track had elapsed. He located the volume control and moved it round to the right. At once the low strains of Mahler’s melancholic lament could be heard. He held the circular button and turned it further round. Shuddering horns filled the room.
Brook turned it to full blast and everybody stopped what they were doing and turned to the source of the annoyance. The sound was distorted. Brook returned the volume control to its original position with an apologetic smile then turned off the power.
As he looked round the room for the last time, Brook knew the killer was a man,
the
man. It couldn’t be a woman. Course it couldn’t. It wasn’t just statistical. Women give life–at least biologically–men take it. No need for offender profiling to tell him that.
Chapter Three
As the pale light of a December dawn broke over the city skyline, Brook’s weary eyelids began to close. Odd the way he always felt more tired when he was denied his eight hours of solid insomnia. He could lay awake reading and thinking–all night sometimes–and still feel viable in the morning, but if he wasn’t horizontal it drained him.
For the second time that morning the phone shattered his fragile peace. It was Chief Superintendent McMaster, before eight in the morning no less. She wasn’t usually sighted before noon, what with all the courses, seminars and consultations she had to attend. She had an endless timetable of heavy-duty liaison to get through, but here she was, in her office, at the end of the criminal rush hour, wanting to speak to him.
Brook hadn’t spoken to the Chief about a case in months, so little was she involved in criminal matters. The last time they’d spoken at all, McMaster had dialled the wrong extension. Brook knew that wasn’t the case this time. Local TV and radio had already been sniffing round and she had to have basic facts to release.
‘DI Brook?’
She had a mellifluous voice, a crucial selling point at her promotion interview.
‘Ma’am.’
‘Can I see you right away, in my office, please? I need to pick your brains about last night.’
‘Right away, ma’am.’
‘Thank God, you were on call last night, Damen. We can hit the ground running. I’ll have a coffee waiting.’
Brook replaced the receiver with a smile. Even at half past seven in the morning she felt able to play him like a violin.
Brook picked up his preliminary report and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was a mess. He knew he had a good excuse but he also knew that the Chief Super would be immaculate, even at this early hour.
Brook stood outside her office, hand raised to knock, when Noble turned the corner carrying a plastic beaker of coffee. He had a large envelope under his arm. He hadn’t slept either but at least he wasn’t wearing a tatty polo neck.
‘Are those the SOCO photos, John?’
He nodded. ‘I put a rush on them.’
‘Good. I’m going to brief the boss. You’d better join me.’
Noble examined his watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s actually here?’
Brook hesitated. He was sensitive to snipes at the Chief Super. They were alike–outsiders against the rest–and a dig at her was a dig at him. He decided to say nothing, then knocked and entered.
‘Morning ma’am. DS Noble’s with me to fill in some of the blanks.’
If McMaster noticed Brook’s dishevelled condition, she didn’t let it show. ‘Fine,’ she beamed, emptying a cafetiere into two solid French coffee cups, complete with matching saucers. The woman’s touch–a little strategy to make her male colleagues feel subliminally masterful and at ease. Brook knew the routine. At some point she’d feel compelled to water her spider plants. ‘I hope he’s brought his own. Black with sugar isn’t it, Inspector?’
‘Yes ma’am. The bitter and sweet,’ he said after a brief pause. She glanced slyly back at him and Brook felt he saw the ghost of a smile crease her 45 year-old features.
Evelyn McMaster was short, with
Brook turned it to full blast and everybody stopped what they were doing and turned to the source of the annoyance. The sound was distorted. Brook returned the volume control to its original position with an apologetic smile then turned off the power.
As he looked round the room for the last time, Brook knew the killer was a man,
the
man. It couldn’t be a woman. Course it couldn’t. It wasn’t just statistical. Women give life–at least biologically–men take it. No need for offender profiling to tell him that.
Chapter Three
As the pale light of a December dawn broke over the city skyline, Brook’s weary eyelids began to close. Odd the way he always felt more tired when he was denied his eight hours of solid insomnia. He could lay awake reading and thinking–all night sometimes–and still feel viable in the morning, but if he wasn’t horizontal it drained him.
For the second time that morning the phone shattered his fragile peace. It was Chief Superintendent McMaster, before eight in the morning no less. She wasn’t usually sighted before noon, what with all the courses, seminars and consultations she had to attend. She had an endless timetable of heavy-duty liaison to get through, but here she was, in her office, at the end of the criminal rush hour, wanting to speak to him.
Brook hadn’t spoken to the Chief about a case in months, so little was she involved in criminal matters. The last time they’d spoken at all, McMaster had dialled the wrong extension. Brook knew that wasn’t the case this time. Local TV and radio had already been sniffing round and she had to have basic facts to release.
‘DI Brook?’
She had a mellifluous voice, a crucial selling point at her promotion interview.
‘Ma’am.’
‘Can I see you right away, in my office, please? I need to pick your brains about last night.’
‘Right away, ma’am.’
‘Thank God, you were on call last night, Damen. We can hit the ground running. I’ll have a coffee waiting.’
Brook replaced the receiver with a smile. Even at half past seven in the morning she felt able to play him like a violin.
Brook picked up his preliminary report and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He was a mess. He knew he had a good excuse but he also knew that the Chief Super would be immaculate, even at this early hour.
Brook stood outside her office, hand raised to knock, when Noble turned the corner carrying a plastic beaker of coffee. He had a large envelope under his arm. He hadn’t slept either but at least he wasn’t wearing a tatty polo neck.
‘Are those the SOCO photos, John?’
He nodded. ‘I put a rush on them.’
‘Good. I’m going to brief the boss. You’d better join me.’
Noble examined his watch and raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s actually here?’
Brook hesitated. He was sensitive to snipes at the Chief Super. They were alike–outsiders against the rest–and a dig at her was a dig at him. He decided to say nothing, then knocked and entered.
‘Morning ma’am. DS Noble’s with me to fill in some of the blanks.’
If McMaster noticed Brook’s dishevelled condition, she didn’t let it show. ‘Fine,’ she beamed, emptying a cafetiere into two solid French coffee cups, complete with matching saucers. The woman’s touch–a little strategy to make her male colleagues feel subliminally masterful and at ease. Brook knew the routine. At some point she’d feel compelled to water her spider plants. ‘I hope he’s brought his own. Black with sugar isn’t it, Inspector?’
‘Yes ma’am. The bitter and sweet,’ he said after a brief pause. She glanced slyly back at him and Brook felt he saw the ghost of a smile crease her 45 year-old features.
Evelyn McMaster was short, with
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