The Disciple (40 page)

‘I flew to Manchester from Heathrow. I told Tom I live in Boston and he assumed the rest.’

‘But you didn’t bother to put Tom straight?’

‘I didn’t lie.’

‘So telling me you had jetlag wasn’t a lie?’

‘Actually I think I asked you if you had jetlag.’

Again Brook was silent, assessing Drexler, who didn’t appear to be flustered at all. In fact he seemed calm and untroubled.

‘And Brighton?’ Drexler’s eyebrow shot up. ‘There was a train ticket, which dropped out of your passport.’

Drexler nodded, sombre now. ‘I can see I’m going to have to beef up security round here. I didn’t have Hartington down as Sin City.’

Brook felt a pinprick of shame. ‘I’m sorry. I called round and your door was open.’

‘Was my passport open too?’ The two men stared into each other’s eyes, neither willing to be the first to drop his gaze. Drexler found his grin again. ‘No harm no foul, Damen. I’ve got nothing to hide.’

‘Lucky you. You haven’t answered my question.’

Drexler’s grin eased but a smile remained. ‘I went to Brighton to look up an old friend.’

‘This old friend wouldn’t happen to be called Tony Harvey-Ellis, would he?’

‘No. Who’s that?’

Brook was studying him for signs of deceit, but Drexler was a tough read. ‘Never mind.’ He took a final swig from his bottle of beer. ‘And why are you really in Derbyshire, Mike?’

‘I told you. I’m writing a book.’

‘I’ve read your book, Mike.’

‘All of it?’

‘No. I’ve been busy. But enough – enough to know the case was solved. It says as much on the sleeve, yet you say you’re writing a sequel.’

‘I am. But it’s nothing to do with solving the case.’

‘You’ll have to explain that.’

Drexler took a long pull on his beer and stared into the fire. ‘You’re a cop. You must have seen it, Damen. The aftermath. The effort that goes into explaining – the press, the TV, the psychiatrists, the writers, even the fucking clairvoyants get a piece.’ Drexler looked over at him. ‘I got tired of books about the killers, Damen. It sickened me how much people wrote about the upbringing which caused them to kill, about the psychology behind the murders, about how we need to understand the killing to correct our society. About what they had for fucking breakfast.

‘We’ve got to the stage where killers are so famous that we’ve got schoolkids taking weapons into school to kill their classmates. Sure, they do a little dance, make a videotape, upload something on to YouTube to say why they did it.
The music made me. I’ve been bullied. I can’t get girls. My teacher gave me an F in English.’
Drexler laughed now. ‘Stupid little fuckers! Like we don’t know the real reason. Like we don’t know they’re just lazy and desperate. Desperate for fame.
No one notices me. Gimme a gun.
Success through hard work?
Fuck that. Gimme a gun.

‘I’m ashamed of that first book, Damen. It’s about the killers. It’s about turning pieces of shit into historical figures. So I’m correcting that. I’m writing a book about the victims, about the families destroyed by those butchers. I’m giving them back their lives. Not the way the news media do it. To me the victims aren’t just names, dates and addresses, end of story. They’re people who lived and loved and dreamed. And died before they were supposed to. That’s why I’m in Derbyshire, Damen. I’m speaking for the dead.’

‘In Derbyshire?’

‘You haven’t read that far, have you? The last victim was George
Bailey and his family. He was a chemical engineer, originally from Ashbourne, Derbyshire. He’d only been in the States for a couple of years. He was murdered. His wife was raped and murdered. His youngest daughter Sally was drugged, then tortured, then raped and then murdered. Shot in the head when her usefulness was at an end.’ He took another drink of his beer. ‘They weren’t even buried in the same hole. Even in death they could never be a family again. I’m doing a book for them and the other victims, Damen. To correct the balance. You of all people should understand that.’

‘Is that why you were on the Drayfin Estate the other night?’

Drexler smiled. ‘So you did see me. Yes, I took an interest. I’m a writer. But don’t worry. From what I hear these vics had it coming.’

Brook nodded but said nothing. His final question was left unasked.
Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.
It didn’t feel like the right time. Besides, if Drexler had been the copycat Reaper or, worse, had been recruited by Sorenson, he was hardly likely to confess it. He looked at his watch and finished his beer. ‘It’s late.’ He stood to leave but turned back to Drexler. ‘I’m sorry about going through your stuff. The door was open…’

‘Forget it. We’re cops. It’s what we do. Like I said, I’ve nothing to hide. Tell you what, put these empties in the recycling and we’ll call it quits.’

‘Fair enough.’ They said their good nights and Brook set off for home. He paused at the recycling bin, flipped the lid up and dropped in his bottle with as much noise as he could manage. He returned to his kitchen with Drexler’s bottle, peeled off an evidence bag from a stack in a drawer, and slid the bottle in.

Ten minutes later he was in bed with Drexler’s book. His eyes were already starting to close and he soon dropped the book onto the floorboards, but not before turning to the index and the glossary to check out the three key phrases he’d used in countless internet searches – ‘Victor Sorenson’, ‘Twilight Sleep’ and ‘scopolamine’. His search was in vain.

DCI Hudson drained his sweet tea and picked at a piece of bacon stuck in his teeth with a fingernail. It was a cold morning and the sun was slanting in low through the windows of the Midland’s breakfast room. Even on a weekday, when the hotel was close to fully booked, the pair ate alone, so early were they up and about.

Hudson looked over at Grant, who was nursing her black coffee and yawning.

‘You should eat something, luv.’

Grant opened her eyes and shielded them with a hand. ‘It’s the middle of the night, guv.’

‘You should still eat something. Most important meal of the day, breakfast. Besides…’

Grant held up a hand. ‘I know, guv, but I’m sick of hotel food, restaurants too. Exes or not. I miss the sea and I miss my flat. I wouldn’t mind working a sixteen-hour day if I had something better than a trouser press to welcome me home.’

‘You’re missing a man in your life. Like Damen Brook, maybe.’ Grant stared at him. Hudson laughed. ‘Come on. Don’t pretend you haven’t softened towards him big time.
La-ura.’

Grant refilled her coffee cup and took a sip. ‘Okay, guv. He’s not what I expected. There’s something … sad and gentle about him. And he didn’t kill the Inghams, I’m with you there.’

‘And Harvey-Ellis?’

Grant considered for a couple of minutes. ‘I’m less sure than
I was.’ She decided against telling her boss about Brook’s invitation to his cottage. Hudson was a true dinosaur and wouldn’t view it as a chance to get closer, as she did. ‘We’ll see where the evidence takes us but you’re right about something else, guv.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Catching The Reaper is the bigger prize.’

Brook was also up early to see Noble before the morning briefing. He handed over an evidence bag.

‘A beer bottle? Where’s that from?’ Brook didn’t answer and Noble understood the look. ‘What do you need?’

‘You remember the US fingerprint database?’

‘IAFIS?’

‘Did you check the print on the phone against it?’ ‘Still going through channels.’

‘Here’s a shortcut. There’s a set of prints on the bottle. Compare them with the print on the phone. There should be plenty for comparison and …er, there may also be some of mine.’

Noble eyed him, thin-lipped. ‘Any other news? Besides you going out on the town with The Reaper?’

Brook emitted a one-note laugh but Noble wasn’t to be placated. ‘Even if they’re not a match, I want all the details you can get about their owner. Cases he worked, partners he worked with, places…’

‘Hang on. You already know whose prints they are?’

Brook sighed and looked around the briefing room. He led Noble out by the arm. ‘Look, I know it’s irregular but I have good reason.’ Noble did not move, maintaining a deadpan face. ‘He’s a retired FBI agent from California. He’s renting the cottage next to mine for the winter.’ Still no reaction from Noble. ‘Okay. Victor Sorenson lived in California when…’

‘I remember him. Apparently he was the chief suspect in The Reaper Inquiry, wasn’t he?’

Brook paused. He led Noble further from the briefing, which was now due to start. ‘I deserve this, John. You’ve every right. I never told you about Sorenson because…’

‘Because … ?’ Noble lifted his eyebrows to turn the screw.

‘Here’s the thing. He moved to California after the Leeds killings in ′93. Business reasons. I know he lived in Los Angeles and also had a house on the edge of Lake Tahoe. He told me he continued his work in America. His work – that’s what he called it. I didn’t see him again until the Wallis investigation when I went to London, to satisfy myself that he couldn’t be The Reaper.’

‘And did you? Satisfy yourself?’

Noble wasn’t making this easy. Brook was unsure now how to continue. He settled for, ‘He was very frail. He had terminal cancer.’ Brook barely glanced at Noble, hoping he’d said enough.

‘And so?’

‘And so ever since the Wallis investigation I’ve been …
surfing the net’ –
Noble couldn’t resist a grin at Brook’s awkwardness with the language – ‘to find cases in the US that might have a connection with Sorenson. So far without luck.’

‘You’ve Googled Twilight Sleep?’

‘…and scopolamine and Victor Sorenson and “SAVED”. I’ve tried everything, John. Nothing.’

‘And now?’

‘And now, I don’t know. I start getting emails from a dead man. Then a retired FBI agent from California moves next door to me and another family is slaughtered – coincidence? I don’t think so. He’s also written a book,
The Ghost Road Killers
, about a serial killing he investigated near Lake Tahoe. Where Sorenson lived.’

‘You should get a copy.’

‘He gave me one. There’s something else. I saw him in the crowd at the Ingham crime scene.’

Noble nodded finally. ‘I’ll get onto it straight after briefing.’ They turned to go back into the Incident Room. ‘I doubt you’ll find Twilight Sleep mentioned in the US by the way.’

‘Oh?’

‘The phrase was coined by the British in the First World War in the battlefield trenches.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I’m a professional detective,’ said Noble, a grin forming. Brook pursed his lips in mock annoyance. ‘And did you Google the American names for scopolamine?’

McQuarry caught up with the Toyota and they dutifully followed Sorenson back to his home. At twenty minutes past midnight Sorenson turned back into his driveway and activated the electric gate.

McQuarry looked at Drexler and shook her head. ‘What the fuck? What a royal waste of time. I’m heading back, Mike.’

‘You don’t think we should do another hour?’

‘I don’t think we should do another minute.’

Drexler looked over at her. She seemed exhausted. ‘Okay. Let’s call it a night.’

They travelled in silence for ten minutes until Drexler broke it. ‘What do you think about the Golden Nugget? Weird or what?’

McQuarry put a hand up to her face and rubbed her eyes.

‘Mike, right now I don’t give a fuck if he’s planning to kill Clinton, I’m going back to our motel, having a swim and a couple of Jacks and grabbing some shuteye. I’ve had it and so have you.’

‘I think he’s setting it all up, Ed. He times the journey and books all the rooms at the motel, so he’s unlikely to get disturbed. He scopes out the cabin farthest from the office…’

‘So what, Mike? Who cares?’ McQuarry snapped. A moment later she sighed. ‘We can’t keep doing this.’

‘But if we…’

‘No, Mike. Tomorrow I’m going to get up round ten o’clock and have some waffles then I’m going to pack my bags and drive up to Markleeville and shake Andy Dupree’s hand. Then I’m heading home.’