by Steven Dunne
Brook nodded in satisfaction then deleted both recent messages so Hendrickson would be unaware of the new communication when he was in possession of his phone again. The thought of how to return the mobile without an ugly confrontation soured Brook’s sudden good mood and he continued down the stairs to the basement, deep in thought.
As he reached the bottom of the gloomy stairwell, he became aware of raised voices. He heard an angry, ‘And I say no,’ from a voice that sounded like Charlton’s.
Brook froze at the bottom of the stairs, just able to hear the pair in the corridor leading to his and Copeland’s CCU rooms.
‘Did you see the evening paper?’ the voice continued. It was definitely Charlton and the subject needed no explanation. ‘He’s already attracting negative publicity.’
‘That’s hardly his fault,’ was the reply. Copeland.
‘It’s always his fault,’ rejoined Charlton.
‘Brian Burton has been a wart on this city’s nose for longer than I care to remember,’ declared Copeland. ‘He’s a sewer rat and you mustn’t let someone like him decide how Derbyshire Constabulary is run.’
Charlton was as taken aback as Brook by Copeland’s forcefulness. ‘Mustn’t?’ inquired the Chief Super.
‘Shouldn’t, I mean,’ replied Copeland with a little more diplomacy.
‘That’s better,’ said a mollified Charlton. ‘Clive, you don’t know Brook like I do. He goes out of his way to rub people the wrong way. I’m sorry but you can’t let him anywhere near it.’
‘It’s too late,’ replied Copeland. ‘I’ve already. . .’
Brook had kept very still but the creak of his weight on the step caused the conversation to halt. Despite tiptoeing to a quieter step Brook’s movement caught Charlton’s eye and his surprise was picked up by Copeland, who turned to follow the Chief Superintendent’s gaze. Brook had no choice but to continue towards them and both men smiled tightly at him as he approached, Hendrickson’s phone still in his hand.
‘Brook. How are you settling in?’ Charlton asked stiffly.
‘Very well,’ said Brook, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘I like my new office. It’s cosy and the work is interesting,’ he added, avoiding Copeland’s sceptical expression.
‘Good, good.’ The disappointment in Charlton’s voice induced a small swell of triumph in Brook, though his unscheduled presence on the front page of the local paper would doubtless be the next topic of conversation.
Brook’s sweaty hand nestled against the stolen phone, ready to produce it in his defence and both he and Copeland watched Charlton’s mind ticking over as they waited for the inevitable. To Brook’s astonishment the subject wasn’t broached.
‘Well,’ said Charlton, turning away. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your valuable work.’
A commotion from the stairs drew their attention. ‘You fucker, Brook. Give me my fucking phone,’ screamed Hendrickson at the top of his voice. He jumped down the last two steps and came face to face with a dumbfounded Charlton and Copeland, Brook beaming politely behind them.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sergeant?’ shouted Charlton. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘Sir, I’m sorry—’
‘Sorry?’ shouted Charlton even louder. ‘Not as sorry as you’re going to be. What’s the meaning of this outrage? I want to know now.’
Hendrickson was panting, red-faced, looking from Charlton to Copeland to Brook, who was trying to maintain an inquiring expression. ‘Sir, Inspector Brook’s got my mobile.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ boomed Charlton.
‘I said—’
‘And you think that justifies shouting and swearing at a superior officer like that?’
‘Sir, I—’
‘You’re not fit to wear that uniform. Get to my office, now.’
Hendrickson didn’t move but eyed Brook instead. ‘Sir, I—’
‘Did you not hear me?’ Charlton was almost screaming in his apoplexy.
The sergeant began again. ‘Sir, I’m sorry but I must tell you—’
‘Sergeant Hendrickson, I do apologise,’ said Brook, theatrically examining his cupped hand. ‘You’re right. I must have picked up the wrong phone when we were chatting upstairs. Here.’ He extended his arm to Hendrickson.
The uniformed officer, his breath almost regained, took the phone on a reflex.
‘So, you’ve got your phone back, now get to my office, pronto,’ barked Charlton, no calmer.
Again Hendrickson hesitated, looking from face to face. He turned to Charlton, his mouth open to speak.
Brook chipped in, the model of contrition. ‘I should have seen from the names on your contact list that it wasn’t my phone, Sergeant. I’m very sorry.’
‘I don’t think it’s you who should be apologising, Inspector,’ put in Charlton.
‘Nevertheless, I owe the sergeant a mega drink for picking up the wrong phone.’ Brook’s eyes bored into Hendrickson’s as he repeated Burton’s phrase.
Hendrickson, crushed, lowered his eyes. He turned back to the stairwell and plodded slowly back up to the ground floor, shoulders hunched in defeat, as though dragging a bag of coal behind him.
Charlton looked at Brook. ‘I’m sorry about that, Inspector. I’ll see that you get a full apology, providing Hendrickson can convince me he still belongs in my division.’
‘If you think it will help, sir,’ said Brook. ‘You’ll excuse me.’ He stepped quickly past the pair and headed down the corridor, listening for the resumption of whatever argument Copeland and Charlton had been having. If it did continue, he didn’t hear it.
A few seconds later, Brook opened Copeland’s door and stepped smartly inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He flicked at the full kettle and glanced across at the desk. There were two files on the blotter. Brook hurried over to Copeland’s desk. The Wallis file was on top, the Ingham file underneath. Two Derby families brutally butchered in their own homes by a serial killer called the Reaper, the last crimes of a killer officially still at large after more than twenty years, since his first kill in London in 1990.
Brook hadn’t been the SIO when he’d hunted the Reaper during his time in the Met, he was only a DS, but the case had obsessed him and by the end of 1991, his sparkling reputation had been tarnished and his marriage irretrievably damaged. To complete the set, Brook’s failure to catch the serial killer in London had taken a toll on his mental health, culminating in a nervous breakdown and, eventually, a much-resented transfer to Derby CID – much-resented by local officers, that is, affronted that a burnout from the Metropolitan force could be dumped in their division and deemed fit for duty.
Brook hastily flicked through the two files, looking for any notes or addendums made by Copeland. He couldn’t see any. Perhaps any holes he had picked in Brook’s investigations were written separately. He returned the files to the desk, fighting the urge to rifle through the drawers and hastening back to the kettle just as Copeland walked in.
‘Brook,’ said Copeland, a little startled. His eye shot to his desk.
‘Clive,’ answered Brook. The kettle clicked at the right moment. ‘Tea?’
‘You found a mug then?’ asked Copeland suspiciously.
‘Left it next door,’ tutted Brook, nipping across the corridor to fetch it. On his return he glanced discreetly at Copeland’s desktop when his colleague’s back was turned. The files were gone.
Brook poured hot water into two mugs, itching to ask why Charlton and Copeland had been arguing but he knew he couldn’t introduce the subject without revealing he’d overheard their conversation. ‘I suppose you saw the evening paper.’
‘I saw it,’ confirmed Copeland. ‘What have you done to Brian Burton to deserve that?’
‘He’s a self-serving bloodsucker,’ said Brook.
‘And even knowing you so briefly, I’m guessing you couldn’t help but tell him,’ grinned Copeland.
Brook acknowledged with a lift of his eyes. Guilty as char
ged. He couldn’t thank Copeland for his support against Charlton either so he tried to be subtle. ‘I was expecting a harder time from the Chief Super,’ he said casually.
‘He’s not as bad as you think,’ said Copeland, looking at Brook. If he did hear us, he’s not showing it. ‘And I can’t believe you’re worried about his good opinions.’
‘Only if it impacts on my work,’ replied Brook.
‘Is that why you told him how much you’re enjoying your new role?’ asked Copeland, suppressing a smile. Sheepish, Brook didn’t answer. ‘I take it Sergeant Hendrickson’s another member of your fan club.’
‘He’s the secretary and treasurer.’
‘You certainly pushed his buttons.’
‘It’s a gift,’ said Brook modestly.
‘I wouldn’t worry about that bum,’ said Copeland. ‘Hendrickson’s not fit to be on the force and wasn’t even when I was still around.’
Brook nodded. Copeland was going up in his estimation. He picked up his tea and headed for the door.
‘How are you really getting on, Brook?’
Brook pulled a face. ‘I’ve been rooting around the Stanforth case. You reviewed it three times, so I’m not holding out much hope.’
‘Was it three?’ Copeland was lost in the memory for a moment. ‘I’d be interested in your thoughts when you get a chance. If you solve that stinker you’ll be straight to the top of my Christmas list. Old Sam Bannon and Walter Laird were two of the best detectives around but they got nowhere with it. Wally’s still about.’
‘I know,’ replied Brook. ‘He’s on my radar for a visit.’
‘Is he?’ said Copeland. ‘Go easy on him. I’ve known him since I was a nipper.’
‘Really?’
‘He used to be a neighbour when I lived in Mackworth and he’s always been a good friend. He helped me a lot when. . . well.’ Copeland became hesitant, almost unable to speak, and Brook realised he must be thinking of his sister’s murder. It would have been the same era as Billy Stanforth’s death so maybe Bannon and Laird had picked up her case as well. And perhaps a good friend like Laird had gone further and signed off on Copeland’s clandestine reviews into her death.
Brook turned to leave but was halted by Copeland coming out of his reverie. ‘I hope you don’t mind but as a courtesy I told Walter you might be looking into the Stanforth case.’
Brook paused. He did mind. Witnesses were always best interviewed cold. He decided the damage was done, but he could at least make a point. ‘No problem, Clive. An officer should always be informed if one of his cases is being reviewed.’ Brook held Copeland’s gaze but the retired detective looked away, declining the invitation to reveal that he was reviewing two of Brook’s old cases.
Instead Copeland changed the subject. ‘Re-interviewed anyone yet?’
‘A nice old lady called Edna Spencer,’ said Brook.
‘I remember her. Edna Hibbert, as was. Her husband Eric died when she was quite young. Just the one child, thankfully.’
‘Thankfully?’
Copeland’s smile was sad. ‘Sorry. You have a daughter.’ He glanced towards the framed picture on his desk and Brook followed his eyes to the attractive young girl smiling happily, her arm round her gap-toothed little brother. ‘I don’t know if you know, my sister Matilda. . .’
‘I heard,’ said Brook gently to spare Copeland the difficult words. Nearly fifty years hadn’t healed the scar. He was impressed. ‘I’m sorry.’
Copeland nodded. ‘I never married because of it. In case a wife might want a family. I envy you, Brook. Feeling able to bring a child into this ugly world. . .’
During the gap left by Copeland for an endorsement of parenthood, Brook kept his counsel, deciding not to elaborate on the traumas he’d endured as father to a daughter subsequently abused by her stepfather.
‘I’ll leave you to get on, Clive.’
When Brook had left, Copeland was statue-still for several minutes, staring at a spot on the wall that wouldn’t distract him from his past. Filling his lungs finally, he took a bulging file from a drawer, caressing it like a lover. With a deep sigh he looked at the picture of his smiling sister on his desk. ‘I’ve done my best, Tilly.’ He closed his eyes to remembered pain. He placed the file on the desk with great ceremony. ‘Don’t worry, love. You’ll be in good hands.’ Copeland broke away from his sister’s doomed gaze and stared at the door after Brook.
Thirteen
Sunday, 29 August 1965 – Mackworth Estate, Derby
‘Come on, Ebony. Come on, boy,’ called Detective Sergeant Walter Laird, a tall, angular man in his late twenties, moving to lean on the picket fence. His hand reached into his jacket and pulled out a dog biscuit and held it just out of reach of the black Labrador, teasing it to stretch out its black paws on to the top of the fence.
‘Uncle Walter,’ shouted young Clive Copeland, jumping up, as excited as the dog, leaping over a cluster of multicoloured marbles to join him.
‘Wotcha, Clive,’ replied Laird, keeping the biscuit away from the slavering dog. ‘Your dad in?’
‘Dad!’ screamed Clive, running towards the open front door. ‘Walter’s here.’ He raced back to the fence as Laird finally caved in and held the dog biscuit on his palm for Ebony to gobble up then ruffled his floppy ears.
‘Good dog.’ Laird grinned at the eager boy, looking him up and down, as he tossed the dog’s ears around. ‘Cor blimey, you’re shooting up, Clive. You’ll be taller than me in a year.’
Clive smiled happily, looking at the policeman’s hands then expectantly at his face.
‘Sorry, lad. Nothing for you, Barney’s was closed when I swung past.’ When Clive’s face fell, Laird whipped out a paper-wrapped lollipop on a stick. ‘Lucky I keep these for special occasions.’
Clive let out a delighted yelp and tore the lolly out of the officer’s hand and set about the wrapping with frenzy.
‘What do you say, lad?’ said Clive’s father, walking up the path towards Laird for a handshake.
‘Thank you, Walter,’ said Clive, finally able to plunge the orb of hard orange sugar into his mouth.
‘Evening, George,’ said Laird. With a rueful expression he handed over a sturdy door key. ‘Well, that’s the last of it shifted. Thanks for this, neighbour.’
‘What are friends for?’ smiled George Copeland.
‘It’s just for emergencies,’ said Laird. ‘There shouldn’t be any problem but an empty house can invite bother. The new owners have got the other keys and should be moving in next weekend. Just give them the spares when they get settled, will you?’
‘Will do. What are they like?’
‘They’re a nice young couple, George. Just got married.’
‘Fellas never learn, do they?’ chuckled Copeland, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He saw Laird eyeing them. ‘Want one?’
‘Go on then. I left mine in—’
‘Your other coat,’ smiled the older man, striking a match. ‘You all set then?’
‘Aye,’ said Laird, looking back down the road to the house with the SOLD sign outside. ‘I’ll certainly miss the place.’
‘Pastures new, though.’
‘Aye. Off to the new house now, do a bit of painting so it’s nice for her majesty.’ He gestured to the car, a metallic-grey Jaguar Mark X, and the blonde lady attending to her nails in the passenger seat.
‘Nice,’ said Copeland, impressed.
‘The car or Linda?’ asked Laird, chuckling.
‘Both,’ grinned Copeland. ‘Though the motor’s probably got a better engine.’ The two men laughed long and loud.
‘Whoa,’ shouted Clive, removing the lollipop to gawp at the car a few doors away. ‘A Jag,’ he exclaimed then vaulted over the fence for a closer look.
‘Don’t put your grubby hands on it, Clive,’ Copeland shouted after his son.
‘He’s all right,’ said Laird.
‘A Jag though – that promotion’s moved you up in the world, Walter.’
‘Your DI not need a car then?’ asked Copeland.
Laird’s face strained, trying to find a delicate answer. ‘He’s not well, George, been off work for a week or so.’
Copeland raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Again?’
‘He lost his wife, George.’
‘Aye, two years ago. You can’t keep covering for him, Wally.’
Laird’s expression hardened. ‘I can and I will, if he needs me to. It’s called loyalty.’
Copeland shook his head. ‘It’s your funeral, lad.’ His smile reappeared. ‘Speaking of funerals, when’s your wedding?’
‘Steady on,’ laughed Laird. ‘We’ve only just got engaged.’
‘Who’s just got engaged?’ asked Clive, barely audible through the lolly.
‘Young Walter here,’ said Copeland. ‘He’s getting married.’
‘Is that good?’ asked Clive innocently.
Matilda Copeland, a striking sixteen-year-old, emerged from the house. She wore a tight sleeveless blouse and shorts and held a bare arm up against the waning sun. ‘Uncle Walter’s getting married?’ she said.
‘Aye,’ confirmed Laird, beaming at her. ‘That’s me off the market.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Matilda.
‘Thanks, pet,’ said Laird. ‘And how you enjoying life as a Barney’s shop assistant?’
‘Loving it,’ she said. ‘Be even nicer if I got to keep some of my wages,’ she added for her father’s benefit.
‘Be nice if you helped your mother round the house a bit more, an’ all,’ said Copeland, winking at the grinning Laird. ‘Bit of luck, you’ll meet a nice young man like Walter here and start giving your mother some grandkids.’
‘Mmm, sounds exciting,’ retorted Matilda drily.
‘Have you seen the car Walter’s driving?’ said her father. ‘That’s what hard work brings you, young lady.’
‘Not his hard work, though,’ said Matilda.
‘Eh?’ said Copeland.
‘It’s borrowed,’ she explained. ‘I heard him say.’