by Steven Dunne
‘No, you’re right, John. I didn’t want to end up like me either. Fifty-one years old, divorced, alone, a daughter I hardly see, no friends. . .’
‘Sir, I—’
‘It’s what our job can do to us, John. We see things that people shouldn’t have to see. Victims, crime scenes, lost and wrecked lives. But it’s not inevitable that you end up like me. This conversation shows it – you’re aware in a way that I never was at your age. I took it home with me. I didn’t make the effort to keep it separate. You’re different.’
‘Am I?’ said Noble. ‘I see Scott Wheeler’s mum and know that one day soon I’m going to knock on her door with a WPC next to me. And when she sees my face, she’s not going to need me to tell her why I’m there. From that moment on that poor woman is going to stop living. And I will have caused that.’
‘No you won’t, John. Whoever took Scott Wheeler’s life will have caused that and someone with your empathy is the best person in the world to take that news to parents. I could never do it. And at the end of that day, if it ever comes, you’re going to go home, have a beer and get up the next day and do your job as well as you can. You’ll use that experience to make sure that the next Scott Wheeler, or the one after that, is returned home safely. And then you’re going to remember why you became a policeman.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Definitely,’ snapped Brook. ‘Look, John, there’s only one in a thousand can do our job. And the frightening thing is, some of the other nine hundred and ninety-nine are doing it as well. The force cannot afford to lose you so go home, have another beer and sleep on it.’
Noble nodded his appreciation. ‘I’ll do that.’ He was about to duck into his car but held his ground. ‘Better make that two.’
‘Two beers then.’
‘I meant two in a thousand,’ said Noble, his face reddening. ‘I’ve learned so much since. . . well. I can text you if I need advice?’
‘As long as that’s a two-way street, John,’ said Brook.
With a curt nod, Noble climbed into his car and sped away into the night. Brook watched until the cold drove him back to the cottage. He picked up his whisky from the kitchen and headed back to the tiny lounge. The fire was almost out. He took a final sip from his glass and picked out the well-thumbed resignation letter from his jacket.
‘I wish you hadn’t said that.’ Brook opened the small cast-iron door of the wood burner and dropped the letter on to the embers. He spent an enjoyable few minutes watching it smoulder as it turned brown and crinkly before finally catching fire and turning to ash within seconds.
Sixteen
Friday, 14 December 2012
The next morning Brook pulled his old BMW on to the steep forecourt of the sprawling two-storey building. A squad car from a local constabulary had parked in the last unrestricted bay so the only spaces available were for disabled drivers or cars carrying children.
Brook pulled into one of the latter, given that there were four such unoccupied bays and having long ago decided that to reserve parking space on the grounds of disability was laudable but to do so on the basis of lifestyle choice was perverse. Besides, he was visiting an old people’s home on a school day and children would be thin on the ground.
He turned off the engine but didn’t move. A few seconds later he turned it back on and reversed out of the space. He’d only been back on active duty for a few days and a complaint from an old people’s home might just be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Following the signs to the deserted overflow car park, some three hundred yards away, he parked his car in splendid isolation then walked back up the slope, at least able to revel in the piercing winter sun after recent days of light-free confinement.
It was ideal walking weather, crisp and cold, and Brook was pleased to be outdoors in the countryside, breathing in the sweet perfume of wood smoke drifting past his nostrils. He heard the crack of a farmer’s small-calibre rifle in a nearby field and yearned for the mild spring weather, when he could roam the Peaks with his tent and pitch up wherever he pleased.
As he approached the wheelchair-friendly ramp at the front entrance, he looked over to a paved rose garden where a handful of elderly residents were risking the cold bright weather. Some hardy souls sat on benches, others promenaded slowly around the flower beds with the aid of a white-uniformed member of staff or a walking frame. All were thoroughly wrapped up against the chill.
Brook stepped towards the glass doors as a uniformed officer emerged from the building. ‘Sergeant,’ said Brook, flashing his warrant card. ‘DI Brook. Is there a problem here?’
The sergeant examined the warrant card. ‘DI Brook? I know that name. You were in the paper—’
‘I asked if there was a problem.’
‘It’s these old codgers,’ replied the sergeant, omitting Brook’s rank. ‘They scare easy. Some old biddy reckons she’s seen a prowler outside her window and thinks she’s going to get raped. She should be so lucky, the dried-up old prune.’ The uniformed officer laughed, anticipating a male bonding session. It didn’t materialise and the sergeant’s levity faded quickly.
‘I’m here to interview an old biddy,’ said Brook severely. ‘What’s the name?’
The officer peered down at the notebook in his hand. ‘Jessica Pinchbeck. That her?’
Brook shook his head. After a pause, he added, ‘I don’t see any paperwork.’
The sergeant flipped his notebook shut and pulled a face as he walked past Brook. ‘I can see why you made DI, pal. Good luck getting any sense out of this lot,’ he added, thumbing over his shoulder at the building.
Brook stiffened in anger but felt incapable of speech or movement. He watched the unnamed officer return to his car, urging himself to intervene and take a position before the officer had strutted out of earshot. But before Brook could unglue his mouth and feet, the squad car had screeched out of the car park.
‘I’m not your pal,’ seethed Brook, finally regaining the power of speech. He suddenly felt very old and tired. Maybe the surroundings had sucked the will from him. More likely it was the aftermath of his suspension. After his own transgressions, Brook was stripped of the moral energy to demand better from subordinates.
Dejected, he approached the gloomy reception area, wincing at the hideously inoffensive music leaking from hidden speakers – soft tinkling piano, playing undemanding chords. Amazing how that which was designed to soothe could so readily raise hackles. He looked around at the dark black and gold wallpaper and outdated furniture. The few wall lights bestowed only the palest hint of illumination, like landing lights, designed to guide the infirm back to their rooms, clinging to the smooth brass handrail which disappeared into distant corridors. The smell of decay was omnipresent. At that moment, Brook’s most fervent wish was that he never ended up in such a place.
‘DI Brook, Derby CID,’ he said, holding his warrant card up close to the young female receptionist in the dingy light. ‘I’m here to talk to Amelia Stanforth.’
‘We just had one of your lot in here about a prowler,’ said the girl – her ID tag carried the name Sharmayne.
‘I saw him outside,’ replied Brook. ‘This is another matter.’
‘And what’s Amelia been up to?’
‘She held up HMV at gunpoint and demanded some decent music,’ replied Brook, without expression.
The girl was momentarily confused before breaking into a hesitant smile. ‘You’re joking.’ She smiled and flicked her head at the ceiling. ‘Depressing, isn’t it?’
‘Very.’
‘The annoying thing is only the staff can hear it. Sometimes I’m tempted to sling on some Slayer just to see what would happen.’
Brook nodded as though he knew what she was talking about. ‘Amelia Stanforth?’
‘Just a moment. I’ll see if the doctor’s available. Amelia has heart problems, you know.’
The old woman peered through her half-moon spectacles at Brook’s ID. ‘Inspector Brook,’ she
read, as though taking an eye test. ‘You’re new.’ She sat back in the chair, swaddled in several nylon blankets that clicked on the rough skin of her hands as she moved. Once reclined, she closed her eyes and turned to face the temporary warmth of the winter sun. ‘Is it that time of year again?’
Amelia Stanforth allowed her attached glasses to drop on to her chest before fixing Brook with a pale beady eye. She squinted beyond the rose garden to the trees dotted around the ample grounds, now naked under the assault of winter winds. ‘Time for you to go through the motions for a few days.’
‘So you know why I’m here.’
‘I’ve not lost all my marbles yet, young man,’ she said. ‘You’ve come to arrest me for my brother’s murder.’
Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a confession?’
The old girl shook her head bitterly. ‘Do you need one? Speak to anyone – my old neighbours, Billy’s friends. Everyone knows I did it. They used to whisper as much whenever I walked by. Nice and loud so I could hear. “How can she live in the same house? She must have killed Billy.”’
‘And did you?’ asked Brook, unable to pass up such an opening.
Now it was Amelia’s turn to be surprised. ‘Not shy, are you?’ Brook shrugged. ‘Of course I didn’t. Why would I kill my brother?’
Brook cast around for a good reason. ‘I’m told it was Billy who informed your parents you were seeing Brendan McCleary. And your father disapproved.’
‘Oh, you were told, were you?’ A tear formed in her eye. ‘I suppose he did. You’re well-informed. And so you think I could burn my little brother to death as payback? Dear God, I could never. . .’ She began to sob gently. Brook spotted a packet of tissues in a cardigan pocket. She took one from the offered packet and daintily dabbed at her powdered cheek.
‘I’m sorry it’s still so painful,’ said Brook.
She dried her eyes. ‘It’s not just for Billy. His death ruined so many lives. My parents. Francesca. Billy’s friend.’
‘His friend? You mean Edward Mullen.’
‘Teddy, yes. He doted on Billy. I don’t think he’ll ever get over his death.’
‘Sounds like you’ve seen him recently,’ observed Brook.
‘Not recently,’ she replied. ‘And now he’s probably dead. Every few months another one goes. There’ll soon be no one left.’
‘Mullen’s alive, according to my information,’ said Brook. ‘And I spoke to Edna Spencer two days ago. Maybe you remember her as Edna Hibbert.’
Amelia Stanforth’s face lit up. ‘Little Edna? How is she?’
‘Frail but sharp,’ replied Brook. ‘And if it’s any consolation, she was certain you didn’t kill your brother.’
Amelia’s face tightened into a bitter smile. ‘That’s nice of her.’ Her thoughts drifted away to the past, bringing half-remembered pleasure, and pain.
Brook pressed on. ‘Why did you live in that house after your parents died?’
Amelia raised the tissue and dabbed at another tear. ‘Making amends,’ she said finally. ‘Keeping his memory alive, giving Billy the love I never showed him when he was still breathing.’ She blew out her cheeks with emotion but the tears had dried. She suddenly glared fiercely at him. ‘I thought you lot had given up. That Sergeant Laird was just here, poking his nose in again. But did he ask about Billy? Course not. He didn’t even bother speaking to me. Probably just checking I’m still alive and filling his forms.’
‘Amelia, DS Laird retired as a detective inspector years ago. He’s in his seventies now.’
‘He was just here, I tell you. I recognised him. He was wearing a uniform this time but I’d know him anywhere.’
Brook held his palms up to pacify her, looking warily at the orderly who’d warned him against upsetting residents. ‘OK, take it easy.’
‘Why are you here? Why can’t you leave us alone?’
‘Us?’
‘Those left behind, picking up the pieces – me, Edna, Teddy. . .’ she waved her hand as though trying to remember and Brook waited in vain for her to finish her list.
‘I’m here because we never give up on a murder victim until we bring their killer to justice,’ said Brook, adopting the party line, without excessive zeal.
Amelia Stanforth wasn’t buying. ‘Then why has it been so long? Someone used to call round every few years, once the snow was on the ground. It’s been years since the last visit. Billy not so urgent now, is he?’
Brook tried to smile. ‘Your brother’s murder is an open case, Miss Stanforth. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.’
‘Don’t butter me up.’
‘According to the file,’ Brook ploughed on, ‘the case was last reviewed four years ago. My colleague DI Greatorix might have called. You’d still have been living in Kirk Langley then.’
Amelia thought for a moment then shook her head.
‘He was a large man with a round red face and breathing difficulties. He would have mopped his face quite a lot. Maybe you’ve forgotten.’
‘I didn’t see him, I tell you. Anyway, what’s the point? My brother Billy died. . .’ Amelia hesitated over information no longer as clear as it once was.
‘Forty-nine years ago,’ said Brook.
Amelia tried to hide her surprise. ‘Is it really?’ she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes to do the calculation. ‘My little brother would’ve been sixty-two years old in a week.’ She looked up at Brook and smiled suddenly. ‘You have a nice face. That other officer who used to call. . .’ she clicked a finger in frustration before it came to her. ‘Inspector Coppell.’ She beamed triumphantly.
‘DCI Copeland,’ suggested Brook.
‘Copeland.’ She nodded sombrely, her victory over Father Time somewhat diminished by Brook’s assistance. ‘Yes, that’s the one. He had a nice face too.’ Her mood darkened suddenly. ‘He had a sister, though. She died.’
‘That’s right,’ said Brook, surprised at this tangent. ‘Her death was in all the papers. She died two years after your brother.’
‘I read about it. What was her name again?’ asked Amelia.
‘Matilda,’ Brook recalled.
‘Matilda,’ she repeated, nodding in recognition. ‘I remember. Murdered, she was. Worm’s meat at sixteen.’
Worm’s meat. Brook knew the phrase. Shakespeare. ‘A cold way of referring to the death of a young girl,’ he observed.
‘It’s from Romeo and Juliet,’ answered Amelia, missing Brook’s barb. ‘I studied it at school.’
Brook never ceased to be amazed at how the elderly could lodge things in the memory for many years and recall them with crystal clarity, yet often not know what day of the week it was.
‘A plague on both our houses,’ said Amelia, another tear forming in her eye. ‘A dead child from each. First Billy then Tilly Copeland.’
‘Tilly? Was that Matilda’s nickname?’ asked Brook.
‘That’s what he called her.’
‘So DCI Copeland spoke to you about his sister.’
For the first time in a while she looked at Brook. ‘Poor man. He carried a lot of pain. And his sister was so young. When he first came to talk to me in. . .’ she waved her hand in exasperation.
Brook raided his memory banks. ‘Nineteen seventy-eight was the first time DCI Copeland reviewed your brother’s case. He’d have been a DS back then.’
Amelia shook her head in wonder. ‘Nineteen seventy-eight. Where does the time go? Yes. DS Copeland. He still seemed to be in shock about his sister when he came to visit. And he asked his questions but there was nothing I could say to help him. I wasn’t there.’
Brook was confused. ‘You weren’t where?’
‘Sorry, dear?’
‘You said you couldn’t help Copeland because you weren’t there. Where do you mean?’
Amelia stopped to gaze at Brook. She seemed puzzled at first then smiled sweetly. ‘Sergeant Copeland had a nice face,’ she said finally. He couldn’t be sure but for the first time Brook got the distinct impr
ession she was trading on her age to appear befuddled to avoid the question.
‘He wasn’t a bit like that Sergeant Laird.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Nasty man – always insinuating things.’
‘Murder isn’t pleasant,’ observed Brook, remembering how, as a DC and DS, he’d had to make the running, ask all the hard questions until promotion allowed him to delegate. ‘I’m sure he was just doing his job.’
‘And now Mr Copeland is worm’s meat himself, isn’t he?’ Amelia said.
‘Actually, no,’ answered Brook. ‘He retired as well.’
‘Course he is,’ she confirmed, not hearing. ‘That’s all we have to look forward to at our age – death amongst strangers. And I’m next. There’s no one left. The whole family gone and the Stanforth name with it.’ She looked up at him. ‘I never married, never had children, you see. And Billy and Fran. . .’ she shrugged and lapsed into silence.
Brook could see what Copeland meant about re-interviewing witnesses long after the fact. Resolution potential? Forget it. Amelia Stanforth’s memory seemed clear one minute, foggy the next, leaving Brook unable to work out which utterance to trust. He glanced up at the cobalt sky. At least he was getting his fix of daylight.
He looked around to plot his escape then realised that he had nothing better to do, nowhere to go but back to his airless, artificially lit cell. For the next few minutes, he listened to her, nodding in that patronising way he’d always abhorred and sworn to avoid. He hoped no one behaved the same way when he became less able to see to his own needs and had to rely on the kindness of strangers.
A while later Amelia tired of Brook’s undemanding demeanour. ‘Did they tell you not to get me excited?’
Brook was sheepish. ‘Actually they did. Something to do with your pills.’
‘I thought so. I used to like a dance. Now look at me. Stuck in here. No family. No friends.’ She chuckled and stuck her tongue out at Brook. He was taken aback until the old woman lifted it and picked out a blue tablet.
‘They give me these to keep me calm.’ She flicked it gleefully into the thickest clump of rose bushes and giggled at Brook. ‘I’m sixty-four years old with a dodgy ticker and if I can’t get excited now, I might as well step under a bus. Not that there are any out here in the middle of nowhere.’