it around his fingers. The silver hearts glistened in the half-light and Brook stared at them, seeing the face of the girl who’d worn it all those years before–what was left of it, after the rats had eaten their fill.
He returned the necklace to the folder and began to organise reports and photographs from The Reaper killings into one chronological pile.
Chapter Six
It was cold. Very cold. The air above the duvet was crisp enough to blue the two noses peeping out from the cocoon like a pair of stunted periscopes.
Amy Brook flinched at the intrusion of the phone and uncoupled herself from her groaning husband. She didn’t need waking in the middle of the night in her condition; she woke plenty with no disturbance.
Delicately, trying not to take the full weight of the mass in her womb onto her stomach, she swivelled towards the offending noise.
‘Sorry to wake you, love. Can I speak to him?’
Detective Inspector Rowlands, soon to be a DCI, spoke with unusual gentleness, as though a lowered voice was less irritating. To hear him, Amy Brook was forced to concentrate even harder, pushing sleep further away.
‘It’s for you,’ she droned, jabbing the phone into her bleary husband’s huddled form. She swung her legs onto the floor without breaking the crust around her eyes. ‘Tea?’
‘Don’t bother, gorgeous,’ Damen Brook replied, hand over the mouthpiece, his eyes resolutely closed.
‘No bother, I’m suffering for two now.’ She rose gingerly
,
supporting her large belly in her forearms, clambered to her feet and waddled down to the kitchenette, yawning and shivering in equal measures.
‘What’s up, guv?’
‘Murder. A bad one. Meet me at 67b Minet Avenue, above the launderette.’
Brook scribbled furiously. He’d soon learned to keep pad and pencil by the phone. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Harlesden.’
The phone clicked. Brook swung his legs onto the cold floor and dressed, though not as quickly as usual. The inclement weather had provoked him into wearing pyjamas for the first time since his early teens and he fiddled with the outsize buttons and starched material, unaccustomed to such a test of dexterity.
Having dressed sufficiently he crept downstairs and cast around for the A-Z, sweeping it up as he clambered into his overcoat.
Amy stood by the door, one arm supporting their first child–their only child as it turned out though they’d planned four–one holding out a mug of tea.
Brook looked at her eyes, virtually closed save for a glimmer of pupil which shone between the lids. He took the outstretched mug and turned away, stifling a tic of horror. It was the same face, the death mask of a butchered prostitute he’d seen the year before. He’d noticed the face. She’d been stabbed repeatedly in the vagina and the killer had tried to cut off her breasts.
Brook took a sip of tea and kissed her on the forehead.
‘Go upstairs before I go out,’ he said, one hand on the doorknob. ‘Don’t want the baby catching its death.’
‘His or her death,’ she corrected him, obeying like a
robot. Brook looked after her, aching to follow. He blinked at his watch. Gone three. A fine night to leave your warm bed and milky soft wife. She’d long since stopped asking him what time he’d be back. He’d long since stopped apologising.
Brook hurried through the spitting wind to his temperamental Triumph Stag, the usual will-it-won’t-it knot pulling on his gut. He’d need something more practical in a month, he reflected not without regret. Another expense though. Another temptation to give in to the Kick Back Squad.
‘It’s only fifty quid. Everybody else is in. You don’t have to do anything illegal.’
‘What do you call this?’
No, they’d manage. He wasn’t going to put himself at the whim of crooked businessmen and seedy night club owners. He’d joined the Force to catch criminals, not become one. The Brooks would get by without brown envelopes.
Besides, he was a
He returned the necklace to the folder and began to organise reports and photographs from The Reaper killings into one chronological pile.
Chapter Six
It was cold. Very cold. The air above the duvet was crisp enough to blue the two noses peeping out from the cocoon like a pair of stunted periscopes.
Amy Brook flinched at the intrusion of the phone and uncoupled herself from her groaning husband. She didn’t need waking in the middle of the night in her condition; she woke plenty with no disturbance.
Delicately, trying not to take the full weight of the mass in her womb onto her stomach, she swivelled towards the offending noise.
‘Sorry to wake you, love. Can I speak to him?’
Detective Inspector Rowlands, soon to be a DCI, spoke with unusual gentleness, as though a lowered voice was less irritating. To hear him, Amy Brook was forced to concentrate even harder, pushing sleep further away.
‘It’s for you,’ she droned, jabbing the phone into her bleary husband’s huddled form. She swung her legs onto the floor without breaking the crust around her eyes. ‘Tea?’
‘Don’t bother, gorgeous,’ Damen Brook replied, hand over the mouthpiece, his eyes resolutely closed.
‘No bother, I’m suffering for two now.’ She rose gingerly
,
supporting her large belly in her forearms, clambered to her feet and waddled down to the kitchenette, yawning and shivering in equal measures.
‘What’s up, guv?’
‘Murder. A bad one. Meet me at 67b Minet Avenue, above the launderette.’
Brook scribbled furiously. He’d soon learned to keep pad and pencil by the phone. ‘Where’s that?’
‘Harlesden.’
The phone clicked. Brook swung his legs onto the cold floor and dressed, though not as quickly as usual. The inclement weather had provoked him into wearing pyjamas for the first time since his early teens and he fiddled with the outsize buttons and starched material, unaccustomed to such a test of dexterity.
Having dressed sufficiently he crept downstairs and cast around for the A-Z, sweeping it up as he clambered into his overcoat.
Amy stood by the door, one arm supporting their first child–their only child as it turned out though they’d planned four–one holding out a mug of tea.
Brook looked at her eyes, virtually closed save for a glimmer of pupil which shone between the lids. He took the outstretched mug and turned away, stifling a tic of horror. It was the same face, the death mask of a butchered prostitute he’d seen the year before. He’d noticed the face. She’d been stabbed repeatedly in the vagina and the killer had tried to cut off her breasts.
Brook took a sip of tea and kissed her on the forehead.
‘Go upstairs before I go out,’ he said, one hand on the doorknob. ‘Don’t want the baby catching its death.’
‘His or her death,’ she corrected him, obeying like a
robot. Brook looked after her, aching to follow. He blinked at his watch. Gone three. A fine night to leave your warm bed and milky soft wife. She’d long since stopped asking him what time he’d be back. He’d long since stopped apologising.
Brook hurried through the spitting wind to his temperamental Triumph Stag, the usual will-it-won’t-it knot pulling on his gut. He’d need something more practical in a month, he reflected not without regret. Another expense though. Another temptation to give in to the Kick Back Squad.
‘It’s only fifty quid. Everybody else is in. You don’t have to do anything illegal.’
‘What do you call this?’
No, they’d manage. He wasn’t going to put himself at the whim of crooked businessmen and seedy night club owners. He’d joined the Force to catch criminals, not become one. The Brooks would get by without brown envelopes.
Besides, he was a
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