Either his ex-wife or her husband had wanted to know why he was ringing. Brook didn’t like it. ‘What’s wrong, petal?’ he asked with more urgency.

      ‘Dad…I…’ Brook heard a noise in the background that might have been a door. ‘My mocks