And as he gazed at the sleeping infants, Brook remembered that he himself was a father and for the first time the thought moved him. He had responsibilities now. And until he could get home to his own family, to protect and care for them, he felt the need to safeguard these surrogates.
Finally, he closed the door as softly as he could and crept back down to the ground floor. Either he’d misjudged Sorenson completely or he’d been set up. Was it possible that he was meant to see the children to shatter all the presumptions Brook held about Victor Sorenson–The Reaper?
Yes it was. But that still didn’t account for the fact that two young children, possibly his brother’s orphaned children, felt so safe in Sorenson’s midst, so able to abandon themselves to sleep, under his roof.
Even if it was a set-up, Brook knew one thing had changed in his perception of Sorenson. He didn’t hate children, not enough to kill without reason, at least. That had been the hardest thing to square away in Harlesden–the Elphick boy–and it was clear now that Sorenson hadn’t killed him out of some pathological loathing for young people–if he’d killed him at all. Brook began to harbour his first doubt.
He stood by the front entrance and contemplated his next move. The front door beckoned to him. He wanted to
go home to his family. He wanted to fall into the arms of his wife and make everything right. He wanted to sneak with her into Theresa’s room and watch their new baby sleep, that foolish smile, exclusively patented for new parents, deforming his face.
Instead he stepped through the door that led off the main hall, snapped on the light and closed the door behind him. He was in a spacious living room, sparsely furnished. It wasn’t as cosy as the study and Brook guessed it was rarely used. What furniture there was seemed thrown together as though this room contained all that was left of the pieces that didn’t belong in other, more organised rooms.
There was an oddment of a suite. A winged chair, in a dark blue material, sat on one side of the cold black fire grate with a two-seater sofa, in faded brown suede, on the other. There was nothing on the walls but a large mirror over the fireplace flanked by a pair of ornate wall lights. The screen he’d seen from the road on his first visit guarded the lace-curtained bay window.
Brook was already retreating through the door and was about to switch off the light when he spotted something that made his heart leap. In a corner of the room, partially covered by curtains drawn across French windows, sat a pile of sturdy boxes.
Brook put down his bundle and scampered over to examine them. The delivery note on the top box revealed that the boxes had been dispatched nearly three months ago and yet, the seal on the boxes hadn’t been broken–a brand spanking new Compact Disc player, top of the range, and not even unpacked. The most expensive new technology not even opened or examined.
Brook’s eyes narrowed. He knew. It was time. Time for No. 2 and this was the Reaper’s entrance ticket. For video recorder to Harlesden, read Compact Disc player to the next family of victims.
Brook swung round at the sound of the door handle being turned. He looked feverishly for a hiding place. He didn’t dare slip behind the curtains for fear of them moving, opting instead to leap into an alcove, where he pushed himself back against the wall and held his breath. He closed his eyes briefly, then, recognising the absurdity, opened them at once.
He listened for the door opening but heard nothing. Then he saw and his heart fell into his socks.
Slowly, very slowly, and without a murmur, the door was swinging open. He saw it, frozen, in the mirror above the fireplace, which meant he could be seen in it, by whoever walked in.
Move, his nerve ends told him. Move. Slide down the wall, pull the curtain across your face, do something.
But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t wrench himself away. His eyes were locked on the door’s progress and he could do nothing but watch, his mouth dry, the moisture having fled to his brow which had erupted in beads of sweat.
Then it stopped. The door moved no further. It hadn’t swung open and he couldn’t be seen. But what was happening? Who was on the other side of the door? Was it Sorenson? What was he waiting for? Brook’s heart was about to implode. Still no movement. The door wasn’t opening, wasn’t closing. Why?
Brook couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He could feel though, feel the springs of sweat, now galvanised into
rivulets, cascading down his face. He’d had too much whisky.
The whisky? Perhaps it had been poisoned. Or drugged. His pores were trying to tell him something. He was in a bad way and if he didn’t pull himself round…
Brook made a vow at that moment. If he got out of this house with his job, his liberty and his life intact he was going to clean up his act. No more stalking, no more nights away from home. He’d get help. It wasn’t too late. He could still be a husband, a father.
With a sharp and unavoidable intake of air, which sounded like a passing steam train, Brook watched Sorenson’s bony talon reach through the aperture between door and wall and flick off the light. Brook was caressed by the darkness.
The bar of light stumbling in from the hall narrowed to a shard and Brook began to regain his senses. But a sliver of light remained and Brook could hear no sound of Sorenson moving off. Then again, he hadn’t heard him arrive either. The man’s footfall was non-existent.
Brook waited for what seemed an eternity before moving. When his lungs were functioning properly again he tiptoed to his coat and slipped on his shoes. He moved to the door and put his eye to the crack of light.
His every fibre screamed as he stared directly into Sorenson’s baleful eye and he leapt back from the door with the yelp of a startled puppy.
He reached out a hand to the light switch and flooded the room with light and grabbed the knob to pull open the door, swaying back slightly for safety’s sake.
There was nobody there. Nobody. No sound of someone
on the stairs, hurtling through the house. All was quiet save the wheezing from Brook’s overworked lungs. He must have imagined it. A trick of the light. Or the product of his over-stimulated imagination. Whatever it was, Sorenson wasn’t there. He was in his study. Brook could just hear the comforting muffle of classical music. What was happening to him? He was losing it. He had to get out.
He slipped his coat back on and, in one bound, Brook was through the front door, closing it swiftly but with only a faint click. He ran to his car without looking back, not seeing the wind, if it was the wind, ripple at the curtains of Sorenson’s study window.
Only when Brook was hurtling through the deserted streets of Kensington did his equilibrium start to return. Finally he was able to slow the car to a more respectable speed. He began to feel again, began to be aware of things, sensations, noises. With a start, he looked down at his left hand and saw the delivery note from the unopened boxes lodged there, becoming smudged from the sweat of his palms.
At the next red light, he squinted at the document. With a sigh of pleasure, he found what he was looking for and nodded. The serial number of the CD player.
Brook forgot his promise. He was safe now. He didn’t need help any more, didn’t need to go home to his family. He had all the help he needed right there in his hand. ‘Gotcha!’
‘What do you think?’
Rowlands shrugged and looked over at his colleague in the driver’s seat, weighing his response with care. ‘I think I need a drink.’ Rowlands closed the folder and fumbled for a cigarette, lighting it with a trembling hand which he then held out for inspection. Three times he tried to cure the shakes with no more than an act of will. He failed each time.
‘About the file, I mean.’
‘How long are you going to keep this up, Brooky?’
‘Guv…’
‘I mean it. It’s been a year now and yet you won’t face it. This is nothing. We’ve got nothing on Sorenson and we never will have. I’m sorry, lad. I can’t cover for you much longer.’
‘What do you mean? I’m not asking you to. I get my work done.’
‘Do you think I give a toss about your work? This is the Met, Brooky. No-one gives a flying fuck as long as the villains are killing each other. I’m talking about Amy, lad. Remember her and your baby. I’m talking about your wife
ringing me to complain to me about your workload and me having to pretend that it’s my fault you’re never at home.’
‘Guv…’
‘No, Damen, it’s got to stop. You’ve got to give it up. You’re still young…’
‘But he lied, guv. You accept that at least. His twin brother, Stefan, we talked about him. He told me he died of cancer…’
‘So what? So he didn’t die of cancer. So he was beaten to death in his home. Big fucking deal. It’s a touchy subject to some people.’
‘Guv!’
‘All right. What do you want me to say? He lied to you. What of it?’
‘So it got me thinking. Stefan Sorenson was beaten to death in 1989, two years ago, disturbing an intruder who’s never been found. Don’t you see? Sorenson didn’t want me to know that. Why? Because he found him. He knew I’d guess. That intruder was a burglar and maybe that burglar was Sammy Elphick…’
‘Maybe, maybe, maybe…’
‘It’s motive, guv. He waits for his revenge. He finds the man who orphaned his nephew and niece. He’s going to kill him and what’s more, to pay back the suffering inflicted on the Sorensons, he decides to take out Sammy’s family as a bonus. And what better way to do it than to make Sammy watch, make him suffer the way Sorensons suffered?’ Brook cast his eyes around, looking for a way to continue. ‘Do you know losing a twin is like losing a limb?’
‘I do now.’ Rowlands sighed and ran his sleeve over the
condensation on the windscreen. He stared out at the rain, avoiding Brook’s entreaties. He affected a dry cough and pulled out his flask to treat it. Brook took the offered flask and feigned a drink in his usual way.
Five brooding minutes later, Brook tried to resurrect a reasonable tone. ‘I just need two more weeks, guv. I know he did it and I know he’s going to strike again soon.’
‘Why? If he’s got his revenge.’
‘I think he’s got a taste for it,’ Brook offered weakly. ‘All I know is he’s planning it.’
‘How do you know?’
Brook pulled the delivery note from his pocket and thrust it at Rowlands.
‘What’s this?’
‘A delivery note.’
‘What’s it for?’
‘It’s for a £600 Compact Disc player. Look at the date. It was delivered to Sorenson over three months ago. It’s still in the box in his house.’ Brook smiled at Rowlands. ‘Remember the VCR we found at Sammy’s.’
‘Yeah.’
‘That was his way in to Sammy’s flat. The CD player’s for the next victims. And we’ve got the serial number. When he leaves it there, we’ve got him.’ Brook couldn’t keep the victorious grin from his features and regretted it at once.
‘You seem keen for The Reaper to kill again, Brooky.’
‘Course I’m not but he will. And when he does…’
‘How did you get hold of this?’
Brook paused and stole a glance at his boss. He hadn’t expected Charlie Rowlands, of all people, to wave the Book at him.
‘During an illegal search,’ he conceded.
‘You’re telling me…’
‘Yes, it’s inadmissible, but if we have The Reaper, when we have him, we’ll get round it. I promise.’
Rowlands sighed. Brook waited but he knew he had him. The longer his boss kept silent the more he was unable to conjure objections.
‘Two weeks, Brooky. Then I’m pulling the plug. That means Amy as well as work. Got it?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Do you need anybody else?’
‘He won’t move unless it’s just me, guv. Don’t ask me to explain it.’
Rowlands got out of the car and turned to Brook as though about to speak. In the end, he shot him a weak smile and closed the door.
Brook watched him hover outside the pub, looking slyly back at the car, so he engrossed himself in tuning the radio to let Rowlands slip in without guilt.
He checked his watch. 2.30. A couple of hours of daylight left. If he went home now, he could take Theresa round the park, give Amy some time off.
He started the car and arrived at Queensdale Road twenty minutes later.
No sooner had he killed the engine and kicked off his shoes, than Sorenson emerged from his house. He brandished an umbrella over his head, though it was barely spitting, and walked the hundred yards to Holland Park Avenue.
Brook knew from painstaking observation that Sorenson travelled everywhere by black cab so he restarted the car
and crawled along the kerb after him. Not once did Sorenson look round. He was either oblivious to the way Brook had dogged his steps for so long, or he simply didn’t care.
He climbed into a cab a couple of minutes later and set off to the west towards Shepherd’s Bush Green, Brook in pursuit two cars behind.
The traffic was building and progress was slow. Only a handful of cars were getting through the lights on each cycle and Brook was tempted to get closer, to avoid being left. He resisted. If push came to shove he could always bang on the portable siren to make up ground.
As he feared, Sorenson’s taxi driver scooted through the lights on red and the car in front of Brook pulled to a halt.
Brook slapped the wheel in frustration and was about to reach down for the siren when he noticed the cab pull over on Goldhawk Road and stop.