‘And you don’t know his name?’
‘No,’ said Watson.
‘Perhaps Adele mentioned him in an email?’ suggested Brook.
‘No. Her laptop’s gone – I told you.’
Brook held up a hand in apology. ‘So you did.’
‘And he drove a Porsche,’ said Noble, making a note.
Watson hesitated now. ‘Not definitely. But a sports car of some kind. Or maybe it was a saloon.’
‘You told me it was a Porsche,’ said Roz Watson.
‘Either way, an older man,’ prompted Brook, fixing his eye on Watson. ‘With money.’
‘I
would think.’
Brook smiled warmly at the husband and wife. ‘Well, if you could go downstairs and finish that list of contacts with PC . . .’
‘. . . Crainey,’ finished Noble.
‘Right. And keep out of Adele’s room in case Scientific Support Officers need to do any work.’
‘There’s something wrong there,’ said Brook, when they were standing under the streetlight outside the front gate.
‘I know. They seemed more angry than concerned.’
‘And they didn’t mention their daughter by name the entire time. At the Blake house it was Becky this and Becky that – same with Mrs Kennedy and Kyle.’
‘Now you mention it,’ said Noble, passing Brook a cigarette.
‘Another odd thing – he seemed happy telling us his daughter had been dumped. That’s not normal. Contrast that with a typical father like Fred Blake who thinks no one’s fit to breathe the same air as his daughter. Anybody dumping Becky Blake would be bad-mouthed for the rest of his life.’
‘Think Watson has an idea who the boyfriend is and plans to confront him?’
‘That might explain his memory loss over the Porsche.’ Brook took a deep lungful of smoke. ‘But there’s more to it than that. His daughter’s missing but he hardly seems surprised or worried.’
‘Like he knows where she’s gone?’
‘Or maybe
why
she might go.’
‘Something to do with him, you think?’
Brook shrugged. ‘Possible. We need to search the house.’
‘Looking for what!’ exclaimed Noble.
‘The
laptop, for one thing. And something containing Adele’s writings.’
‘You think Watson took Adele’s laptop?’
‘Maybe. Or maybe she hid it herself. Either way, Becky and Kyle both left their laptops behind. So where’s Adele’s?’
‘Maybe they need one between the three of them so she took it.’
‘And not even put it in its case?’
‘It’s odd. But why would Watson take it?’
‘No idea. Perhaps he thinks there’s something on it – a poem or a piece of writing or an email – he doesn’t want anyone to see.’
‘Containing what?’
‘Who knows? It may be no more than father and daughter butting heads over her choice of boyfriend, but girls can be pretty vitriolic behind your back.’
‘What about Mrs Watson? Do you think she’s covering for her husband about something?’
‘I’m not sure she knows there’s anything amiss, not deep down.’ Brook smiled sadly. ‘Maybe even he doesn’t.’
Noble nodded. ‘So it may all be in his head.’
‘Or Adele’s. Teenage daughters are younger versions of our wives, John, so it’s not a huge leap for that relationship to be corrupted. The boyfriend could have triggered something in him that caused conflict. Our daughters having sex with other men is the secret dread of all fathers, the first thing we picture when boys start looking their way. It’s even worse when older men are looking.’
Noble kept silent, waiting for a corroborating anecdote from Brook’s own past parenting. It didn’t arrive. He threw his butt to the pavement. ‘I’ll put in a call to Social Services
tomorrow. See what pops up on the Watsons. So where does this leave us?’
‘With three unhappy kids looking to change their lives,’ Brook said. ‘Three abandoned mobile phones and three leaflets. This website . . .’
‘Deity?’
‘We need to find out who’s behind it. Tell Cooper to start on it as soon as he gets in tomorrow. And get a warrant for the Watson house.’ Brook looked at his watch then back to the front door as the uniformed FLO closed it behind him. Brook stepped to the rear of his car and opened the boot. He took out the small tightly packed bin bag retrieved from the Kennedy dustbin. ‘It’s gone eleven, John. Can you get a lift back with . . . ?’
‘I can,’ said Noble.
‘Good, get some rest before your surveillance. Take this bin bag to the lab and give them the plaster. I’ll call on this Russell Thomson on my way in tomorrow and then we’ll see about going public.’
I
T WAS CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT
when Brook finally pulled up to his cottage in Hartington. To his annoyance, a lime-green VW Polo was parked outside his house so he had to leave his BMW in the cramped drive of Rose Cottage, the empty rental property next door.
He trudged wearily to his tiny porch carrying one of the Deity leaflets in a plastic wallet – something to think about in the lonely hours to keep his mind off the mortal remains of Barry Kirk.
He fumbled for his door key, trying to ignore his grumbling stomach. He hadn’t eaten since his bacon sandwiches but hadn’t had time to buy food again. Worse still, he hadn’t bought cigarettes.
When Brook put his key in the lock and turned, nothing happened – the door was already unlocked. Had he forgotten to lock up this morning? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d wandered out in an insomniac fug. Once he’d even forgotten to close the door.
He returned his key to his pocket, but instead of opening the door, he paused to listen. Something felt wrong. He knelt to lift the empty flower pot in the corner of the porch. The spare key was gone.
Again
Brook racked his brains, trying to remember if he’d moved it to another hiding-place but his brain was too tired to cooperate. He came to a decision and pulled gently down on the handle and eased the front door open. It moved without a sound and he peered into the blackness of the kitchen beyond and listened. Without flicking on the light he couldn’t be sure, but he sensed things were not how he’d left them earlier in the day. There were dark shapes on the kitchen table which he didn’t recognise. He knew they couldn’t be his. Brook didn’t have clutter, knick-knacks, objets d’art nor any of the mementoes of a life lived. His development as a human being had been in suspended animation for years.
Brook took a tentative step into the shadows, then another. When he reached the foot of the tiny crooked staircase he gazed up to the trapdoor in the roofspace on the first floor. He had an unlicensed gun in the attic, a legacy of his entanglements with The Reaper. It didn’t work but maybe that wouldn’t matter, and he wished he’d hidden it in a more accessible place.
Brook remembered his training – Defensive not Offensive. He slid off his shoes and then his jacket, wrapping it around his leading arm. Burglars often carried large knives, not principally for protection but to sever the wiring of desirable electrical goods for ease of carriage. That didn’t mean a surprised intruder wouldn’t use it when cornered.
Suitably protected, Brook tiptoed into the small lounge, where a figure lay on the sofa, legs splayed across one of the arms, its breathing shallow. Brook leaned over to switch on a lamp.
He squinted at the face of the intruder then stood upright in bewilderment. ‘Terri?’
The figure stirred and opened her eyes. ‘Dad.’
‘Terri.’ Brook
flung his jacket to the floor, sat on the sofa and hugged his daughter. ‘It’s really you. What are you doing here? Never mind. How long have you been here? Never mind.’ He hugged her again, then held her by the shoulders in panic and searched in her eyes. ‘What’s wrong? Is your mother all right?’
Terri yawned and sat up. ‘Dad, she’s fine. Where’ve you been?’
‘Work.’
She squinted at her watch. ‘Nothing changes.’
‘Why didn’t you give me some notice?’
‘I did. I emailed you, Dad. Two weeks ago. To tell you I wanted to come and visit. How often do you check your emails?’ she said, swinging her feet to the floor.
Brook shrugged. ‘Every couple of weeks. At least.’
She shook her head then smiled. ‘You look well, Dad.’
Brook raised an eyebrow. He knew he was wasting away. ‘For a workaholic who doesn’t look after himself, you mean.’ He held her tight again. ‘
You
look beautiful. You really do – just like your mum. Your hair suits you, short. I like it.’ Brook stopped, looking sheepish. He wasn’t usually the type to gush.
Terri smiled back. ‘No flaws?’
He peered at her neck and examined her red-nailed hands. Her arms were covered. ‘Still no tattoos?’
‘Da-ad. I’m twenty years old.’
‘So you’ve got one,’ he probed.
‘No, I haven’t. But not because
all criminals have tattoos
. . .’
‘I never said that.’
‘Something very like it.’ She laughed. ‘Besides, I can’t stand needles – remember?’
‘Great. That rules out heroin as well.’
‘You
can smoke heroin, Dad.’
Brook did a double-take but laughed when she laughed. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. I wish I’d known. I could’ve—’
‘What, Dad? Emptied the fridge of sour milk and filled it with food? That’ll be the day. After all these years, you’re still all over the place. You and that bloody job. I don’t know why you don’t retire. Mum says you’ve got enough money.’
‘I don’t do it for the money, darling,’ he said quietly. ‘I do it because . . .’ He hesitated, unsure how to explain.
‘It’s okay,’ she said, putting a hand on his chest. ‘Mum told me.’
Brook sighed. The elephant of his mental breakdown was still in the room but taking up a little less space. Unfortunately, that would leave more space for the second elephant – her stepfather.
‘You must be starving,’ he said to change the subject.
Terri bounced to her feet and led him to the kitchen. ‘No, Dad. Far from it – I knew to come prepared. I brought wine and made spag bol. Would you like some?’
‘Terri, I’d love some.’
So Brook sat down at the kitchen table while Terri busied herself at the tiny old-fashioned stove that had rarely warmed a pan. She poured him a glass of red wine and he nibbled on some French bread while he waited for his meal. He couldn’t take his eyes from his daughter’s back as she reheated the sauce and boiled more pasta. She was taller and seemed even more self-assured than he remembered. Her hair was shorter and her make-up a little subtler than that traumatic day on Brighton Pier, the last time he’d seen her. And, of course she was no longer wearing a school uniform. Now she wore
figure-hugging jeans and a dark velvet v-neck top with long sleeves that nearly covered her hands.
Five years. His daughter was a stranger. Brook bit down on the melancholy.
She may be a stranger but she’s here now
.
‘So is that your car outside?’
‘Yep. Mum bought it for getting round Manchester.’
‘Does she know you’re here?’ Brook saw Terri’s back stiffen as she paused to consider her reply.
‘No.’
Brook nodded behind her back. Amy would never forgive him. Not content with destroying her first marriage through his obsessive hunt for The Reaper, Brook had done the same to her second, denouncing her new husband, the late Tony Harvey-Ellis, as a sexual abuser of their only daughter. ‘Give her my . . . best wishes when you see her.’ Terri turned round as though about to break some terrible news. He added gently, ‘But only if you want to tell her you’ve seen me.’ She smiled with relief and turned back to the stove. ‘You’re enjoying university?’
‘Loving it, Dad.’
‘And how do you like . . . ?’
‘American Literature.’
‘I know, I know,’ protested Brook. ‘All that Norman Mailer and Truman Capote.’
‘Those old dinosaurs. It’s all Jonathan Franzen and Amy Tan these days.’
‘No place for the flawed old men, eh?’ said Brook.
‘I wouldn’t say that, Dad.’ Terri began to serve Brook’s meal. ‘I mean, Mailer’s a pig, no question. But if you get past the misogyny and the drinking, there’s a lot of elegiac, ravaged poetry in the man. Do you know what I mean?’
Brook
smiled at her. He realised he hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d seen her face. ‘Yes, I do. This looks good.’
‘I’m expecting you to eat it all.’
‘Don’t worry. This is likely to be the last home-cooked meal I’ll get for a while.’
‘Oh, no it’s not. I’m staying for a couple of weeks. I mean if that’s okay,’ she added hastily.
‘A couple of weeks? Does the university allow you time off?’ said Brook, tucking in with gusto.
‘I’ve got a dissertation to do so I need some peace and some space, Dad. Can I stay?’
‘I’d love you to stay,’ said Brook, before a frown invaded his features. ‘I . . . er don’t know how much time . . .’
‘Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll be busy, and I’m sure you’ve got a hot case to crack.’
‘Two,’ replied Brook as he chewed.
‘That’s settled then. How’s the Bolognese?’
Brook ladled another large spoonful into his mouth. ‘It’s the finest I’ve ever had, Terri.’
‘That bad, eh?’ she joked and plucked a second glass from a cardboard box of four then poured herself a large glass of wine.
‘You brought wine glasses?’
‘Housewarming present. I prefer not to drink out of jam jars.’ She looked at him with a hint of a tease. ‘I’ll put them in the
glasses
cupboard later.’
He spoke ruefully back at her through a mouthful of pasta. ‘You’re not going to go easy on me, are you?’
‘Dad, you’ve got a pint glass, a whisky tumbler and two jam jars to drink from. And one of them still has a label on. How easy should I make it?’
Brook laughed. ‘In my defence, I’ve only been in the house
for four years and there haven’t been many,’ he looked away, ‘well . . .’
‘They’re called women, Dad. I’m told they make good companions.’ She fumbled in her handbag and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, unable to meet his eye.
Brook sensed she was ready for him so said nothing, but his face gave the game away.
‘I’m twenty years old now. I can make my own mistakes.’
‘I didn’t say anything.’
‘You didn’t have to.’
‘But you can’t smoke in the house, Terri. That’s a rule.’ He finished his last forkful of pasta and gathered up his wine glass. ‘Bring your glass and a coat. I’ll show you why I bought this place.’