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 Hudson, 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.’
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,