Twenty minutes before briefing, Brook was arranging photographs of the four missing students on a display board, having managed to obtain a photograph of Russell Thomson from the college. DS Gadd was writing up a report on the interviews at Duxbury amp; Duxbury. Noble walked into the Incident Room carrying two teas. He gave one to Brook, smiling an apology at Gadd then pulled out a sheaf of papers from his jacket. ‘One search-warrant for the Watson house. And the Chief’s on his way back. You were right — he was out of the door as soon as I mentioned the press conference.’
PC Patel knocked and walked into the Incident Room. She handed Brook an HMV bag and a two-pound coin and headed for the entrance.
Brook extracted two DVDs of Picnic at Hanging Rock, an Edgar Allan Poe anthology and a packet of cigarettes from the bag and stared at her. ‘I gave you fifty pounds.’
‘The receipts are in there, sir,’ she said in mock disbelief. ‘The DVDs were eighteen quid each.’ She shook her head and rolled her eyes as she left.
Noble picked up one of the DVDs. ‘Any joy at the funeral parlour?’
‘Our man worked there briefly a year ago,’ said Brook, pocketing his change.
‘So he’d know about the tramps in the squat.’
‘All over it, apparently.’
‘So what are we waiting for? Let’s go get him.’
‘He was off the books, John. We didn’t get an address though Duxbury thinks he might have lived near Shardlow.’
‘Convenient for both dump sites,’ said Noble.
‘Very. Our suspect’s name is Oz or Ozzy Reece. Very much the lone wolf. Nobody got to know him and he didn’t give out any personal details, formal or informal. We’ve got an artist working up a composite.’
‘Ozzy Reece. That’s a name to get noticed,’ observed Noble. ‘Sounds phony.’
‘It is,’ said Gadd. ‘No hits.’
‘Odd to choose something so unusual.’
Gadd smiled slyly at Brook. ‘It wasn’t his name that got him noticed at the funeral parlour, John. There was a particular fetish which caught the attention.’
‘I’m all ears,’ said Noble.
‘He got caught stuffing a loaf of bread into a corpse’s body cavity. That’s why they let him go.’
Noble chuckled briefly but stopped when neither of his colleagues joined in. He looked from one to the other. ‘White or brown?’ he finally said.
Brook shrugged.
‘You’re kidding, right.’
‘Strange, but true, John,’ said Brook. ‘But when someone’s already interfering with corpses, nothing surprises.’
‘Any hits on the databases?’
‘Not one. Nothing on the PNC or HOLMES,’ said Gadd.
‘Hardly surprising,’ said Noble. ‘That’s one unique signature. Do we know if he did that to McTiernan and Kirk?’
‘The lab’s checking McTiernan again,’ said Gadd. ‘Kirk was in the water too long.’ She shrugged. ‘At least it’s a lead. I’m nowhere on the booze. Nobody seems to stock barley wine any more and, of course, everyone stocks whisky. I’ll have to plough through all the bulk sales. Unless. .’ She looked over at Brook.
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless I look for some empties outside the house.’ And as Brook prepared to voice an objection, ‘I’ll be careful, sir. It’s our only chance of getting a batch number to follow back to point of sale. And even then. .’
Brook nodded. ‘Be careful.’
‘I will.’ Gadd headed for the door. ‘I’m off to canvass all the local bakeries.’ Brook and Noble turned. ‘Joke,’ she grinned as she left.
Noble yawned.
‘You okay?’ asked Brook.
‘As long as I don’t pull another duty tonight.’ Noble stared at Brook, waiting for a reassurance that didn’t arrive. ‘Right.’
‘The house is our best lead, John. I know it’s tough so we’re switching to solo two-hour shifts tonight. Jane’s on first. You relieve her at midnight.’
Noble blew out his cheeks and nodded. ‘Who’s after me?’
‘Rob Morton’s on two to four,’ said Brook. ‘Then it’s me. I’ll talk to the Chief about extra bodies when he gets back. We can’t work both cases. They’re too labour intensive.’
Noble took a sullen sip of tea and eyed the photo array. ‘That our new student?’
‘Russell Thomson, Rusty to friends. Last seen the day before Kyle’s party.’
‘Bedroom tidy. .’
‘. . and phone and leaflet on the bed. No SIM card. The technicians are picking up his laptop.’
‘And the mother only notices her son missing when you call to tell her. Unbelievable.’
‘Well, she works nights, John. When you start a family. .’
‘Me? No chance. I like my independence too much.’
Brook smiled thinly at him. ‘It’s overrated.’
‘Want me to add his mother to the parental background check?’
Brook nodded thoughtfully. ‘I do. Yvette Thomson — single parent. You’ve got the address. She’s a bit over-familiar and seems nice enough, but I want to know about a mother who can’t produce a single photograph of her son.’ Brook broke into a sudden grin. ‘Speaking of single parents, my daughter has come to stay for a couple of weeks.’
‘You have a daughter?’ Noble enjoyed Brook’s discomfort. ‘I’m kidding. I knew that much. I’ve forgotten her name.’
‘Theresa — Terri. She’s over from Manchester University.’
‘How long since you’ve seen her?’
Brook hesitated over the information without knowing why. ‘A while.’
‘I’d love to meet her. We can compare notes.’ Brook was thin-lipped in the face of Noble’s grin. Brook’s mobile phone vibrated.
‘And that explains why you’ve got your phone turned on.’ Noble smirked in mock amazement. ‘Now that is news.’
Brook smiled back sarcastically.
‘Dad, it’s me.’
‘Terri.’
‘Are you near a computer?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Get the internet up and type in deity.com.’
Brook looked across at Noble. ‘Terri. How do you know about Deity?’
‘It’s on that leaflet you brought home.’
He shook his head. ‘I left it there? That was careless. You didn’t take it out of the plastic, did you?’
‘Dad, course not. But I had a look at the site, out of interest, see if it was anything to do with your case.’
‘It is.’
‘There’s an interesting bit of film on it. I checked and the same thing is also on YouTube and getting a lot of hits. You should take a look.’
‘I will.’
‘What time will you be-?’
But Brook had rung off and was already typing the web address into his computer. The Deity home page loaded. It was no longer under refurbishment. The background was in grey and black. Live Forever and the other slogans were there in large red lettering, just like the leaflet, but there were another couple of features. In one corner of the screen, a countdown was taking place. According to the clock there were another twenty-three hours and twenty minutes to go.
In the centre of the screen was a large black box with a Play button in the middle.
Brook looked at the interactive whiteboard on one wall of the Incident Room. ‘How do you get that screen working, John?’
Noble took a remote control from a slot at the side of the whiteboard and flicked at a button. He nodded at Brook who clicked on the website’s Play button. Morton and Cooper entered and turned to look at the brightening screen, unbidden.
A disembodied female voice spoke over the black back-ground.
‘What we see and what we seem
Is but a dream, a dream within a dream.’
Gradually the picture became clearer. It was night. The date on the display was 19 May — the night before the party. The person filming was elevated and a little distance away, but zoomed in almost immediately to show four burly young men surrounding another young man of slighter build.
Brook glanced at the photographs on the boards. Despite the distance, despite the less than ideal lighting, Brook was convinced that the slender young man being surrounded was Kyle Kennedy. For the next few minutes, the four stocky lads cajoled, pushed and slapped Kyle from one to the other. The sound quality wasn’t the best but Brook and his team could clearly hear the laughing and jeering. One young man in particular seemed to be leading the assault. He was chunky to the point of being overweight with cropped hair and a malicious laugh.
‘We’re not going to witness a murder, I hope,’ said Morton. Chief Superintendent Charlton entered with a cup and was about to speak when Brook held up a hand and pointed to the screen.
At that moment, another teenager, taller than the others with an athletic frame, walked into shot. The assault stopped.
‘That’s Jake McKenzie,’ said Brook, without taking his eyes from the action. ‘He was at the college today.’
Kyle walked towards Jake. An exchange took place but a minute later, Kyle walked back to his tormentors. The ringleader swung a heavy punch and Kyle fell. The aggressors left, giving Jake a wide berth. Then McKenzie ran to minister to the prostrate figure and, shortly after, Kyle seemed to revive but then ran off, screaming.
The film ended and the screen blackened.
‘What was that?’ asked Charlton.
‘A serious assault on one of our missing students, sir,’ said Brook. ‘Broadcast on deity.com, which is a website address on a leaflet.’ He gestured to a copy beneath the photographs on the display. ‘We have four copies of that leaflet; one each found in the bedrooms of the four missing Derby College students.’
‘Four?’
‘Yes, sir. I think the lad getting beaten up is Kyle Kennedy, the first one to be reported missing. From the date on the film, it’s clear this was the night before he disappeared. His mother told us she saw him go out at nine that night, but he came back late and ran straight to his room without her seeing him. Now we can understand why.’
‘And after this party she found a small bloodstain on a plaster,’ said Noble. ‘The lab’s working up the DNA.’
‘From this film it likely belongs to this. .’ Charlton gestured towards the whiteboard.
‘Kyle Kennedy,’ obliged Brook.
‘Right. Let me see it from the start. And make a recording for the boffins to enhance.’
Brook clicked the Play button again and raised a surreptitious eyebrow to Noble, who forced himself not to smile. Make a copy? We’d never have thought of that.
When the film finished for the second time, Charlton rubbed his chin to signal he was in detection mode. ‘A dream within a dream. What’s that from — The Tempest?’
Brook was impressed. ‘That’s not a bad guess, sir. But in fact it’s from a poem by Edgar Allan Poe.’
Charlton nodded as though recognising it. ‘What do we make of the film? Genuine?’
‘It’s very well acted, if not.’
Charlton was suddenly animated. ‘You won’t be showing that at the press conference, will you?’
‘No. We’ve only just seen it ourselves. That doesn’t mean the public won’t have seen it — my daughter says it’s on YouTube as well, so no telling how quickly it’s spreading. But you’re right; we’ll need more background before we can pass it on officially.’
‘Agreed.’ Charlton looked at his watch. ‘I’ve obviously arrived back just in time.’ Book and Noble resisted glancing at each other this time. ‘Can we get that off YouTube?’ he asked, looking at the screen.
‘I would think so,’ said Cooper, ‘but there’s no telling how many people have linked it and spread it around. It could still go viral as an email attachment or a Screencast on Twitter.’ Charlton nodded sagely as if he knew what Cooper was talking about. ‘Press briefing at six o’clock, you said, Sergeant. I’ll take the lead.’ He smiled pointedly at Brook. ‘If that’s okay with you, Inspector.’
‘It’s fine,’ answered Brook. Charlton wasn’t about to start trusting him in front of the press again, in spite of the conciliatory tone of their last conversation.
‘You’d better bring me up to speed,’ said Charlton.
Brook looked over at Noble, who moved to the photo display. ‘We have four Derby College students — Kyle Kennedy, Becky Blake, Adele Watson and now Russell Thomson — missing after attending a party for Kennedy’s eighteenth birthday last Friday night. It was apparently a small gathering, not your usual loud music and screaming minidramas. Kennedy’s mother, Alice, and her friend, Len Poole, had gone to Chester for the weekend. When they returned on Sunday morning, they found this leaflet on Kyle’s bed.’ Noble held up the Deity leaflet. ‘This is a copy. The originals are being fingerprinted. On top of the leaflet was Kyle’s mobile phone. The SIM card had been removed. His room was tidy and the bed hadn’t been slept in. Similar sights greeted the parents of the other three students at whatever time they eventually became concerned about their child’s whereabouts. Russell Thomson was the last to be reported missing this morning, so we haven’t processed his laptop yet but the SIM card was also missing from his mobile.’
‘Six days. Long time,’ observed Morton.
‘It is,’ said Brook. ‘But Miss Thomson works nights so it’s easy to see how Russell wasn’t missed. Besides, all four teenagers are bright, apparently responsible and self-sufficient. They had their own house key to come and go as they pleased.’
‘We’ve checked the laptops of Kyle Kennedy and Becky Blake,’ said DC Cooper. ‘They’ve been completely wiped.’
‘They deleted all their files?’ said Morton.
‘If they’d just done that, Rob, we could’ve recovered everything from the hard drive, but the hard drives have been professionally emptied of everything but the software.’
‘Would the students possess that knowledge?’ asked Charlton.
‘It’s not so hard,’ answered Cooper. ‘Kids grow up at a keyboard these days. They know how to do everything.’
‘The other two had laptops, you say?’ asked Morton.
‘The technicians are picking up Thomson’s today but there’s no reason to think it would be different. However, Adele Watson’s laptop is missing,’ said Brook. ‘She is said to be a talented writer and poet but her writing books are missing as well.’
‘So she took them with her?’
‘It’s possible. We also think it’s possible Adele’s father may have hidden her laptop as well as her writing,’ added Noble.
‘Why?’ asked Charlton.
‘We’re not sure,’ said Brook. ‘We’ve been told she was scared of him and we think maybe she’s been writing about her relationship with her father.’
‘Relationship?’ asked Morton. ‘You mean sexual?’
‘Not definitely. It was just a vibe we picked up,’ replied Noble. ‘But if there was something untoward, it would be natural for Watson to want to destroy any thoughts she might have committed to paper or computer — or at least hide them away until he’s had a chance to sanitise. This is only speculation at this point, sir, but Watson was the only parent who gave us that feeling.’
‘But why take her laptop if her hard drive has been wiped?’ said Cooper.
‘If he didn’t wipe it, he won’t know.’
‘Did you check Social Services and the SO Register?’ said Charlton.
‘No sex offenders in the area and no social-work hits on the Watson family,’ answered Noble.
‘But you got a vibe off him,’ repeated Charlton.
‘Adele’s was the only bed that was messed up and the phone moved — we think, by Watson, maybe to lie down in her room, who knows?’
‘To masturbate, you think,’ said Charlton.
Brook and Noble exchanged a glance and shrugged noncommittally.
‘It sounds a bit thin,’ continued Charlton.
‘It wasn’t just that,’ said Brook. ‘Watson tried to steer us away from Adele’s boyfriend when most normal fathers would be doing the opposite.’
‘Do you need a warrant?’
‘We’ve got one,’ replied Brook. ‘We’ll execute after the press briefing.’
Charlton nodded. ‘Okay, but tread lightly. A missing daughter buys a lot of sympathy and the press may descend in numbers after they’ve been briefed. What about the college?’
‘It’s the last day before half-term tomorrow so we flood it with bodies, question everyone we can,’ said Brook. ‘Hopefully tonight’s press conference will shake something loose. Someone must know something.’
‘What about neighbours around the Kennedy house?’
‘We’re putting a canvass together. Not much to see or hear apparently,’ answered Noble. ‘We’re still following up but an appeal through the media might help.’
‘Other party-goers?’
‘As far as we know, only the missing four and Jake, the lad in the film, were invited. He went to the Kennedy house but says he didn’t go in. No idea why — yet.’
Charlton looked at his watch again — an hour to the press conference. ‘So where are they? They can’t just disappear into thin air, not all four of them, abducted without a struggle or a witness.’
‘We agree,’ said Brook. ‘They left of their own accord. They each packed a small rucksack with a few clothes. They each made their bed, took apart their mobile phone, removed the SIM card and placed the phone on the Deity leaflet, on the bed. It’s a statement.’
‘That tells us what?’ asked Charlton.
‘That they’ve decided to leave,’ said Brook.
‘Why?’
‘Why do teenagers do anything? Each of them, in their different way, is unhappy. Adele is having problems with her boyfriend and father, Kyle is gay and confused and Becky has had her dreams of being a model shattered.’
‘And Russell Thomson?’
‘Not sure,’ admitted Brook. ‘But there are rumours he’s been bullied in the past. We’re checking. Either way the artefacts send a message. They’re leaving their lives behind. No computer to email them, no phone to contact them or trace their whereabouts. We’ve applied to their providers for a record of their email and mobile usage before they disappeared but that’s still in the pipeline. DC Cooper was checking their online presence. .’
‘They don’t have one,’ said Cooper. ‘They’re not on Twitter except for Adele, and she hasn’t tweeted for several weeks.’
‘What’s the content?’ asked Brook.
‘I’ve done a printout for the board but it’s all activist nonsense about the environment, the dangers of nuclear weapons, that sort of thing.’
‘Wanting to breathe clean air and avoid vaporisation,’ said Brook, with a sideways glance at Cooper. ‘What a weirdo.’
‘Emails?’ asked Noble, trying not to smile at Cooper’s discomfort.
‘Nothing,’ answered Cooper stiffly. ‘Wherever they are, they haven’t sent an email using any account their parents told us about since last Friday. And any record of their emails before then, has been wiped from their computers. Not only that, they haven’t even left a message on Facebook because I checked. All four of them unsubscribed on the day of the party.’
‘Wow,’ said Morton.
‘Wow is right,’ said Cooper. ‘My kids would rather lose an arm than their Facebook presence. However, there’s already a Facebook page dedicated to their disappearance. It was started by a Fern Stretton and I’m keeping an eye on it in case anything useful crops up. Also I’m keeping tabs on the comments on YouTube. You never know. No chat on Twitter yet.’
‘Okay, I’ll ask again,’ said Charlton. ‘Where are they?’
Brook looked him in the eye. ‘At the risk of stating the obvious, we don’t know. In fact, we don’t know anything about their movements after the party. That’s our starting-point. I rang Alice Kennedy earlier today to ask her to leave the house and touch nothing else. If the four don’t come forward in the hours after the press conference, we’re going to need SOCO to go over the whole place as well as each student’s bedroom.’
‘Are there any facts I can use at the press conference?’ asked Charlton, starting to become frustrated.
‘Becky and Adele both had passports from recent foreign holidays,’ said Noble. ‘However, Kyle Kennedy has never left the country and according to his mum, didn’t have a passport. But she was wrong. He applied for a passport three months ago. I got on to the Passport Service this morning when we found out Russell Thomson was also missing. Thomson applied for a passport at the same time as Kyle. The interesting thing is, the same person endorsed the back of their photographs. .’
‘Let me guess,’ said Brook, deep in thought. ‘Adam Rifkind.’
Noble smiled. ‘How did you know?’
‘I met Rifkind this morning. He’s a lecturer at Derby College. He teaches English Literature and Media Studies to all four. He’s the perfect choice to endorse a passport application. And there’s one more thing. He’s Adele Watson’s ex-boyfriend.’
‘That’s not all,’ said Cooper, rifling through his notebook. ‘You asked me to track down the Deity website.’ He found the right page in his notes. ‘The domain name was registered and paid for by Adam Rifkind.’
‘How did he pay for it?’
‘Credit card, six months ago,’ answered Cooper.
‘Six months?’ said Brook, mildly surprised.
‘So we have a suspect,’ said Charlton. ‘And he’s been planning this for a long time.’
‘Planning what?’ said Brook. ‘Persuading four young adults to walk away from their unhappy lives? There’s no crime in that.’
‘What about the happy slapping?’ insisted Charlton.
‘He wasn’t involved in that.’
‘Somebody filmed it and it’s on his website,’ said Cooper.
‘Russell Thomson filmed it. Or that’s what we’re meant to believe.’
‘How do you know Thomson filmed it?’ asked Charlton.
‘I didn’t say that, I said we’re meant to think he filmed it because he’s a film nut and because he recently acquired a camcorder from his mother. And according to Miss Thomson, the camcorder is never off his wrist,’ added Brook. ‘He wanders the streets filming whatever takes his fancy so the broadcast we saw could be a product of that.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Charlton.
‘You think someone’s yanking our chain?’ said Noble.
Brook grimaced at the metaphor. ‘I’m sure of it. But I prefer, What we see and what we seem is but a dream. These kids are smart, sir. They’ve disappeared without a trace. That takes some doing.’ He looked at Charlton. ‘I think we’re being challenged, presented with an alternative reality. We have to question what we see, who people are.’
‘You’re not making sense,’ said Charlton impatiently.
‘The Edgar Allan Poe poem you just heard quoted on the website was also used in a film called Picnic at Hanging Rock.’ Brook held up one of the DVDs and tossed the other to Noble. ‘Adele, Becky, Kyle and Russell watched it last Thursday.’
‘The day before they disappeared.’
‘Right. And when we looked through Adele’s bedroom, she had the anthology of Poe’s poems opened at the same poem. She’d written Miranda in the margin.’
‘Who’s Miranda?’
‘She’s a character in the film. She disappears with her friends.’ Brook looked around at all the furrowed brows. ‘Exactly. Sergeant Noble and I will be watching it tonight. Anyone else who hasn’t seen it should do so after us.’
‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Charlton. His voice had been rising steadily. ‘I can’t start waffling about some old film to the press.’
‘We don’t know what’s going on because we’re not supposed to,’ said Brook softly. ‘They’ve created an enigma for us and we have to find them to understand it.’
‘I don’t get it. You mean this Rifkind. .’
‘Rifkind’s a fall guy. He’s not the brains behind this.’
‘Then who is?’ demanded Charlton.
Brook turned to look at the photo array. He gazed into the dark passionate eyes peering out from under a heavy fringe. ‘My money would be on Adele Watson. She’s the writer. She’s the one with the imagination. She’s also the one with access to Rifkind’s wallet and credit cards while they were seeing each other.’
‘Wouldn’t Rifkind spot if he’s paid for a website he knows nothing about?’ objected Noble.
‘Not necessarily,’ said Brook. ‘How much was it?’
‘Ninety-nine pounds for the year,’ replied Cooper.
‘I don’t go through every item on my credit-card bill,’ conceded Morton. ‘As long as the total looks right and no one’s bought a bunch of computers in Rawalpindi.’
Brook shrugged. ‘We can ask Rifkind at college tomorrow. But the thing to remember is that Adele has disappeared and the two people we’re looking at are her ex-boyfriend and her father — one man who’s jilted her and the other. .’ Brook held out his hands. ‘Coincidence? I don’t think so. Whatever’s happening has been meticulously planned.’
‘Think that was Adele’s voice on the website?’ asked Cooper.
‘I do,’ replied Brook.
‘And she’s using the website to give us clues,’ said Noble, looking at his watch, ‘which means, according to the count-down, we get our next lead at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.’
‘It’s an enigma, remember,’ said Brook. ‘I’m guessing they’re going to string us along for a while, so tomorrow’s broadcast will likely throw up more questions than answers.’
‘This is getting us nowhere,’ said Charlton. ‘I need something for the briefing.’
‘Just treat it as a normal “missing persons”,’ advised Brook. ‘We’re on to the legwork. First thing tomorrow we blitz the college and re-interview Rifkind and his Media Studies students — Jake McKenzie especially. He was in the Kennedy film. There’s also a character called Wilson Woodrow who had a go at Kyle Kennedy in college. Maybe he took part in the assault.
‘We’ll be going door-to-door on Kennedy’s street, see if we can find out how the four of them left the party. Did they get a lift, a cab, walk, bicycle, helicopter or what? Did they go together or separately? We check CCTV, appeal for witnesses on the Brisbane Estate between eleven p.m. Friday, and six a.m.
‘That’s a bit vague.’
‘I’m afraid it’s worse than that, sir. Alice Kennedy didn’t get home on Saturday. I’m talking about six a.m. on Sunday.’
‘Of course!’ exclaimed Noble. ‘They could have kept a low profile in her house on Saturday and left anytime before Sunday morning.’
‘She got home at six a.m.?’ said Cooper. ‘From a weekend break?’
‘No,’ said Brook. ‘But the sun would be up around then and if they’re trying to disappear, I’m guessing they wouldn’t leave in daylight.’
‘So that gives them a massive window,’ said Charlton. He was becoming more incredulous by the minute but he cast around for a straw to clutch. ‘You mentioned passports. Are they out of the country?’
‘Not officially. For now we assume they’re here, even local. If they’re messing with our heads, they’re going to want to see us chasing around.’
‘By God, if this is a hoax, we’ll throw the book at them,’ growled Charlton. ‘This is going to cost a fortune. They’ll wish they were. .’
Brook smiled and raised an eyebrow at him.
Oz tightened the vice and picked up his file again. He adjusted his surgical headlamp and continued to work away at the brass rod held in the vice, shaping and coaxing the hook at the end. When he was satisfied, he wiped away the sharp burr and set about smoothing the blade with the file and a piece of emery cloth. Eventually he stepped away and unfastened the vice, delicately picking out the sharp instrument with two fingers. He walked across to the nearest white-tiled slab on which lay Jock’s creased and slackened corpse.
His bloodless body was white and waxy from the germicides and ointments massaged into his skin. Their perfumes mingled with the bleaching agents Oz had used to try to cover the yellowed bruises dotted around the corpse. For now, Jock’s myriad cuts and abrasions were barely visible under the make-up.
‘You’ve certainly had a time of it, haven’t you, my friend? Well, your own mother won’t recognise you soon. You’ll be back to your best.’
Oz grinned at the chalky face from under his green face mask then knelt to examine the wound at the side of the abdominal cavity. He pressed a finger against the pale skin, nodding in satisfaction when it resisted his pressure. He giggled with pleasure. The new cavity stuffing held nicely — such a simple solution and so in keeping with the project. And, he had to admit, the sliced loaf was much easier to work with than the uncut. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of it before.
He set about suturing the wound. When he’d finished his rough stitching, he re-covered the body with a surgical sheet and bent over the head with his newly fashioned tool. ‘Okay, Jock. Here goes.’ Adjusting the surgical light for maximum illumination, he positioned the honed end of the brass instrument up the cadaver’s right nostril and pushed it up as far as it would go, then just as carefully pulled it back down. He examined the skin on the upper lip. No damage.
Now he reached under his gown to a tool belt and pulled out a ball pein hammer. He inserted the brass rod back up the nostril and, with more force this time, pushed the sharp blade through the resistance of the cartilage. After a brief check that he still wasn’t breaking the skin on the face, he manoeuvred the hook into position and steadied the hammer against the base of the rod and gave it a sharp tap.
There was a sudden pop and an object flew out of the man’s eye-socket and bounced across the floor with the tat-tat-tat of glass on ceramic. Oz cursed and scuttled after the glass eye which had settled under the exsanguinations tank. He retrieved it, spat on it to clean off any dirt and, after polishing it on his gown, returned to the slab and forced the eye back into the socket, accompanied by a loud sucking noise.
He took a different grip on the brass rod still protruding from the nose and picked up the hammer again. Settling on a slightly altered angle of trajectory, he gave the base of the rod another sharp tap and this time a squelching noise like a bubble of gas in hot mud induced a satisfied nod. He withdrew the brass rod, being ultra-careful not to slice through the upper lip as he extracted it. He wiped the clear slimy liquid from the hook against his apron and placed a pair of triangular wooden props under one side of the corpse to allow the brain fluid to drain away through the now punctured membrane and out through the nose on to the slab.
Brook sat motionless on the raised stage of the briefing room while Charlton sat under the lights next to Alice Kennedy — no Len Poole — and fiddled with the prepared statement. The room was half-empty as most national media weren’t interested in four young adults who had disappeared together, especially as there were no signs of foul play.
The local radio and TV stations were represented though, as well as the local newspapers. Brian Burton, Crime Correspondent of the Derby Telegraph, stood ready with his photographer and at one point snaked a lingering malevolent glance in Brook’s direction.
Brook kept his eyes to the front. He wasn’t going to be drawn into swapping insults with Burton and risk deflecting attention from the appeal. He was pleased to be sitting next to Charlton, who would politely field all questions from a journalist who had spent an inordinate amount of time trying to wreck Brook’s career. Burton had long-held ties with local coppers and he shared their opinions about Brook’s fallibilities. His book about The Reaper, who had slaughtered two families in the city, had been as much about criticising Brook’s failure to catch him, as profiling the activities of the serial killer.
After a heartfelt plea from Alice Kennedy, Charlton took over. ‘At this stage in proceedings, it’s important to stress that we are not treating this incident as abduction. It appears that all four young people willingly left their homes and their lives behind. This involved an amount of planning and premeditation which leads us to believe that these four young people are, very probably, safe and well.
‘The fact that Adele, Becky, Kyle and Russell all have passports in their possession suggests that they may intend to leave the country. However, all the information we’ve received from Border Controls and the British Transport Police indicates that they have not yet done so.
‘Wherever they are, we would urge them, if they are listening to these broadcasts or reading the papers, to contact a family member or the police as soon as possible. They may be unaware that their departure has created such interest and may worry about the consequences of their disappearance. Let me say now that no action will be taken against you. The only action that interests the police here in Derby is that four young people are returned to their families so that we can all get back to normality.
‘Whatever problems may have prompted their decision to leave, we want them to bear in mind that there are many, many people here in Derby who cherish them and want to help them. Thank you.’
The Q amp;A began. Chief Superintendent Charlton fielded the first question from a Radio Derby journalist but Brook could feel Brian Burton preparing his question and knew it would be aimed in his direction.
‘Inspector Brook,’ began Burton a moment later. ‘Given your failure to identify a single suspect in the killings of two Derby families, how confident are you that you can now find four missing individuals?’
Brook stared ahead without expression while Charlton glared at Burton. ‘I’ll answer that, Brian. First of all, those killings are not recent — the Wallis family were attacked five years ago — and that line of questioning is unproductive and an insult to Mrs Kennedy and the other parents who are worried about their children right now. Furthermore, in my service, we do not apportion blame to individual officers, working within a team, for the failure of an inquiry. Some criminals are more resourceful than others and bringing them to justice is not straightforward. That said, do not think The Reaper can rest easy. Two families were brutally murdered in our city and until The Reaper is brought to justice, those cases remain open.
‘DI Brook is an experienced and talented detective and part of a highly capable team and I’m in no doubt that, with the help of our friends in the media, these young people will be found and returned to their families.’ Charlton motioned Brook to stand, which he did. Alice Kennedy followed suit.
‘Just a minute. .’ began Burton.
‘No,’ said Charlton firmly. ‘We have work to do, and if there are no relevant questions about the current inquiry, it would be better for all concerned if we got on with our jobs.’
The camcorder was trained on the television screen. The uniformed Chief Superintendent was spouting his spiel but the lens rested on his face for just a moment before moving to film the Detective Inspector in charge of the search. His face was impassive and controlled. The camcorder zoomed in further when a local reporter asked a question about the hunt for a serial killer some years before. The Inspector’s eyes betrayed barely a flicker of emotion. Still the camcorder stored his image, only being lowered when the press conference drew to a close.
The three police cars and Brook’s BMW made their way in convoy across the city and arrived on the Brisbane Estate.
In her habitual dressing-gown, the diminutive Roz Watson opened the front door to PC Crainey and DS Noble, who explained the reason for the visit. Under Brook’s instruction, the warrant was to be a last resort in case a voluntary search was refused.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. Her husband joined her at the door as Brook arrived.
‘We can’t go into details but we think Adele may have hidden her laptop somewhere in the house and we’d like your permission to search for it,’ said Brook, locking eyes with Watson.
‘Do we have a choice?’ he asked. Noble readied the warrant.
‘Not if you want to help us find your daughter,’ replied Brook.
The Watsons stood aside to let Brook and his team search the premises.
Five minutes later, Jim Watson sat on the sofa next to his wife. He stared at the floor taking no interest in proceedings. PC Crainey, the Family Liaison Officer, sat on a chair opposite them both, staring at the same spot on the floor and avoiding Mrs Watson’s gaze as her eyes pierced him with her swelling anger. The rest of the team swarmed over the house.
‘Are we suspects?’ spat Mrs Watson in PC Crainey’s direction.
‘It’s just routine.’ He looked away as he spoke which Roz Watson took as confirmation.
‘Bastards,’ she said to her husband’s frozen face. She shook her lank grey locks at him. ‘Are you just going to sit there? They think we did something to our daughter.’ He glanced briefly in her direction but said nothing.
For the next few minutes the three kept silent during the scuffs and bangs of beds, chairs and other objects being inspected, emptied, moved and put back again. Occasionally they could hear the exchange of information between the searching officers.
‘Bastards,’ the woman said again.
Finally Watson spoke without lifting his eyes. ‘Don’t let them get to you, Roz. That’s what they want.’
‘They’re just doing their jobs,’ said Crainey to Roz, as though he wasn’t a member of the same invading force currently rifling through the Watsons’ home.
Seconds later, the steps groaned under the dual footfall of Brook and Noble and the door to the living room opened.
‘Shed key?’ asked Noble.
‘On the hook by the back door,’ said Watson.
Brook studied Watson’s face to gauge stress-levels. He seemed relaxed and Brook began to worry that they were too late, or worse, that he’d misread the situation. A shout rang out from above and the stairs once again complained under the assault of descending officers.
DS Morton entered the room. ‘Bathroom — under loose floorboards.’ He held out two books in his latex-covered hands, both bound in shiny black. Brook took one gingerly in his gloved hands and opened it. Noble took the other.
‘Adele’s notebook,’ said Brook, skimming through before stopping at a particular page. ‘ “The Night Walker”,’ he read.
‘He comes at night, The Night Walker
When the house sleeps and sighs
I feel him in my bones
I see him with my eyes.
‘He comes at night, The Night Walker
When the dark is on the rise
I feel him on my bed
I feel him by my side.’
Brook looked over at Watson, who was maintaining his vacant expression.
His wife also fixed him with a gimlet eye. ‘What are her poems doing under the floor, Jim?’
Watson grunted. ‘Maybe she put them there. For safekeeping.’
‘This is Adele’s diary,’ said Noble, flicking through the other tome.
‘Save us some time and tell us where the laptop is, Mr Watson,’ said Brook softly.
‘The laptop?’ shouted Mrs Watson. ‘What’s going on, Jim?’
Watson was about to plead ignorance when something shifted in his mood. He turned to his wife then looked over to Brook, seeking understanding. ‘Behind the boiler, wrapped in towels. There’s a false backboard.’ Morton hurried back upstairs.
Brook nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘I don’t understand, Jim.’
He looked back at his wife without expression. It was over. He could be himself. ‘My life is over. Time to make it official.’
‘What do you mean? What have you done?’
Watson stared flatly back at her. ‘I could’ve had my pick.’
Brook and Noble dropped the two books into evidence bags and turned to go.
‘You’re not leaving me here,’ pleaded Watson suddenly. ‘With her.’
‘Jim?’ She stood now, her head darting around searching for answers.
Brook studied him. ‘Of course not. We’d like you to come to the station and assist with our enquiries.’
‘Gladly — just get me out of here,’ said Watson.
Brook looked over at Crainey who took out his handcuffs and bade Watson to stand. The man turned to allow Crainey to snap the cuffs into place.
‘What are you doing? Jim?’ said his wife, moving towards him. Brook held her away but the barrier merely increased the wiry little woman’s urgency and she reached past Brook to grab at her husband.
Watson ignored her and pulled against the impassive steel without success. He smiled. ‘Free at last.’
Mrs Watson seemed about to tip over into hysteria so Brook signalled Noble to move her husband outside quickly.
‘PC Crainey will give you a receipt for the exhibits and talk you through what’s going to happen,’ said Brook, moving away.
‘You’re taking him? You’re taking my husband?’
‘Speak to PC Crainey.’
‘But why have you handcuffed him? What will the neighbours say?’
‘It’s just a precaution. For his own safety,’ said Crainey as Noble and Brook guided Watson towards the front door.
PC Crainey stood between Mrs Watson and her departing husband. ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’
‘Jim?’ she shouted.
Outside, Watson heaved a sigh of relief as he reached the squad car. But as Noble eased Watson’s head safely into the vehicle, a camera flashed and Brook found himself face to face with Brian Burton.
‘Hello, Inspector. Would you care to inform our readers why you’ve arrested Adele Watson’s father? Have you found a body? Has Jim Watson killed her?’ At that moment, Morton emerged with the laptop. Burton spotted it. ‘Ho ho, it doesn’t take a genius to work out what Mr Watson’s been up to.’
‘Just as well they sent you then, Brian,’ said Brook over his shoulder.
‘Been browsing the kiddie sites, have you?’ shouted Burton, stooping to harangue Watson, inside the squad car. ‘Your daughter catch you at it and you topped her? That it?’
Brook turned back to the squad car and banged on the roof. The car sped away and Burton swung round to get in Brook’s face.
‘Well, Inspector.’
‘It’s just routine, Brian. Mr Watson is not under arrest, he’s helping us with our enquiries.’ Brook made for his car.
‘If he’s not under arrest, why is he wearing handcuffs?’
‘It’s just procedure.’
‘Well, here’s my procedure, Inspector. I’ve got a picture of a missing girl’s father being taken away in handcuffs and that’s what tomorrow’s front page will show,’ said Burton to his retreating back.
Brook turned round and marched up to Burton. ‘I’d ask you not to print that picture, Brian, but I know that would guarantee it. Instead, I’ll say this. If you indulge in wild speculation or say what you just saw as an arrest, your readers will switch off from the story thinking it’s done and dusted, and the search for four young people, who may be in danger, will become that much harder.’
‘What sort of danger?’ asked Burton, shoving his Dictaphone in Brook’s face.
Brook’s face darkened and he tried to slow his breathing. ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment further.’
‘What we see and what we seem Is but a dream, a dream within a dream.’
Brook switched off the tape.
‘That’s Adele,’ said Watson. ‘What is that?’
Brook pushed the cup of tea nearer Watson and looked across at Noble in the other chair. ‘It’s a message from Adele.’
‘What message? Where is she?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us,’ said Noble.
Watson put his hands flat on the table and his head on top of them. ‘I don’t know,’ he mumbled. ‘Really I don’t. I wish I did.’
‘But you don’t deny hiding the laptop and Adele’s books.’
Watson sat up again. ‘No. I did that. But that’s all I did.’
‘Why did you do that?’
Watson couldn’t find the words to acknowledge his innermost thoughts. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he finally said.
Brook wore latex gloves to open one of the books and began to read ‘The Night Walker’ again.
Watson scraped back his chair and stood. ‘Please stop.’ The uniformed officer on the back wall moved swiftly to reseat him. Watson sat down, defeated. ‘Please. I. . I didn’t do anything.’
Brook turned to the middle of the diary and opened up the tome to show Watson. He ran a gloved finger down it. ‘There are two pages missing here. They’ve been razored out.’
‘Not by me, Inspector. I’ve not opened either book. I swear. I couldn’t face it.’
‘You don’t expect us to believe that, do you?’ said Noble.
‘You think I’d have left “The Night Walker” in there if I’d been cutting pages out of her books?’ demanded Watson.
‘So that poem does refer to you?’
He hung his head. ‘I’ve been worried about her. Maybe I. .’
‘Maybe you’ve what?’
Watson looked up. ‘She’s grown up so fast. I was losing her.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve been possessive, I realise now. You can’t stop it — time. I wanted to spend time with her before it was too late, before she didn’t need me. That’s all.’
‘Then why hide the books?’ said Noble.
‘I was embarrassed because Adele thought. .’ He came to a halt.
‘But why didn’t you destroy them? The computer too.’ Watson was silent.
Brook answered for him. ‘Because they’re the last link to the daughter you love.’ Watson nodded his head in confirmation. ‘Adele’s bed was a mess and the phone and leaflet moved. You?’ Watson nodded again.
‘Did you masturbate?’ asked Noble.
Watson stood, his eyes blazing, and fists clenched. Noble and the uniformed Constable struggled to reseat him, Brook watching on, unmoved.
Eventually, when Watson was calm enough to hear the question again, he responded with a look of pure horror. ‘How can you think that? You’re sick, you are. Perverted. Worse than me. At least I’m her father — I have a right to be near her. You’re strangers. You shouldn’t think about other men’s daughters that way.’
‘We’d prefer not to,’ said Brook.
‘So tell us,’ said Noble.
‘No, I didn’t masturbate. I was on the bed because I just wanted to be near her, okay, to smell her. It was in my head. Only there. Please, I promise you. I didn’t do anything. Ask Ade.’ His head fell to the table again and he began to sob. ‘My God, what have I done? Please forgive me. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry. I never meant to drive you away. I love you.’ He sat bolt upright. ‘You must believe me. I never — I wouldn’t-’
‘I advise you not to say another word until you’ve been counselled, Mr Watson.’ Brook announced the time and switched off the police recorder. Noble looked across at him. ‘I think you need to consult a solicitor. You’re obviously distraught and that’s not a good time to make a statement.’
‘A solicitor?’ Watson smiled crookedly and finally had a sip of his tea. ‘Only God can help me now. Only God can clean these thoughts from my head.’
‘Then pray to Him.’ Brook rose to leave.
‘There’s another book.’
Brook and Noble turned back to Watson.
‘Another book?’ said Noble. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t have it. It’s her presentation book, leather-bound. When she finishes a poem, when she’s happy with it, she writes it in there.’
‘It’s not in the house?’ asked Brook.
‘I don’t think so. She must have taken it with her. I don’t have it. I swear.’
Brook nodded and opened the door to usher out Noble and the Constable.
‘Inspector.’ Brook turned at Watson’s voice. ‘Do you believe in God?’
Brook paused over the question. ‘I don’t have time.’
‘Not a good time to make a statement?’ said Noble, incredulous.
Brook dropped Adele Watson’s two handwritten books back into their evidence bags. ‘Get every page photocopied and on the boards after fingerprinting, then ask Don Crump to run the ESDA over the page beneath the razored pages. We might get a clue about what was on them.’
‘Watson was on the verge of cracking up,’ persisted Noble. ‘What better time to give a statement? That’s when we get the good stuff.’
‘You saw him, John. He hasn’t killed Adele and he hasn’t had sex with her.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘I can’t prove it, no. But I’m a father. You’ll have to trust me on this.’
‘Trust? If he’d carried on, we would have known for sure.’
‘No, we wouldn’t. He’s on the edge. With the levels of guilt he’s carrying, he could say anything incriminating just to make himself feel better. He needs counsel to protect him from himself.’
Noble was silent but no more convinced. Eventually he shrugged. ‘So what then?’
‘Get him a solicitor and give him a cell for the night.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘That makes two of us.’ Brook made to leave but turned back. ‘And John, in case his God deserts him, make sure he’s put on Suicide Watch.’