The Disciple didb-2 Page 5

  ‘Any idea who Mrs Hall might have been?’ asked Grant.

  ‘No!’ croaked Terri, clearing her throat. ‘Can I have one of those cigarettes please?’

  ‘Of course.’ Hudson took two cigarettes from the packet, handing one to Terri and putting one in his mouth. He lit hers then his own.

  ‘Whoever she is, I’m afraid it’s now almost certain she was having a sexual relationship with your stepfather. I’m sorry to have to tell you that.’

  After several long drags, Terri finally broke the silence. ‘How do you know?’ she croaked.

  Not, I don’t believe it, Grant noted. ‘We found fresh semen on his jogging pants.’

  ‘And traces of female DNA. The lab’s working them up now. The semen is his, obviously. The other … well, it should help when we find out who she is.’ Terri nodded dumbly, tears welling up in her eyes

  ‘And the girl was quite young, according to the landlord. Maybe underage,’ added Grant.

  ‘It must be upsetting to discover what kind of man your stepfather was,’ said Hudson.

  Terri bowed her head and now began to sob. Hudson felt guilty. He remembered how his own teenage daughter regressed when the adopted habits of adulthood bit too deep.

  ‘This must be difficult,’ said Grant, moving to sit next to the girl to offer some comfort.

  Hudson quietly pulled out the CCTV image from the car park and placed it on the table in front of Terri. She barely glanced at it but the violence of her sobbing increased, and her head sought refuge and bobbed up and down in Grant’s arms.

  Eventually a measure of calm returned and Terri was able to blow her nose and wipe her eyes. ‘I loved him,’ she said simply.

  ‘I believe you,’ answered Hudson, resisting the urge to be judgemental. ‘Tell us what happened at the weekend.’

  Terri found such a simple question difficult, embarrassed to be discussing the sex life she had hidden from the world. ‘We … were together, you know, Saturday night. We were awake … most of the night.’ She glanced up at the two detectives to see if they’d cracked her simple code. Their expressions were unaltered. ‘Tone plays rugby … played rugby … and he wanted to go for a run. It was really early. Five o’clock.’

  ‘You didn’t go with him?’

  ‘God no! He was only going to be an hour, he said. I saw him walk to the seafront and turn towards the old pier and I never saw him again.’

  Her lip began to wobble so Hudson piled in with the next question to keep her mind busy. ‘Did you see anyone else on the road?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Any cars pull away at the same time?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  Hudson nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I went back to bed and woke up at about nine and Tone wasn’t back. I didn’t think anything of it. I showered and went out to get a coffee, thinking he’d be back when I got back, but he wasn’t. By half eleven I was frantic. I went for a walk along the front but I couldn’t see anything. I thought maybe he’d had an accident and was in hospital. So I packed up his stuff and took it to the car park, threw it all in the boot. I hung onto his wallet. I was going to drive the car but thought it might be better to leave it for Tone. The only problem was if I wanted to leave the car keys I couldn’t lock up. So I threw them in the boot. I figured it wouldn’t be a problem. Unless someone randomly tried the door, most people would assume it was locked. Then I came home.’

  ‘Was your mother here when you got back?’ asked Grant.

  Terri nodded.

  ‘How long had your affair been going on?’ asked Hudson.

  Terri bit her lip, recognising the relevance of the question. ‘Not long,’ she replied.

  It was an obvious lie but Hudson decided there was little to gain by challenging it. The victim wasn’t pressing charges, the criminal was dead.

  ‘I loved him,’ she repeated in the softest whisper.

  ‘This is very important, Terri,’ said Grant. ‘Who else knew you were going to be at that hotel?’

  Terri stared off into space to think. She shook her head. ‘Apart from the guy at the hotel, no one.’

  ‘Mr Sowerby?’

  ‘Mr Sowerby, yes.’

  ‘Would Tony have told anyone?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Why?’ She answered her own question immediately. ‘You think someone planned this. You think someone was waiting near the hotel, to kill him.’

  ‘It seems likely. Does your mother know about the affair?’ asked Hudson.

  She looked down. When she looked up she had more moisture in her eyes. She blinked it away and shook her head. ‘As far as you know.’

  ‘As far as I know,’ she echoed into her lap. She lifted her head suddenly. ‘You’re not suggesting …?’

  ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman losing her husband to her daughter,’ observed Hudson with more cruelty than he’d intended.

  ‘Forget it,’ spat Terri. ‘My mother couldn’t hurt a fly.’

  ‘What about your father?’

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Your real father.’

  Terri seemed momentarily nonplussed by the question. ‘He … I don’t know. I mean, of course not. Besides, he lives in Derbyshire.’

  ‘That’s not what we call an alibi, Miss Brook.’

  ‘Do you know if your father ever visited your stepfather at his place of work?’ asked Grant, as casually as possible.

  Terri looked at her as if she’d been slapped. ‘I’m not sure.’ She bowed her head and cried some more.

  Grant looked at her notebook. ‘Would it surprise you to hear that a couple of years ago your father, Damen Brook, Detective Inspector Damen Brook of Derby CID, paid a visit to Tony at Hall Gordon Public Relations? This is according to Mr Gordon, the company director. During his visit he assaulted your stepfather and threatened to have him arrested for molesting his daughter. Apparently he went to great pains to humiliate your stepfather in front of his colleagues. It caused a huge stink at the firm.’

  ‘And your mother had to go in to assure the directors that all the allegations were groundless. Do you still say your mother knew nothing of your relationship?’ Hudson and Grant waited.

  ‘But she didn’t believe it,’ croaked Terri eventually, unable to look at them.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid she’ll have to believe it now.’

  Terri looked up at them in alarm. ‘You’re not going to tell her?’

  Hudson stood and motioned at Grant to follow suit. ‘Of course we’re not going to tell her, Terri. But do you honestly think this thing can stay under wraps?’

  ‘I think what Chief Inspector Hudson means is that sooner or later she’s going to find out.’ Grant patted Terri on the arm and made to leave. ‘And, all things considered, Terri, it would be better coming from you.’ Grant followed Hudson out but turned back at the door. ‘If it’s any consolation, according to Sowerby, you were one of many.’

  Laura Grant kicked open the door, holding two coffees. Hudson, phone cradled under his chin, saw it was her and removed the hand that was holding the cigarette from behind his back.

  ‘Any luck, guv?’

  Hudson made to answer then returned his attention to the receiver. ‘Hello. Derby HQ? This is DCI Joshua Hudson from Sussex CID. Who am I speaking to? Sergeant Hendrickson, I wonder if you can help me. I’m going to be in Derbyshire on leave this weekend and I was wondering about looking up an old colleague, name of DI Damen Brook … well, no, I wouldn’t really say he was a friend. Like I said, he used to be a colleague, only I wouldn’t like him to find out I’d been in the neighbourhood and not looked him up. So I was wondering what shift he was on over the weekend so I could drop in … oh really? Next Monday. What a shame. Do you know where? Well, yes, he always was a bit like that, now you mention it.’ Hudson listened to the monologue at the other end of the line. Finally he was able to get a word in. ‘Well, thanks very much for your help, Sergeant.’

  ‘There’s one enemy DI Brook’s made,’ said H
udson, putting the phone down. A sombre expression invaded his features. He turned to Grant and took his coffee from her, taking a noisy draught. ‘Bad news.’

  ‘He’s got an alibi?’

  Hudson stubbed out his cigarette and ran his fingers through his grey hair. ‘Far from it. He’s on two weeks’ leave until next week. There’s some book coming out about The Reaper case so he decided to get away from the hoo-hah.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘No one knows. Apparently he never sees fit to tell anyone. He could be out of the country for all they know.’

  ‘So he could’ve been stalking Harvey-Ellis, waiting for his chance.’ Grant couldn’t conceal her excitement. ‘He’s our guy, guv. I can smell it.’

  Hudson nodded. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe? This was your idea, guv.’

  ‘I know, but I don’t like it, Laura.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve got a daughter. And if I’d found out someone … well, I wouldn’t wait a couple of years before I did something about it. If Brook was going to kill Harvey-Ellis, why didn’t he do it as soon as he found out about the affair?’

  ‘He assaulted him, in front of witnesses, he knew he couldn’t kill him. So he decided to wait.’

  Hudson nodded. ‘Maybe. But the least he could do was have Harvey-Ellis arrested for raping his daughter. Why not take that option?’

  ‘Why? Because he wants to kill him, guv. And maybe he wants to avoid a trial, avoid putting Terri and his ex-wife through the ringer.’

  ‘Then it’s the same problem we had with Terri and the mum. This murder was cold and calculated. If it’s revenge for his daughter there’s got to be some passion somewhere, even after two years. I don’t see any.’

  ‘Maybe he’s a cold fish.’

  ‘He’s still one of us, Laura, the thin blue. Let’s not lose sight of that. And you’re talking about one of the smartest detectives in the country, by all accounts. He deserves any benefit we can give him.’

  ‘If he’s so good, why hasn’t he caught The Reaper, guv? He’s had several cracks at it.’

  ‘Just the same, we don’t want to be going off half-cocked. We’ve got nothing on him.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Get everything we’ve got on all The Reaper murders so we can get a handle on what Brook’s been up against — see how he thinks.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Pack a bag.’

  Chapter Three

  September 1995, Northern California

  The vehicle swept into the gas station and drew to a halt next to a pump. Sensored floodlights banished the gathering gloom and cast the surrounding woods into surly shadow and a multitude of insects came to life at the sudden warmth of the lights. A powerfully built young man in oily dungarees, with unkempt straw for hair, half-ran, half-walked from the flat slab of a building towards the pump. He arrived and stood waiting for the driver, looking intently over the vehicle, wiping his mouth with a napkin extracted from his grimy shirt pocket.

  The driver stepped out, pulling his map from under a sealed plastic wallet full of deep red rose petals on the passenger seat. He stared at it for a moment then tossed it back into the vehicle to cover the small box of bullets on the back seat.

  ‘Fill her up, sir?’ asked the attendant, his mouth still half-full of food. It had stained his chin with a film of grease. The man nodded and strolled towards the building, stretching and flexing his frame as he went. He’d been driving all day and could feel the tingling in his legs as blood reintroduced itself to his muscles.

  He walked into the shabby prefab and let the fly screen clatter behind him. The man heard the nightly news report of the latest from the OJ Simpson murder trial being chewed over by the commentators. There was no escape from the story, even in this remote corner of Northern California.

  His dark eyes flicked around the squalor, adjusting to the strip lighting that buzzed and flickered overhead. A water cooler burped its welcome somewhere in the back and insects glided towards his eyes and ears. The fetid atmosphere was almost tangible, unperturbed by the ancient fan struggling to push the treacly air around the room.

  A man dressed in a soiled, sweat-stained, sleeveless vest, which must once have been as white as his arms, leaned forward across his desk. The reflected glow of a small TV danced around his three-day stubble.

  ‘Evening, sir. Welcome to Alpine County,’ beamed a middle-aged version of the young man filling his car. ‘Caleb Ashwell’s the name. That there’s my boy Billy.’ He turned off the TV and stood to greet his customer.

  ‘Evening,’ replied the man, declining to throw his own name into the mix. ‘Am I on the right road for Markleeville?’

  ‘Yes, sir. You’re on 89 — ten miles out of Markleeville. That where you’re headed, Mr …?’

  The man looked up at Ashwell and, after a pause, answered. ‘Brook. No, I’m headed for South Lake Tahoe.’

  A slow yellow grin filled Ashwell’s features. ‘Not far to go, sir. Maybe thirty, forty miles,’ he said. ‘You English, Mr Brook?’

  ‘You could say that,’ answered Brook distractedly.

  ‘I knew it,’ exclaimed Ashwell, slapping the counter. ‘Just love that accent. Welcome to California, Mr Brook. God’s own country. After Texas, ’course.’ He held out his hand for Brook who kept his hands behind his back but, when Ashwell wouldn’t be denied, he placed his thin hand into the American’s rough paw and shook as firmly as he could.

  If Ashwell noted Brook’s discomfort at the contact, it didn’t seem to have registered. ‘And we all sure loved your Mrs Thatcher over here. The Iron Lady. Mighty fine. Mighty fine. And your Princess Di? Well now, sir she’s a real beaut, yes indeed.’ Ashwell’s face cracked into the professional smile of the salesman. ‘Is that a Dodge Ram 250 you got out there, sir?’ he said, marching to the grimy window to look out. ‘Didn’t know you could rent that model any longer?’ He turned to Brook expectantly, waiting for his answer.

  Brook gazed back, his own smile starting to function. ‘I didn’t, I bought it second hand in Los Angeles.’

  ‘A?92?’ The smile was broad but the eyes were probing. Clearly there weren’t abundant opportunities for conversation on this lonely stretch of highway.

  ‘No, 1991 — it’s already clocked over a hundred thousand though,’ replied Brook.

  Ashwell seemed satisfied with that. ‘In four years? Ain’t a lot for the 250, sir. She’s just getting started. Mighty fine vehicle — a real workhorse. You must be touring round a lot. You been to Yosemite yet?’

  Brook nodded and fixed his interrogator with his dark eyes. ‘I drove through yesterday. It was magnificent.’

  ‘Ain’t it? One of the Lord’s finest day’s work right there.’ Brook shrugged. Ashwell pressed on. ‘And you’re gonna love Tahoe.’

  Brook noticed a camera on the back wall, stared at the red light for a few seconds, then looked back at Ashwell with a half-smile.

  Ashwell must have seen him looking because, unsolicited, he said, ‘Had a couple of robberies last year. Goddamn bikers.’ He looked around for somewhere to spit but then evidently thought better of it.

  ‘You can never be too careful,’ agreed Brook.

  The young man came through the door, rubbingb his hands with a cloth. ‘Billy. This gentleman’s from England.’

  ‘They got a queen, Pop.’

  ‘That’s right, son. Whyn’t you pour Mr Brook here a cup of coffee to take with him?’ He turned to Brook. ‘On the house, you understand. Freshly brewed. You ain’t got far to go but you need to stay alert on these roads and a cup of hot Joe always does the job. It’s awful dark out there when the sun dips.’

  Brook smiled. ‘Thank you for your kindness. What do I owe you?’

  Billy returned with a lidded paper cup and handed it to Brook. ‘Ten bucks even.’

  Brook pulled a credit card from his wallet, thought for a second, then slid it back in. He then pulled out a large wad of notes, method
ically looking for the right denomination, before pulling out a ten-dollar bill. ‘Pity they didn’t make these easier to use,’ said Brook, apologetically. ‘They all look the same.’

  ‘Just like niggers,’ chortled Billy, until his father’s hand caught him hard round the head.

  ‘Don’t you talk your foolishness round real people,’ shouted Ashwell. ‘Get on up the house.’ Billy’s head sagged onto his chest and, close to tears, he slumped away. ‘Sorry about Billy, Mr Brook. He ain’t bright but he ain’t usually that stupid.’

  ‘No need to apologise — must be hard out in this wilderness for a boy his age. Your wife too,’ said Brook, suddenly keen to make conversation.

  ‘It sure is a lonely stretch of blacktop, sir, no word of a lie — but beautiful too. ’Specially in the winter when the snow’s on the hills. Got a cabin up on the bluff,’ said Ashwell, indicating behind him with a flick of his head. ‘Momma’s gone. There’s just Billy and me.’

  Brook nodded. ‘I see.’ He stared back at Ashwell but seemed lost in thought. He smiled. ‘I don’t suppose you sell corkscrews; lost mine last night at the campsite.’

  ‘No problem, sir.’ Ashwell slapped a penknife on the counter, which had various attachments including the corkscrew Brook was looking for. ‘Five bucks.’

  This time Brook counted out five ones. ‘Well. Thanks again for the coffee.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, Mr Brook. Now you drink it while it’s hot. And we’ll hope to see you again soon,’ he called to Brook’s receding frame. Ashwell stood motionless, watching the Dodge pull away as the deathly quiet slowly engulfed the station again.

  A moment later the silence was shattered as the sound of another engine signalled a different vehicle encroaching on the California night.

  ‘I still don’t see how you can rule out the wife and daughter.’ Chief Superintendent Donald Maddy stroked his beard as was his custom when ruminating over matters of detection. It didn’t help his deductive powers at all — he didn’t have any — but, whenever matters outside his comfort zone were presented to him, he subconsciously reached for his facial hair to mask his unease. Grant had read the textbooks and knew that psychologists attributed this kind of mannerism to a desire for concealment based on inadequacy. She also knew that had she, Hudson and the Chief Super been discussing community policing or traffic management, Maddy would have opened himself up by putting his hands behind his head, inviting contradiction so he could show off his in-depth knowledge of the subject.