Saturday, 28 May
After three hours’ sleep, Brook tiptoed down the stairs early next morning and made tea. He caught sight of his head in the kitchen window. He’d removed the bandage and replaced it with a plaster over the stitches. The area was still swollen and the bruising was beginning to colour.
He took his tea into the tiny office at the back of the cottage, turned on his computer, typed in the Deity address and loaded the page. For no particular reason he watched the archived footage of both Deity broadcasts again but gleaned no fresh inspiration. The countdown to the next broadcast had dipped under eleven hours.
He decided to search sites with information on Ancient Egyptian burial rites and clicked on a few, confirming some of Dr Petty’s conclusions about The Embalmer’s treatment of the vagrants’ bodies. He read up on the procedures. Petty was right. The Ancient Egyptians believed the heart, rather than the brain, was the seat of emotions and was necessary for the dead to proceed safely to the afterlife. After the organs were removed, including the brain through the nostrils, the heart was put back into the cavity as it had been with McTiernan and Kirk.
He read more information on embalming and made a list of some of the chemicals required. Maybe they could find Ozzy that way. Brook sniffed the air and then his arm. He could still smell whisky despite a shower and change of clothes. He looked around and spied the whisky glass he’d used the previous night. It still had a few dregs in it. Brook picked it up and padded into the kitchen to make more tea.
He was about to rinse out the leaded tumbler when he stopped and looked at the pale golden liquid. He stared for a few seconds then washed out the glass and opened a cupboard to put it away. There was a loaf of sliced bread in there. Terri had bought it for her breakfasts. Brook gazed at it in confusion while he thought things through. A moment later he broke into a grin and returned to the computer.
‘And people worry about my mental health,’ he said, typing another topic into the search engine.
Half an hour later, Brook was sitting contentedly on the garden bench sucking in the cool damp air and smoking a cigarette stolen from his daughter’s handbag. It was just after five and he had the world to himself. The telephone destroyed his reverie and Brook launched himself barefoot back into the house to answer it before Terri could wake.
‘You’re up.’
‘John. What is it?’ said Brook, breathless.
‘Another body.’
‘Jock or Phil?’ asked Brook.
‘You’d better come see for yourself.’
Terri pulled the VW on to Meadow Road and as close to the crime-scene tape as she could manage. Brook opened the door before the car had stopped and stepped out. The noise of the river was more apparent here over the quiet buzz of Derby’s city centre.
‘You’re sure you can find your way back?’ he said to his daughter.
Terri was yawning again but managed an affirmative grunt with a nod for back-up. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she said once her jaw was back under control.
Brook closed the passenger door and watched her reverse the car and speed away. He turned to see Noble heading over to him. They exchanged nods then Noble led Brook across the small triangular green space towards the concrete wall at the river’s edge. The increasing noise of the weir was competing with the occasional car roaring over the St Alkmund’s Way flyover nearby.
The river bank had clearly been a hive of activity but now the body was recovered, men and machinery stood idle, as Scene of Crime Officers walked to and from the screens hiding the corpse from potential onlookers. As he approached, Brook nodded to Keith Pullin and a knot of other emergency workers sharing a joke and a cigarette.
‘Who is it?’ he said to Noble.
‘It’s hard to tell. But it’s not Jock or Phil Ward. It looks like one of our students.’
Brook shot him a glance. ‘Male or female?’ he asked quickly.
‘Male. He’s been in the water several days and the blows to the head are probably from being smacked around at the bottom of the weir.’
Without knowing why, Brook’s heart began to beat a little easier. He arrived at the body laid out on a plastic sheet. It was a well-built young male, fully dressed. The face and neck were discoloured and the body was severely bloated from the gases of decomposition. The eyes were gone, devoured by fish and microbes.
‘Several days?’ said Brook, walking around the corpse.
‘Probably more than a week, with that much bloating,’ observed Noble.
‘Then why didn’t he surface sooner?’
Noble nodded towards a pile of wet stones. ‘The body was partially weighted down or it would have popped up sooner.’
‘No ID?’
‘Nothing in his pockets except this.’ Noble pulled out an evidence bag. It contained a smaller, sealable plastic bag. Inside were the mushy remains of a few tablets.
‘Ecstasy?’
‘Or PCP. That’s cheap at the moment.’
Brook got down on his haunches. The clothes were intact along the body’s left flank but from the bloating and the youthful clothing and haircut, Brook already knew this wasn’t the work of The Embalmer. ‘You’re right. It’s not one of our vagrants,’ he muttered. ‘Messing with our heads, all right.’
‘Sir?’
Brook looked up at Noble. ‘How could I be so wrong?’
‘I don’t see. .’
‘I didn’t take it seriously, John. Four young people are missing and I didn’t take it seriously.’
‘Nobody did.’
‘Well, it’s serious now.’ Brook looked at the recently bagged hands, clenched into a fist, bright green weeds protruding from between the knuckles. ‘Where’s Higginbottom?’
‘Been and gone. He said from the teeth he’s confident it’s a teenager. Definite drowning and no obvious signs of foul play.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Well, the stones rule out an accident.’
‘Maybe some of this head trauma will turn out to be premortem,’ said Brook.
‘Higginbottom says not. He also said rigor’s dissipated so the deceased has been in the water at least five days, but to float with stones in his pocket is more likely a week or more.’
‘So around the night of the party would be about right.’ Brook stood back from the body. ‘Russell or Kyle? Can you tell?’
‘No.’
Brook ran his eye over the Nike trainers, the green combat trousers, Derby County football shirt and green flak jacket. The jacket had large open pockets from which the stones had been removed.
‘Last seen wearing?’ prompted Brook.
‘I’ll need to check the paperwork,’ answered Noble. ‘I’m pretty sure Kyle was jeans and a blue hoodie.’
‘You’re right.’
‘What about Russell?’
‘His mum wasn’t sure,’ answered Brook. He turned away and stepped from behind the screen leaving SOCO to photograph, scrape, bag and tag the remains before removal to the mortuary.
He walked with Noble to the edge of the river. ‘Speaking of Yvette Thomson, do you remember Len Poole saying he didn’t know her?’
‘At Alice Kennedy’s, yes.’
‘I think he lied. I dropped off Russell’s computer last night and Len was there and they didn’t behave like strangers.’
‘Maybe they’re not. Len’s originally from North Wales, same as her. Don Crump told me last night when I dropped into the lab. And don’t forget he’s moving back there with Mrs Kennedy.’
‘Chester’s not in Wales, John. And why would Len Poole’s name come up?’
‘I didn’t mention him but Don’s put in nearly thirty years. He knew Len before he retired. He heard he was back.’
Brook nodded. ‘I suppose Poole must know a lot of the old guard.’
‘I would think. I can run a background on Poole if you want?’
‘I do want,’ said Brook. ‘There’s a connection with Yvette Thomson and I’d like to know what. What news from the lab?’
‘Don was whingeing about SOCO. He said they’re slipping. He’s trying to match the blood from the plaster.’
‘And?’
‘It isn’t Kyle’s, Becky’s or Adele’s.’
‘What about Russell?’
‘That’s just it. SOCO did a number on Russell Thomson’s bedroom and didn’t come up with any useable DNA.’
‘Nothing? No hair?’ Brook looked at Noble. ‘They’ve lived there six months — is that even possible?’
‘Unusual not impossible,’ said Noble. ‘Russell can’t have spent much time there.’
‘It might explain the missing toothbrush.’
‘Toothbrush?’
‘There was only one at the house. It was Yvette’s.’
‘Or maybe SOCO are slipping.’
‘They’ve got a lot on, John, but if that is Russell we just pulled out of the river, they need to get back over there and try again.’
‘What about dental?’ asked Noble.
‘Get on it. Yvette and Russell have moved around a lot but there must be records.’
They turned and walked towards the group of emergency rescue workers chatting by the river wall. Pullin nodded at Brook.
‘Keith,’ Brook said, after a pause to double-check his memory.
‘That’s correct, Inspector,’ answered Pullin with a grin. His colleagues joined in. They obviously knew the background to his reply.
Brook pressed on. ‘How deep is it down there?’ he said, looking down at the water.
‘Deep enough.’
‘We’re missing four students,’ continued Brook. ‘This looks like one of them. Could there be more bodies down there?’
Pullin narrowed his eyes. ‘If they’re weighed down — it’s possible.’ There was a long pause. ‘Would you like us to have a look?’
Brook smiled his reply and Pullin turned away disconsolately to brief his divers.
Brook sauntered along the river wall, looking across the Derwent to Riverside Gardens, with its steps leading down to the water. Swans and ducks were gliding around on the deceptively still surface. Beyond stood the City Council House and further round to the right an inquisitive crowd was gathering on Exeter Bridge even at such an early hour.
‘Tell me we’ve got some film to look at, John.’
‘Cooper’s already at the Control Room.’
A commotion from Meadow Road turned both their heads. A yellow taxicab was pulling away and its passenger made a bee-line for the boundary tape.
‘Let me through,’ shouted a female voice. She tried to duck under the tape but a Constable grabbed her and held her fast.
‘Let me go. I want to see my son.’
Brook and Noble ran up to reinforce the human barrier.
‘Is it true you’ve found a body?’ panted Yvette Thomson, still wriggling to be free. Their faces confirmed it. ‘Is it Rusty?’
‘We don’t know yet,’ said Brook, putting a hand on her arm.
‘I want to see him.’
‘I’m sorry, you can’t,’ said Noble.
‘How did you know we’d found a body?’ asked Brook.
She hesitated. ‘Someone phoned me.’
Brook glanced over at Noble. He shook his head.
‘Is it Rusty?’ she demanded.
Brook didn’t reply. In most of these situations, he could usually walk away from distressed relatives, safe in the knowledge that someone far more sympathetic would be available to offer comfort and soothing platitudes. Eventually he decided to put his faith in the facts. ‘It’s a young man but it’s hard to identify him. He’s been in the water a while.’
Yvette stopped struggling and steepled her hands over her nose and mouth. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Who phoned you about the body?’ asked Noble.
She seemed not to have heard him. ‘Let me see him.’
‘We can’t allow that,’ said Noble. ‘They’re still processing. .’
Yvette Thomson broke free and ran towards the screens, Brook and Noble in pursuit but she was too fast for them. She reached the screens and stopped dead in her tracks.
‘Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.’ Her eyes, like small moons, were fixed on the bloated remains. Brook reached her and tried to turn her away but she shook him off and continued to stare. Eventually she turned away and ran to a nearby bench. She sat down and put her head between her knees and threw up.
Brook and Noble gave her some room. Eventually Brook approached her with a tissue. She accepted it without a glance at him, instead gazing straight ahead. ‘How can you. .?’ She looked at the ground, the sentence unfinished.
‘I’m sorry you had to see him like that,’ said Brook quietly.
She shook her head, still looking at the ground. Then her head snapped up, searching for Brook’s eye. ‘It’s not Rusty.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Certain. It’s the hair. The zigzag — I think it’s Wilson Woodrow.’
Brook walked with Noble back to his car. ‘Playtime’s over, John. Pick up Jake McKenzie.’
‘Arrest him? On what charge?’
‘He was there at Kyle’s assault. Use that.’
‘There’s no evidence he took part.’
‘Then he’s got nothing to worry about, but if we arrest him we can get DNA. Maybe it’s his blood on the plaster in Kyle’s house. And get a warrant for his computer and phone and do the same for Fern Stretton and Adam Rifkind. I want all the text messages and emails and Facebook messages they’ve ever sent to, or received from, Adele, Russell, Kyle and Becky. If one of them sent a carrier-pigeon ten years ago, I want to know about it.’
‘You want me to sort out next-of-kin for Wilson?’
‘Set it up.’ Noble turned away. ‘Oh, and John. Better get PC Patel over to Alice Kennedy’s to let her know we’ve found a body before she hears it from someone else.’
‘Someone else?’ said Noble.
‘The someone else who tipped off Yvette Thomson.’
Noble nodded, tight-lipped. ‘Want Patel to tell her it’s not Kyle?’
‘As long as she makes it clear that nothing’s definite until ID.’
Noble took out his cigarettes and offered one to Brook. He declined with a faint shake of the head.
‘I missed it, John. I completely missed it.’
Noble’s brow furrowed. ‘Missed what?’
Brook looked him in the eye. ‘The evil. There’s a fox in the henhouse and these kids are in danger.’
‘Where’s Dad?’ panted Jake, coming to a halt and opening the gate for his mother.
‘Gone fishing,’ she replied.
‘Why the-’ Jake stopped himself. It was pointless. He’d tried before. His mother worked all hours serving in a bakery for a pittance and his dad wouldn’t give her a lift into town even on his Saturday off. ‘Bye, Mum. Love you.’
Jake’s mother smiled back in that way she had. That makes it all worthwhile, the smile told him. He knew she’d be wearing it all day. She blew him a kiss and he watched her turn the corner to catch the bus. He was relieved. He loved his mum to bits, and he didn’t know why, but when he was alone, everything seemed less intense.
He finished a couple of warm-down exercises in the front yard and pulled off his sweat-stained top, closing his eyes to the piercing early morning sun. It was going to be a beautiful day and so far he had it to himself. He sat bare-chested on the front step revelling in the steam rising from his torso then fished out his iPhone to check his messages. His mouth fell open — he had a text from Kyle.
Jake read the message, dismayed. He closed his eyes again, this time squeezing a drop of moisture on to his cheek. He wiped his face brusquely and roused himself. It wasn’t too late. He reread the message then dialled 999 but rang off before the first ring had ended. He tried to think. He returned to Kyle’s message and sent off a reply. Where r u? Feds looking everywhere.
He leaned on the gate awaiting his reply, trying to forget the accusation in Kyle’s message, trying to ignore its truth.
A couple of teenage girls rounded the corner, each sucking urgently on a cigarette. They both wore far too much makeup, tight, low-cut tops and short skirts. They walked arm-inarm towards him, giggling as they drew near enough to give his smooth torso a serious examination.
Jake knew one of them and smiled faintly in their direction.
‘Hey, Jakey,’ said Trina. The two fifteen year olds stopped at his gate and made no pretence of looking anywhere but his body. ‘We’ve seen you on the internet.’
‘And on the news,’ said Trina’s friend. ‘’Bout that slappin’.’
Jake smiled again, wishing they’d keep walking. ‘You’re up early, Trina. Wassup?’
The girl from three doors down leered at him, her head doddering on its axis like a nodding dog. ‘Just jamming, beautiful. We ain’t been bed yet,’ she slurred. Jake could see she was drunk as she swayed against her equally drunk friend. She winked at him. ‘Not to sleep anyway, eh, Shazz?’ She roared with laughter and both started squealing incomprehensibly at each other.
‘Whoa. Too much information, girlfriend.’ Jake smiled.
‘That’s not a surprise,’ said Trina with a conspiratorial wink at Shazz. The two smirked at each other, finishing with a synchronised, ‘Mmmmmm.’
Jake continued smiling, willing them to move on.
‘You got any vodka?’ asked Shazz.
‘We drink vodka,’ confirmed Trina. ‘We take drugs too, don’t we, Shazz?’
‘All the time. But our best drug is vodka. You got any, Jakey?’
‘Shazz’ll blow you for a bottle.’ Trina cackled.
‘Fuck off, Trin,’ screamed Shazz and they both fell into a fit of the laughter, shouting and squealing as they jostled each other.
‘Go on,’ Trina urged Jake. ‘You know you want to. She’s got all the shag bands, the dirty ho.’
‘She must be very proud.’
‘I have too,’ said Shazz, her head to one side, as though he didn’t believe her. ‘You got any vodka then, Jakey?’
‘It’s seven o’clock in the morning.’
‘Don’t mean we can’t have a party,’ replied Shazz, pouting her most alluring slut-face.
‘I’ll pass,’ said Jake.
Shazz turned to Trina and rolled her eyes. ‘Told you.’
‘Told her what?’ snapped Jake.
‘We heard you was a bumder,’ explained Trina. ‘Wilson’s mate told us. You’re in love with Kyle Kennedy.’
‘Piss off, you sket.’
‘It’s true innit?’ Shazz nodded. ‘Only a faggot wouldn’t wanna jizz on my tonsils.’
‘She swallows an’ all.’ Trina leered, and they started laughing and screeching again.
‘You love Kyle,’ they chanted. ‘You love Kyle.’
Jake’s breathing quickened and he grabbed Shazz by the shoulder and marched her into the house. ‘Want some vodka, bitch? Wanna see how much I hate faggots?’ Shazz turned round with a grin on her face and winked at Trina as Jake pushed her up the stairs.
‘Wait for me, Trin,’ she shouted over her shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t be long. Here, your mum’s not home, is she?’
‘Course she is. She wants to watch.’ He opened his bedroom door, pushed her in and slammed the door behind him. When Shazz turned round, Jake had already dropped his tracksuit trousers. ‘Come on then, ho. Get to work.’
Shazz grinned at him and took out her gum to stick on Jake’s bedroom mirror. ‘Nice package. But shouldn’t your fuckstick be pointing north instead of south?’ She giggled.
Jake grinned maliciously at her. ‘That’s your job, slut.’
Shazz smiled and dropped to her knees, cupping his penis in her hands. ‘Shouldn’t take long. Bobby P reckons I’m the best ever.’
Jake closed his eyes as she went to work and tried to concentrate, but all he could see was an image of Shazz and Trina laughing at him through their slack mouths. He strained to see her head bobbing up and down and felt any hardness waning. Then he pictured Kyle looking on and the tears began to well.
He opened his eyes and stared at the poster of Morrissey, a gift from his friend, and he began to harden again. But over and over his thoughts turned to Kyle. His smile, that little curl of hair on his puny sideburns, those beautiful eyes with their too-long lashes. He’s with me, he’s doing this. He loves me. He wants me.
With an almighty grind of his teeth Jake climaxed and he fell backwards against the door. Shazz was already on her feet, popping her chewing gum back in, a triumphant gleam in her eye. ‘Whaddaya think? Better than a Dyson, yeah?’
Jake wrenched his tracksuit back up to his waist and closed his eyes again. What have I done? What a bastard I am. Wanna see how much I hate faggots? Kyle was right. ‘Get out, you slut,’ he whispered softly.
‘Fuck off. Where’s my vodka?’
‘You’re a whore as well as a slut. Now get out!’ he rasped, his eyes bulging in his sudden rush of anger.
Shazz put her hands on her hips and planted herself. ‘Not until I get my vodka, bumder.’
Jake grabbed her by the hair and hauled her down the stairs, the pair of them screaming at each other. He wrestled open the front door and threw her on the ground. ‘Get. Out.’
‘You fucking poof,’ she bellowed as Trina came to her aid. ‘You’re a fucking faggot,’ she snarled at him, rubbing her knee. ‘He couldn’t get it up, could he?’ she told Trina. ‘He’s got fag mags all over his bedroom, and paedo porn, you wanna see it, Trin, it’s dread.’ Turning back to Jake, she screeched, ‘You better not ha’ gi’n me AIDS when you touched me, you fucking arse-loving boner bandit.’
Screaming and hurling abuse they stormed away, regaling every curtained house with news of the pervert in their midst and pointing back at Jake panting and sobbing on the front gate.
At that moment, Jake’s dad pulled up in his windowcleaning van and got out. He noticed the two girls creating a racket and aiming V-signs at Jake, and nodded approvingly. Perhaps his lad wasn’t such a mummy’s boy. ‘Nice one, son. Treat ’em mean, to keep ’em keen.’
‘Fuck off, Dad.’
‘Oh. A bit of spirit have we now, son? That’s what I like to see,’ he said, and he began to shadow-box with Jake, throwing in the occasional slap on the face.
‘Fuck off, Dad!’ Jake roared, on the brink of hysteria and clenching his fists.
Mr McKenzie pulled up as though slapped. He balled his fists and took a step towards Jake, then thought better of busting his son’s mouth in front of the house. That’d mean a week or two’s earache from Her Majesty, if not a visit from the police. ‘Okay, son. That’s a freebie — for now. I only popped home for more bait. And I don’t mean jail bait,’ he sniggered.
Jake watched his dad go inside, still chuckling and repeating his joke. Jake slumped on to the gate for support. He glanced down the road at Trina and Shazz, just disappearing around the corner. He was only three years older than them but already her age group were like beings from another planet. They were laughing and joking again, arm-in-arm, oblivious to the damage they’d done. Correction. The damage he’d done — Judas McKenzie. He took a deep breath. No more lies. He pulled out his mobile and texted Kyle. Soz Kyle miss you xx.
Still no reply. Jake opened the front door and sprinted upstairs to his room.
DS Morton held his warrant card to the crack in the door. The door closed and the chain was removed. The heavily pregnant Mrs Rifkind looked about sixteen to Morton. She opened the door with one hand, using the other to support her unborn baby. She looked nervously beyond Morton.
‘Sorry, Officer, I thought you were a reporter.’
‘Reporter?’
‘Somebody found out that Watson bitch stole Adam’s credit card to set up that website. They’ve been hanging round, trying to get an interview.’
‘Is your husband here?’
‘It’s half-term. He’s up at the cottage working on his novel and getting away from all this shit.’
‘Where is that?’ asked Morton.
‘In the Peaks. Alstonefield.’
Morton ran his eye over her huge belly and wondered what sort of man left his pregnant wife alone to face the press while he worked on a novel. ‘Does he have his computer and mobile phone with him?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s this about? He’s told you all he knows.’
‘We’ll need the address.’
Morton closed his notebook and walked back to his car, not noticing the curtain pulled aside briefly in an upstairs window.
He jumped into the driver’s seat and threw his notebook on top of Fern Stretton’s laptop and mobile phone, both shrouded in plastic.
Morton smiled, remembering her reaction — first excitement then consternation. She was important now. She was involved in the investigation. Police had ‘raided’ her home.
What a lot she’d have to tell her friends. She’d be the centre of attention. It was only when she realised she’d have no means of communicating with them that her excitement had turned to despair.
DC Cooper peered over the shoulder of the technician sat at the computer. Brook, Noble and Morton waited patiently in the darkened Incident Room, staring up at the grey square on the whiteboard. Eventually Cooper gave the thumbs up.
‘Okay. We’re going to see a piece of film. It’s digital quality, and as you can see from the display, it was taken on the nineteenth of May at a quarter to midnight.’
‘That’s the night before the party,’ said Morton.
‘And just a couple of hours after the assault on Kyle Kennedy,’ added Brook.
The film began with a view from the Council House across the weir to the river wall of the Derwent. A figure emerged from the darkness of the small triangular public garden wedged between Meadow Road and Exeter Place.
‘It’s the guy from the first Deity film,’ said Cooper. ‘The one who laid out Kyle.’
‘Wilson Woodrow,’ said Brook. ‘Yvette Thomson was right.’
‘He looks the worse for wear,’ said Cooper. ‘Was he on something?’
‘It’s likely but we don’t know yet,’ replied Noble.
The burly figure strolled unsteadily to the river wall and placed something on it. Then he returned to the gloom of the gardens and reappeared a few seconds later to repeat the process.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘Can we zoom in?’
Before the technician could obey, Brook said, ‘He’s fetching the stones.’
‘Jesus,’ said Morton. ‘He jumped.’
The team of experienced officers continued to watch in horrified fascination. There was no other sound, no movement, not even the gulp of an Adam’s apple. After the second delivery of stones, Wilson clambered on to the river wall and began to fill his pockets with them. A second later he stepped off and disappeared under the water. The detectives watched a little longer but gradually movement and conversation returned.
‘Why didn’t the controllers pick up on this before. .?’ asked Brook, clicking his fingers as if a name was on the tip of his tongue.
‘Rhys,’ answered the technician. ‘Well, there are a hundred and seventy cameras, sir, so it’s not simple to police. At that time of night, most operatives will be watching the city-centre monitors for anti-social behaviour but, if something happens, we do respond to requests for time and place. Like now.’
Brook nodded, looking at his watch as he yawned. It felt like mid-afternoon but was only ten o’clock. ‘Run it again.’
Noble’s phone began to croak. He answered and listened intently. ‘Which hospital?’ He rang off. ‘The squad car that went to pick up McKenzie found him unconscious. They think he took an overdose.’
‘Alive?’
Noble nodded. ‘They’ve taken him to the Royal.’
‘Another suicide,’ muttered Brook.
‘Two from the same peer group,’ said Noble. ‘Bit of a coincidence.’
Rhys restarted the film and they sat through it again, this time a little less mesmerised.
‘Can we enhance Wilson, standing on the wall?’ asked Brook.
A couple of clicks later and Wilson’s face loomed large and the film resumed.
‘He’s talking,’ said Cooper.
‘Who to?’ muttered Morton.
‘He could be talking to himself, keeping his focus. Drugs can do that,’ said Noble.
‘Maybe.’ Brook nodded. ‘Do we have a lipreader on the books?’ He lifted the last of his cold tea to his lips but his hand froze in mid-air. ‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘Go back.’
The technician rewound and replayed the film.
‘There.’ Brook leaped up to show him. ‘Next to that tree.’
The film was rewound and paused. Brook pointed to a tiny red dot emanating from the darkness of the gardens.
‘I see it,’ said Cooper.
‘What is it?’ asked Morton.
‘Somebody’s filming it,’ said Noble.
‘And maybe egging him on,’ added Morton. ‘Of all the coldblooded. .’
Before Brook could ask, Rhys the technician enhanced the picture around the red dot. Behind the red dot the officers could make out the silhouette of an arm. A hood was over the face but a few large letters were visible on the chest.
‘G-something-A-R.’
‘Pity it’s not in colour,’ began Cooper.
‘Blue,’ said Brook. ‘It’s blue. That’s Kyle Kennedy’s G-Star hoodie. He was wearing it when he disappeared.’
Noble entered the Incident Room and raised a thumb. ‘Okay. Two o’clock. Full briefing ahead of the next Deity broadcast. Charlton, Jane and her two DCs will be there too.’
‘Any news from Pullin?’
‘Yeah, no more bodies at the weir.’
‘Are you sure they were thorough, John?’
Noble raised an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t ask that question. But if you feel you must. .’
Brook hesitated. ‘Maybe I should just take his word.’
Noble smiled patronisingly. ‘You’re making so much progress.’
Brook emitted a one-note laugh. ‘What about Exeter Bridge?’
‘Rhys is sending it over now.’
‘Mine or yours?’
‘Yours.’
Brook’s features betrayed a tic of annoyance — another stranger with his email address. He logged on to his internal account and clicked Play on the attachment while Noble turned on the ceiling-mounted projector with the remote. That morning’s CCTV footage of Exeter Bridge appeared at once.
‘How good are these pictures?’ said Brook.
‘The cameras were upgraded three years ago,’ said Noble. ‘What’s our time slot?’
‘What time did I get to the river?’
‘Just after six.’
‘Okay. Yvette arrived ten minutes after me so, assuming she phoned a cab immediately someone tipped her off, it would take half an hour at the most between phoning and getting into town at that time of day. Say five-fifteen to be sure.’
Noble teed up the film to that time and set it running. The bridge, the best vantage-point to watch the recovery of Wilson’s body, was deserted. But as time wore on, more people began to cross into the city centre, and the crowd watching the emergency services grew.
‘Who alerted us to the body?’
‘A security guard at the Council House saw the head bobbing and phoned it in.’
‘Time?’
Noble checked his notebook. ‘Dispatch took the call just after three.’ Brook continued to watch the film at normal speed. ‘Whoever tipped off Yvette didn’t need to be on the bridge.’
Brook nodded. ‘I know. It’s just a hunch. Wilson’s death has been staged and a good director would want to-’
‘There!’ Noble interrupted. Brook followed his digit. ‘Jeans, blue hoodie, sunglasses, scarf around the face. Caucasian male?’
‘Hard to be sure,’ replied Brook. ‘Walks like a man.’ He peered at the screen. ‘But unless my eyes are failing me, that does say G-STAR on his chest, doesn’t it?’
Noble froze the film and zoomed in. The brand was clearly visible across a white slash on the chest. ‘That’s Kyle’s hoodie, all right.’
‘Or we’re meant to think it is,’ said Brook.
‘Messing with our heads.’ Noble nodded.
‘What’s that in his hand?’
The film played on. The figure in the hoodie turned away from the CCTV camera mounted high on the Council building, to lean on the bridge wall. He watched the opposite bank where, off camera, Wilson Woodrow’s body was being recovered. A moment later he stood erect and lifted a camcorder to his right eye.
‘You were right. He filmed us. Cheeky sod.’
‘Did we see what direction he came in from?’ Brook asked.
Noble reviewed the images until they could make out the figure strolling past the Brewery Tap at the north end of the bridge, towards the city centre and the CCTV camera perched on the Council House. He kept his head bowed all the way, as though he expected to be filmed.
The film continued and the two detectives watched closely, hoping to glimpse a face under the hood but the figure never removed it, or the scarf and sunglasses, and the camcorder was rarely lowered from the face. Just after six thirty, the figure stopped filming, pulled out a mobile phone and thumbed at it for a few moments.
‘He’s texting,’ said Brook.
‘Yvette Thomson said someone phoned her.’
‘Text or call, it wasn’t him, John. Look at the time.’
‘Six thirty.’ Noble nodded. ‘She was already at the river.’
‘Check with the mobile operators. Maybe that phone belonged to one of our students. Start with Kyle’s.’
A second later, the hooded figure sauntered back up Derwent Street and out of sight.
‘Whoever that was, he didn’t tip off Yvette Thomson,’ said Noble.
‘Not in our time-frame at least,’ agreed Brook.
‘Then who did?’
Brook narrowed his eyes. ‘Somebody who knows her and has contacts in the Force. There’s no other explanation.’
‘A journalist?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past Brian Burton to be greasing the wheels, but if he did get a whisper from an inside contact, he wouldn’t be phoning Yvette Thomson.’
‘And he’d have been at the scene before us, being a pain in the backside,’ conceded Noble. ‘Who then?’
Brook smiled faintly. ‘How about somebody with a stake in our investigation, somebody with money who can be trusted to reward a heads-up, who used to be in the business and keeps in touch with some of the old guard.’
Noble nodded now. ‘Len Poole.’
‘There’s no one else. And if we make the connection, it proves they knew each other before they came to Derby.’