‘Len. I know you’re in there.’
The back of Poole’s neck tingled. The disembodied voice floated out of the darkness. Poole had had a bellyful of groping around in the murk but he knew he’d have to summon the courage if it meant the chance of a way out. He looked longingly back to the shaft of sunlight above the empty pool. With a deep breath, he turned and stepped into the shadows, inching his way towards the disembodied voice. ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. His voice echoed around the vaulted ceiling of the pool room.
‘Len?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m here — at the end of the passage.’
‘I don’t see you.’
‘Follow my voice.’
Poole reached the first room leading off the corridor. He could barely see through the shadows but he was sure there was another sarcophagus by the room’s far wall.
‘Hurry up, Len. I haven’t got all day and you certainly haven’t.’
Poole continued to inch blindly down the corridor, passing another open room. Again he fancied it contained a sarcophagus of some sort but it was too dark to see. As he approached the third room, he could make out a dim light from beyond the bend of the corridor. Again he hesitated. Again he glanced into yet another darkened room to his right and again he could discern the shape of a coffin. This time he leaned into the room and ran a hand along the wall. He found the light switch but it didn’t work.
‘Hurry up, Len. Or you can stay there and rot.’
Poole took another deep breath. The heat in this part of the building was oppressive and Poole unzipped and discarded his tracksuit top. His bottoms stank worse but he couldn’t remove them and retain the dignity he so cherished.
He crept onwards. The light became brighter with each watchful step. He passed a fourth room, which was lighter than the others. No coffin. No sarcophagus. But there was a chair. A chair that sat beneath a rope which dangled from an iron cross-girder above.
‘Last chance, Len.’
With improved visibility, Poole quickened his step towards the light, turned another corner and stopped in dismay. Instead of a way out, the dim light that drew him on belonged to a laptop open on a small folding table. A grinning face greeted him from the monitor.
‘Hi, Len.’ The young man beamed happily from the screen.
Poole tried to place the face. ‘Who are you?’
The talking head spoke, fake emotion distorting his voice. ‘Dad, don’t you know me?’
Puzzled, Poole squinted at the screen. ‘Rusty?’
‘Give the man a cigar.’
‘Jesus. You look different. What have you done to your face?’
‘I’ve had a makeover, Dad.’
‘Just who the hell are you?’
Rusty grinned again. ‘Who was I last week or who am I next week?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘That’s the idea, Dad.’
‘Don’t call me that. I’m not your father.’
‘One reason I don’t have your cowardly genes.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not a victim, Len. Not like your progeny — not like little baby Russell. You didn’t work it out yet?’
‘What have you done with him?’
Rusty shook his head mournfully. ‘He didn’t make it, Pop.’
‘What do you mean? He’s dead?’
‘As a dodo.’
Poole nodded. ‘I did wonder. Did you kill my son?’
‘Your son,’ sneered Rusty. ‘Like you gave a shit.’
Poole pulled in a huge tired breath. ‘It doesn’t mean I’m happy he’s dead. Did you kill him?’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic, Len. I didn’t touch him. Russell killed himself. Despite sucking on the teat of your generous patronage, your son just didn’t have the stones for modern life.’
‘And Kyle and the others? Did you kill them too?’
Rusty just smiled. Poole watched as he leaned forward and reappeared with a pint of beer in his hand, taking a couple of gulps before putting it back down. The sun was shining in the background. Poole guessed he was in a beer garden.
‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ said Rusty, wiping a sleeve over his top lip. ‘You’re not having a lot of luck with your offspring, are you, Len?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, your real son killed himself and your future stepson was a whining, self-absorbed faggot. .’
‘Was?’
‘I’m all the family you have left.’
‘What have you done to Kyle?’
‘I’d worry about you, Len. Your death will be much slower if you don’t pull your finger out. You seen the size of those rats? Scared the living shit out of me, they did.’
‘So you’re going to kill me too.’
‘Again with the melodrama. I don’t kill, Len. I just help people realise how worthless they are, and then let them make their own decisions.’ He raised the pint to his lips again and looked behind him. ‘It’s a beautiful day. Makes you feel glad to be alive. I’ll miss Derbyshire, it’s really. . elemental.’ He raised a hand in mock apology. ‘Sorry. I’m here catching a beer and some rays and you’re stuck in there with a dead lunatic. I assume he’s safely on his way.’
‘You mean the green-faced nut job? He’s dead, all right.’
‘Man, he actually went with that make-up?’ Rusty shook his head and laughed. ‘Gotta hand it to Lee — the guy didn’t do things by halves.’
‘He was ill, wasn’t he?’
‘Lung cancer, he told me.’
‘So he topped himself to avoid a slow and painful death,’ said Poole. ‘He can’t have been that crazy.’
Rusty gazed back at Poole from the monitor. ‘Indeed.’
‘So what now?’
‘It’s time to get to work, Len.’
‘Work?’
‘Well, Lee rather hoped, in his befuddled way, that he’d become immortal.’ Rusty grinned. ‘You could say he’d set his heart on it — and several others too,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘That’s why you’re there, Len. To make him live forever.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve got all the knowledge, Len. The tools are there. Work it out.’
‘You want me to embalm him?’
‘There you go. Anubis — God of Embalming,’ he said with great solemnity, before breaking into laughter. ‘There should be cloth and bandages as well. He wants full mummification.’
‘I don’t have those skills.’
‘Really? Well, you better develop them because if he’s not processed in twenty-four hours you’ll die there. In case you hadn’t noticed, the whole building has been specially rigged. As soon as Lee put his Egyptian costume on, he would have sealed you both in — just like they used to do in the pyramids. There is an escape route, but that also seals twenty-four hours after his death. Something to do with sand trickling out of a tank. It’s very dramatic, Len. Well, you can’t be too careful with all the tomb raiders roaming the badlands of Erewash Borough.’
‘Twenty-four hours?’
Rusty looked at his watch. ‘Actually less now, as you kept me waiting. Lee said the whole embalming should take about three days but I’m on a bit of a schedule, so chop chop.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘See what I did there.’
‘You’re crazier than he is.’
‘Name-calling won’t help you, Len. So get to work.’
‘How will you know if I’ve done it or not?’
‘The Eye of Horus sees all,’ he bellowed grandly, before lapsing into mirth again.
‘Horus?’
‘Son of Osiris.’ Rusty shrugged. ‘Lee liked it when I played along.’
‘And what if I don’t finish in time?’
‘You will. Then tomorrow I’ll be here to tell you the way out. Now don’t hang about, out with the blood, the guts and the brain.’
‘The brain? I didn’t see a cranial saw.’
‘Well, that’s not how the ancients did it, Len. Don’t you know anything? There should be a long brass hook which you push up the nose to chop up the brain. He made it himself — quite brilliant. Then you pull the bits out with the hook. I shouldn’t be telling you all this — just soft-hearted, I guess. Which reminds me — leave the heart in. He needs it for the journey.’ Rusty chortled again. ‘I ask you.’
‘What a fucking headcase.’
‘Headcase,’ sniggered Rusty. ‘See? You’re getting the idea.’ He held up a hand in apology.
‘Why are you going to all this trouble for him?’
‘It’s not like me, as you know. Or rather don’t. Lee’s been a big help and I promised him. I couldn’t have got Project Deity off the ground without him.’ Rusty’s face hardened. ‘Besides, I couldn’t let you get away without paying for the way you treated Yvette, not to mention the attack on me.’
‘Serves you right,’ sneered Poole, managing to resurrect a little righteous indignation. ‘I hope it hurt.’
‘More shock than pain,’ said Rusty, rubbing his neck and finding his grin again. ‘But you know what? It worked out perfectly. Bit of a fluke really. The camera caught the whole thing and with a bit of judicial editing, it actually looks like I’d been killed. Inspector Brook will be scratching his head for weeks.’
‘Brook scratching his head? You don’t know him, son.’ Poole smiled. ‘He’s a lot smarter than you think.’
‘Yeah, right, Dad. Well, better get on.’ He leaned forward to break the connection.
‘Wait!’ shouted Poole. ‘What’s the rope for?’
Rusty smiled coldly at Poole. ‘The sands of time are running out, Len. Finish the job and tomorrow you get your escape route.’
Brook sat down next to Charlton. Noble was the other side. The Press Briefing Room was jammed. Cameras flashed for several minutes despite the absence of quivering parents who were certain to be watching from home with the Family Liaison Officers despatched to comfort them. Finally Charlton took up his script.
‘Thank you for attending tonight. By now the whole country will be aware of what appears to be the final broadcast from the Deity website. Monologues by Kyle Kennedy, Rebecca Blake and Adele Watson, filmed the day after their abduction, confirm what we concluded at the start of the investigation. The four students who disappeared on Friday May twentieth, during or after a birthday party for Kyle Kennedy, did so of their own volition. That much is clear from their statements on Deity.com this afternoon.
‘What has become clear to us is the fact that three of the students who vanished had reason to be unhappy with their lives and a clear motive for leaving behind the homes that had nurtured them.
‘However, their intention — beyond disappearing — is still not certain. The Deity website has offered tantalising hints about their fate but as yet no clear conclusion.
‘We believe the young people had become obsessed with fame and, as you saw this afternoon, were willing participants in the kind of output from Deity.com that has served to spread their celebrity.
‘We also believe that any impression they left concerning a suicide pact is, as yet, unproven — and we believe it is still possible these youngsters may be found alive.’
There was a murmur from the assembled journalists and Charlton looked up from his statement to let it subside. Brook stared unblinking to the back of the room.
‘Having said that, we are now looking for three other individuals as a matter of urgency, and what pictures we have are in your packs. We would urge you to give maximum publicity to these photographs because the individuals concerned are of extreme interest in our investigation.
‘One of the four students who disappeared — Russell “Rusty” Thomson — is an imposter. He is not an eighteen-year-old student and his identity is unknown. We believe this man is the person who filmed the suicide of Wilson Woodrow on Thursday May nineteenth as well as the assault on Kyle Kennedy and the film of Rebecca Blake in her bedroom earlier that same night. Suffice to say that we consider this individual to be highly organised and dangerous, and he should not be approached if recognised.
‘Today’s Deity broadcast shows Thomson being attacked and apparently killed by an unknown assailant. We believe this film to be a misdirection which was included on the site to throw us off Thomson’s scent.
‘On a related note, we are pleased to report that we have an identity for the so-called Embalmer, who we linked to the discovery of two dead bodies in the rivers and ponds around Derby. His name is Lee Smethwick and we believe he is also involved in the disappearance of Kyle Kennedy, Rebecca Blake and Adele Watson.’
The press erupted and Charlton was forced to give way to questions which he directed to Brook.
‘What’s the connection between Thomson and The Embalmer?’ asked a TV reporter.
‘We believe Smethwick and Thomson are working together to keep Kyle, Becky and Adele incarcerated. .’ began Brook but he was swamped by noise again.
‘Is Smethwick going to cut them up like he did the tramps?’ shouted Brian Burton from the back.
‘Brian, that language is totally inappropriate. The parents of these young people will be watching this briefing,’ Charlton said angrily.
‘We hope not,’ said Brook, jumping in. He paused to compose himself. For once Burton’s salacious eye for detail might just get the public interested enough to respond. He decided to risk Charlton’s ire. ‘But I’m afraid we can’t discount the possibility. The bodies of the missing men found in the river had been gutted and the brains had been removed through the nose in preparation for embalming and possibly even mummification.’ There was stunned silence. Charlton hung his head.
‘Smethwick is a highly disturbed individual who likes to play with corpses,’ continued Brook. ‘He has disappeared and it is vital that the public help us find him. Smethwick has lived locally for many years and has a boat at Shardlow Marina. He was a chef at Derby College until recently, where we believe he made contact with Thomson and the other students.
‘We know Thomson to be a cold and calculating individual, extremely organised, manipulative and charming.’ Brook raised a finger for emphasis. ‘However, we are convinced he is not local, so it’s highly likely that Kyle, Becky and Adele are being held in a place that connects to Lee Smethwick’s past. Any information we receive, maybe going back years, could be vital in locating them.’
Brook looked back at Charlton who held his gaze for a second longer than polite. After the Chief Superintendent had introduced the pictures of Smethwick, Thomson and Len Poole, the three officers wound up the briefing and left through a side door. Charlton rounded on Brook as soon as it was closed.
‘My God, Brook. Do you realise what you just did?’
Brook nodded sombrely. ‘Yes, sir. I woke people up.’
‘Woke them up?’ Charlton shouted and began to wave a finger in Brook’s face. ‘You handed out sensitive information!’
‘I don’t care about the trial,’ Brook retorted calmly. ‘At this rate there’s not going to be one.’
‘But if the DPP-’
‘I don’t care about that either,’ repeated Brook slowly. ‘All that matters is finding Adele and the others. It was time to remind everybody out there, all those faceless voyeurs, tucking into their TV dinners, that Deity is not entertainment. It’s not a show, there is no acting. Three young lives are at stake. They need our help and we need the public’s.’ Brook motioned Noble to leave.
‘And what do I say to hysterical parents when they ring up?’
‘I don’t give a damn what you say to them as long as you keep them away from my team so we can do our jobs.’
‘And I suppose that goes for me too.’ Charlton laughed bitterly.
Brook paused, ready to speak, but a touch on his arm from Noble prevented him. He turned away. ‘I’ll be in the Incident Room.’
‘You know, I’ve tried with you, Brook, I really have,’ scowled Charlton. ‘So let me lay it on the line for you. If you don’t find those kids by this time tomorrow, I’m taking you off the case.’
Brook turned from the doorway. ‘I understand,’ he said coldly.
‘That went well,’ said Noble. Brook gave him a lopsided smile. ‘Think Charlton’s cracking up?’
‘He’s not used to the pressure at our end,’ said Brook, logging on to his computer. ‘He should stick to budgets. Anything from the techs on our latest broadcast?’
‘Nothing. Want me to chase it up?’
Brook shook his head. ‘But load it up for me, please. I want to take another look.’
Noble smiled. ‘You know, we run courses for IT dunces,’ he said, putting his hand over the mouse and clicking the appropriate icons.
‘That’s Inspector Dunce to you.’
Noble laughed. He switched on the large screen and Becky Blake grinned excitedly at them from cyberspace.
Noble pulled out his cigarettes and padded to the door, turning to look at Brook gazing saucer-eyed at the film. He sighed and closed the door, pulling up a chair next to Brook. They watched together in silence.
When Becky finished her monologue, Noble paused the film on her barely concealed smirk. ‘Did her speech bother you at all?’
Brook turned to him. ‘Becky?’ He thought for a minute. ‘She went through the motions of claiming she was unhappy, but actually she seemed excited.’
‘Agreed,’ said Noble. ‘And if she’s preparing to take her own life, where’s the fear? Fear of pain. Fear of the unknown. She wasn’t afraid.’
Brook looked at Noble. ‘Like maybe she’s unaware that she’s supposed to be committing suicide.’
‘Exactly. She’s smiling almost as if she knows she’s famous enough now to walk into the modelling contract of her choice. Charlton was right — now she’s famous, she can come home and milk the attention.’ He started the broadcast again. ‘Contrast with Kyle.’
They watched Kyle’s statement. He was edgy, his delivery halting and fretful.
‘Now that is someone who thinks he’s about to die.’
Brook nodded. ‘That friend of Becky’s?’
‘Fern Stretton.’
‘She’s always believed Becky was in no danger. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Let’s take another run at her. After tonight’s press briefing she might finally realise Becky is in trouble.’
DS Gadd and DC Smee walked into the room. Gadd’s face betrayed her mounting frustration.
‘Nothing?’ asked Brook.
‘No. Read and a couple of others are manning the phones. We’re working through any tips but nothing stands out as a viable location. Smethwick is a real loner. He has no relatives and no friends we can find. We’re hunting up his old employers but it’s slow going.’
‘You mentioned pubs before.’
‘Right. He worked in five altogether, mainly as a grill chef or barman. The problem is pubs change hands, even breweries.’
‘They’re all local?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gadd turned to the large map. ‘Three in the city centre. The Brunswick. .’
‘Forget the city, he’s isolated. Where else?’
She consulted her list, pointing at the map. ‘The Crewe and Harpur in Chellaston. Then he seems to be off the radar for a while. A year later he started at the Malt Shovel in Aston-onTrent. That was seven years ago.’
‘Aston-on-Trent — that’s only a mile from Shardlow Marina,’ said Brook. ‘Get over there and have a word.’
Gadd looked at her watch. ‘It’ll be after closing when we get there.’
‘Jane, right now I don’t care if you have to burn the landlord out to speak to him, we need a break.’ He sighed, suddenly aware of how tired he was. ‘Just get them to speak to you,’ he said kindly.
Noble watched Gadd and Smee leave and pulled out a cigarette. Brook took his jacket from the back of the chair. His eye was held by the image of Adele Watson, frozen in time on the monitor, wearing her white dress and smiling confidently into the camera at the start of her manifesto.
‘Adele looks like an angel,’ said Noble.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
‘You were right about her,’ continued Noble. ‘She was impressive. She does have a lot to say.’
Brook nodded. ‘Let’s hope there’s more to come.’
Noble lit up on the steps of the station as Brook’s phone began to vibrate. It was Terri.
‘Dad. When are you coming home?’
‘Terri, I know it’s late but I may not make it back tonight — things are hotting up here. Don’t wait up, okay?’
There was a pause. ‘Dad, I need you to come home.’
‘Terri, I-’
‘I need you to come home now.’
Brook paused. ‘What’s wrong?’
Another pause. ‘I’ve been depressed, Dad. About Tony. I’ve taken something. Pills.’
Brook pushed his face closer to the phone as if to be better heard. ‘Terri, listen to me. What have you taken?’
Again a pause. ‘I don’t know, but I had a lot of them. I don’t feel so good.’
By this time Noble had cottoned on to a problem and was also listening intently. ‘Terri, listen carefully. I want you to hang up and dial 999.’
Another pause. ‘I’ve called the ambulance, Dad, but I need you to come home.’
‘Okay, darling. I’m on my way.’ He covered his phone for a moment. ‘John. Can you see Fern on your own?’
‘She’ll keep,’ said Noble firmly. ‘I can drive you home.’
‘John, I’m fine. I’ll be quicker, I know the roads. Talk to Fern and let me know.’
Brook sprinted to his car and jumped in. He screeched away from the car park, speaking into his phone. ‘Darling, I’m here. Terri, I want you to stand up. If you can, walk around until the ambulance gets there. Make coffee. Whatever you do, don’t lie on your back.’
‘Why?’
Brook shook off an image of his daughter choking on her own vomit. ‘Just do it and stay awake. If you can, make yourself throw up. I’ll be there in half an hour.’ He threw the open phone on the passenger seat and slammed the BMW into a lower gear to make the lights next to the Radio Derby building. The black car hurtled along St Alkmund’s Way then Brook flung it sharp right on to Ashbourne Road, heading for home.
Gadd and Smee pulled on to the green in Aston-on-Trent and parked by the Malt Shovel. Once inside they strode to the near-empty bar, pulling out their warrant cards. The young barmaid eyed them uneasily.
‘We’ve stopped serving,’ she said before she saw their ID.
‘Is the landlord in?’
‘He’s on holiday. I’m the relief manager.’
Gadd and Smee exchanged a resigned glance. ‘Never mind.’ Gadd turned away but hesitated. ‘How long has the current landlord been in the pub?’
The barmaid smiled blankly. ‘No idea.’
‘Ten years,’ said a tarry voice from the far end of the bar belonging to an overweight, grey-whiskered old man, who wore a flat cap and straining woollen cardigan despite the warmth of the evening. ‘What’s Austin been up to? Watering the beer again?’
‘And you are, sir?’
‘Who wants to know?’ he demanded. Gadd thrust her ID in his face. ‘Name’s Sam,’ he muttered resentfully.
‘We’re trying to locate an ex-employee. Lee Smethwick.’
‘Lee Smethwick.’ Sam snorted. ‘I remember that weirdo, all right.’
‘You knew him?’ said Smee.
Sam blew out his cheeks. ‘Not so much to talk to, thank God. He was a few sandwiches short of a picnic. You’d finish your pint and you might be the only soul in the bar but he’d just stand there like some stuffed dummy, staring into space. When you finally got his attention, you’d think you’d disturbed a sleepwalker.’
‘He lived on a boat in Shardlow Marina but he’s missing,’ said Gadd. ‘Did he have any haunts that he mentioned, any special places he liked to go? Somewhere big and private, say.’
Sam glanced down at his nearly drained pint then meaningfully back up at Gadd.
‘It’s past closing,’ began Smee.
‘Can we get another pint over here?’ Gadd called to the relief manager. She hesitated over her glass-drying. ‘It’s okay. He’s a local,’ said Gadd, as though it were some new by-law.
‘Thanks,’ said Sam, taking a large pull on the freshly drawn pint, a minute later.
‘Well?’
Sam just sat there, smiling inscrutably.
‘What can you tell us?’ said Smee.
‘Feel a bit of a fraud, accepting your pint,’ he said chuckling. ‘See, he did voluntary work at the Village.’
‘The Village?’
‘Aston Hall Mental Hospital — but they called it the Village. Make it sound welcoming, I suppose. You can see it from the end of the road. Just a lot of empty buildings and broken windows now. They closed it six, seven year ago after the fire. Lee volunteered there then did the odd shift in here. You ask me, he should’ve been a patient.’
Brook skidded to a halt behind the bright green VW. No ambulance. No lights on. Maybe it had been and gone or worse, hadn’t arrived yet. As Brook hurried towards the cottage he heard the sound of an engine block cooling down. He put his hand on the VW. The engine was still warm. He tried the driver’s door but it was locked so he sprinted up to the darkened cottage and burst into the kitchen.
Peeping Tom. Directed in 1960 by Michael Powell, starring Carl Boehm as a serial killer who films people as they die. Cool.
Brook saw the red dot in the shadows and around that a sinister figure sitting at the kitchen table. In spite of the darkness, Brook saw the light.
‘What have you done with my daughter, Ray?’
Brook heard a low chuckle. He leaned back towards the door to snap on the light.
‘Or are you still Rusty?’
Ray grinned back at him, the camcorder covering one eye, a pose Brook recognised from the Facebook picture of Rusty. But where Rusty’s skin had been pale and spotty, Ray looked tanned and healthy and, with the baseball cap still back to front on his head, the blond hair and the beard, Brook could plot Rusty’s transformation into Ray.
‘It’s amazing what you can do with facial hair, a bottle of dye and tinted contact lenses,’ said Ray, his visible eye still squinting as he filmed. ‘And — cut,’ he called, lowering the camcorder and fixing Brook with his blue eyes.
‘Where is she?’ said Brook, moving towards him.
‘Stay where you are or the girl gets it,’ he roared. He had an open laptop on the table in front of him and a finger hovered over the Enter button. A moment later, the grin returned. ‘Film?’
‘Where is she?’ repeated Brook.
‘You’re right,’ beamed Ray. ‘It could be any one of a dozen movies, and not very good ones either. Our denouement promises to be a much classier affair.’
‘Where is she, Ray?’ Brook advanced menacingly.
‘She’s safe,’ said Ray, turning the laptop screen to face Brook. Terri’s image glared back at him. Her eyes were closed and she wore an oxygen mask.
‘Where?’
‘She’s alive and will stay that way if you sit down.’
Brook looked at the screen, where Terri’s chest was rising and falling. There were a couple of tubes leading into the mask and Brook could see small red and green lights flashing next to two small tanks.
‘See those tubes? One is feeding her oxygen as we speak.’ He dangled a finger theatrically. ‘If I press Enter, the tank of cyanide gas will cut in and your daughter will be dead in seconds. Now sit down, we’ve got a lot to get through.’
Brook stared at the monitor. He recognised his bedroom and glanced towards the stairs.
Ray followed Brook’s eyes. ‘By the time you get there, she’ll be dead. Now please sit down.’ He indicated the chair opposite.
Brook gazed at him for a few seconds more, then scraped back the chair and sat.
‘Thank you,’ said Ray.
‘Terri didn’t take any pills.’
‘That was just a ruse,’ smiled Ray. ‘There’s a script in front of you if you want to see it.’
Brook pulled a sheet of A4 paper towards him. Tell him you’re depressed and have taken some pills. v. important — tell him you’ve called an ambulance already.
He pushed it away. ‘Very clever — she says she’s called the ambulance so I don’t do it.’ Brook’s eyes burned into his uninvited guest. ‘Ray, Rusty, what should I call you?’
‘Take your pick, Inspector. I have many names. I’m Moriarty. I’m the Star Child. I’m Horus. I’m Keyser Soze. I’m the Fifth Element. I’m Hanging Rock. I’m Deity. I’m everything and nothing, the unknown, always behind you, always beyond your field of vision.’
‘My daughter. .’
‘Your daughter’s fine. For now.’
Brook glared at him. ‘What do you want, Ray?’
Ray rummaged in a khaki-coloured laptop bag at his feet.
‘You can autograph my book for a start.’ He pulled out a copy of In Search of The Reaper by Brian Burton and slid it across the table. Brook snorted in bitter amusement. When it became clear he was serious, Brook opened the book and wrote a few words in the front before sliding it back across the table.
‘You know, for a star detective, you don’t seem to catch many killers,’ said Ray.
‘You haven’t got away, yet.’
Ray laughed. ‘Killer? Me?’
‘You killed Yvette’s son.’
‘I never laid a finger on that little pansy and I’ve got the photographs to prove it — the same with the others.’
‘Others?’
Ray raised a digit. ‘Getting me talking. Very good.’ He flipped open the book to read the dedication. ‘You’re sick and need help. Let me help you. Signed Damen Brook.’ Ray looked up and laughed. ‘Maybe Len was right, Damen. Maybe I have underestimated you.’
‘You took Len. Is he with the others?’ Ray nodded. ‘Dead?’
‘I’m not sure. I just finished recording my final message to him before you got here. Then we’ll see. Or rather you will. I’ll be long gone.’
‘And Adele?’
Ray looked at Brook with a mixture of appreciation and curiosity. ‘You single her out?’ He nodded. ‘You feel the same as me. Mesmeric, isn’t she? She’s going to be a great example.’
‘Is? You mean she’s alive?’
‘I mean she will provide ongoing inspiration to all those unhappy souls seeking a solution.’
‘And Kyle and Becky?’
He shrugged. ‘Who cares? Window-dressing. Adele is the key. Adele was my Miranda.’ He looked wistful for a moment. ‘You know, I’ll miss her. She was a good friend.’
They’re dead, you know. ‘So you have killed her.’
For once Ray’s restrained amusement gave way to consternation. ‘Don’t be vulgar, Damen. I’ve told you, I’m not a killer. I help people — help them to see their true value so they can clear their minds and do what has to be done.’
‘You mean you prey on the vulnerable and manoeuvre them towards their deaths. Like Wilson.’
‘Wilson was a bonus. I did him a favour. He threw himself at Yvette so I made him throw himself at the river.’ Ray laughed at his own joke. ‘Will he be missed? I don’t think so. The fat fuck is more famous now than he could ever have dreamed. He should be grateful. He was a bully and a sex-pest. But now the worldwide web has made him a star.’
‘What happened?’
‘After I filmed Kyle’s slapping I followed Wilson back to Yvette’s. He made it so easy for me. Did I kill him? No. Did I offer him mind-altering drugs? Absolutely. But he chose to take them. After that, a few choice words and his own paperedover inadequacies did the rest. He made quite a splash, don’t you think?’
Brook shook his head. ‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why are you doing this? Preying on teenagers on the verge of starting their lives? Is it because they have a future that you can only imagine?’
‘Where’s the fun in emptying out the old people’s homes? That’s no challenge, it’s a public service,’ Ray said. ‘But those with their whole lives in front of them. . getting them to step off is very rewarding.’
‘Because they have prospects that you were denied,’ snarled Brook. ‘You’re another orphan, aren’t you? Only you got bitter and twisted because people didn’t worship the ground you walked on. They couldn’t see how special you were. Is that how you hooked up with Yvette — two needy, grasping narcissists against the world?’
Ray’s face hardened. ‘And so the cheap psychoanalysis begins.’ In a whining voice he said, ‘It all started when I got a taste for pulling the legs off insects, Doctor. Pretty soon I moved on to drowning cats. .’ He couldn’t continue for laughing. ‘I wouldn’t expect a stupid policeman to understand.’
‘Try me.’
‘Try you? Okay. Start with this. What do you see when you look at a teenager?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t you? Tell me you don’t look at teenagers with hatred and envy — envy because you wish you could be their age so you could show them how to live, and hatred because you know they’re going to ignore you and waste all that precious youth.’
‘Youth is wasted on the young — that it? Well, like you, I already had my go round.’
‘And did you piss it all away?’
‘Of course. Everyone does,’ said Brook. ‘One way or another. That’s how it is. That’s why we can never look back without regret. How did I miss that opportunity? Why did I let myself get blown off-course? It’s called drift. That’s what teenagers do because they have all the time in world. And sure, they’re wrong about that, but so what? We all were. And as a result, we don’t waste time later in our lives because now we know we have less of it.’
‘Drift? All that potential, all that energy lost in an orgy of sex and booze and drugs. Too stupid to see how to grab life by the hand.’
‘That’s experience talking,’ said Brook. ‘Experience of wasting your best years. That doesn’t mean you should take somebody else’s as recompense. I know the young have it all. And they’re too weak to know it won’t last. That’s how it has to be — so they can waste it, like every generation before them and then spend the rest of their lives wondering how it happened.’
Ray smiled. ‘You do understand.’
‘About weakness?’ Brook hesitated. ‘I’ve encountered it.’
‘Weakness? The young aren’t weak, Damen. They’re sinners. They offend God. They’ve taken the deadliest of the Seven Deadly Sins and used it as their personal mantra.’
‘Vanity.’ Brook nodded.
Ray pointed an emphatic finger. ‘Exactly. These idiots think the universe revolves around them, but they lack the experience and confidence to cope when they finally realise it doesn’t. That’s the flaw, their Achilles heel. And that’s the moment, the exact second, when I have to be there. It’s a drug to me. That delicious instant when it dawns on them that the world no longer cares about them, that nobody is going to bail them out. “Boo hoo — I’m not going to be famous. Boo hoo — I’m going to be one of the nobodies I used to sneer at”. Broken heart — tough. Fallen out with your friends, lost your job, can’t afford the latest phone — life’s a bitch.’
‘So they have to die?’
Ray grinned. ‘Yes, they do — and they deserve it for being so unprepared. And it’s so wonderful to be there to help them escape that first setback, that thunderbolt that tells them how ordinary they are. And know what? They’re even grateful. When the knowledge hits, I can give them what’s beyond their grasp.’
‘Fame,’ said Brook softly.
Ray nodded. ‘It’s a trade-off. I give them the attention, the validation they want; they give me what I want. It’s a small price to pay to rise above the anonymity of the masses.’
‘And that’s what Adele wanted?’
‘Above all things, Damen. So bad she could taste it. She couldn’t take the chance she might go through life unheard. You heard her manifesto. Magnificent, wasn’t it? What a talent. Just watch the clamour for her thoughts now.’
They’re dead, you know. ‘It’s not their fault, Ray. Adele, Kyle, Becky. They’re not to blame for expecting their lives to run to their own agenda.’
‘I know that,’ chuckled Ray. ‘You think I don’t? That’s what makes it all the more delicious. See — they’re the innocent. That’s the drug — I’m not interested in punishing the guilty.’
‘The guilty?’
‘You, Damen. Mr and Mrs Watson. Alice Kennedy. The Blakes. You’re the guilty ones — all the parents. They’re the ones in the dock. They’re the ones who perpetrate this appalling fraud on their kids. Look at me, Mummy. Listen to my drivel. Yes, darling, of course I will. Everything you say is fascinating. Everything you do is interesting. Make it better, Mummy. Make it better, Daddy, Grandma, Grandad, primaryschool teacher. Course I will, darling, and even if I can’t, the effort I make will still make you think the sun orbits around you.’
‘Is that how your parents treated you?’ asked Brook. ‘Smothering you with their love and concern — what an ordeal for you.’ Ray didn’t appreciate the sarcasm but declined to reply. Instead, Brook went on: ‘Wait — no. Those were the parents of your friends. Those were the parents you wished you’d had so that for a brief glorious moment as a child, you might feel special. I bet those kids weren’t friends for long.’
From below the table Ray produced a gun and turned it in his hand. ‘Recognise this, Damen? I found it in the attic. What’s a British policeman doing with a gun in his attic?’
‘What are you going to do with Terri?’
‘I was asking about the gun.’
‘It’s a souvenir.’
‘Of what?’
‘A case. An opponent.’
‘A souvenir?’ Ray looked at the M9 automatic in wonder. ‘Remember that bit in Badlands when Martin Sheen allows himself to be caught on the Canadian border — when he gives one of the pursuing officers his lighter?’
Brook glanced again at the image of his daughter on the monitor.
‘Remember the contentment on Sheen’s face,’ continued Ray. ‘The peace. “Here, son, have my lighter. I’m famous. Share in my glory. Tell people about the day you caught a legendary killer and how he gave you his lighter.” ’ Ray frantically rummaged in his pockets and peered into the small shoulder bag lying on the table. ‘Now you’ve got me going. What can I give you to remember me by? It needs to be something personal. I know.’ He rummaged in a pocket and pulled out a set of keys. ‘Adele’s house keys.’ He slid them across to Brook. ‘Put ’em in your pocket, Damen. I insist.’ Brook made no move to pick them up.
‘I said put them in your pocket.’ Ray’s hand hovered over the laptop keyboard until Brook pocketed the set of three keys. ‘You’ll thank me sooner than you think. Know what you can do with them? When her mum goes out, you can nip round there and lie on Adele’s bed. That’s what her dad used to do. Just to smell her, she said. Fucking pervert didn’t even pull himself off. How wrong is that?’
‘If you’re giving out souvenirs, I’d prefer a lock of your hair,’ said Brook. ‘Or that used plaster on your neck to match against the one you left at Kyle’s. I’d treasure that.’
‘You’re good.’ Ray grinned.
‘How is your neck, by the way?’
‘Better, thanks.’ Ray removed the cap and touched the skin-coloured plaster now visible on the back of his neck. ‘Old Len certainly took a gouge out of me, the sly old fucker. Who’d have thought he had it in him?’
‘So Len’s attack wasn’t faked.’
‘Far from it. I was walking along, innocently plotting the suicides of my classmates when I felt this searing pain in my neck. Next thing I knew, I was on the ground but when I looked up at the camera, not only was it fine, it was actually filming. Then it came to me. My hand was covered in blood and I nearly had a Soylent Green moment. You know, Charlton Heston, reaching out with his dying breath. “Soylent Green is made out of people.” ’ He laughed. ‘What a fucking ham. But I managed to stop myself and it turned out perfectly.’
‘What we see and what we seem is but a dream,’ said Brook quietly.
Ray looked at him, an appreciative smile curling his lips. ‘I’m glad I prepared properly. That didn’t fool you for a minute, did it?’
‘Maybe just a minute,’ replied Brook. ‘I see you’ve got over your aversion to swearing. Don’t need to play suitable boyfriend any more, Ray?’
‘Don’t forget the tattoos.’
‘That was a nice touch.’ Brook nodded.
Ray shrugged. ‘I can’t take the credit — Terri mentioned it. See, fathers of daughters always have the easiest buttons to push. Like Adele’s father, for instance.’ He took out a mobile phone and read from the screen. ‘I’m happy now, Dad. I’d rather die than live a minute longer under your roof. Goodbye. Adele.’
‘You’ve got Adele’s SIM card,’ said Brook.
‘Kyle and Becky’s too. They’ve helped me reach out to the vulnerable.’
‘First Jake McKenzie. Now Jim Watson.’
Ray smiled. ‘I sent him that an hour ago. The phone company will probably be contacting you about it. Now, how do you suppose he’ll react to that a few hours after seeing his daughter say goodbye to the world?’ Brook didn’t reply. ‘You’re right, Damen. It’s a cheap shot and I wouldn’t normally bother with people that age — their failure is endemic. And for a grieving father of a beautiful daughter into the bargain, well, self-destruction is almost inevitable.’
‘Then why send it?’
Ray pushed the gun across to Brook. ‘To show you how easy it is to put people out of their misery. Pick it up.’
Brook looked at the gun. ‘You’re going to kill Terri, aren’t you?’
Ray laughed. ‘Again with the drama. How many times? I don’t kill people.’
‘Then why all this?’ asked Brook, gesturing at the laptop.
‘To get control,’ insisted Ray. ‘So we can talk like civilised men. I’m the director. I have to have control. I wouldn’t kill Terri unless I had to — a great girl like that. Besides, she’s too old. She had her chance to make a statement but she blew it and now she’s got a lifetime of despair and decay ahead.’
‘Just like me,’ said Brook.
‘On the contrary,’ said Ray, looking first at the gun and then at Brook. ‘We haven’t. . you know, if that’s what you’re wondering. Not that I couldn’t have. I could tell she wanted to but it didn’t seem right. Fucking the grieving daughter is a bit grubby.’
‘She stopped grieving for Tony a long time ago.’
Ray laughed. ‘She’s not grieving for Tony, she’s grieving for you — or will be. You’re the big prize. Why do you think I’m here?’ Ray stretched his arms wide, reading the imaginary headline. ‘suicide detective takes own life. What better advert for all those lost souls out there? What bigger boost for Deity? Forget Tony, Damen. I’ve come for you.’