‘I can’t comment on that.’
‘But is it true that you’ve interviewed a lecturer at Derby College responsible for setting up the Deity website?’
‘I can confirm that financial details were fraudulently obtained and used to set up
Deity.com
. The individual to whom you refer is not – I repeat
not
– a suspect at this time. More than that, I’m not prepared to say.’
‘So he was an unwilling dupe?’
‘No comment.’
Brook tried not to smile imagining Rifkind’s dismay at being so described.
‘We saw a bewildering array of reports of teenage suicides in today’s broadcast,’ said a female journalist. ‘Do you think whoever filmed Wilson’s death was involved in those other suicides?’
Charlton looked across to Brook.
‘It’s extremely doubtful,’ said Brook. ‘Those deaths took place over several years and in different parts of the country. Obviously we can’t rule it out, but I’d be more inclined to think that Deity is trying to claim credit for deaths that were way beyond its influence.’
‘So you won’t be adding those deaths to your inquiry?’
‘Other forces are welcome to reopen those investigations, and if they uncover anything relevant to the death of Wilson Woodrow, we’d be happy to listen. We will only be looking at why some of those cases were selected for broadcast, not looking into the actual deaths, no.’
The questioning moved on and Brook was relieved and a
little surprised, that no one else had noticed the rogue picture of the unknown hanged boy.
‘Still think we should let that website keep broadcasting?’ asked Charlton when they’d reached the sanctuary of the Incident Room. Noble and Cooper were still there despite their early start that morning. ‘Their output is starting to seriously impact on our ability to get things done.’
‘It’s your call, sir,’ said Brook. ‘But I’d say we’ve only got one or two more broadcasts at the most.’
Charlton looked at his watch. ‘Let’s hope so. Eight o’clock – nineteen hours until the next one. So what the hell are we going to see tomorrow?’
‘You want me to answer that?’
‘If you can.’
Brook considered for a moment. ‘Best guess – more deaths.’
Charlton closed his eyes briefly. ‘Go on.’
‘Every broadcast has been an escalation of the last. Violence, sex and now death – the human experience right there. There’s nowhere to go except more death.’
‘Who?’
‘Maybe Russell. Maybe all of them.’
‘Why Russell?’ said Charlton.
‘He’s the only one we haven’t seen, who hasn’t had his moment in the sun.’
Charlton nodded. ‘Fake deaths?’
‘I would hope so. And we may get a parting message. But it’s important to Deity that nothing is resolved. Like
Picnic at Hanging Rock
, they want us to be talking about them years from now.’
‘Fame at last,’ said Noble.
‘But
if they follow the film to the letter it’s going to end in death,’ put in Cooper.
‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ said Brook.
‘Or they pack it in and come home to soak up the attention,’ said Charlton.
‘I hope you’re right,’ replied Brook. ‘But enduring fame without talent sometimes requires extreme measures. Some commit murder like Lee Harvey Oswald or Mark Chapman. Others die young or commit suicide.’
‘And a nobody becomes a somebody,’ muttered Cooper.
‘Adele Watson’s got talent,’ pointed out Noble.
‘Then let’s hope she’s in charge,’ said Charlton.
‘So much for just messing with our heads,’ said Cooper absently.
Brook looked across at him. ‘Unfortunately Wilson’s death changes everything. Someone’s realised that to make it stick you have to make the sacrifice. Sometimes to live forever, you have to die – for my generation Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, JFK. For these kids, it’s. . . well, you know better than me.’
‘And this isn’t off the cuff,’ said Noble.
‘No.’
‘Because the website was set up six months ago.’ Charlton nodded.
‘It’s longer than that,’ said Brook.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The newspaper reports of the suicides we saw in today’s broadcast. They go back years,’ said Brook.
‘You told the press conference there was no connection,’ said Charlton.
‘There is and there isn’t,’ said Brook. ‘But we think there’s a
suicide in Denbigh three years ago that may be linked to Wilson’s. We’re waiting for a call back.’
‘To tell us what?’ asked Charlton.
‘Sir, someone’s got a hold on these vulnerable kids, someone who doesn’t belong, who’s twisting what they want to his or her ends, someone who enjoys manipulating people to kill themselves, but not by bullying, by being a friend, by telling them they’re doing the right thing. Telling them they’ll be famous, that they’ll live forever, telling them they’re giants because they’re taking control. That’s what the website’s for – to reach as many vulnerable people as possible and encourage them to do the same. It’s a project, sir. A game, almost.’
‘And the night of Kyle’s party was D-Day,’ said Noble.
‘I think so. That’s when it started. Jake McKenzie saw them that night. Kyle was filming. Adele and Becky were on the floor, their faces white, playing dead, practising their death masks.’
‘I thought they were faking it for the broadcasts.’
‘They were, John. And maybe they also thought it was a game and don’t know what Deity’s got in store for them.’ Brook looked at the dark-eyed Adele Watson glaring at him from the display board. ‘At least, some of them don’t.’
DS Gadd burst into the room and hurried over to Charlton. ‘Sir, we’ve got a lead on The Embalmer.’
‘You’ve found the ambulance?’
‘No, but we’ve got the same name three times in response to our facial composite. One of the sources works in the chandler’s shop on site at Shardlow Marina. Lee Smethwick,’ she read. ‘Forty-four years old. He lives on a canal boat at the Marina. He works in catering for Derby Education, was formerly in the Merchant Marine and spent three years in
Egypt in the nineties working as an engineer – model employee apparently. Nothing flagged up from Interpol and there’s no criminal record here. We’re trying to rouse someone at the council to get a photo.’
‘Sounds promising,’ said Charlton. ‘Let’s go and get him. God knows, we need a result.’
‘Derby Education?’ echoed Brook. He spun round to look at the artist’s impression of The Embalmer, picked up a sheet of A4 paper from the printer and held it across the forehead of the portrait. He smiled. ‘A chef. That’s why his face was wrong – his forehead was under a chef’s hat.’
‘You’ve seen him?’ said Charlton.
‘He works at Derby College – in the refectory. I was there with Yvette Thomson.’
‘Small world,’ said Charlton.
‘We were all over that place yesterday morning.’ Cooper sighed. ‘He was right under our noses.’
‘He wasn’t there,’ said Noble. ‘The refectory was closed, remember.’
‘Let’s go get him,’ said Charlton.
‘Good hunting,’ said Brook.
Charlton eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’re not coming?’
Brook glanced at the picture of Adele Watson and back at Charlton. ‘It’s not my case any more.’
‘You’ve changed your tune.’
‘My team have had a very long day, sir, and we’re not finished yet. DS Gadd’s in charge. If Smethwick’s there, she’ll bring him in.’
Charlton paused for a second longer. He’d never understand Brook. He walked out ahead of Gadd, who lingered briefly to nod her appreciation.
Brook
slumped on to a chair and put his head in his hands to rub his eyes. Noble sat down and began to look over some papers. He yawned.
‘Go home, John. Get some rest,’ Brook told him. ‘You too, Dave.’
The two detectives left and for something to do, Brook turned on his laptop to play around with more combinations for Russell’s film poster.
The phone rang. It was a DI Gareth Edwards from North Wales Police.
‘
Is DS Noble there?
’
‘I’m DI Brook, his superior.’ Brook quickly typed Denbigh into Google maps.
‘Your Sergeant put in a call to ask about a suicide three years ago.’
‘The unknown boy in Denbigh. You worked the case?’
‘I did. I was only a DS at the time but it certainly made an impression. He was just a kid.’
‘Well, his picture popped up on a website we’ve been monitoring.’
‘Deity. You don’t need to tell us. I think the whole country’s picked up on it. We were going to call you anyway as soon as we saw it. Your Sergeant was right. The local paper didn’t carry a photograph because we couldn’t find any of him alive. We figured releasing a picture of his corpse was a step too far.’
‘Especially at the end of a rope.’
‘That’s just it. The picture from the website couldn’t have been circulated to the public because we didn’t take it.’
‘It wasn’t one of your crime-scene shots?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Why so sure?’
‘Because
the guy who found the body got him down and tried to revive him.’
‘Who was that?’
‘A local builder, walking his dog.’
‘And he was never a suspect?’
‘A suspect in what? The kid hanged himself. He tied a rope round his neck and jumped. Broke his neck instantly.’
‘He couldn’t have been pushed?’
‘There was no bruising anywhere except his neck – I’ll email you the autopsy. And two people couldn’t have stood on the same branch of that tree
. . .
’
‘So that picture was taken by someone who was actually there when he jumped.’
‘That was our conclusion. The file’s still open and we’re taking another look but we’re not hopeful because we never found out who the kid was.’
‘Did you—?’
‘We tried everything. No schools reported missing pupils. No parents reported missing kids. It’s like he was a ghost. Fingerprints and DNA were a bust. And there didn’t seem to be any dentalwork.’
‘Did you try anyway? There would still be records even if his teeth were in mint condition.’
‘Of course we tried. If he’d actually ever seen a dentist even to have his teeth X-rayed we might have found him. He had teeth missing but no fillings or any visible work. We came to the conclusion that he hadn’t seen a dentist, certainly not in Britain.’
‘So you thought he was foreign.’
‘We didn’t think anything. We had no facts. It was just another angle.’
‘Were drugs involved?’
‘No.
The lad had a small amount of vodka in his system but not enough to get him drunk.’
‘No sign of coercion?’
‘None. He just climbed the tree, put the noose around his neck and jumped, as far as we could make out.’
‘What time of day?’
‘Mid-morning. On the bend of the River Elwy. It’s a local beauty spot but it was cold and likely deserted. We never rustled up any witnesses who saw him alive.’
Brook stared at the map of North Wales. ‘There’s an orphanage in St Asaph’s. Did you check there?’
‘No.’
‘But it’s only about five miles from Denbigh.’
‘The lad hanged himself three years ago. The orphanage was closed in 2003 – five years before.’
‘I see,’ Brook said. ‘Can we get access to the boy’s DNA?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
Brook expressed his thanks and rang off. He turned off the laptop and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. He’d been up for nearly nineteen hours with only biscuits to sustain him. He walked to the door of the Incident Room but didn’t leave. After a moment’s thought, he returned to his desk and packed his laptop into its case and left the building.
Len Poole pulled his car to the kerb and parked under the shadow of a tree. He didn’t know this quiet cul-de-sac on the Brisbane Estate, only that it was out of the way and Alice was unlikely to walk past and see his Jag in the dark. He took a deep breath and stared into the rearview mirror then straightened his comb-over with a pudgy hand.
‘No more, Len. This is the last time. She’s not nicotine.
You can
kick the habit. You must kick the habit.’ His yellow grin glinted in reflection. ‘But not before I move back to Wales, you blackmailing bitch.’
He nodded to his reflection. All these years paying out like a fruit machine for a mistake any man could make – a temporary weakness that she’d exploited to the full. No more. Now he was in the clear he was going to fill his boots. He took a swallow from a bottle of mouthwash and stepped from the car, hitching his tracksuit on to his bulging waist to rearrange his genitals.
‘Question is, can she kick the habit with me?’ he chuckled to himself.
The fleet of cars were on silent approach after they turned off the London Road, past the village of Shardlow. DC Read parked his car to block the only road in or out of the marina complex, and got out to follow the other three cars moving quietly past a plot of static holiday cabins on the left. A hundred yards later, the plot gave way to a large basin which opened out into an expansive site with a car park, bar, shop and caravan park round to the left. The darkened marina lay dead ahead.
DS Gadd pulled to a halt when she saw a man signalling her with a torch. The other cars followed her lead and the uniformed officers, including Charlton, poured silently from the cars, easing the doors closed behind them.
‘DS Gadd. Are you Henry Huff?’
‘I am.’
‘Any sign of Lee Smethwick?’
‘Not seen him for a couple of weeks to be honest but then he never makes a song and dance. The lights are out but that don’t mean he’s not in there.’
‘Lead
on.’ They turned to walk quietly towards the shadowy outlines of the canal boats. There were well over a hundred, a few showing lights, but most in darkness.
‘Are all these occupied?’ she asked.
‘Oh no. It’s Saturday night. There’s not a whole lot to do round here. Most of these are part-timers – you know, Sunday boaters, holidays maybe.’
‘Are all the boats . . .’ Gadd searched for the right words ‘. . . seaworthy?’ She heard the expulsion of amused breath from Huff and smiled. ‘None of them are seaworthy, right?’