Thursday, 26 May
Brook checked the address against Noble’s scribble and stepped from the car. It was a bright morning with just a hint of a chilled breeze. Terri had been fast asleep when Brook crept out of the door at seven and, an hour later, he stood outside Russell Thomson’s Brisbane Estate home — a small, dog-eared semi-detached with large wooden-framed windows that hadn’t seen a lick of paint in a while.
Brook had very little information on Yvette Thomson. She was a single mum, according to Alice Kennedy, and had been in Derby for only a few months. Alice hadn’t got to know her well and didn’t know what she did for a living, but she had heard that her son Russell had had problems with bullying, hence the move to a new college in the middle of the academic year.
Brook knocked on the rickety glass door and stepped back to look for signs of life. All the curtains and blinds were drawn. He knocked again and this time fished in his jacket for his mobile. Noble would still be in bed, having left the surveillance on Leopold Street a couple of hours previously. Brook painstakingly tapped out a text for him to organise a briefing for four o’clock and a press conference for six. He made sure the punctuation was correct then sent it on his way with a hefty depression of the thumb.
The noise of a window opening lifted Brook’s head.
‘That better not be you, Wilson,’ croaked a sleepy voice. ‘I’m on evenings this week.’
‘Mrs Thomson.’ Brook shielded his eyes and followed the voice to the upstairs window. He could make out only the shock of black hair hanging down over a face.
‘Oh, crap. Is this about the meter reading?’
Brook flashed his warrant card even though she wouldn’t see it. ‘Detective Inspector Brook,’ he added for good measure. ‘I’d like a word with your son.’
There was a shocked pause and some attempt to focus on Brook through the hair. ‘Rusty? Oh God, is he okay?’
‘It’s nothing like that,’ began Brook.
‘What’s he been doing?’
‘He’s not in trouble, Mrs Thomson. I just need to speak to him.’
She nodded. ‘Okay. Catch.’ She jerked her hand and a set of keys fell towards Brook, who caught them before they hit the drive. ‘Let yourself in.’ The black hair disappeared only to reappear immediately. ‘And put the kettle on.’
Brook unlocked the front door which opened stiffly into a bare hall with a ubiquitous grey carpet that had seen better days. Unknown substances sucked at his shoes as he located and turned into the compact kitchen on the left and snapped on the kettle, which was full. A cafetiere stood nearby. It already contained fresh coffee grounds and there was a small gift card still attached to the handle. It read, Pour Eve. Merci, Phil.
Brook located the coffee jar and added another spoonful, then unearthed another mug from a cupboard. It contained four cups in total — all from different sets. Brook smiled. There was even a jam jar.
When the kettle boiled, Brook filled the cafetiere and opened the fridge. The only food was a half-full takeaway carton, a quarter of melon and a packet of butter. Brook plucked the milk from the door and made the coffee. He took a sip and opened another cupboard which was empty apart from three wine glasses.
‘Do you have a search warrant, Inspector?’
Brook turned. Yvette Thomson stood at the door. She was about three inches shorter than his six feet, slender but with a full figure that strained against her snug white T-shirt. She was strikingly pretty and could’ve passed for late twenties but Brook knew, with an eighteen-year-old son, she had to be early thirties, at least.
She grinned suddenly at Brook’s discomfort and her face lit up. ‘Sorry.’ She laughed. ‘I’ve been watching too much Law and Order. Coffee! You angel.’ She grabbed her mug, took a lingering mouthful and moaned with pleasure.
‘Sorry to get you up this early, Mrs Thomson,’ said Brook. ‘I thought I’d catch you and Russell before you went to work.’
‘It’s Miss, though I’d prefer Yvette. And you could have given it another six hours.’ She yawned. ‘I’m working behind the bar at the Mermaid at the moment. It helps pay the rent while I study.’
She seemed in no hurry to enquire about his visit so Brook dredged up some more small talk. ‘What are you studying?’
‘I’m doing a course in Beauty Therapy at Derby College,’ she replied.
‘It seems to be working,’ said Brook, for something to say.
She smiled at him and took another sip of coffee. ‘I’ve missed a lot of the course actually — didn’t start until November.’
‘Must be tough moving during the academic year, especially for your son.’
Yvette considered Brook from behind her cup. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘I need to ask Russell a few questions. Is he here?’
‘Sorry. Rusty’s hardly ever at home.’
‘Pity. Who’s Wilson?’
Yvette Thomson rolled her eyes. ‘Oh my God — one of Rusty’s mates at the college.’ She looked away briefly. ‘By mates, I mean fellow students. Rusty doesn’t make friends easily.’
‘And were you expecting him?’
‘Wilson? No, but he keeps popping round, asking if I need any jobs doing. Well, it’s a rented house so I’m not about to embark on home improvements, but that doesn’t stop him asking. It was sweet at first,’ she said, ‘but it can get on your nerves. Apparently, he thinks I’m a MILF.’
Brook emitted a one-note laugh. ‘I hate to say it, but I know what that is.’
‘So do I,’ she answered. ‘A girl at college told Rusty it means Mums I Like Fine. Poor Rusty — so smart, yet so naive.’
‘He’s meeting girls at least.’
‘Adele? She’s waa-aaa-ay out of his league.’
‘You’re referring to Adele Watson, I assume,’ said Brook. ‘She was at a party with Russell at the weekend.’
Yvette gulped back her coffee and narrowed her eyes. ‘Is that what this is about?’ She put a hand to her brow. ‘Shit, he’s not been filming people without permission again, has he? I should never have bought him that bloody camcorder.’
Brook held up a hand. ‘He’s not in trouble. I just need to speak to him about who was at that party.’
‘Did something happen?’
‘He hasn’t said anything?’
She looked at the floor, thinking. ‘Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve seen him since.’
‘You haven’t seen him since?’ repeated Brook. ‘It’s Thursday today. We’re talking about last Friday.’
Yvette Thomson held her palms up. ‘Inspector, I’m not a bad mother — but I work nights. Rusty’s old enough. He has a key. He comes and goes. Have you got kids?’
‘A daughter. She’s twenty.’
‘Then you’ll know. If they want money or feeding, you see them. If they don’t. .’
Brook nodded, though he was in uncharted waters. ‘Can I see his room?’
‘Tell me what’s wrong first. You’re starting to worry me.’
‘Kyle Kennedy was reported missing on Sunday. On Tuesday, Adele Watson and another girl, Becky Blake, were reported missing. No one’s seen any of them since the party.’
‘And you think. .’ She turned and ran up the stairs. Brook followed. On the dark landing she hesitated as though getting her bearings, then burst through a door and stood frozen against the sunburst from the window. Brook pushed past her. The single bed was unruffled. In the middle of the duvet a mobile phone rested on a glossy leaflet.
Yvette leaned over Brook’s shoulder to read the only word she could make out. ‘Deity.’
‘Miss Thomson, you have to calm down.’ Brook watched her rifle through a kitchen drawer.
‘It’s in here somewhere.’
‘What is?’
She pulled out a sheet of paper and pored over it. ‘This.’ She looked at her watch and back at the paper. ‘It’s Rusty’s timetable. He’s got a Media Studies lecture in two hours. He never misses that; he’s a big film buff.’
‘But-’
‘He’ll be there, I’m telling you. He wouldn’t leave me on my own.’
‘Okay, okay. I’ll come with you, just settle down. We need to inform the college officially anyway. In the meantime, we need a picture of him.’
Yvette shook her head. Tears were in her eyes. ‘I haven’t got one. We left a lot of stuff behind in the move.’ She started to sob.
‘All right. Before we go to the college, I want you to come back to Russell’s room, if you can face it, and tell me if anything is missing. .’
Yvette Thomson had finally calmed down enough for Brook to leave her on her own in the kitchen, writing out a list of contact numbers, as well as any places, apart from the college, Russell might hang out.
Brook returned to Russell’s room to bag his mobile, as well as the leaflet. Russell’s laptop was closed on a table but Brook didn’t disturb it. He searched the bedroom quickly but found nothing of interest. There were only a handful of books, all connected to Russell’s love of films: actors’ biographies, memoirs and a book entitled 1000 Films to See Before You Die. Despite his apparent love of film, there was only one DVD in the room — Picnic at Hanging Rock. He skimmed through the books quickly but found no sign of handwritten notes of the kind left by Adele Watson.
The walls though were covered with at least a dozen original movie posters, only some of which Brook had seen before. Blade Runner, 2001, Badlands, Belle de Jour, Vertigo, Psycho and The Godfather were the films Brook knew. Others unknown to him included Picnic at Hanging Rock and The Blair Witch Project. Four dots of Blu-tack indicated a missing poster, but Yvette had struggled to remember what it was.
Brook looked around the room for something that might contain Russell’s DNA. There were no combs or grooming products of any kind. Even a cursory glance at the bed didn’t produce any strands of hair. Although shabby, the room appeared to be spotless.
Brook moved into the bathroom. There was only one toothbrush in a pot and it appeared to be brand new. He left it there. A canister of shaving foam raised Brook’s hopes but there were no other shaving implements to accompany it.
‘John. I’m outside Derby College — the Roundhouse site. You sound a bit groggy.’ Brook looked at his watch. ‘Four hours’ sleep — that’s plenty. Listen. We’ve got a fourth student missing: Russell Thomson — same MO as the others. I’m here with the mother. She’s sure her son doesn’t have a passport, but check it out. She also told me there’s a course that Russell, Adele, Kyle and Becky take together — Media Studies. There’s a lecture in fifteen minutes so I’m dropping in to see if this is a hoax.
‘If they really are AWOL, I’ll talk to the other students taking the course, see if they know anything. On that subject, get on to Charlton. If these four are missing, we’re going to need a lot of bodies at the college tomorrow to interview as many people as we can — staff, students, lecturers, the works. It’ll be a big operation but it has to be done tomorrow before the college breaks for half-term and memories fade.’
Brook listened for a moment. ‘No, it’s better if you talk to him. If he mentions budgets to me, well, I may not be diplomatic. Tell him I’ll be holding a press conference tonight. That should get his attention. How did the surveillance go? Nothing. As expected.’
Brook rang off and walked back towards Yvette Thomson, standing outside the college’s entrance. Her eyes were red-rimmed from tears, and despite the warmth of the day, she appeared to be shivering. Nevertheless she still managed to smile weakly at him.
As Brook crossed the car park towards her, he spotted a black Porsche parked in one of the reserved bays. He stopped briefly to jot down the licence-plate and bay number then continued on to the entrance.
‘You look cold. You should’ve waited inside.’
‘I’m all right,’ she said. ‘Besides, I forgot my accreditation.’
‘I didn’t,’ replied Brook. Inside the entrance he flashed his warrant card at the attendant who buzzed them through the nearest turnstile.
‘We’ve got ten minutes yet. Let’s get you a hot drink.’ Brook guided her towards the refectory and sat her down at one of the tables. He beckoned over a man in a chef’s hat and ordered two cups of tea. ‘Put lots of sugar in — it’s good for shock.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I won’t be a minute, Miss Thomson. Just need to check something at the security desk.’
‘Eve.’
‘Pardon?’
She covered his hand briefly and Brook resisted the urge to pull it away. ‘I hardly know you, Inspector, but you’ve been so kind. My name’s Yvette but please call me Eve. That’s what my special friends call me.’
Brook looked down into her eyes. ‘Eve.’ He smiled at her. ‘That’ll save a lot of breath.’
To Brook’s surprise, she laughed, her distress forgotten for a moment.
Brook held the heavy wooden door for Yvette Thomson and followed her through into the Media Suite. A man in his early thirties with blond tinted hair, parted in the middle, was bent over a laptop, tapping attendance marks on to an online register. Meanwhile, half a dozen bored-looking teenagers stared vacantly or poked at their phones, their backs to Brook and Yvette. Only one student, a well-built and handsome young man feeding a DVD into a machine, stopped what he was doing and watched the pair walk to the front of the suite.
Brook returned the boy’s unwavering gaze. It was the same young man who had stood under the streetlight looking up at Brook, as he and Noble had searched Kyle Kennedy’s bedroom.
‘Even for the day before half-term this is a poor turnout,’ said the man to the laptop. ‘Okay, start the film, Jake.’ The boy appeared not to hear him and continued to stare at the detective.
‘Adam Rifkind?’
The man looked up at Brook, startled. ‘Can I help you?’
Brook ran a swift eye over the salon tan, the weak chin, the faint line of the missing wedding ring and the casual attire. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Brook, Derby CID.’
‘Eve,’ purred Rifkind, suddenly seeing Brook’s companion. He unveiled his most charming smile. ‘I’m sorry, Rusty hasn’t arrived yet.’ His beam disappeared as Yvette Thomson hurried from the room, her hand over her face to suffocate the whimpering. ‘Oh my God,’ said Rifkind, ‘so it’s true.’
‘True?’ enquired Brook.
‘These rumours circulating, that some of our students are missing.’
‘Where did you hear that?’ asked Brook.
‘Other students.’ He turned to a young blonde girl in the front row. ‘Fern, did you tell me Becky was missing?’
The girl nodded. ‘Sort of. I been calling Becks since I got back Sunday. She’s my best mate,’ she explained to Brook. ‘Her stepmum told me she disappeared. Kyle too.’
‘You don’t sound too worried,’ observed Brook.
The girl’s expression turned to one of pity for someone as uninformed as Brook. ‘Becks can look after herself. She’s gone on holiday, her stepmum said. Her passport’s gone — and Kyle’s.’ She leered. ‘Reckon Becks is gonna shag him straight-’
‘Yes, thank you, Fern,’ interrupted Rifkind. ‘Very colourful.’
‘What about Russell Thomson?’ asked Brook, addressing the room. ‘Anyone know where he might have gone?’ Brook’s question was greeted by silence. ‘Has anyone seen him or Kyle or Becky Blake since last Friday?’ Again silence, accompanied by shaking of heads. Brook turned his gaze on to Rifkind. ‘What about Adele Watson? Same questions.’
Rifkind’s eyes widened and he appeared to catch at a breath. ‘Adele? She’s missing too?’ Brook could detect surprise in Rifkind’s voice. It seemed genuine.
‘None of them have been seen since Kyle Kennedy’s eighteenth-birthday party, last Friday night.’ Brook looked around the small gathering. ‘Did anyone here attend the party?’ All heads were shaking again. All except the boy identified as Jake. ‘What about you, Jake?’
Jake looked down at the wrapping paper torn open on a nearby chair. Brook followed his gaze. ‘I was invited. But I didn’t go.’
‘Why?’
Jake appeared unable to answer. When he did speak, it was with venom. ‘Because Kyle’s a faggot and I didn’t want to catch AIDS.’ While the other students laughed, Jake’s face was like stone. Rifkind gave him a look of disgust but, to Brook’s surprise, said nothing.
‘It’s a wonder you were invited at all,’ replied Brook coldly. ‘And even stranger that you should buy him a present.’
Jake looked at the DVD case and then at Brook. ‘I told you, I didn’t go.’
‘No. But you must be very worried about your friend to stand outside Kyle’s house, watching us conduct our inquiry.’ Jake bowed his head without reply. ‘Do you know who else was invited?’ This time he simply shrugged. ‘What’s your surname, Jake?’
‘McKenzie.’
Brook turned to the lecturer. ‘Can I have a word in private, Mr Rifkind?’
After a brief hesitation, Rifkind nodded and indicated the door. ‘Start watching the film, people. I won’t be long.’ He followed Brook to the door and turned off the lights as Brook held the door for him. In the darkness, a female voice boomed through the speakers.
‘What we see and what we seem
Is but a dream, a dream within a dream’
Brook stopped in his tracks and turned back to the giant screen. A beautiful young girl with long blond hair was lying on a bed.
‘We’ve seen this bit,’ called one of the students. Whoever was in charge of the remote control returned the DVD to the main menu.
‘Picnic at Hanging Rock,’ said Brook under his breath before following Rifkind out of the suite.
‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’
‘You can tell me what it’s like driving a Porsche,’ Brook smiled. Rifkind narrowed his eyes at him. ‘I saw it outside. The security desk told me it was yours.’
Still Rifkind eyed him, saying nothing. Finally he shrugged. ‘It gets me from A to B,’ he said, with a smugness that unexpectedly raised Brook’s hackles. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’d like to hear about your relationship with Adele Watson.’
The double-edged nature of the request gave Rifkind pause but he sidestepped the trap without difficulty. ‘Certainly. She’s a very able girl, very bright — my star Literature student, in fact.’ He looked coolly at Brook. ‘She’s going to Cambridge next year if she achieves her expected grades. And thanks to me, she will.’
Brook smiled politely to crank up Rifkind’s discomfort. ‘And she’s a very pretty girl.’
‘I wouldn’t know about that, Inspector. I’m a happily married man.’
‘Not according to her diary.’ Brook paused. ‘Unless Adele’s having an affair with another Adam Rifkind who teaches here.’
Rifkind seemed suddenly out of breath. The walls finally crumbled and he looked around to be sure no one was watching his carefully constructed self-assurance being dismantled. He made to speak but stopped himself. At last he managed, ‘She’s eighteen. We. . didn’t do anything illegal.’
‘That’s reassuring,’ answered Brook. ‘But it may not tally with the Sexual Offences Act, Section 16, subsection (c) on Abuse of a Position of Trust.’ He smiled again to quicken Rifkind’s heart-rate. ‘Where is she?’
Rifkind’s head snapped back. ‘I’ve no idea. You must believe me. I didn’t even know she was missing until now.’
‘You haven’t tried to contact her?’
‘No. We. . broke it off.’
‘When?’
‘Over a week ago. And I haven’t seen her since this time last Thursday.’
Brook nodded. ‘So she dumped you.’
‘No!’ exclaimed Rifkind indignantly. ‘I took the decision that we should. .’ He glared at Brook.
‘Was she upset?’ asked Brook.
‘Why are you asking, if you know already?’ Then Rifkind closed his eyes in self-reproach. ‘You haven’t read her diary, have you?’ he added bitterly.
‘I never said I had,’ replied Brook, with an unnerving grin. Normally he disliked applying the thumb-screws, but he’d taken an instant dislike to Rifkind. He reminded Brook of Terri’s stepfather, Tony Harvey-Ellis, the smooth-talking Public Relations manager who had taken Terri’s virginity when she was just fifteen.
‘Listen, Inspector-’
‘Mr Rifkind. I don’t have any evidence of wrongdoing yet. Right now I’m only concerned with Adele’s whereabouts.’
‘I. . I don’t know.’
‘Any friends or old boyfriends she might turn to for solace?’
‘I don’t think so. Adele is a one-off. She prefers her own company.’ He smiled weakly. ‘We writers usually do.’
‘If she gets in touch. .’
‘I’ll let you know immediately, I promise,’ the man replied hurriedly.
Brook nodded. Rifkind was scared. That’s where he wanted him. ‘And your Porsche. .’
‘What about it?’
‘It might be a good idea to leave it at home for a while.’
‘Why?’
‘Jim Watson saw his daughter getting out of a Porsche a couple of nights before she disappeared. If he turns up at college. .’
Rifkind nodded. ‘Ade was scared of her father.’
‘Was she? Any idea why?’
‘He could be very jealous of anyone seeing her. She never told him we were,’ Rifkind assayed a vague hand gesture, ‘you know.’
‘Quite. Who’s Miranda? A friend of Adele’s?’
‘Miranda? I don’t know. I never heard her mention the name.’
‘She wrote Miranda in a Poe anthology left in her room.’
‘Oh, she’s the main character in a film we started watching last week. There’s a version of a quote from Poe at the start. Typical of Adele to pick up on that.’
‘Picnic at Hanging Rock?’
‘Right. In fact, Adele and a few others were so taken with it they stayed through lunch to watch the rest.’
‘Others?’
‘Fern, Becky, Kyle and Rusty.’ Rifkind’s mouth fell open. ‘Oh my God.’
‘And what happens to Miranda — in the film?’
Rifkind was puzzled for a moment then said, ‘She disappears.’
Brook nodded. ‘Did Adele suggest watching it?’
‘Er, no, it was Rusty, Russell Thomson. He’s the film buff. Otherwise Wilson would’ve had us watching Saw IV.’
‘Wilson Woodrow?’
‘That’s right.’ Rifkind managed a smile at last. ‘Not the sharpest knife in the box. There was a row about it and Wilson stormed out after having a go at Kyle.’
‘Why did he have a go at Kyle?’
‘Why do bullies have a go at anyone?’ Rifkind shrugged. ‘Anyway, it was Rusty’s turn to choose so we watched Picnic.’
‘I see. One final thing — which way to the Principal’s office?’ Rifkind’s face fell. Brook smiled, but this time felt a twinge of guilt. ‘I’ll need to inform him or her about the inquiry.’
Brook dropped Yvette Thomson back at her house only when he was sure she was okay. She had no relatives and few acquaintances who could stay with her, and she spurned any attempt by Brook to get a FLO to stay with her. Instead, Brook took her phone number and promised to call round at the earliest opportunity.
He paused over the next question. ‘Have you something with Russell’s DNA on it? A comb maybe.’
She looked at the floor. ‘In case you find. .’ Then: ‘No, he doesn’t use a comb.’
‘It’s just procedure,’ said Brook hastily. ‘Nothing to worry about, only I noticed there was only one toothbrush in the bathroom.’
She looked at him curiously for a second then bounded up the stairs. She returned empty-handed. ‘It’s my new one. Rusty’s toothbrush has gone.’
‘Maybe that’s a good sign,’ said Brook quietly.
Her face brightened. ‘Yes.’
‘Never mind. It’s possible Forensics will find something in his room, if you could keep it locked. .’
Brook pulled the BMW on to Leopold Street a little after midday and walked into the bare outer office of the funeral parlour. He pushed a button on the counter then turned to look at the derelict house across the road. Everything seemed quiet.
A tall, stooped man glided from beyond a curtain with a sympathetic smile already fixed on his face. He looked up and down Brook’s physique in a flash. Slab happy.
‘Welcome to Duxbury and Duxbury. I’m Lionel Duxbury. How may I be of service?’ he asked in a voice of pure treacle.
Brook held his warrant card in front of the man’s hooked nose. He gazed balefully at it.
‘Inspector Brook. Why, yes, we currently offer a ten per cent discount for all members of the emergency services — even the ambulance crews and paramedics who attempt to whittle away at our profit margins.’ He allowed himself a self-congratulatory simper. ‘Your loved one would be in good hands for the final journey.’
‘I’m only interested in the corpses you process.’
‘I’m afraid we don’t cater for such appetites.’
‘Knock it off. You were contacted a few days ago by DS Morton, Derby CID, about recent employee turnover.’
Duxbury screwed his small eyes towards the ceiling. ‘We were?’
‘You were. We’re looking for somebody who may have worked for a funeral parlour as an undertaker or mortician.’
‘May have?’ enquired Duxbury.
‘Maybe he still does. His name might be Oz or Ozzy.’
Duxbury took a sharp intake of breath and tried to disguise it. Then he said weakly, ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Funny, if that bell in your head had rung much louder, I’d need ear plugs.’
Duxbury looked at Brook but said nothing. Brook just waited — it would come.
‘Someone’s complained?’
As no one had complained, Brook raised an eyebrow. What do you think? ‘What’s he done now?’ asked Duxbury eventually.
‘Just tell me who and where he is.’
‘About a year ago Oz worked for us for two weeks as a hearse driver.’
‘Not to work on the bodies?’
‘No. We had an illness and were shorthanded so I reluctantly took him on.’
‘But you let him go.’
‘Two weeks later. We had to. He wouldn’t give us a National Insurance number, kept asking for cash in hand. Well, payroll were having none of that, obviously.’
‘So you don’t have an address?’
‘No. He kept promising us his details but we never got them.’
‘Full name?’
‘Ozzy Reece.’
‘Description?’
‘Well-built, about forty, brown eyes, cropped hair.’
‘Any tattoos, distinguishing marks?’
‘I never saw anything.’
‘Local accent?’
Duxbury nodded. ‘I think so. But maybe from further north. He could be quite broad sometimes.’
‘You said you didn’t get an address.’
‘No, but I think he lived near Shardlow.’
Brook looked up sharply from his notebook ‘Why Shardlow?’
‘He must have mentioned it once.’
‘Did you take any pictures of him?’ asked Brook.
‘What on earth for?’
‘ID badges, computerised records, that sort of thing.’
‘I told you. .’
‘You don’t have any records of him. I think I’m getting it.’ Brook pointed at the derelict house across the road. ‘Did he ever take an interest in that house?’
Duxbury looked at Brook as though he were a genius. ‘Yes, he did,’ he replied. ‘Always going over to that window to look in, sometimes even talking to the tramps inside. Once I asked him why he was so interested.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He just laughed and said he was drumming up business.’
‘Was he friendly with any of your other staff?’
‘Not at all. He wasn’t the type to fit in.’
‘Did he have a locker or any place unique to him that might give us a DNA sample or a fingerprint?’
‘No. There’s the hearse, but he hasn’t been with us for over a year, so. .’
‘And how did he turn up for work?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Clothes? Transport?’
‘We gave him the suit to take away with him. He turned up in that.’
‘Where is it?’
‘He never gave it back.’
‘And how did he get to work?’
Duxbury shrugged. ‘I assumed public transport. If he had a car, I never saw it.’
Brook snapped his notebook shut after tearing out a page to write his number on. ‘Anything else you remember about him, call me. For now, I want a list of current and ex-employees who would’ve known him. Round your current staff up now, we’re going to need to interview them all.’
Brook stared at Duxbury until he started looking for paper and pencil, before ringing Noble. ‘John, we’ve got a lead on Ozzy Reece. Get DS Gadd and a couple of other officers over to Duxbury’s Funeral Parlour on Leopold Street. And see if you can rustle up a composite artist to come with them. Yes, now.’ He rang off and flipped round Duxbury’s completed list. ‘Only four people?’
‘Yes. And they’re all current. There’s not a high turnover in our industry.’ Duxbury coughed. ‘I’m sure you understand.’
Brook nodded. ‘So what did Ozzy do?’
‘Do?’
‘That might make people complain.’
Duxbury looked away. ‘It’s a bit. . weird,’ he finally said.
‘I can handle it.’
‘Well, I walked into the Slumber Room one morning and Oz was in there.’ Duxbury hesitated.
‘Yes?’
‘He was interfering with a corpse.’ He seemed reluctant to elaborate.
‘Go on,’ urged Brook.
‘Well, he’d undressed the deceased and removed the padding from the abdominal cavity.’
‘Padding? To keep the natural body shape?’
‘In the absence of internal organs, yes. Well, he was trying to force something else into the cavity.’
‘What was it?’ demanded Brook.