The Disciple didb-2 Read online

  As they approached, Drexler could hear music, opera in fact, and narrowed his eyes to try and place it. He knew it, he was sure. His mother had been a major Pavarotti fan before her illness and that was the voice that he recognised. At the table, Sorenson gestured at a pair of wicker chairs towards which the agents moved.

  A book lay open on the table and Drexler took the long way round to his chair to get a glance at the title. It was a slim paperback volume of The Myth of Sisyphus by Albert Camus. Drexler smiled faintly. Their host was a philosopher.

  Sorenson saw him looking but said nothing. Without asking, he poured coffee into the two empty cups and pushed them towards the two agents before freshening up his own cup. ‘Please help yourself to milk or sugar. I’m sorry I don’t have any cream. I know how you Americans jump at any opportunity to increase your weight.’ Sorenson beamed at the two agents to dissipate the insult.

  McQuarry emitted a mirthless laugh. ‘Don’t worry, sir. I’m sure we can locate a box of Krispy Kremes when we’re done.’

  Sorenson smiled at her response.

  The music was clearer now and Drexler saw it was coming from an open pair of French windows behind them. He remembered it now. He’d heard it in a movie, The Untouchables. Robert de Niro was AI Capone, sobbing his brutal heart out at a performance of Pagliacci. The climax of the piece, when the clown has to face up to his wife’s infidelities.

  ‘This is nice,’ he said. ‘Vesti la giubba, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it is. How gratifying. A man of culture. So hard to find away from the East Coast.’ Drexler looked over to his partner as she narrowed her eyes at Sorenson. McQuarry was a straightforward person who spoke her mind, yet believed in good manners and only attempted humour with people she knew. Sorenson’s blend of intellectual vanity and restrained taunting would not be familiar to her.

  But most of the Brits Drexler knew from college interacted in a very similar way to Sorenson — constantly on the offensive, probing for a weakness to deride. Though it was not the norm for a Californian, Drexler had sought out their company and had learned to appreciate their mocking.

  Sorenson turned to fix Drexler with his coal-black eyes. ‘Please sit.’ Drexler obeyed on reflex, suddenly unsure whether he should have mentioned the opera. He’d given Sorenson a free piece of information about himself and received nothing in return. Their usual working method was to let the suspect do the running and underplay their own hand.

  ‘Were you expecting us, Professor?’ asked McQuarry.

  ‘Expecting you?’ inquired Sorenson angelically.

  ‘The coffee cups all laid out, sir,’ explained McQuarry, not taking her gaze from him.

  Sorenson beamed mechanically. ‘I’m always prepared for guests, Agent McQuarry. Now what can I do for you? Have you found my car?’

  ‘Car?’ The agents exchanged a knowing glance.

  ‘Yes, my beloved Dodge Ram 250. Stolen in South Lake Tahoe. Outside Safeway of all places.’

  ‘The FBI don’t make house calls over stolen vehicles, sir,’ put in Drexler.

  Sorenson chuckled, with a tinge of feigned guilt. ‘Of course not. Stupid of me. Then why are you here?’ he asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘We were hoping you could provide some information about an employee of yours. George Bailey.’ Drexler dropped in the question effortlessly and waited for the reaction.

  For a few seconds, Sorenson said nothing but merely looked from one to the other. The music came to an end but another piece started up immediately. Drexler didn’t know it.

  ‘Faure’s Requiem,’ said Sorenson, waving a hand at the French window. ‘Imagine listening to this as you die. How would that be?’

  ‘A good way to enter the next world,’ replied Drexler, before he’d given himself time to think.

  Sorenson’s eyebrow raised and his mocking smile intensi-fied. ‘The next world?’ Drexler’s smile turned to stone and he berated himself again — another free piece of information. ‘I wouldn’t have thought someone familiar with the works of Albert Camus would have believed in the next world.’ Sorenson’s smile disappeared. ‘After all, death is not an event in life: we do not live to experience death.’

  Drexler nodded, the anticipation rising in him. Sorenson may have seen him looking at his book, but the phrase he’d just quoted was Wittgenstein, not Camus. He racked his brains to finish the passage. ‘Eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.’

  ‘A good philosophy, Special Agent.’ Sorenson stared into Drexler’s eyes. His dead-eyed grin was unnerving.

  Drexler looked over at McQuarry, but she seemed not to have registered her partner’s excitement.

  Drexler tried to figure it. The way he’d floundered, everything he’d said to Sorenson since they’d arrived, even the faint glance of recognition at Sorenson’s reading material had been logged, had handed their host an advantage. But despite all that, and under no pressure, Sorenson had made a coded confession to Drexler, had revealed knowledge of Wittgenstein that told Drexler he was the killer they sought. Not a confession for a judge and jury maybe but, sure as eggs is eggs, Sorenson had killed Caleb and Billy Ashwell.

  Drexler narrowed his eyes. But why give it up so easily? As an opponent, Sorenson was holding a good hand. Opponent. Is that what he was? Yes, like this was a game. If the notion weren’t so absurd he could have sworn that hidden away behind the mask of civility, Victor Sorenson was like a child with a new toy, unable to hide his glee. Drexler was desperate to glance over at McQuarry to see if she’d read him the same way, but was unable to unlock his gaze from Sorenson’s lifeless, black eyes.

  ‘Drexler? Drexler?’ said Sorenson, suddenly taut with concentration. ‘Why do I know that name?’ Drexler stiffened and looked over at his partner. Sorenson must have read about the Board of Inquiry’s report in the papers. Drexler sipped at his coffee and tried to regain some equilibrium. It was cold.

  ‘We’re here to talk about George Bailey, sir,’ insisted McQuarry, tapping a diversionary finger on the glass table.

  Their host smiled but this time it was a sad expression, suffused with unexpected tenderness. ‘George. You’ve found him, then?’

  McQuarry sat up straight. ‘Found him?’

  ‘He’s missing, is he not?’

  Drexler smiled at the overemphasis of the present tense. Their host was trying a little too hard to avoid a timeless trap, one that they hadn’t even set. It was odd. Whichever way the conversation turned, Sorenson was trying his best to encourage suspicion with his manner. Usually suspects tried to feign sincerity and deflect further inquiry and although they frequently failed, at least they tried.

  ‘You know he is, sir. You reported it. Would you care to remind us of the circumstances?’

  Sorenson nodded. ‘George was on holiday — vacation, sorry — for a month. He’d been out here in California for a couple of years, helping to set up the American end of the business. Sorenson Pharmaceuticals. One of my best people and also a friend. It was a big wrench for them to come out here, what with two young daughters. But they loved it, once they’d settled. He didn’t get much of a break the first two years so he wanted to make up for it. The family had always wanted to see what your astonishing country has to offer, particularly California, so they packed their gear into a Volkswagen camper van and set off … Yosemite, Death Valley, Big Sur, the Mojave. For the final week they were supposed to be coming here to my house as my guests. I was in LA on business and as I say, George was a good friend…’

  ‘Was?’ said McQuarry.

  Sorenson took a sip of his inky black coffee. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Please don’t patronise me. You’re not from the local Tahoe office. You’ve come all the way from Sacramento to pay me a visit and there can only be one reason.’ McQuarry and Drexler stayed silent to confirm Sorenson’s speculation. ‘So it’s true. Tell me.’

  ‘We’ve found the body of George Bailey, his wife and one o
f his daughters.’

  Sorenson nodded. ‘I see. How were they killed?’

  ‘Shot in the head,’ said Drexler.

  ‘Mother and daughter were raped,’ added McQuarry to Drexler’s surprise. The details seemed unnecessary but perhaps she had reason, perhaps she was searching for a careless response, an unguarded word. ‘And the little girl was tortured.’

  Sorenson hung his head. ‘Poor Tania. Poor…’ he stopped abruptly and looked up at McQuarry with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘We believe the girl’s body is his youngest — Sally.’ He looked away and shook his head. ‘Poor little thing.’ ‘Being from England their dental records are problematic and we wondered if you’d know about next of kin. For the purpose of identification, you understand,’ added McQuarry.

  Sorenson closed his black eyes in tribute, an unscheduled moment of near silence. But the music played on.

  ‘Sir?’ Now McQuarry and Drexler were able to look at each other and manage a quick acknowledgement. McQuarry had arrived at the same page as Drexler. They’d found their killer, a vigilante who’d chanced upon the very spot in the middle of remote Northern California where a personal friend and employee had been slaughtered alongside his young family.

  ‘I believe there’s a grandmother in Derbyshire. England,’ he added finally.

  ‘What about brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles?’ asked McQuarry.

  Again Sorenson seemed lost in thought. ‘George was an only child,’ he answered at length.

  ‘Unlike in the movie.’ McQuarry threw the observation away, expecting nothing.

  But instead Sorenson smiled at her. ‘Exactly.’ The sadness returned. ‘If you need a provisional identification, I’d be glad. I mean, if it would help speed things up.’

  McQuarry had already removed a photograph from her attache case and placed it in front of Sorenson. ‘Sally was killed well after her mother. She should be easier to recognise.’

  Sorenson looked at the photograph of the tiny body without picking it up. Drexler and McQuarry watched him closely, but his stony expression didn’t waver; he merely stared at the image of the frail corpse for what seemed like an age. No wincing, no averting of eyes, no exclamations of shock or outrage. Nothing. Eventually, aware of his audience, he relented.

  ‘Yes, that’s Sally Bailey. George Bailey’s younger daughter,’ he added in a formal tone, as though familiar with the routine.

  Drexler and McQuarry said nothing in reply and waited for the inevitable questions, but they didn’t arrive. Instead Sorenson continued to stare at the picture. Drexler raised an eyebrow at his partner.

  ‘You don’t seem too interested in who did this, Professor,’ said McQuarry evenly. ‘I find myself wondering why.’

  Sorenson looked up at her. ‘Death is the only detail. The rest is window dressing. She’s beyond hurting now.’

  ‘In a better place?’ offered Drexler, with a hint of a sneer as payback.

  Sorenson smiled bleakly and Drexler wished he’d said nothing.

  ‘Where were you last Thursday evening, Professor?’ ‘Returning from a trip.’ Sorenson didn’t even blink or try to pretend to remember his movements.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I drove down to Yosemite for a few days.’

  ‘Looking for George Bailey?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ smiled Sorenson. ‘Though I suppose, taking a similar route to the one George would’ve taken to Tahoe, I was more than a little interested in the terrain.’

  ‘And what route was that?’

  ‘You don’t expect me to remember tedious road names, do you?’

  ‘What about California 89?’ asked McQuarry. Sorenson’s face brightened in childlike recognition. ‘Actually, I do remember being on 89. The Ghost Road they call it.’

  ‘Make any stops?’

  ‘Certainly. At my age I need the toilet more often than I’d prefer.’

  ‘And gas?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘On 89?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘What time would that have been, sir?’

  This time Sorenson did make a bit more of an effort to play the game and stroked his chin, looking into the distance. ‘Let me see. It’s a bit hazy. I was tired.’

  ‘So it was late.’

  Sorenson pointed a bony talon at Drexler. ‘Yes, you’re right. I stopped just as it was getting dark. Some rundown fleapit on 89.’

  ‘And what did you buy?’

  ‘Just petrol. Gas.’

  McQuarry pulled another picture from her small case and placed it in front of Sorenson. It was in black and white but he was clearly recognisable. He was looking at the camera and carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a bag in the other.

  ‘That’s me,’ said Sorenson with a chuckle. ‘So the camera did work. He said it did though I didn’t believe him. You should’ve seen the place.’

  ‘We have,’ said Drexler.

  ‘You remember what else you bought now?’ asked McQuarry.

  ‘That’s right, I bought a knife. It had a can opener attachment. I lost mine at the camp…’

  ‘It also had a corkscrew.’

  Sorenson grinned at Drexler. ‘I believe it did.’

  ‘And the coffee?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t buy that. Mr Ashwell was kind enough to let me have it for free.’

  ‘You remember his name now?’

  Sorenson smiled his assent.

  ‘Where did you buy the roses?’ asked Drexler.

  ‘Roses? I didn’t buy roses.’

  ‘The forecourt camera clearly shows red roses in your car,’ said McQuarry.

  Sorenson smiled warmly but his eyes were cold. ‘Forecourt camera? I don’t think so. But show me a picture. It might jog my memory.’

  Sorenson was sure of his ground.

  ‘And how was the coffee?’ asked Drexler.

  Sorenson turned to him and grinned. ‘Surprisingly good.’

  ‘Do you still have the cup in your trash, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I left it in the Dodge so you’d need to ask the thief about its whereabouts. Tell me. Why all these questions about where I stopped on the road? Why don’t you speak to Mr Ashwell and his son?’

  McQuarry allowed herself a soundless half-laugh this time. She wanted to punch him playfully on the arm and say, Cut it out, willya? We know you killed ’em. You know you killed ’em and you know we know you killed ’em but she settled for, ‘Mr Ashwell and his son are dead.’

  Sorenson didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Indeed?’

  Twenty minutes later, as the Chevy snaked its way back to the highway, Drexler ran his eye over the beautiful grounds again to confirm what he already knew. Victor Sorenson was a wealthy and successful man. He had a lot to lose. The game had begun.

  Chapter Ten

  Brook jumped into the BMW, fumbling for the ignition key. Finally he jammed it into the ignition and started the car. He froze for a few seconds, gazing off into the murk, seeing only his past. He slapped the lacquered wood of his steering wheel with the flat of his palm and turned off the engine.

  ‘Two years in the ground and still no peace.’

  He took a huge breath and stepped out of the car. As though in a trance, he walked back along the road through the billows of mist. Instead of making his way to the Wallis house again, Brook stopped a few doors away, getting his bearings. He looked at the house on his right. Windows were closed but there was faint light coming from inside. He set off for the path at the side of the house, which might once have supported a garage but which was now a scrubby weed-infested driveway, along which two lines of paving slabs had been dropped rather than laid, to enable access to a car.

  Brook approached the corner of the house and peered around it. He saw the smouldering glow of the brazier against the blackness. The music was clearer now, beautiful and gentle. He could see dark shapes ahead, barely outlined by the dying radiance of the coals. He took another huge breath and stepped towards the abyss.
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br />   Brook didn’t know how long he stood in that yard before brain function returned. Later, in the peace of his office, he would calculate it at two or three minutes. Looking back, he would try to remember what he’d been thinking as he stared at a scene that wouldn’t have been out of place in an abattoir.

  In the aftermath, he could only liken the experience to some kind of seizure or maybe the deepest stupor of a heroin rush, inducing a paralysis so deep that he was powerless to move or prevent the flow of images from his past. The Reaper had returned and Brook stood in the gallery of the dead admiring the brush-work but feeling the detachment of the critic. The Reaper was outside looking in at humanity and Brook stood with him.

  What brought him back was not a noise or a stray light, but a sensation in his nervous system so real, that he felt as though someone was rubbing a snowball up and down his bare spine. He wasn’t alone. Brook could feel eyes burning into his back. He turned slowly, panning round a pixel at a time, until he faced a newer section of the yard’s boundary, a single section of shiplap fencing that bridged the gap between two crumbling walls. The top of the fence was smeared and stained with what looked like blood and Brook took a step towards it. As he did so, another noise behind him made him turn again. For a moment he listened, but except for the music there was nothing. Brook gazed back at the shiplap panel but the sensation had passed, and some kind of thought process had returned.

  He walked back to the front of the house, fishing in his pocket for his new mobile phone. A second later an arm folded around Brook’s neck while another arm pulled his hand down by his side, forcing him to drop the phone onto the ground. Brook began to struggle and instinctively put his free hand up to protect his throat from a blade.

  ‘Take it easy, mate. You’re going nowhere, so relax,’ said a voice into his ear.

  ‘Don’t struggle,’ said another voice, ‘and you won’t get hurt.’ ‘We just need to know what you’re doing here…’ said the first voice.

  ‘…and see some ID,’ continued the second.