The Reaper. Steven Dunne

he screamed at the top of his voice. ‘Get over here!’

      At this terrifying noise, the baby opened its mouth and began to scream as loudly as its tiny lungs would allow. Brook was unable to keep from laughing out loud and long at the baby’s distress. In a bad mood, he’d once said there was, ‘No finer sight than a child in tears,’ and finally his words had found a more worthy setting.

      He’d forgotten how to hold an infant and he marched the baby out of the front door at arm’s length, as though he’d set the chip pan on fire. Noble flew to him and took the bundle, amazed.

      ‘I thought…’

      ‘Get the little sod off to hospital. If you can, get a shot of the forehead before it gets cleaned off. And when you’ve done that get this place completely sealed off. See to it yourself, John, and let’s get it right this time.’

      Two hours later Brook stood at the gate of the Wallis house, pulling hard on a ‘borrowed’ Silk Cut and stamping his feet to keep warm. It wasn’t yet five o’clock but despite that and the biting cold a small huddle of interested bystanders stood shivering in the blackness on the other side of the potholed street, their faces glowing in the burnished light of flashing squad cars and ambulances. A Scientific Support van was parked next to Brook’s Sprite, its back doors open. Noble pulled up and got out of a squad car and approached Brook looking sheepish.

      ‘How’s the baby, John?’

      ‘It seems fine. No injuries.’

      ‘Did you get a shot of the writing…?’

      Noble waved a disposable camera at Brook and nodded.

      ‘…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

      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