Free A Killing Moon by Steven Dunne Page A

when we’re vulnerable. Any case at any time can reach out and bite us, sometimes when we least expect it.’
    ‘Is that how it was with Laura Maples?’ asked Noble. He watched Brook stare off into space. Noble had no doubt he was picturing her corpse. Laura Maples – raped, killed with a beer bottle and left to rot in a rat-infested slum, her killer forever unidentified.
    ‘That’s how it was,’ mumbled Brook, rousing himself. ‘You’ve never asked me about my time in the Met before.’
    ‘And don’t start now, right?’
    ‘No, you can ask.’ Brook smiled. ‘Just don’t expect a reply.’
    Noble reached for his jacket, realising he’d probably never learn the cause of Brook’s nervous breakdown in London all those years ago, investigating the serial killer known as the Reaper. His move to Derby CID had been the result, and his mental illness the reason Brook had once been universally unpopular with his colleagues.
    ‘Fancy a late drink?’ suggested Noble. Brook raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘There’s a first time for everything.’
    ‘See you in the morning, John.’

Nine
     
    22 April
     
    Jake Tanner paused at the door, hearing the noise of the TV from inside the flat. As he put the key in the lock, he heard Nick scrambling for the remote to turn off the set. Jake pushed open the door and glared at him suspiciously.
    ‘What you got, Jake?’ said Nick. Without enthusiasm, Jake brandished two tins of economy baked beans. ‘That it?’
    Jake slapped down coins on the warped kitchen worktop. ‘Eighty-seven pence left,’ he said by way of explanation. He rummaged for the tin opener, then poured the contents of one can into a small pan and put it on the hob to warm. He took out the last three slices of bread from the packet, examined the crusts for mould and picked off a few spots. ‘Thought I heard the TV.’
    Nick looked back at him, confusion written across his face. ‘No, Jake. Not allowed,’ he said, reciting Jake’s mantra.
    ‘Not if we want the light on tonight,’ said Jake wearily. ‘If the meter runs out . . .’
    ‘If the meter runs out, we sit in the dark,’ quoted Nick, pleased with his memory skills.
    Jake depressed the toaster handle. ‘So why is the TV on standby?’
    Nick’s eyes darted around briefly before he lowered them in shame. ‘I just turned it on for a minute, Jake.’ He looked up, a smile lighting his face. ‘ Shaun the Sheep was on.’
    ‘How old are you, Nick?’ His younger brother concentrated hard on the question. Before he could attempt an answer, Jake relented. ‘You’re nearly twenty.’
    Nick’s face lit up. ‘Is it my birthday soon?’
    Jake closed his exhausted eyes. ‘Not for three months, Nick.’
    ‘Three months isn’t nearly.’
    ‘It’s nearer twenty than nineteen.’
    ‘Good, because I know what I want for my birthday,’ said Nick. ‘An iPad.’
    ‘You’ll be lucky.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I said, the best-laid plans of mice and men . . .’
    ‘The what?’
    Jake trudged over to the TV and switched it off at the plug to save power. ‘ Of Mice and Men . It’s a book I studied at school.’
    ‘What about it?’
    Jake met Nick’s eyes but decided against further explanation. It would only lead to more questions. ‘Nothing.’ He spooned hot beans over the dry toast and placed a plate on Nick’s lap. ‘Brunch is served.’
    Nick took up his knife and fork to tuck in, then hesitated. ‘I’ve got more than you.’
    ‘I can nick some peanuts at work.’ Jake cut a corner off his unbuttered toast, then laid it on the plate uneaten to watch Nick shovelling his food down like it was a race.
    ‘I like your new job,’ grinned Nick, bean skins on his teeth. Jake’s smile disappeared. ‘People were nice to me.’
    ‘It was a bad idea.’
    ‘I liked Max. He was nice.’
    ‘Was he?’ said Jake, glaring at his brother.
    ‘Yeah, he . . .’ Nick stopped and pursed his lips.
    ‘He what?’ said Jake.
    ‘He was nice,’