The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  Brook sighed. This was pointless. Perhaps Greatorix had taken the right approach. Just find out who’s still alive, fill in the forms and move on to something useful. Brook put his notebook away and pulled his flimsy coat tighter.

  ‘Aren’t you taking any more notes?’

  ‘I have everything I need.’

  Amelia shrugged. ‘You won’t get another chance, young man. Though what would be the point – nothing will bring back my Billy, right?’ She smiled. ‘He could be a little shit, always getting into fights about something or other, coming home with skinned knuckles and shiners.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Billy gave as good as he got, mind.’ She looked into the distance again. ‘Sixty-two this year – hard to believe.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened that day?’ said Brook, half-heartedly taking the opportunity to prompt.

  ‘Hard to believe,’ she repeated.

  Brook’s answering smile was thin. This was the coldest case on the books and dropping it into his lap was a waste of his time and skills.

  ‘You’ve got a nice face, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re not married, are you?’

  Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘When you’ve got a loved one at home, a part of you is always there with them. You can see that in someone’s face. You could see it in my face when. . .’ she hesitated.

  ‘When you were with Brendan McCleary?’ ventured Brook.

  She said nothing for a while and her expression told Brook she was annoyed that she’d introduced the subject. ‘We used to walk out together,’ she acknowledged finally. ‘My father told me Brendan was no good. I took no notice. Well, you don’t at that age, do you? We were good together and I dare say we might have wed.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Brendan didn’t want me, is what happened. He wanted someone else instead.’ She looked sadly into the distance. ‘Or thought he did.’

  ‘Who?’

  Amelia roused herself to shake her head and dab a crooked hand at the corner of an eye. ‘It’s not relevant now.’

  ‘This is hard for you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault. And Brendan knows he wronged me. That’s some comfort.’

  ‘He told you that.’

  She hesitated. ‘I could tell it from his face.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  She glanced slyly at him. ‘Not for years. He went to prison.’

  ‘But do you know where he is now?’ asked Brook. ‘We want to ask him some questions.’

  ‘He knows he hurt me,’ she said, apparently deaf to Brook’s question. Her jaw tightened. ‘Brendan didn’t kill my Billy, if that’s what you’re implying. That’s not how he hurt me. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.’

  ‘I didn’t. You already told me. He betrayed you with another girl.’

  Amelia looked at the sky with her pale eyes. ‘Another girl,’ she repeated as though trying to deduce the meaning. She turned her face to his and covered his fist with her frail papyrus hand. ‘I used to have nightmares about Billy, seeing him like that. There was nothing left. The shed burned down to ashes and Billy with it. What a blaze. Even in the cold and damp.’

  ‘That’s because there was an accelerant.’

  ‘What’s that, dear?’

  ‘An accelerant – a chemical used to start fires and keep them burning.’

  She nodded. ‘You mean the paint thinners. I remember. Petrol too.’

  ‘What about Brendan?’ asked Brook, persevering. ‘Did you see him that afternoon?’

  She sighed. ‘What a blaze.’

  Brook produced a piece of paper to try another angle. ‘This is a list of all those at the party. Most were Billy’s friends – twenty of them, plus you, your parents and Francesca.’

  She reached for the paper, scanning the list of names, in turn smiling and frowning. ‘Charlotte Dilkes,’ she said at one point. ‘She was sweet on Billy. Always following him around, trying to get him to kiss her. What does D mean? Dopey?’ she giggled. ‘Charlotte was certainly that.’

  ‘Amelia, Brendan’s not on the list of guests but was he there? Did you see him?’

  ‘You sound like that nasty man, Laird.’

  ‘Do I?’ said Brook. ‘Then tell me. Did Brendan see Billy that day? Did you see Brendan?’

  ‘Brendan. I remember he hurt me. I didn’t deserve it.’

  Brook sighed in frustration but decided he just had to go with the flow. ‘What did he do?’ he asked.

  ‘Threw me over for some little trollop.’

  ‘Your sister Francesca said she saw you crying. Is that why you cried? Because Brendan had another girl?’

  Amelia glanced warily at him and Brook sensed she’d realised that her tears that day were a matter of dispute. ‘Younger than me, she were,’ she said, ignoring Brook’s prompting. ‘I would’ve given him the world but he wanted some child over me. Me!’ she insisted, tapping a frail fist against her breast.

  ‘Can you remember her name?’

  ‘I told you, it’s not relevant.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘Not relevant, he said. Forget about her, he said.’

  ‘Who said forget about her? Brendan?’

  ‘He hurt me.’ She held the paper to her bosom and her eyes closed. Tears were squeezed on to her cheeks. ‘Deceased. It means deceased. Charlotte’s dead. She drowned. I remember. That nasty man thought we’d done it.’

  ‘DS Laird? Why would DS Laird think you and Brendan killed Charlotte? And where is Brendan now?’

  ‘He was my boyfriend. I loved him. He loved me.’ She glanced up at Brook then looked furtively around. The sky was darkening and a cold breeze stirring. Most of the other patients had gone in. ‘Do you have a cigarette? I’m not allowed.’

  ‘I don’t smoke,’ replied Brook.

  ‘Brendan always had cigarettes.’ She smiled wistfully.

  ‘Amelia, I need you to try and remember. What was Brendan’s other girlfriend called?’

  ‘I don’t know where he got them. The newsagent wouldn’t sell him any. Bit of a rogue, my Bren.’

  Brook gave up. Even if Amelia could reply, her evidence just wasn’t reliable. He fell into line with her topic of conversation. ‘Did Brendan give Billy cigarettes?’

  ‘Miss Stanforth, time to get you indoors into the warm,’ said the young orderly in whites, walking towards them. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia if you stay out here much longer.’

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute, Craig.’

  ‘See that you are.’ He grinned. ‘You’ll miss out on the Bingo if you dilly-dally.’

  Amelia smiled for Craig’s benefit.

  Brook tried again. ‘The files said Billy was a smoker, according to the statement from his friend.’

  Amelia returned her gaze to the piece of paper. ‘Teddy,’ she nodded after alighting on the correct name, ‘little Teddy Mullen. There’s no D next to his name. He’s still alive, you said?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ said Brook.

  ‘And they say the good die young.’ She scanned the names again. ‘He was a sensitive little thing. Didn’t like losing at bobbing apples. Said I cheated him. Threw a right strop.’

  ‘Edward Mullen?’

  Amelia nodded. ‘Nothing to him. A good breeze would have blown him over.’ She laughed. ‘The way he used to follow our Billy round. Like a lapdog. Worshipped the ground he walked on, did Teddy. Best mates forever.’

  ‘Can you remember when you last saw Mullen?’

  ‘Let me see. He was at the funerals at St Michael’s – that’s the local church. First Billy’s, of course. Then he came to see Fran into the ground. Nice of him. It must have been quite a journey by then because he’d moved away to Derby. That would be in nineteen sixty-eight. No, Fran died on Billy’s birthday in sixty-eight. The funeral was nineteen sixty-nine. Yes, January sixty-nine.

  ‘Poor Francesca. Eighteen. What a
ge is that to go and sit beside the Lord when I’m gone sixty? I wish Mum and Dad hadn’t been alive to see Fran under the earth. Billy nearly did for the pair of them. But burying two of your children, well, it’s not natural. Mum and Dad were never the same after Billy. They often used to say they died in that fire. Fran said the same.’

  Amelia struggled to her feet and Brook went to help her. ‘Fran got along as best she could after the fire but she was dead inside. They were twins, you see. They had a connection. All that love. But rivals at the same time. It must be difficult sharing everything. Mum’s womb, birthdays, the same bedroom, new clothes – always having to share the attention, the love. When Billy passed, she couldn’t cope. Barely spoke and left school early, and as soon as she was old enough to earn she started to drink. Gin and brandy, I think, and plenty of it. Drugs, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Little by little she lost the will to live and killed herself. . .’

  ‘Officially her death was an accident.’

  ‘Well, there’s accidents and there’s accidents,’ retorted Amelia. ‘She drowned her sorrows with a bottle of gin. Afterwards she drowned herself in the bath. Isn’t that a form of suicide? Getting drunk and putting yourself in harm’s way.’

  ‘I suppose. What about Edward Mullen? Was your sister’s funeral the last time you saw him?’

  Craig the orderly approached again and, without speaking, stopped a few yards away and pursed his lips. Amelia held out a hand for him to help her and Craig led her inside.

  ‘I don’t know, Amelia,’ Craig chided her. ‘You’re going to get me the sack, staying out this long. I don’t know where you get the energy. I wish you’d give me some of it.’

  Amelia turned at the double doors leading back into the building and took a deep breath. ‘I’ve seen him since the funeral, Inspector. He came to see me here and he scared me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Teddy.’

  ‘How did he scare you?’ asked Brook.

  She hesitated, looking up at the dark clouds beginning to gather. ‘He told me he’d seen Billy.’

  ‘Seen Billy? When?’

  ‘Spoke to him after the fire,’ continued Amelia, her eyes registering the significance of what she said. ‘Do you see? After.’

  ‘But Billy was dead,’ said Brook.

  ‘He told me he’d seen Billy,’ Amelia insisted. ‘He spoke to him.’

  ‘Teddy Mullen spoke to Billy after the fire?’ repeated Brook, trying to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

  ‘That’s right. And Billy told Teddy to come see me, to tell me it wasn’t my fault. Tell Amelia it wasn’t her fault, he said.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Amelia shook her head. ‘I forget.’

  She looked at her hand in Craig’s then up at the orderly as he guided her back towards the building. ‘Are you taking me for a dance?’

  Craig turned away, one arm across Amelia’s back. ‘You wish,’ he said indulgently, with a final roll of the eyes towards Brook.

  ‘Can you tell me if Amelia Stanforth has had any visitors recently?’ said Brook, back at reception.

  Sharmayne logged on to her computer and tapped in a few commands. ‘Not getting anything for the last year,’ she said brightly. ‘And she’s only been in here three. She gets confused. They all do.’

  ‘Could someone visit without you knowing?’

  ‘Almost impossible. Visiting hours are very strict and if the patients aren’t in their rooms, they’re doing monitored activities.’ She smiled. ‘We occasionally get one of the sprightlier ones make a break for it, usually men, but there’s nowhere to go except the village at the bottom of the hill and we always find them in the Heifer, having a pint and a bag of pork scratchings.’

  ‘And Amelia’s far from sprightly,’ conceded Brook. ‘Do the records go further back?’

  ‘Just a minute.’

  While she tapped out commands on her keyboard, Brook tore out a blank page from his notebook and wrote his name and number. ‘I want to be contacted if she has any more visitors.’

  ‘She’s very popular all of a sudden,’ said Sharmayne. ‘That’s what the officer from Ashbourne station asked before he left.’

  ‘The officer who was here about the prowler?’

  ‘That’s right. Poor old Jessica, one of our residents, thinks she sees men prowling around outside her window.’

  ‘But he asked to be kept informed about Amelia Stanforth?’ said Brook.

  ‘He did. He said it was official business and I’m to give him a call whenever—’

  ‘Can I see the log?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to enter it yet.’ Sharmayne rustled around for a piece of paper and handed it to Brook. The name next to the mobile phone number was for a Sergeant Laird. Brook stared for a moment before pocketing the paper.

  ‘You don’t need to worry about his number,’ said Brook. ‘I’m his superior officer.’

  ‘So should I enter your number on Amelia’s record instead?’

  Reluctant though he was to bandy about his contact details, Brook confirmed. ‘So can you tell me if Amelia has had any visitors at all since she’s been in here?’

  Sharmayne scrolled down her screen. ‘The last was two years ago. Just before Christmas.’

  ‘Before? It wasn’t December the twenty-second, was it?’

  ‘Actually it was,’ replied Sharmayne, impressed.

  Brook nodded. Billy’s birthday. ‘Who?’

  ‘Edward Mullen.’

  On the way back to his car, Brook’s mobile began to vibrate.

  ‘Yes, John.’

  ‘Notebook handy?’

  ‘Pencil too,’ replied Brook, fumbling in his jacket. He pictured the smirking on the other end of the line. ‘Go ahead.’ He listened and scribbled the name with difficulty, the phone held to his ear by a shoulder. ‘What about an address?’ Brook wrote hurriedly before the phone fell to the ground. Eventually he threw pen and notebook on to the roof of his car and held the mobile in his hand. ‘Still there? Any breaks on the Wheeler case?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve cracked it wide open,’ replied Noble, sarcastically. ‘An eighty-year-old blind woman on St Chad’s Road claims she heard a boy shouting the night Scott disappeared.’

  ‘Whereabouts on St Chad’s?’

  ‘Are you serious? Did I mention she was blind?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Just before you turn on to Whitaker Road.’

  ‘Whitaker Road?’

  ‘Where the derelict house used to be.’

  ‘Right location, at least. And just because she’s eighty and blind doesn’t mean she’s unreliable,’ added Brook without conviction, remembering his struggle to get answers from Amelia. There was a sceptical grunt from the other end of the line. ‘What did she hear?’

  ‘She said she heard a boy shouting, “Just wait!” Over and over. “Just wait!”’

  ‘Was there a pause between the two words?’

  There was a momentary silence from Noble. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Because maybe she heard Scott shouting, “Josh. Wait.”’

  More silence as Noble thought it through. ‘That would make sense. But even assuming it’s reliable, where does it get us?’

  ‘I don’t know, John. But we can’t pick and choose our evidence. We can only gather it and follow where it takes us.’

  Seventeen

  Brook arrived at his metal desk just after lunchtime. Fortunately, Sergeant Grey was on duty at reception so he was spared having to face Harry Hendrickson en route. He knocked on Copeland’s door but, for the first time since Brook had started working in the CCU, his office was locked. Entering his own room, Brook found an envelope on the table in Noble’s handwriting.

  Brook opened it and read Noble’s thank you for last night’s ‘pep talk’. He grimaced as he read the invitation but resigned himself. ‘OK, John, if I must.’ Under his signature Noble had written, ‘Nice office!’

  Brook texted Noble about the invitation
– ‘I’ll be there’. He sipped hot tea from his flask while he updated the Stanforth file with confirmation of Amelia’s new address then mulled over his interview with her as well as his exchange with the uniformed officer outside the care home.

  ‘How many coppers called Laird can there be in the county?’ After a little digging and a couple of phone calls, Brook found his answer – Sergeant Darren Laird, forty-one years of age, working out of Ashbourne station, was indeed the only son of retired DI, Walter Laird.

  No wonder Amelia thought she’d seen the original Laird that morning.

  He loaded the electoral roll and confirmed father and son’s separate addresses. Then he found the scrap of paper with Laird’s phone number that he had pocketed at the care home.

  A mobile number for official business? I don’t think so.

  What could justify Sergeant Laird checking out Amelia Stanforth’s visitors unless it was part of the search for Brendan McCleary? And then an official contact number would be appropriate.

  Brook resisted the impulse to simply ring the mobile number and ask.

  The light was worsening as Brook arrived at the junction of St Chad’s Road and Whitaker Road, the spot where a blind witness had heard a young boy shouting on the night of Scott Wheeler’s disappearance. A pair of police vans along the road told him the house-to-house inquiries were ongoing.

  Brook locked his car and retraced his steps along St Chad’s to the large house, site of Chelsea Chaplin’s birthday party. A small gate at the side of the building gave access to the rear; whoever had terrified Scott by imitating the late Joshua Stapleton would doubtless have used it.

  Brook decided against wandering around the back garden unannounced; instead he walked back past his car and on up to Whitaker Road to the site of the derelict house, now demolished. A lone police officer stood guard outside the site’s metal boundary fence.

  A familiar-looking suntanned, grey-haired man in his mid-fifties wearing a sheepskin coat over shiny jogging pants and bright white training shoes was wagging a right index finger at the officer while a large husky strained at the leash in his left hand. Brook heard the man utter a forceful, ‘See that you do,’ before yanking on the leash and marching away. As he approached Brook, the man’s eyes squinted in recognition but he looked away and kept walking.