further, wondering why he wasn’t appalled. Perhaps it was the neatness. Yes, that was it. He could focus. He could take it all in. Why was that? Was he just a good copper or had he become so hardened?
Rowlands was right. It was a bad one. Killing children was the last great taboo. Even regular criminals abhorred child killers. They weren’t safe anywhere, least of all in prison where child killers were vital to the self-esteem of other inmates. Run-of-the-mill lags could feel good about themselves once they no longer clung to the bottom rung of the ladder. They were better than child killers and had a duty to inflict righteous retribution on any in their midst who’d abused, raped or murdered children. Society demanded it.
But despite society’s abhorrence, Brook was unmoved, could look at this child without tears or nausea. Was it because he wasn’t yet a father? Was it the absence of blood and gore? He didn’t know. Rowlands, who had known fatherhood, also seemed calm but then he’d been ‘seeming’ calm for thirty years.
‘What do you see, laddie?’ Rowlands eyed him closely looking for any sign of distress. Brook became aware of the scrutiny, grimaced to affect displeasure, and was sickened by the hypocrisy. He stared intently at the face of the boy.
‘From the look on his face, I’d say he was dead before he was strung up there. I don’t think that wire could support a struggle. It had to be a dead weight. There’s no terror in his expression, he looks at peace.’
Rowlands nodded, declining to reveal if this was a revelation or a confirmation. ‘Go on.’
‘His fingers were removed post mortem because there’s not enough blood from the wounds. The blood was already starting to congeal when the killer cut them off. The spots below his hand could indicate that they were sliced off where he hung. Impossible if he was struggling. Neat job too. I can’t see any hacking. Scalpel maybe.’
Brook wrestled with himself for a moment and the photographer paused, impressed, as did the officer now looking for fibres on the sofa.
‘It’s almost as if…’ Brook looked around for the first time at the mute figures of the man and woman, agog on the sofa, tape over their mouths, their sightless eyes frozen in shock forever.
‘What is it?’ asked Rowlands.
Brook looked carefully at the position of the couple on the sofa. Both had been elaborately tied together and the rope around their ankles disappeared under the sofa and re-emerged over the back to be wound round their chests and hands. Their throats had been cut and blood caked their clothes, the rope and the sides of the sofa. Sprays from the first arterial cuts had even landed on the other side of the room.
They posed for another picture but yet again failed to say ‘Cheese.’ As the flash died, Brook caught the silver slug trail of their tears.
He went behind the sofa to take in the final terrible view afforded them.
‘What’s that doing there?’ Everybody stopped and followed Brook’s finger to a poster on the wall. He walked over to it and examined it. ‘This shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t fit.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s all wrong. Take a look around, guv. I don’t wish to sound like a snob but this poster is tasteful. ‘Fleur de Lis, oil on canvas at the Metropolitan Museum of Art,’ said Brook, reading from it. ‘This art doesn’t belong here.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean Sammy Elphick is not going to have such a thing in his pokey little existence. He’s not remotely interested in any art he can’t fence.’ Brook turned to the couple on the sofa. ‘He just wouldn’t be.’ The enormity of Brook’s assumptions began to slow him down. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the family’s pain. He’d dismissed these people’s lives as worthless.
‘You think the killer brought it?’
‘Probably,’ Brook replied softly.
‘Why?’
‘I guess to tell us something. To communicate his superiority over Sammy and his family and tell us he’s not our usual, run-of-the-mill murderer. Look around, guv. This has all been staged. Sammy and Mrs Elphick…?’ Brook raised an eyebrow at Rowlands who confirmed their union with a nod, ‘…have been…they’ve been immobilised here, facing their son to watch him die. I think the killer is taunting them.’
‘Okay.’
‘They’ve had to watch their son die, guv. And yet…’ Brook shook his head.
‘What?’
‘Look at the boy. He’s at peace. The killer hasn’t made him suffer. He’s been killed before being strung up so the parents can witness it. Look at their tears. Maybe the kid’s been drugged and smothered, then strung up in front of his mum and dad.’ Brook put his nose up to Mrs Elphick’s. ‘Chloroform. Guv, he’s put them out and revived them. Perfect. What’s the first thing they see? Their son. Is he dead? Possibly. But they can’t be sure. They cry. The killer is pleased–the desired effect. He’s not had the heart to kill the boy in front of them. That would be too hard on him, he’s young. But once he’s dead, he has no scruples about brutalising the corpse, cutting off his fingers, showing them off to the parents to make them suffer, to increase their misery.’
‘So he wants them to think their son has died in agony even if he hasn’t. Interesting.’
‘You don’t sound convinced, guv.’
‘We’re just talking. Go on.’
‘They’ve been drugged and revived to see the fact of their son’s death. They’ve been punished for something and their son is the method. But they haven’t been tortured either. There’s no frenzy here. They’ve been killed quickly, almost as an afterthought to the main event. It’s not their physical pain he’s after but their mental torment. He wants them to cry, he wants them to see their son dead and know they’re going to die. He doesn’t relish the actual killing, just the fact that his victims will no longer exist. In fact, I bet he almost wishes he could let them live.’
‘Why the fuck do you say that?’ asked Rowlands.
Brook pondered for a moment then turned to Rowlands with a half-smile. ‘Because they’ve learned their lesson.’
Brook was jolted awake by Cat rubbing herself against his legs. He lifted his head from his arms and squinted down at the squirming, affectionate fur ball at his feet. He felt a little dizzy so he returned his head to his arms for a moment and instead tried to move his lips but they seemed welded together, caramelised almost, by the stale sweet alcohol. His first drunken stupor for years.
He lifted his head again and was surprised to feel only a dull ache. He drank so rarely these days, he expected heavier punishment. For a few months in the nineties he’d tried to hit the bottle but soon tired of it. His insomnia wouldn’t be denied by an alcohol-induced coma.
Brook stood and winced in unexpected pain. His back muscles were tight from the wooden chair. That’s what came of getting a plush new car. No sooner had he experienced the pleasure of a cushioned seat than his back protested about having to accept second best.
He padded off to the kitchen taking the empty bottle and brimming ashtray with him. The linoleum