The Reaper. Steven Dunne

      ‘I don’t see how but I’ll try.’ The strain was audible in her voice.

      ‘Is it something to do with Mum?’ he asked.

      ‘Oh no, no,’ she answered back with a feigned jocularity.

      ‘Tony?’ he ventured.

      ‘Mmm, yes. That’s right.’ Brook’s veins turned to ice and he found himself catching at a breath.

      ‘What time does he go to work in the morning?’

      ‘Seven.’

      ‘Ring me here, as soon as he leaves. I’ll be waiting. Any problems, you just bluff him. Tell him I know everything, whatever it is, and I’m coming down to sort things out. Okay. Got that, darling?’

      ‘I understand. Bye then, Dad. Nice to hear from you. And happy birthday.’ The line went dead but Brook was unable to replace the receiver for a few seconds. Problems with Tony. He didn’t dare think. It was pointless jumping to conclusions. Terri was at a difficult age. It could be anything, he decided. Personality clash–he knew about those–or maybe she just needed some attention, needed to play the two dads off against each other for a while. That was the rational explanation.

      He gleaned some surface comfort but a few fathoms down the fish were nibbling at his peace of mind. Tony Harvey-Ellis was a man. With men, at one level or another, everything could be reduced to sexual gratification. If that bastard had…

      Brook sought solace with a familiar ally and made a conscious effort to return to the case so he trudged down the rickety steps to the dank and dingy cellar and from a rusty metal trunk recovered a large beige folder. He removed an antiquated rubber band, wiped off some of the dust, and what looked like mould, and returned to the discomfort of his living room.

      The furniture in the room was sparse to say the least. Minimalism was the fashion but that implied design and expense. Most of Brook’s objets could have been recycled from the council tip or unearthed in the furthest backroom of a teeming, hand-me-down warehouse.

      There was a squeaky plastic sofa nestling along the wall next to the never-opened front door. Just to ensure that the door was never used, Brook had placed a peeling formica-topped occasional table in front of it. In another corner, stood an old-fashioned standard lamp which vomited its dingy flower-studded light onto a sturdier table, on which had been placed the phone and an ashtray.

      The overall colour scheme, if scheme it could be called, for that again implied planning, was a grimy light brown, save for the once-white ceiling which had been gradually stained tobacco yellow.

      Brook unwrapped the cellophane from the next pack, lit up with a sigh more relaxed than he felt, and sat down to inspect the folder. He tipped out a silver necklace and gazed at the heart-shaped links, remembering the dead girl, Laura Maples.

      Eventually he dropped it back into the folder and pulled out various documents. A tightly wrapped plastic bag fell out with them. Brook held the plastic bag for a moment then took the small package back to the cellar and dropped it into the trunk then returned to examine the pile of documents.

      He skimmed quickly through the chronological landmarks of his descent into hell and extracted the relevant photocopied reports, newspaper cuttings and the photographs Brook had taken with his own camera while on stakeout. Technically he shouldn’t have taken photocopies of official documents, but the Met was fairly relaxed about procedure in those days. Now they would have had his warrant card on the fire before he’d have time to call the Police Federation.

      There was a number, scribbled on the back of a report. He picked up the phone and pondered. It was a long time ago. He shrugged and dialled. Coppers rarely moved house unless they were transferring. They needed a familiar haven around them, like a favoured tatty shirt–a place to hide in safety and comfort from the hell of other people’s society. The other end picked up on the first ring.

       ‘Hello.’

      Brook discerned more than a suspicion of alcohol in the voice. ‘Charlie, is that you?’

       ‘Fuckin’ ‘ell. Brooky. I’ve been hoping you’d call. Wasn’t sure you’d still have the number.’

      ‘How are you?’

       ‘I’m fucking shit-faced, mate. How are you?’

      ‘Considering it.’

      ‘You lying bastard,’ ex-DCI Charlie Rowlands laughed. ‘That’ll be the day that I die. You might lose a bit of that famous iron control of yours.’

      ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, sir.’

       ‘Well. I saw the press conference. Tell me, Brooky. Does that dyke with the brush handle up her arse have any idea what you’re dealing with?’

      ‘The Chief Super? I don’t know, sir.’

       ‘Call me guv, not sir. And another thing. Don’t call me guv. I’ve been retired since the last ice age.’

      ‘What should I call you, guv?’

       ‘Call me Charlie, you daft sod.’

      ‘Charlie.’ It didn’t sit right with Brook, even though he’d always hated calling him “guv”–too much of the professional cockney about it. ‘I need to see you.’

      ‘Is it true? Is it another?’ An audible strain of foreboding suddenly surfaced in Charlie Rowlands’ voice.

      ‘I think so. Yes.’ Brook waited. He knew the effect his call was having.

       ‘Same MO?’

      ‘Similar.’

       ‘Who was the target?’

      ‘The son. He got himself in the news a few weeks ago. He was chucked out of school for assaulting and threatening to rape a teacher.’ Brook spoke softly so as not to excite Rowlands. He had a bad heart and had taken early retirement in 1994 at the age of 56. That was fairly late for today’s career-minded desk jockeys, but Charlie Rowlands was one of the old school. He’d always said he’d never retire, that they’d have to drag him out kicking and screaming. The job was his life and that was very nearly the cost.

      Given that, it was a surprise to Brook that he’d managed to hang onto life for more than a decade since. He’d been expected to keel over within six months. He wasn’t exactly a health nut. He smoked and drank heavily off-duty–and on, for that matter.

       ‘Good riddance. And he did all of ’em, did he?’

      ‘All he could lay his hands on but the son got lucky and didn’t turn up and he left the baby.’

       ‘Okay. Dad had form, did he?’

      ‘Minor stuff but he was a thug.’

      ‘That’s a comfort then.’ Rowlands sounded sober now. He was moving into the stage of melancholy clear thinking. ‘Signatures?’

      ‘Music. A picture. And expensive wine.’ Brook knew what was coming, though Rowlands was putting it off.

      Eventually he said, ‘Was there a message?’

      ‘SAVED.’

       ‘In blood?’

      ‘In blood.’ Brook was now scarcely audible so keenly did he feel the need to monitor Rowlands for signs of strain.

      For what seemed an eternity the two men listened to each other breathing before Rowlands, with a huge sigh, said, ‘Come when you like. I’m never out.’ Brook confirmed the address and prepared to hang up. ‘Damen,’ said Rowlands. He rarely called him that. ‘Sorenson’s a goner.’

      The line clicked and Brook was left with the receiver