Adele smiled into the camera. ‘Our gluttony knows no bounds. But will it mean we can live forever? No. Our corporeal existence will end and our memory will be held in the minds of those who come after us. How do you want to be remembered, friend? As a heartless rich bastard who climbed over others to reach the sunlight – or as a doer of good works? Be forgotten in hate or revered in love? Decide now. Make a stand before it’s too late. You have the power. Goodbye parents, goodbye world. Remember me as one who cared. Time to die.’ She threw the contents of her glass into her mouth without breaking her gaze to camera.
The
screen blackened and Brook blew out his cheeks. There was silence in the crowded room.
‘No Rusty,’ muttered Brook.
‘Rusty?’ said Charlton. ‘But he’s the fox in the henhouse. You said so yourself.’
‘He is,’ replied Brook. ‘But he can’t be certain we know that. Why isn’t he keeping up the pretence that he’s a victim too?’
Cooper went to hit the lights but before he reached the switch another piece of footage began.
It was night. Becky Blake was framed in the light of her bedroom window, naked. The camera was lowered to point towards the ground. There were branches of tree in the frame. A second later the ground hurtled towards the camera and the assembled officers heard a muffled expulsion of air. The camera helpfully panned back up to the tree from which the cameraman had just jumped.
‘That must be the tree outside Becky Blake’s house,’ said Noble.
Brook looked at the time display. ‘It’s the night of Becky’s naked dance – the night before the party.’
An excited voice boomed from the speakers. ‘Body Double
– directed by Brian de Palma. Result or what?
’ In case they were in any doubt about the origin of the voice, the camera turned towards its owner and the grinning face of Rusty Thomson leered into the lens. Then the screen went blank.
A few seconds later, another piece of film and the screen erupted into noisy life; the detectives covered their ears to the cacophony. The picture seemed to be rolling at speed between a hard pavement and the night sky as though the camera was being bounced along the ground. For a split second Brook
fancied he also saw a bike-wheel in shot. He winced as the soundtrack gave way to a mixture of screaming and loud banging as the camera came to a halt. The time display showed ten minutes had elapsed since Rusty had filmed himself jumping from the tree.
‘What the devil?’ muttered Charlton. ‘What is this?’
The camera was on the ground. A few yards away, Rusty Thomson lay face down on the pavement, a hand clutching at his neck. A moment later Rusty looked up and reached his bloodstained hand to the lens before his breath gave out and he sank back to the ground. He lay still as the camcorder continued to record.
Brook stared at Rusty, his eyes narrowing. ‘I know it’s dark, but . . .’
‘What?’ asked Charlton.
Brook stared a moment longer then looked back at Charlton and shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
The screen changed to black until the caption
deity – the end
flashed up. No countdown followed. It was over. Cooper turned on the lights. Again there was silence until broken by Charlton.
‘Did we just see our prime suspect murdered?’ he asked. Nobody answered for a moment. Charlton turned, as usual, towards Brook for an injection of expertise. ‘Inspector?’
Brook roused himself to answer. ‘If so, he died the night before the party.’
‘That would explain why he didn’t have a monologue,’ said Cooper.
‘And why Jake didn’t see Rusty at the party,’ added Noble.
‘Then who the hell filmed the other three students? And who the hell was at the river with Wilson Woodrow?’
‘It
must have been Kyle,’ said Morton.
‘Jake saw Kyle doing the filming at the party.’ Noble nodded.
‘What about Rifkind?’ ventured Charlton.
‘That wasn’t Rifkind at the river or on the bridge,’ said Brook.
‘But you can’t be sure,’ argued Charlton. ‘It’s impossible to tell.’
Brook didn’t answer but remained deep in thought. ‘Yvette identified Rusty from the bridge.’
‘Then maybe that last piece was a fake,’ said Cooper. ‘Make us think Rusty’s dead and take the heat off him.’
‘Did that look faked to you?’ asked Morton, nodding at the screen.
Cooper shrugged. ‘Not really.’
‘Which means Rusty was killed on Thursday night,’ began Noble.
‘Are we sure he died?’ said Charlton.
‘What we see and what we seem is but a dream,’ intoned Brook to no one in particular. Everyone turned to him. ‘Dave, play that last bit back again – in slow motion.’
Cooper moved his hand back over the mouse and restarted the film in slow motion. The lights went off and detectives could clearly see the blurred film of night sky and ground, either side of indeterminate shots of vegetation and distant streetlights.
‘Stop,’ commanded Brook. He stood and walked towards the screen. The bicycle-wheel he’d seen before was clearer now. Next to it was a leg dressed in a bright blue tracksuit with red and yellow chevrons and bright white chunky training shoes.
‘Len
Poole,’ said Noble. ‘He killed Rusty.’
Brook nodded without taking his eyes from the leg. ‘When we asked Mrs Kennedy if Kyle had a bicycle, Poole said he’d been out on it, remember?’
‘So Poole killed Rusty Thomson,’ said Charlton uncertainly.
‘We don’t know that,’ said Brook.
‘He looked dead to me,’ said Charlton. ‘I know, I know,’ he added, before Brook could make his objection. ‘We could be having our heads messed with. But we need to find Poole.’
‘He’s been abducted.’
‘How do we know that wasn’t faked?’ asked Charlton, waving his hand at the screen.
‘We don’t,’ said Brook. ‘But we know Lee Smethwick and Rusty are connected. We know Smethwick is terminally ill and hung up on Egyptian burial rites. We know Poole is a pathologist.’
‘We also know Poole’s connected to the students,’ interrupted Charlton. ‘He’s connected to the house where they were last seen and now we have film of him attacking Rusty Thomson.’
‘Poole’s not behind Deity.’
‘You sound very sure of that.’
‘Why would Poole upload footage to implicate himself in a murder?’ said Brook. ‘If anything, Deity has shone a searchlight on his past indiscretions. Why would he want that? Besides, Poole’s not smart enough to run rings round us like Deity has for the past week.’
‘Those are opinions,’ answered Charlton. ‘Fact – Rusty Thomson left Poole’s illegitimate son at the end of a rope. That’s motive where I come from. Fact – we have film of him attacking Rusty Thomson.’
‘Motive?’
‘Revenge for his son’s death.’
‘Yvette Thomson said Poole didn’t give a damn about their son,’ pointed out Noble.
‘Exactly,’ agreed Brook. ‘Poole didn’t even know his son was dead. That’s why he continued supporting Yvette long after Rusty had taken Russell’s place.’
‘You saw what I saw,’ said Charlton, waving a hand at the screen. ‘If Poole didn’t give a damn about his son, why did he attack Rusty?’
‘I don’t know,’ confessed Brook. ‘But I know Poole didn’t abduct Kyle, Becky and Adele. He wasn’t even in Derby.’
‘How do we know Kyle, Becky and Adele weren’t still at the Kennedy house when Poole and Alice got back from Chester?’
‘So now Alice is involved in kidnapping her son?’ Brook smiled at Charlton’s discomfort. ‘Sorry, but it just won’t hold up, sir. The only interest Poole had in Rusty was finding out—’ Brook stopped in mid-sentence and raised his face to the heavens. ‘The plaster,’ he said with a sigh.
‘What?’ said Charlton.
Brook looked into space with a hand on his forehead. ‘Rusty
was
at the party.’
‘But the night before –’ objected Charlton.
‘– the night before, Poole was following Rusty on Kyle’s bike,’ continued Brook. ‘And when he got the chance, he pounced. He cut Rusty on the neck to get a sample of his DNA. That’s how he got his proof. He didn’t kill Rusty, he surprised him and Rusty dropped the camera. By sheer fluke, it captured shots of him bleeding on the pavement so he acts out his own death scene.
‘It’s perfect,’ said Brook, warming to his theme. ‘By now Rusty
must know we’ve got Yvette because he gave her to us. He must know he’s our prime suspect. But he’s got this amazing piece of film that shows him being attacked. Not faked but real. So what does he do? He broadcasts it so it throws all our theories up in the air. We’ll think he died before any of the abductions happened. That’s why he doesn’t appear in any broadcasts until now.’
‘But what about the party?’
‘When Jake looked through the curtains for a second he didn’t see Rusty. It doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. The plaster puts him there – the blood didn’t belong to Kyle, Becky or Adele. That much we know. That’s Rusty’s blood from the cut on his neck. I guarantee it.’
There was silence for a moment, as everyone searched for a flaw. Finally Charlton nodded. ‘Okay. At least he got sloppy and left us his DNA.’
‘I don’t think this man does sloppy,’ replied Brook softly. ‘More likely he didn’t care because he’s not on the database. But that’s good for us.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he thinks he’s invulnerable and that’s a weakness.’
‘And what about Kyle, Adele and Becky?’ asked Noble. ‘If those monologues are to be believed, they were dead before we even interviewed the parents.’
‘L
EN.
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.’