The Disciple (45 page)

‘Wait a minute. I didn’t agree to that. We can’t connect them to the Wallis murders as well…’ began Brook.

‘Why can’t we?’

‘There was no evidence; they were never suspects. And there are still loose ends in the Ingham deaths.’

‘The Chief Inspector and I are agreed. As far as we’re concerned, the Ottomans are connected to Jason Wallis and have tried twice to kill him in revenge attacks for the assault on his wife.’

‘Then why is he still alive? Jason himself heard John Ottoman
talk to the emergency services. If he was there for Jason, why didn’t he kill him first?’

Charlton noticed several journalists, including Brian Burton, start to take an interest in their conversation. ‘Keep your voice down, Inspector. I don’t need to tell you how criminal plans can go wrong…’

‘And I don’t need to tell you, sir, that both you and DCI Hudson were nowhere near the Wallis Inquiry. Trying to tie the Ottomans to that crime is not supported by any evidence…’

‘But fortunately we have a surfeit of evidence from the Ingham murders which provides circumstantial … Where are you going? Inspector, sit back down,’ Charlton hissed. But Brook was gone. Charlton turned around with a smile glued to his face, hoping nobody had noticed the disagreement. The lights came up and Charlton’s smile disappeared.

Brook arrived back at his office to collect the folder on Mike Drexler. He slumped in his chair and stared out of the window at Derby’s low horizon, across the flyover and on past the cathedral. The daylight was almost gone and people would be sitting in their homes watching Chief Superintendent Charlton and DCI Hudson giving their press conference. By the next morning John and Denise Ottoman would be on the front pages of every newspaper in the country and, in spite of the delicate policespeak employed by Charlton, presumed guilty by every editorial and reader. He wondered what such publicity would do to Denise Ottoman’s fragile mental state.

He opened a window and sat down to read the file on Drexler. There were only three pages so it didn’t take long. He tossed it onto his desk then lit a cigarette. His thoughts returned to the Ottomans and the media jackals preparing to tear their lives apart. How to save them?

Brook stubbed out his cigarette and dropped the filter out of the window, before closing it.

He stood to leave, picking up the Drexler folder. The Ottomans hadn’t been convicted yet. There was still time.

Brook passed through the Incident Room on his way to the car park. Grant and Noble were talking over a coffee.

‘You missed the press conference,’ said Noble. ‘We’re just going out to celebrate. The rest of the team are already in the pub. If you care to join us.’

Brook paused. ‘Two dangerous teachers have escaped and could be roaming the streets of Derby issuing detentions even as we speak. And you want to celebrate?’

Noble darted a smile at Grant. ‘We’re safe for now, sir. They’re out of the country. They caught a ferry from Dover to France, Sunday lunchtime. We just heard.’

‘So it’s a plain old hide and seek now,’ put in Grant.

‘They got away. Then maybe a celebration
is
in order, John. Do we know what car they were in?’

‘Volkswagen Polo.’

‘Is that black and powerful, Laura?’

She smiled. ‘No, it’s green and small, but the car Tommy Blake saw might have been a legitimate taxi. We just haven’t found it yet.’

‘And has he been shown a picture of Denise Ottoman?’

Grant sighed. ‘He has actually. No joy though. We also showed him the cleaned-up picture from the North bedroom to compare. It’s not come out much clearer.’ She handed him the printout, which Brook examined. ‘Tell me, Inspector, do you always take a good result so badly?’

‘There are no good results in our game, Laura.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘Joshua tells me you’re driving back to Brighton tomorrow.’

Grant turned to Noble. ‘Can I have a minute, John?’

Noble hesitated, then said to Grant, ‘I’ll meet you downstairs.’

When he’d left the room, Grant turned to Brook. ‘Yes, sir, we’re going home. We’ll be back when the Ottomans are caught. But I thought I might take an extra day in Derby.’

‘Oh?’

‘I prefer to take the train. Besides,’ she said, a smile playing around her lips, ‘I’ve got a standing invitation to go walking in the Peaks.’

Drexler sank back in the sofa and accepted the hot chocolate from Sorenson’s wrinkled hand. He took an immediate sip of the dark sweetness.

‘It was a righteous shooting, Professor. Agent McQuarry supported me. The Board of Inquiry supported me. The Reverend was a secret drunk and an abusive bully.’

‘How did you know that, Mike? Did he have a T-shirt to that effect?’

Drexler glared at him. ‘I knew his type. He also had a knife. He’d already beaten his wife and threatened her with it. Drunks do that. When we got there we could see hesitation cuts on her neck. But I knew from experience he wasn’t hesitating out of reluctance. He was putting the knife against his wife’s neck again and again to let her feel its unforgiving steel, to amplify her terror.’

Sorenson drifted over to the hearth and turned on a gas tap. He lit the jet with a taper and flames began to crackle around the dry logs placed above. With a sharp breath, he turned to face Drexler, his black eyes boring through the smoke to his core.

When Sorenson said nothing, Drexler felt compelled, he didn’t know why, to fill the silence. ‘For a while she’d gotten away from him. She was wailing in the corner. Her face was all beat up and the man of God was three-quarters through a litre of vodka. Ed tried to talk him down, but she
must’ve got too close, I don’t know. He went for her. Then it all turned to shit.’

‘So it was your partner’s fault.’

‘No! It was my fault. The thing is … I should’ve been talking to Hunseth not Ed. The profile of a wife-beater is never wrong. A strong woman trying to reason with him, talk him down – that was always gonna rile him and we knew it. It’s just that I … I guess I just froze. So when Hunseth lunged at her, she cut her hand pretty bad and damaged her tendons. She had to have rehab. She tried to get away but when he went for her again, I fired.’

Sorenson smiled and sat opposite Drexler. ‘And after that, there wasn’t enough rehab in the world to save the Reverend Hunseth.’

‘No.’

‘Not with four bullets in him.’

Drexler managed to hide his surprise. How did Sorenson know? How could he zero in on all his weak spots so unerringly? It was probably in the transcript but even so, only a professional would raise an eyebrow at that. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re a very fine shot, Mike. Two in the heart and two in the head. The Reverend took some stopping. Is that why the Board took so long to clear you?’

Drexler’s heart began to beat a little faster. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Did they ask you off the record, because it doesn’t say in the file?’

‘Ask me what?’

‘At whom you fired the third and fourth bullets.’

‘They were fired at Hunseth.’

‘Physically, yes. I know that, Mike. Forget who you were firing at and just tell me one thing. Why fire the third and fourth bullets at all? If your first didn’t stop him, the second
must have done. One in the heart, one in the head. But you fired two more.’ Sorenson cocked his head to one side, to deliver his payload. ‘Who else were you killing that night?’

Drexler smiled now. Of course. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. The end was in sight. But then what? What purpose was this serving? What did he want from him? ‘Don’t stop, Professor. It’s just getting interesting.’

Sorenson stood. He seemed satisfied with Drexler’s reply. ‘I’m glad you’re not taking this personally, Mike. I think we can be friends.’ Drexler raised an eyebrow at that. Sorenson caught it. ‘In time.’

He moved over to a large walnut cabinet and opened a door. ‘First some Beethoven … and a glass of malt whisky.’ Sorenson pressed a button and music began to play – beautiful and lingering piano notes swaying dramatically against the worsening weather gathering on the lake. He poured two generous measures into heavy tumblers and handed one to his guest. Drexler prepared to refuse. He hadn’t touched alcohol for nearly three months and hadn’t missed it.

‘Don’t worry, Mike. It’s not drugged.’

Drexler smiled and took the glass. This had to be part of the game. He accepted his whisky and sniffed at it without drinking. It didn’t smell like ordinary whisky and he was tempted to take a sip but needed his wits about him if he were ever going to get a crack at his agenda. He felt the need to occupy himself and stood to stroll as nonchalantly as he could manage across to the large glass doors which were being pounded by wind and snow now driving across the water.

He turned to look around. Everything about the place was expensive and tasteful. The room was sparsely furnished as befitted the single man, indicated by all the information they held on Sorenson. The space was large
and open and smelled of pine, though there was a slight chemical edge in the air that reminded him of hospitals.

A mezzanine balcony, serviced by a generous wooden staircase, ran along one wall and seemed to lead off to other enclosed rooms. The fire, framed in wood and stone, dominated another wall and arranged to face it were a polished oak coffee table and the two comfortable dark leather sofas on which Drexler and Sorenson had been sitting.

There was no TV but across an end wall stood a large walnut chest holding a few weighty books. There was a music centre that fed the speakers, which were placed discreetly under beams at the four corners of the room. The chest also housed the drinks cabinet from which Sorenson had produced the two glasses of whisky. The darkness was gathering and Sorenson switched on a pair of lamps.

‘Cheers.’ Sorenson raised his glass to drink and Drexler decided to follow suit with a minute sip which burned his tongue with its smoky fire.

Drexler returned to his seat, leaving the toast unanswered. ‘What do you want, Professor?’

Sorenson seemed a little surprised. ‘What do I want? I want to know who you are and I want you to know who I am. I’d like you to think of me as a friend.’ Drexler pulled a face. ‘Or at least as someone who can help you.’

‘Help me? How?’

‘Make you realise you’re not alone in your pain, Mike.’

‘Pain?’

‘With me it was my twin brother – with you a drunken, abusive father. Families cause such pain. I don’t know why.’

Drexler glared at Sorenson, determined not to react to the constant probing, though each pick at the wound made it harder. ‘Makes you just want to wipe them out, doesn’t it, Professor?’