The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Constable,’ said Brook, greeting the unknown PC with his warrant card.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Quiet in there,’ said Brook, nodding towards the heavy plant vehicles sitting idle.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The PC nodded at the grey-haired man crossing over to Carlton Road with his dog. ‘But they’ll be back to work on the new foundations tomorrow, thanks to Councillor Davison.’

  ‘So the site was closed to search for the missing boy,’ said Brook.

  ‘DS Noble’s idea,’ replied the constable. ‘But Davison owns the site and was livid. He’s the chair of Police Liaison. You’d think he’d be more sympathetic.’ The young man shook his head. ‘Local politicians. . .’

  ‘Thought I recognised him.’ And him, me. Brook looked after the councillor. ‘He lives in Normanton?’

  The constable puckered up his lips to take a sharp breath. ‘I wouldn’t say that to him. The councillor lives in Upper Normanton.’

  Brook was puzzled for a second. ‘I didn’t know there was an Upper Normanton.’

  ‘It’s not on the map,’ grinned the officer. ‘It only exists for them that think they’re better than the rest of us.’

  It was dark when Brook arrived back at his car. Looking around, his eye was drawn by a large wooden gate across an access road. The gate was chained and beyond lay darkness and vegetation into the distance. He pulled out his phone.

  ‘John, what’s that big padlocked gate at the top of St Chad’s Road?’

  ‘It’s an allotment.’

  ‘Did—’

  ‘We did. We got them to open every shed. We looked in every greenhouse, poked around in every water tank, turned over every old bath. We got nothing except dirty shoes and a lot of earache from grumpy smallholders. And before you ask, we also checked for any freshly dug soil.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There wasn’t any. The ground’s like iron. See you tonight.’

  ‘See you. . .’ began Brook but Noble had already rung off. ‘And sorry to be a nuisance.’

  A few minutes later, Brook turned off Carlton Road and pulled into a quiet side road, locating the address he was looking for. Staring at the house, he found it hard to believe that the redbrick, detached residence in front of him was occupied. In the sulphurous glow of street lights, it appeared as though it had been abandoned years ago.

  From top to bottom the building spoke of decay. On the roof, the chimney was crumbling, the pointing almost skeletal. Brickwork and mortar had washed away, creating a channel of red silt which had stained the slate roof as it trickled down. Several slates were missing or had slipped away from their rotted fastenings to nestle against the sopping, sagging gutters which had decayed so badly, a large section hung down across the front of the house like an unkempt fringe.

  What little paint Brook could see on the wood-framed windows was in the final throes of peeling away from the weather-bleached, warped timbers and the glass in the casement was caked with years of impenetrable dirt. On the upper storey, Brook spied yellowed net curtains, suspended lifelessly, shrouding occupants from prying eyes. Heavier curtains, brown and worn, barely visible behind the film of grime, hung from the large rectangular bay on the ground floor.

  A movement drew Brook’s eye back to the upper storey window on the corner of the house and he was in time to see a curtain shift slightly. Someone at home. Brook locked his car and strolled across the road.

  ‘If you’re thinking of knocking on Vlad’s door, you’re wasting your time,’ panted a voice.

  Brook turned to see Councillor Davison, in full tracksuit now, glide to a halt, pulling hard on the leash to restrain the eager husky.

  ‘Vlad?’

  ‘Dracula, Lord Lucan, take your pick, Inspector Brook.’

  ‘You know me, Councillor?’ said Brook.

  ‘Only by reputation,’ said Davison. ‘Or the lack of it.’ He was taken aback by Brook’s one-note laugh. ‘Something funny?’

  ‘People who think I’ll take offence are funny,’ replied Brook.

  ‘Aye, well, I was in Magaluf when your hearing came up in the summer so count yourself lucky you’re still in a job. And you’re no sooner back on duty than the negative publicity starts all over—’

  ‘Do you live in Normanton, sir?’ interrupted Brook.

  ‘I live in Upper Normanton,’ corrected Davison sourly. ‘North of Carlton Road is Upper,’ he explained to enlighten Brook’s fake confusion.

  ‘And do you know Mr Mullen?’

  ‘What’s he done?’ asked Davison, nodding towards Mullen’s house.

  ‘I can’t discuss that,’ said Brook.

  Davison raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that right? You do know I’m on the PLC?’

  ‘I do now,’ replied Brook.

  ‘Have you come about that missing lad?’ said Davison, his tanned face lighting up. ‘It were only a few streets over.’

  ‘No,’ replied Brook. ‘I’m here on another matter.’

  ‘What other matter?’ snorted Davison. ‘There’s nowt so important as a missing kiddie.’

  ‘Agreed,’ replied Brook. ‘But I’m not on that case.’

  ‘I see,’ said Davison, grinning. ‘Cleaning out the stables, are you?’

  Brook managed an answering smile. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘Well, you’ll get nowt from Vlad. He’s a weirdo and a recluse. I’ve been jogging down to Normanton Park for twelve year and I don’t think I’ve seen the man more than twice and never outside.’

  ‘Is he disabled?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Hard to tell,’ replied Davison. ‘He never comes out, never opens the door to visitors during the day, unless you’re a Sainsbury’s delivery man, and even then you’ll only see an arm reaching out for the bags.’

  ‘Maybe he comes out at night,’ suggested Brook.

  ‘To drink blood, you mean,’ laughed Davison. ‘Aye, well, I’ve never seen him but then I’m at the council chambers every night.’ He sniffed self-importantly. He indicated the houses either side of Mullen’s, both sporting battered For Sale signs. ‘Them poor buggers have been trying to move for years but as soon as the estate agent brings a client round. . .’ He shrugged as though the rest were obvious. With a nod, he jogged away, reanimating the sitting husky with a low whistle.

  Brook watched him go then stepped up to the remains of the gate. He fancied he could see a man’s silhouette behind the same net curtain that had twitched a few moments earlier. At the same window, below the sill, a new cable ran neatly along the front of the house, round to the side then disappeared into the brickwork.

  ‘A recluse with cable,’ muttered Brook. ‘That’s cheating.’ He pulled out his warrant card and picked his way past the inert wooden gate – rotted, bowed and immovable – and rapped on the mottled glass of the front door.

  The door was in better shape than the rest of the woodwork on the house. Presumably Mullen was able to maintain it without leaving the house. Knocking again, Brook noticed an eye-level slab of wood by the side of the front door. It was rotting away from the retaining screws holding it to the brick. Four rotted holes gaped at each corner of the wood, as though something had once been attached.

  Brook looked around and spotted a rusted metal nameplate almost hidden in the long grass of the tiny front garden. He picked it up by his fingertips to avoid noxious substances. It was completely oxidised but by holding it at an angle in the fading light, he could just about make out the words from the indentations: ‘E. Mullen Psychic Medium’.

  Brook held the plate to the wooden frame by the door. It was a perfect fit, right down to the fixing holes. There was a phone number at the bottom of the plate, the dialling code out of date. Brook took out his mobile and keyed in the number using the current 01332 code. The shrill ring of the phone echoed inside the house. No answer.

  ‘Mr Mullen, I’m a police officer,’ shouted Brook, dropping his hand. ‘Please open the door.’ No sign of movement. Only the ringing phone disturbed the silence. ‘M
r Mullen. My name is Detective Inspector Brook from Derby CID. I’m investigating—’

  The phone in the house stopped ringing. Brook lifted the mobile to his ear.

  ‘Please stop shouting, Inspector. People might get the wrong idea.’

  Brook waited. ‘Are you going to open the door?’

  ‘I told the other officer. I don’t know anything about that missing boy.’

  ‘I’m not here about that. I’m here about William Stanforth.’

  ‘Billy?’

  ‘Billy. Your friend. Please open the door so we can talk.’

  ‘Are you alone? I have a problem with large groups of people.’

  ‘You know I am.’

  ‘I thought I saw someone with you.’

  ‘One of your neighbours. He’s gone.’

  ‘I didn’t mean him.’

  Brook was becoming impatient. ‘There’s no one else here. Sir, if you don’t open the door, I can return with more officers.’ No reaction. ‘I’ll be back with a warrant and an enforcer ram and then you won’t have a door.’ Brook could hear the man’s breathing quicken on the phone.

  ‘How do I know you’re really a policeman?’

  ‘You’re a psychic, aren’t you?’ quipped Brook. ‘You must have known I was coming.’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that.’

  Realising that sarcasm might not be the key to admission, Brook began to placate. ‘Mr Mullen, I’m holding my ID against the glass.’

  ‘Give me a minute to get downstairs. I’m disabled.’

  The phone cut off and Brook threw the nameplate back into the tall grass and flattened his warrant card against the stained glass above the letter box. He heard the whine of machinery and a few moments later a dark figure on the other side pressed close to the glass. The door opened no more than an inch and Brook pushed it back and stepped into the dark hall.

  As he crossed the gloomy threshold, Brook could smell wood smoke, not fresh but stale and damp from an old fire. The door slammed shut behind him. Despite the dark there wasn’t a light on in the house and Brook struggled to see clearly. His foot kicked against something heavy and he felt water sloshing on to his shoe.

  ‘Damn.’ He strained to see an outmoded, circular light switch on the wall and flicked at it. Nothing.

  ‘Go through,’ said a soft voice from the shadows. ‘I’ll light a candle.’

  Brook turned away from the black outline of Edward Mullen and edged into the large cold room off the hall, then stood aside for the small wiry figure to hobble past him, a walking stick in his left hand. Eventually Brook’s reluctant host struck a match, throwing grotesque outlines against the walls, and proceeded to light a series of candles dotted around the room.

  With a little more light, Brook could see the furnishings and general decor and, given the state of the exterior, he had to admit his surprise. Although the room seemed to have been frozen in time, it was neat, tidy and almost welcoming. The wallpaper was dingy and old-fashioned but in a good state of repair. The two armchairs arranged near the blackened Victorian hearth were covered in scuffed and severely cracked leather but appeared well-upholstered and comfortable.

  In one corner, a long oak table with ornate carved legs had seen better days but was sturdy and reassuring. It was ringed by half a dozen matching, straight-backed chairs and was empty of all decoration save a single place setting at one end, and a chessboard at the other, the pieces scattered around the battlefield, taking a breather from combat commenced.

  Unable to see more, Brook wandered over to assess the state of play on the chessboard. Mullen meanwhile bent over and put a match to some newspaper in the blackened wood-burning stove and the flames danced to life immediately.

  ‘Electricity cut off?’ ventured Brook, glancing up at the 1930s light fitting descending from an elaborately carved ceiling rose. He saw the bulb was missing. ‘Apparently not,’ he corrected himself.

  ‘I try not to use it,’ said Mullen, lighting another candle, before sitting at the table behind the white chess pieces, flopping down with the heavy sigh of the disabled. ‘The expense,’ he added, by way of explanation.

  Mullen was a slim grey-haired man, with pale eyes and a closely shaven face. He was simply dressed in clothes appropriate to his age – a checked cotton shirt with a thin woollen tie and neat, nondescript trousers punctuated by black lace-up shoes. The aluminium stick rested against his thigh.

  ‘Then I wonder why you bother connecting to the grid at all,’ observed Brook.

  Mullen grunted. ‘I need it for the stairlift. And I’m not Cro-Magnon man, Inspector. I have a fridge, a computer and a couple of reading lamps.’

  ‘But no television,’ said Brook absently, keeping his approval under wraps.

  ‘I prefer books.’ He waved an arm at his teeming bookshelves on one wall.

  ‘And the internet?’

  Mullen paused for a beat, wondering how Brook knew. When he’d worked it out, he replied, ‘My umbilical to the world. Or at least Sainsbury’s,’ he added. ‘I don’t eat cardboard yet, despite successive government attempts to impoverish me. The internet allows me to earn a modest income. And it helps me with my chess.’

  ‘Really?’ Brook returned his attention to the tussle between good and evil being enacted on the sixty-four-square board. ‘The Sicilian Defence. Are you any good?’

  ‘There’s always room for improvement, Inspector. Do you play?’ asked Mullen, glancing down at the game in progress.

  ‘I did – in my youth.’

  ‘You must have been an only child then,’ observed Mullen. ‘The world’s grandmasters almost always are. Interesting that such solitary souls can become expert in a game designed for two. I’ve played since I was a boy, though opponents are harder to come by, these days.’

  ‘Because you never leave the house,’ said Brook.

  ‘You talked to my unpleasant neighbour, I see.’

  ‘Councillor Davison? A little. Why don’t you go out? Mobility?’

  Mullen bridled at the directness of the questions. ‘As you see. But it’s not the only reason. Hell is other people, Inspector. I could handle outside if it weren’t for the teeming mass of cretinism populating the streets.’

  ‘You do read books, don’t you?’ observed Brook wryly. Mullen maintained an inscrutable half-smile, declining to answer. ‘What do you do for money?’

  ‘I have a small number of clients on the internet,’ answered the old man. ‘I do readings for them. The house is paid for – it belonged to my parents – and I have some savings. My needs are simple.’

  ‘So you live alone and frugally.’ Until Charlton had cast him down into the bowels of the station, Brook might have envied Mullen’s self-imposed isolation.

  The old man stood to hobble over to a large sideboard and took out two small glasses and a dark bottle. ‘Most of the time. But you’re in luck, Inspector. Every Christmas I splash out and treat myself to the most expensive bottle of vintage port I can afford.’ He examined the bottle before removing the cork. ‘This year I’ve gone for the Fonseca – fruity and dense.’ Mullen closed his eyes and drew a long nasal breath at the bottle. ‘You can actually imagine you’re outside picking blackberries at the end of summer.’

  ‘A poor substitute for the outdoors,’ said Brook, preparing to refuse but Mullen was already handing him a delicate glass of the inky black liquid.

  ‘Merry Christmas, Inspector.’

  Brook didn’t quite know what to do so, after a minute sip of the drink, he thanked his host before setting the glass down. ‘Good health,’ he added, refusing to endorse the possibility of merriment over the most miserable part of any singleton’s year.

  Mullen sipped his glass of port with pleasure before a pained expression invaded his features. ‘And now perhaps you can tell me why you people keep this farce alive? It’s been nearly fifty years since my friend died. When are you going to let Billy rest in peace?’

  ‘Peace?’ said Brook. ‘Is that what he has?’r />
  ‘As much as he could hope for,’ answered Mullen. ‘Though all who die a violent death sleep in an unquiet grave.’

  ‘An unquiet grave?’ echoed Brook. The phrase rang a bell.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So you’ve spoken to him, have you?’ said Brook, trying to keep the sneer from his tone. ‘In a séance or on the Ouija board.’

  Mullen’s features hardened briefly before his countenance transformed into the patience deployed for unbelievers. He meshed his hands together to await further scorn. ‘I don’t expect you to understand the ways—’

  ‘Didn’t happen to mention who locked him in that shed, did he?’ said Brook. ‘That would save some time.’

  Mullen ignored the mocking tone. ‘No, he didn’t. I don’t think Billy knows about the fire. He doesn’t even know he’s dead. All who meet an unexpected and brutal death are unaware. That’s why they stay with us, to seek answers, discover what has befallen them.’

  Brook snorted. ‘So you do speak to him.’

  ‘Why are you here, Inspector? And please don’t tell me I should already know. As you saw from my sign, I’m retired.’

  ‘You can do that? Just switch it off like a tap?’

  ‘It depends. I can’t speak for other members of my profession. But most of my. . . difficulties derived from engaging with clients in person. It’s too painful, for me as well as them, so I stopped conducting my business face to face.’

  ‘But I’m not a client so why refuse to open the door to me?’ asked Brook.

  ‘My abilities are as much a curse as a gift. I can’t always turn off my powers and control what I’m seeing.’ A smile played around Mullen’s lips. ‘And everyone has secrets they think they can keep from me, client or not. Secrets about things they’ve done in the past, people they’ve hurt.’

  Brook was trapped in Mullen’s gaze for a moment. ‘I see.’

  Mullen was the first to break away. ‘I don’t think you know what seeing means, Inspector. It can drive you to the edge of insanity.’ He took a more contemplative sip on his port. ‘You can’t understand.’