as he knew the other smell, the hint of perfume–talcum powder. To keep sweaty palms dry inside latex gloves. He wished he had some now.
Brook stood to one side of the door and tried to take it all in. Bobby Wallis sat in his armchair, facing the TV. His body was contorted with effort, his fists clenched and spotted with blood. His head was tilted at an angle, as though puzzled by something. Brook peered at the half-closed eyes and turned to follow the victim’s sightless gaze, squinting above and beyond the TV to the word ‘SAVED’ daubed in blood on the alcove wall. Rivulets wept from all the letters except the D. This letter was fainter than the others though the writer hadn’t been short of ink. A message from the killer. SAVED. Who was saved and from what? Brook was no nearer knowing. The Reaper was back. He knew that much.
The memories came flooding in and Brook was tempted to move around the room as if physical activity could quell the images in his mind. But one of those images wasof stepping in a pool of blood all those years ago in Brixton so he managed to anchor himself.
He noted the poster on the chimney breast and nodded in recognition. Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’. It didn’t belong in this house. Rich, vivid colours stood out against the grubby walls. The blue and golden flowers, the single white flower. But now the picture was different, scarred by the slash of red, like a giant approving tick on a piece of artwork. He was held for a moment. Harlesden in 1990, Brixton a year later. And now Derby. Why such a long gap? It made no sense.
Brook forced his mind back to the present and returned his eyes to Bobby Wallis. There was a new orifice under his chin and his dark blue sweater was saturated black with blood. Arterial sprays were everywhere. Walls, clothing, furniture, the small silver Christmas tree in the corner, the dark carpet probably, though it was difficult to tell.
There would be blood all round the bodies and footprints in the blood–the neighbour’s and PC Aktar’s–who would have had to tramp around the room checking for signs of life. They wouldn’t be hard to distinguish for today’s Scene of Crime Officers with their digital imaging technology. The killer’s footprints would eventually be isolated–for what it was worth. They’d still need a suspect before they could find a match.
Brook moved his head, trying to catch a look at the front of the man’s face. Then he saw it, reflected in the dim light, a faint glimmer scarring his cheeks. It was there as before. The man’s cheeks were encrusted with it–salt from tears. Something had made this man cry and sure as hell, it wasn’t
Big Brother.
Brook remembered him now. Bobby Wallis had form and Brook was willing to bet he hadn’t cried since early childhood. He was a local hard man, a man’s man, a petty criminal, who graduated from years in the system and drifted in and out of menial work. Sometimes he got drunk and beat up those who were sure not to fight back. Not his family though. They were part of him. He’d protect
his
kids. He’d protect his wife. Love was another matter.
Brook remembered his own dead father, a miner in Barnsley. Although as different from Bobby Wallis as chalk from cheese, Brook recognised the symptoms. A life built on small successes, hungrily sought and endlessly trumpeted to drown the background hum of failure.
With his father it had been his work as a union official and coaching the church boys’ football club. With Wallis it would have been a good result at the bookies or the chance smile of a barmaid ‘asking for it’.
Brook turned his gaze to the ample figure beside Bobby. Mrs Wallis was on the sofa comically dressed in a towelling tracksuit that stretched itself, with more than a hint of complaint, around her abundant flesh. At least in death she’d discovered irony, thought Brook, trying to suppress a grim smile.
A pack of cigarettes and gold lighter sat neatly beside her. They
Brook stood to one side of the door and tried to take it all in. Bobby Wallis sat in his armchair, facing the TV. His body was contorted with effort, his fists clenched and spotted with blood. His head was tilted at an angle, as though puzzled by something. Brook peered at the half-closed eyes and turned to follow the victim’s sightless gaze, squinting above and beyond the TV to the word ‘SAVED’ daubed in blood on the alcove wall. Rivulets wept from all the letters except the D. This letter was fainter than the others though the writer hadn’t been short of ink. A message from the killer. SAVED. Who was saved and from what? Brook was no nearer knowing. The Reaper was back. He knew that much.
The memories came flooding in and Brook was tempted to move around the room as if physical activity could quell the images in his mind. But one of those images wasof stepping in a pool of blood all those years ago in Brixton so he managed to anchor himself.
He noted the poster on the chimney breast and nodded in recognition. Van Gogh’s ‘Irises’. It didn’t belong in this house. Rich, vivid colours stood out against the grubby walls. The blue and golden flowers, the single white flower. But now the picture was different, scarred by the slash of red, like a giant approving tick on a piece of artwork. He was held for a moment. Harlesden in 1990, Brixton a year later. And now Derby. Why such a long gap? It made no sense.
Brook forced his mind back to the present and returned his eyes to Bobby Wallis. There was a new orifice under his chin and his dark blue sweater was saturated black with blood. Arterial sprays were everywhere. Walls, clothing, furniture, the small silver Christmas tree in the corner, the dark carpet probably, though it was difficult to tell.
There would be blood all round the bodies and footprints in the blood–the neighbour’s and PC Aktar’s–who would have had to tramp around the room checking for signs of life. They wouldn’t be hard to distinguish for today’s Scene of Crime Officers with their digital imaging technology. The killer’s footprints would eventually be isolated–for what it was worth. They’d still need a suspect before they could find a match.
Brook moved his head, trying to catch a look at the front of the man’s face. Then he saw it, reflected in the dim light, a faint glimmer scarring his cheeks. It was there as before. The man’s cheeks were encrusted with it–salt from tears. Something had made this man cry and sure as hell, it wasn’t
Big Brother.
Brook remembered him now. Bobby Wallis had form and Brook was willing to bet he hadn’t cried since early childhood. He was a local hard man, a man’s man, a petty criminal, who graduated from years in the system and drifted in and out of menial work. Sometimes he got drunk and beat up those who were sure not to fight back. Not his family though. They were part of him. He’d protect
his
kids. He’d protect his wife. Love was another matter.
Brook remembered his own dead father, a miner in Barnsley. Although as different from Bobby Wallis as chalk from cheese, Brook recognised the symptoms. A life built on small successes, hungrily sought and endlessly trumpeted to drown the background hum of failure.
With his father it had been his work as a union official and coaching the church boys’ football club. With Wallis it would have been a good result at the bookies or the chance smile of a barmaid ‘asking for it’.
Brook turned his gaze to the ample figure beside Bobby. Mrs Wallis was on the sofa comically dressed in a towelling tracksuit that stretched itself, with more than a hint of complaint, around her abundant flesh. At least in death she’d discovered irony, thought Brook, trying to suppress a grim smile.
A pack of cigarettes and gold lighter sat neatly beside her. They
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