A minute later, father and daughter sat on the garden bench pulling lovingly on their cigarettes and looking up at the soft cottonwool of the Milky Way. For two people who hadn’t conversed in five years, it was odd that no words were needed.
‘It’s great here, Dad,’ she finally said, putting a hand on his arm. ‘I wish I’d come sooner.’
Brook smiled in the darkness. ‘You’re here now. That’s all that counts.’ Then a thought occurred. ‘You were a teenager.’ Brook felt the rise in tension within her and realised she might be expecting a conversation about their last meeting. But it was worse than that. After missing her entire childhood and most of her teenage years, he was thinking about the case. He shook his head. What kind of father was he?
‘Apparently,’ she finally said.
Time to change the subject. ‘Whose picture did you have on your wall?’ he said before he could stop himself. He felt her looking at him. ‘You know, actors, rock stars.’
‘Why?’
Why – because you’re interested in me, because you want to make up for lost time?
‘Never mind.’
‘No, tell me.’
Brook hesitated. ‘A girl disappeared – two, actually. But I’m trying to get a feeling for this particular girl. Adele. She reminds me of you. Smart and beautiful.’
Brook heard the breath of her grin leave her mouth.
A moment’s thought later. ‘Leonardo Di Caprio. Brad Pitt. Johnny Depp.’
‘Are any of those dead?’
‘No, but I had a Jimi Hendrix poster. He OD-ed in 1970.’
‘Twenty years before you were born.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘I don’t know. I’m asking you.’
‘Who was this girl into?’
‘James Dean, Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain.’
‘Jim Morrison was a poet as well as a singer.’
‘She writes poetry,’ said Brook.
‘What’s that like?’
‘We can’t find any. We think she has it with her. But what does it mean, having all these dead guys on your wall?’
‘Ah well,’ said Terri. ‘There’s love and then there’s perfect love.’
‘Perfect love?’
‘Sure. Perfect love is pure, immortal. It’s wonderful – but to have it, one of you has to be dead.’ The shadow of remembrance passed over her expression for a moment.
‘Like Romeo and Juliet.’
‘In a way, but they both died so it’s different.’
‘What does that mean?’
Terri
took out two more cigarettes and passed one to her father. ‘It means that girls of a certain age are inevitably attracted to bad boys because they represent danger and an escape from the humdrum reality of their lives. But with a dead guy you idolise from afar, you can form a perfect and pure relationship.’
‘Go on,’ said Brook.
‘Well, the relationship is chaste for one thing. But that only increases the erotic possibilities – since they can never have bad sex. All the sex is idealised in the mind so it’s always wonderful.’
‘Interesting.’
‘It is. And, of course, the dead guy is always yours. He can never get married or desert you – no other girl in the universe can claim him.’
Brook nodded. ‘So she can never be rejected by her dead lover.’
‘No. Hence their love is immortal. Nothing can get in the way,’ she looked up at him, her smile tinged with sadness, ‘until the girl is ready to move on. Didn’t this Adele have any crushes on the living?’
‘Some actor in something called
True
. . .’
‘
True Blood
?’
‘Right. Alexander . . .’
‘Skarsgard,’ Terri supplied.
Brook looked at the shadows of her face. ‘Why do I get the impression you’ve studied this before?’
‘Because I have. The
True Blood
series is a big deal in America.’
‘It’s about vampires. You’re not telling me you study it as part of your literature degree.’
‘Only
insofar as it’s a cultural event, Dad. It taps directly into what I said – the desire for perfect, immortal love.’
‘So this actor’s dead?’
‘No, but he plays a vampire – so yes, he’s dead but, more important, he’s also immortal. That’s why millions of teenage girls are besotted with the idea of hot vampires. You can have your beefcake and eat it.’
Brook smiled. ‘How lucky am I to have a daughter so intelligent?’ Terri didn’t answer but Brook saw she was pleased. He yawned. ‘You’ll have to tell me more tomorrow. Right now I need to get some sleep. Listen, I’ll have the sofabed . . .’
‘No, you won’t. This is your house. You get off to bed and get a good night’s kip. I can sleep late.’
‘Okay.’ Brook stood and walked to the house. He turned to Terri as she sipped the last of her wine. ‘Thanks, Terri.’
‘For what?’
‘Just thanks.’ Brook put some blankets on the sofa and trudged off to bed. He looked out of his bedroom window, feeling well-fed and happy. Terri was stroking Basil on the garden bench. Even Bobby, Basil’s painfully shy brother, had put in an appearance and was manoeuvring himself for some attention.
Brook glanced at the clock. It was a time at which he was more accustomed to being woken by insomnia. He lay back and was asleep in moments.
Diarmuid Strachan – Jock to his friends, enemies and anyone who might be likely to give him spare change – woke to the sight and sound of a rat nuzzling around at his feet, attracted by the putrid aroma of the fungus flourishing between his damp toes.
‘Fuck
off, ye bastard.’ He kicked out a disintegrating leather boot at the beast, which skittered into the darkness. He sat up to scratch his whiskers, trying to focus on the small bar of light high in the vaulted roof. It was daylight.
Right nuff
. He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the half-dozen watches he wore to occasionally barter for enough coins to buy a drink. He peered myopically at each in turn, but each gave a different time. After working his way through three bottles of cheap whisky since Oz had picked him up, he’d forgotten that none of them worked. He only kept them because if he was begging anywhere near a clock large enough for him to see, he could sometimes set one to the right time and sell it to some unsuspecting Sassenach.
Just slow like me. S’good watch, pal.
He let his sleeve drop and tried to stand but fell back on to his hands, and although he banged his head hard on the wall, he felt nothing. Instead he took another groggy sweep around his gloomy accommodation. His new pal Oz had brought him here, picking him up in the middle of the night promising a bath and a bed. But he had no idea where he was or how long it had taken to get here. He knew there were white tiles on the wall and several hard cold slabs on which he’d banged his knees, but he hadn’t yet been able to locate an exit. It was very dark but it was dry and warm and the bar never closed. Jock chuckled at his joke but stopped laughing when he realised he’d run out of whisky – the bar
was
now closed.
Right nuff
.
‘S’why a cannae fuckin’ see.’ He heard a rasping cough far away, the echo sounding around the white-tiled walls. Jock strained towards the source of the noise. ‘Zat you, pal?’ He saw movement as someone carrying a torch entered and walked towards him, stopping at one of the slabs. He heard a clicking
sound and saw it came from a battered old case being set down and unlocked. ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me,’ said the voice he recognised from . . . before.
‘Never thought I’d say this, pal, but you got anything ti’ eat? You ken me?’
‘You look well.’ He sighed so even Jock could hear it. ‘Despite all that whisky.’ There was an unmistakable edge of disappointment in the man’s voice. Jock mistook it for male bonding and began to wheeze with laughter as he tried to right himself once more.
‘Whisky? I was drinking whisky out mi ma’s teet.’ He cackled asthmatically, and followed this up with a prolonged hacking cough.
The man chuckled back at him and looked in his case. He took out the pouch of surgical instruments and a bottle of methanol and looked regretfully at them. ‘Well, I was saving these for a special occasion but as you’re so set on an early death, I can hardly refuse a guest, can I?’
‘Can yer fuck?’ Jock scrambled to his feet like an Olympic athlete now and scuttled towards the man’s voice, holding out a filthy hand to be guided on to the bottle.
The man unscrewed the lid, located Jock’s hand around the neck and watched as he took a mansize slug. ‘Drink hearty, my friend, and soon you can be reborn.’
B
ROOK CHECKED THE ADDRESS AGAINST
Noble’s scribble and stepped from the car. It was a bright morning with just a hint of a chilled breeze. Terri had been fast asleep when Brook crept out of the door at seven and, an hour later, he stood outside Russell Thomson’s Brisbane Estate home – a small, dog-eared semi-detached with large wooden-framed windows that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in a while.
Brook had very little information on Yvette Thomson. She was a single mum, according to Alice Kennedy, and had been in Derby for only a few months. Alice hadn’t got to know her well and didn’t know what she did for a living, but she had heard that her son Russell had had problems with bullying, hence the move to a new college in the middle of the academic year.
Brook knocked on the rickety glass door and stepped back to look for signs of life. All the curtains and blinds were drawn. He knocked again and this time fished in his jacket for his mobile. Noble would still be in bed, having left the surveillance on Leopold Street a couple of hours previously. Brook painstakingly tapped out a text for him to organise a briefing for
four o’clock and a press conference for six. He made sure the punctuation was correct then sent it on his way with a hefty depression of the thumb.
The noise of a window opening lifted Brook’s head.
‘That better not be you, Wilson,’ croaked a sleepy voice. ‘I’m on evenings this week.’
‘Mrs Thomson.’ Brook shielded his eyes and followed the voice to the upstairs window. He could make out only the shock of black hair hanging down over a face.
‘Oh, crap. Is this about the meter reading?’
Brook flashed his warrant card even though she wouldn’t see it. ‘Detective Inspector Brook,’ he added for good measure. ‘I’d like a word with your son.’
There was a shocked pause and some attempt to focus on Brook through the hair. ‘Rusty? Oh God, is he okay?’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ began Brook.
‘What’s he been doing?’
‘He’s not in trouble, Mrs Thomson. I just need to speak to him.’
She nodded. ‘Okay. Catch.’ She jerked her hand and a set of keys fell towards Brook, who caught them before they hit the drive. ‘Let yourself in.’ The black hair disappeared only to reappear immediately. ‘And put the kettle on.’
Brook unlocked the front door which opened stiffly into a bare hall with a ubiquitous grey carpet that had seen better days. Unknown substances sucked at his shoes as he located and turned into the compact kitchen on the left and snapped on the kettle, which was full. A cafetière stood nearby. It already contained fresh coffee grounds and there was a small gift card still attached to the handle. It read,
Pour Eve. Merci, Phil
.
Brook
located the coffee jar and added another spoonful, then unearthed another mug from a cupboard. It contained four cups in total – all from different sets. Brook smiled. There was even a jam jar.
When the kettle boiled, Brook filled the cafetière and opened the fridge. The only food was a half-full takeaway carton, a quarter of melon and a packet of butter. Brook plucked the milk from the door and made the coffee. He took a sip and opened another cupboard which was empty apart from three wine glasses.
‘Do you have a search warrant, Inspector?’
Brook turned. Yvette Thomson stood at the door. She was about three inches shorter than his six feet, slender but with a full figure that strained against her snug white T-shirt. She was strikingly pretty and could’ve passed for late twenties but Brook knew, with an eighteen-year-old son, she had to be early thirties, at least.
She grinned suddenly at Brook’s discomfort and her face lit up. ‘Sorry.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve been watching too much
Law and Order
. Coffee! You angel.’ She grabbed her mug, took a lingering mouthful and moaned with pleasure.
‘Sorry to get you up this early, Mrs Thomson,’ said Brook. ‘I thought I’d catch you and Russell before you went to work.’
‘It’s Miss, though I’d prefer Yvette. And you could have given it another six hours.’ She yawned. ‘I’m working behind the bar at the Mermaid at the moment. It helps pay the rent while I study.’
She seemed in no hurry to enquire about his visit so Brook dredged up some more small talk. ‘What are you studying?’
‘I’m doing a course in Beauty Therapy at Derby College,’ she replied.
‘It
seems to be working,’ said Brook, for something to say.
She smiled at him and took another sip of coffee. ‘I’ve missed a lot of the course actually – didn’t start until November.’
‘Must be tough moving during the academic year, especially for your son.’
Yvette considered Brook from behind her cup. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘I need to ask Russell a few questions. Is he here?’
‘Sorry. Rusty’s hardly ever at home.’
‘Pity. Who’s Wilson?’
Yvette Thomson rolled her eyes. ‘Oh my God – one of Rusty’s mates at the college.’ She looked away briefly. ‘By mates, I mean fellow students. Rusty doesn’t make friends easily.’
‘And were you expecting him?’
‘Wilson? No, but he keeps popping round, asking if I need any jobs doing. Well, it’s a rented house so I’m not about to embark on home improvements, but that doesn’t stop him asking. It was sweet at first,’ she said, ‘but it can get on your nerves. Apparently, he thinks I’m a MILF.’
Brook emitted a one-note laugh. ‘I hate to say it, but I know what that is.’
‘So do I,’ she answered. ‘A girl at college told Rusty it means Mums I Like Fine. Poor Rusty – so smart, yet so naive.’
‘He’s meeting girls at least.’
‘Adele? She’s
waa-aaa-ay
out of his league.’
‘You’re referring to Adele Watson, I assume,’ said Brook. ‘She was at a party with Russell at the weekend.’