The Reaper. Steven Dunne

      ‘Me too.’

      Another voice, too indistinct to hear, said something by way of disagreement, judging by Hendrickson’s response.

      ‘No good at all. But it’ll make me feel a fuck of a lot better.’

      Brook stood poised, grimacing, urging himself to make his escape. But he couldn’t let it go. He was a DI. He had rank. He took a deep breath and stepped back in front of the counter. ‘Sergeant.’ All heads turned. ‘I could easily be a member of the public standing here listening to that language,’ he said, with an effort to sound forceful. ‘Or worse the Chief Super…’ He stopped in mid-sentence when he saw WPC Wendy Jones was the third person in the conversation. Their eyes locked briefly before each looked away.

      Brook pursed his lips and let the sentence hang, hoping it would appear a natural break. He shouldn’t have said anything. He knew it. He could have been away. His resolve was melting so he pretended to examine the desultory Christmas streamers darted around the ceiling before returning his eyes to Hendrickson.

      ‘Still here? Sir.’ Sergeant Harry Hendrickson wore the mocking smile he reserved for his dealings with Brook. The pause he took before acknowledging Brook’s seniority was a new technique for him though Brook knew it well enough. It was one he’d used himself when dealing with any Joe or Josephine Public who stimulated his contempt. That was in the days when he could still be stimulated.

      ‘And people wonder why you didn’t make detective,’ smiled Brook, with a bravado he didn’t feel. Hendrickson’s grin vanished and Brook heard sharp breaths being sucked in. He took one himself and decided he had to play on for all it was worth. ‘Well?’

      ‘Well what? Sir?’ replied Hendrickson.

      ‘Foul language and threats of violence. Explain yourself.’ Brook knew he sounded lame. Hendrickson sensed it. He found his mocking smile again and stared back at Brook with unconcealed hatred.

      PC Robinson decided to step in. ‘There’s been a murder, sir. Some old dear. Strangled and beaten to death.’

      ‘I see…’ began Brook.

      ‘And some of us with mothers get very hot under the collar,’ spat Hendrickson, ‘when we see what some scumbags will do for a few quid. Sir!’

      There was a crackling silence that prompted even WPC Jones to look up for Brook’s reaction. When it came, it surprised even Hendrickson. Brook smiled a sad little smile and nodded. ‘Who took the call?’

      ‘DI Greatorix was on duty, sir,’ said Robinson.

      ‘Right.’ Brook turned from Hendrickson’s triumphant grin and his eyes sought the floor. A second later he spun back to face Hendrickson, trying to get control of his voice. ‘Some of us who had mothers also got hot under the collar, sergeant, until we realised those feelings made us worse policemen who couldn’t do their job properly. I may not find your language offensive in itself but it’s a symptom of a mind that’s not under control.’ Brook paused before adding softly, ‘And control is what they pay us for.’

      Hendrickson’s grin remained but it had lost some of its wattage. Now it was Robinson’s turn to look at the floor as Jones looked up at Brook. He, in turn, permitted himself a brief dart towards her eyes and fancied he detected a scintilla of approval in her expression. He couldn’t hold the look for long and turned away, throwing a ‘Good night’ over his shoulder as he left.

      Brook walked away more calmly than he felt, listening for the telltale mutter and laugh that signalled some further insult. It arrived, as usual, as Brook rounded the corner and descended the stairs to the car park. He shook his head.

      ‘Why didn’t I just slip away? Why?’

      ‘Who does that twat think he is?’ spat Hendrickson. ‘Fucking London ponce.’

      ‘He’s from Yorkshire originally,’ offered Jones, not looking at either of her colleagues. This was a subject best avoided.

      ‘Yeah. So what the fuck was he doing in the Met then?’

      Jones took a breath and looked straight back at Hendrickson to signal her final say on the matter. ‘He was some kind of rising star, they say. The best criminal profiler on the Force. Until he got sick.’

      The portly figure of PC Aktar walked in. ‘Come on, my duck. Let’s get out there,’ he said to Jones. ‘We’ve got a city to look after.’

      ‘Coming.’

      ‘Sick my arse. I’ve seen his file. He had a fucking breakdown. So what’s he doing here then?’ asked Hendrickson. ‘I’ll tell you what he’s doing here, my girl…’

      ‘I’m not your girl…’

      ‘…he couldn’t hack it in the Met, see. A college boy who thought he could do a better job than us ordinary coppers but he couldn’t handle it, could he? So what happens?’ He glanced at Robinson as though he wouldn’t continue unless people insisted then carried on a split-second later. ‘We have to take him off their hands, don’t we? Why? Because Derbyshire’s a second class county and we can make do with middle-aged burn-outs who are treading water until they retire. That’s why. We’re shit and he’s better than us so we should all bow down and kiss his arse.’

      ‘Sounds like fun, sarge,’ laughed Robinson.

      Hendrickson smiled back at him. ‘Ai. It’s true though, innit? And there’s not a copper in this nick who doesn’t agree with me.’

      ‘He does his job,’ chipped in Jones, on her way out.

      Hendrickson smirked. ‘I might have known you’d defend him.’

      ‘What does that mean?’ flashed back Jones, her colour rising, though she knew only too well.

      This time Robinson joined in with a leer. ‘We all know he’s your boyfriend, Wendy.’

      ‘He is not my boyfriend,’ she replied through gritted teeth, ‘I danced with him once and he gave me a lift home. Nothing happened. How many times?’

      ‘Would that be a fireman’s lift?’ asked Hendrickson. He and Robinson cackled as Jones headed for the corridor.

      ‘Piss off the pair of you.’

      ‘Please try and control your language, constable,’ Hendrickson shouted after her. ‘Your boyfriend might hear you.’

      As they headed for the car park, Aktar kept his eyes trained on Jones, waiting for the explanation. She ignored him for a few moments then, without looking at him, said, ‘Not a bloody word.’

      Brook pushed through the heavy metal door at the foot of the stairs and stepped into the artificial half-light. It was cold and dark, the chill winter’s day having left a permanent freezing damp coating the ground. Brook shivered and pulled the collar of his overcoat up.

      As was his custom, he stepped into the middle of the ramp to get to his car. He couldn’t go near other cars. He needed space between himself and any obstacles. There’d been a rat once. So now Brook trod a path equidistant from both lines of vehicles.

      He reached his old sports car, all the while scanning the floor for movement. He opened the creaky door and launched himself onto the cracked leather seat to avoid being nipped on the ankle by a stray psychotic rodent. He felt like a child launching himself into bed to escape the talons of the Bogey Man skulking below. He didn’t care.

      As he swung his battered Austin Healey Sprite out of the car park, Brook was appalled at its throaty din. The reverberations of the old car’s straining engine clattered against the dark structures gathered around Derby’s Police Headquarters and were flung back at Brook in a fit of pique by the empty office building across the road.

      What a racket. He was aware of it now, once the bustle of the day had long departed. The roar he savoured with a connoisseur’s pleasure on a sunny Sunday drive in the Peaks made him wince in the echo chamber