The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Actually I was thinking more along the lines that, having found out about his new girlfriend, she broke up with him. From what I’m hearing about Brendan, that would be a red rag to a bull. Maybe he came back to the party in a rage. . .’

  ‘And set the fire,’ finished Mullen quietly.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘If he did, I didn’t see him. I’d stormed off, remember.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘Read my statement,’ mumbled Mullen. He reached for the bottle of port and poured himself a larger measure.

  ‘I’d prefer you to tell me.’

  Mullen drank half a glass in one sip. ‘To see if I’ve forgotten the lies I told DC Laird at the time of the fire,’ he said sourly.

  Brook could see the old man’s eyes moistening with shame but he hardened his heart; the harder he pushed, the better the information. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Very well. If you must hear me say it, I was sulking in Billy’s bedroom, hiding under the coats, crying like a baby.’

  ‘All because Billy cheated,’ said Brook.

  Mullen looked beseechingly at Brook, a tear rolling down his cheek. ‘You have to remember. We were just children. These petty disputes seem like the end of the world when you’re young. An hour later they’re forgotten, resolved.’ He hung his head. ‘But this one never was. My last thoughts and words towards my friend were conceived in anger.’

  ‘How long did you stay under the coats?’

  Mullen dabbed at an eye with a folded handkerchief produced from a pocket. ‘Until I heard the commotion and came down to the garden to watch the fire. And Mrs Stanforth saw me. You can check.’

  ‘I have. Her statement confirms your alibi.’

  ‘Then why are you putting me through this again?’

  ‘I’m establishing the truth,’ said Brook.

  ‘And wasting my time.’

  ‘Sorry, do you have to be somewhere?’

  Mullen took a quivering breath and set down his glass. ‘I apologise. You’re right. I should be grateful someone still cares. It’s just that Billy’s birthday is coming up. . .’ He broke off, staring back into the flames, past and present. A bitter laugh broke the gloom. ‘You know the worst thing? At first the fire was exciting. Some of us were shouting and cheering. Nobody knew. . .’ He rubbed his damp eyes with a thumb and forefinger and then looked back at Brook. ‘There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about my friend, Inspector, alone in that shed, frightened, confused, screaming in terror.’

  Brook sat up. ‘You heard him scream?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said you heard him scream. You didn’t mention that in your statement – nobody did.’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t hear it then,’ said Mullen. ‘I heard it later.’

  ‘Later?’

  Mullen looked up, threw his hands in the air in self-mockery and affected a ghostly wail. ‘In my dreams.’

  Brook smiled faintly and got to his feet, deciding against a parting shot at Mullen’s psychic fantasies. ‘OK. I think that covers it. For now.’

  ‘You anticipate another visit?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I suppose finding other witnesses still alive and coherent is becoming more difficult,’ said Mullen. ‘If I can help with that. . .’

  Brook paused. He still had the list of witnesses. ‘I’ve got an address for Brendan McCleary – Mount Street – but he seems to have cleared out.’

  ‘I know it,’ said Mullen. ‘It’s not far from here, if you’re able-bodied,’ he added. ‘He’s gone, you say?’

  ‘It seems so.’ Brook gave Mullen the list of other partygoers and watched for any reaction.

  ‘Nothing jumps out except poor Charlotte. She drowned, you know, the year after Billy. And Edna Spencer isn’t in the best of health. She had a hip replacement a few years ago and she suffers with arthritis.’

  ‘I know,’ said Brook. ‘Though she’s not the type to complain.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to her? Oh, I am glad. Poor thing lost her husband years ago. They lived a couple of streets over from me for a long time until Eric passed and Edna couldn’t manage the house. They doted on each other. Very sad.’ He handed the list back. ‘Sorry I can’t be more help.’

  ‘No, you’ve helped a lot,’ said Brook.

  ‘And you’ve helped me, Inspector,’ smiled Mullen. ‘I feel better, talking things through. It’s been a long time since anyone’s really asked me about that night. DCI Bannon and DS Laird re-interviewed me in nineteen sixty-seven, then a different detective ten or eleven years later. . .’

  ‘DS Copeland?’

  ‘That’s him,’ nodded Mullen. ‘I remember his visit. Nice man though carrying a lot of pain. I found out later that his sister—’

  ‘His visit?’ interrupted Brook.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Visit – singular. Are you saying DS Copeland only came to see you once?’

  Mullen looked uncertain. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘According to the file, Copeland reviewed Billy’s case three times, in nineteen seventy-eight, eighty-two and eighty-six. By nineteen eighty-six he was a DI, soon to be a DCI.’

  ‘I remember nineteen seventy-eight.’ Mullen cast around for a recollection. ‘But not the others.’

  ‘Odd.’

  ‘I’m sure he got all he needed from me the first time,’ said Mullen.

  ‘Possibly,’ conceded Brook. ‘So, when was the last time an officer conducted a proper interview with you?’

  ‘Before today, DS Copeland in nineteen seventy-eight.’

  ‘I see.’ Brook’s face was like stone. ‘Thirty-four years ago.’

  ‘Good lord, so long,’ said Mullen, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘You’re surprised, Inspector. Don’t be. I didn’t kill Billy and those officers saw that. And remember, I had an alibi.’ He smiled and got stiffly to his feet. ‘I could never hurt Billy, I loved him.’

  ‘Even so, thirty-four years. . .’

  ‘Oh, I’ve had visits since,’ said Mullen. ‘Officers have knocked on the door occasionally to confirm my identity and that I’m not gaga.’ He held up a mocking hand. ‘I know – the jury’s out on that one. But no one’s interviewed me properly since then. Until today.’

  ‘What about when Inspector Greatorix reviewed the case?’

  Mullen thought for a second then slowly shook his head. ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘Why am I not surprised?’

  Brook headed for the door. When he reached the exit, the smell of charred wood invaded his nostrils again. He followed his nose to the inside of the door. Beneath the letter box a large blackened scar fanned out across the panels.

  ‘Had an accident?’

  Mullen examined the door with Brook as though only just seeing it. ‘A while ago now. I’ve been meaning to paint over it.’

  In the flickering candlelight, Brook could see the sturdy plastic bucket he’d nearly kicked over on his entrance. It was filled to the brim with water. He looked curiously at Mullen.

  ‘Someone put a burning rag through the letter box,’ explained Mullen.

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘I forget. But don’t worry, I’m a light sleeper. The smoke woke me. I’ve got a detector now.’

  Brook glanced up at the smoke alarm on the hall ceiling. ‘Did you report it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should have.’

  ‘Inspector, I didn’t see or hear anything and didn’t see the point of having busy officers wasting their time asking questions I couldn’t answer,’ said Mullen. ‘These things happen occasionally.’

  ‘It’s happened before?’

  ‘As you’ve discovered, my neighbours aren’t fond of me,’ he said. ‘Usually it’s dog excrement. The fire was a first but I woke up in time. No harm done. And now I put that bucket of water under the letter box every night so there’s really no need to worry.’

  Brook finally stepped across t
he threshold into the cold night air. ‘It’s your funeral.’

  ‘Quite.’ Mullen was cheered now that Brook was leaving.

  Brook turned at the gate, his face in shadow. ‘One more thing.’ Mullen’s head cocked with curiosity. ‘Black checkmates in four moves.’

  Mullen managed a watery smile as he watched Brook cross the road to his car. Without warning, Mullen closed his eyes, his hand moving to his temple as though in pain. His other hand moved to his throat and his mouth fell open, gasping for breath as though he was being choked.

  ‘Who are you?’ he croaked, panic written across his grey features. ‘What do you want from me?’

  As Brook sped away, Mullen’s eyes opened. The constriction eased and the hand relaxed from his throat. Getting his breath back, Mullen watched the BMW’s lights turn the corner, continuing to stare long after the car had gone. Finally, feeling the cold bite of winter, he closed his door against the world and returned to the gloom of his home.

  After a moment’s contemplation, Mullen sat behind the chessboard, examining the pieces by the light of a guttering candle.

  ‘Checkmate, eh? Think you’re going to pull a fast one, do you?’ Mullen studied the board before picking up the white queen, tapping the wooden base against his chin then moving it in front of his king for protection.

  Having parked in a dark side street, Brook arrived at the bright and welcoming front door of the Duke of Clarence two minutes later. The pub, a short walk from St Mary’s Wharf, was a hangout for officers celebrating a promotion, Christmas, or the cracking of a big case. Brook had never set foot in the place.

  Instead of marching straight in, he tried to squint through the opaque window to confirm Noble’s presence, straining to see through the misshapen glass like a neglected child, waiting for drunken parents to stagger out with a bottle of pop and a packet of crisps for supper.

  To compound his discomfort, DI Ford emerged from the warmth and conviviality, the decibel level increasing briefly as he stepped outside, a cigarette already moving to his lips. He stopped when he noticed Brook. The heavy door swung back into place, silencing the din of companionship, and the two men were alone in their unease. But at least Ford had something to do with his hands.

  ‘Brook,’ he said, exhaling mightily after igniting his cigarette.

  Brook caught the exquisite perfume and for the first time in months felt his resolve weaken. ‘Frank,’ he returned, unable to look Ford in the eye.

  ‘Good to be back?’ asked Ford, fighting the smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Fantastic,’ replied Brook, completely deadpan.

  At this, Ford’s grin broke the shackles and was followed by a mocking laugh. ‘Must be great, nosing around in all those dusty files, looking for—’

  ‘How’s the Wheeler investigation going?’ interrupted Brook.

  Ford’s satisfaction dimmed and he looked hard at Brook. ‘As well as can be expected.’

  ‘It’s just I thought you might be in there celebrating a breakthrough,’ said Brook.

  Now Ford’s expression turned to pure frost as his mind groped for retribution. ‘Just taking a little time out to support colleagues like a normal copper does. Not that I need explain myself to you.’

  Brook lowered his head. Ford was right. Brook was in moral forfeit. And if even Noble could take time out to celebrate a colleague’s promotion, Brook knew everything that could be done to find Scott Wheeler was being done. He turned away, suddenly tongue-tied, and regretted his next utterance immediately. ‘Well, if you need any advice. . .’

  ‘Advice?’ snorted Ford, thrilled to find his path back to ethical supremacy handed to him on a plate. ‘On what? Embarrassing the force. You toffee-nosed fucker. Why don’t you go back to London? Let hard-working local coppers clear up your mess.’

  Brook didn’t answer, instead darting to the door and across the pub’s threshold, now pushing eagerly towards the throng that, moments before, had caused him such trepidation.

  The saloon was jammed with drinking officers. Brook’s eyes searched for Noble, only too aware that his presence might be a cause for further comment and further embarrassment. When he spotted Noble he took a breath and made a beeline.

  Noble’s mouth fell open when he spotted Brook’s uncomfortable, head-down passage through the scrum of drinkers, most glancing covertly at him as he passed. As he approached, Noble broke into a slow grin. ‘You made it.’

  Brook removed his rain-flecked coat. ‘Didn’t think I would?’

  Noble’s expression confirmed it. ‘Must be because you’ve been cooped up in that dungeon all day.’

  ‘Actually I’ve been out and about, John. Best way to avoid the photographers.’

  Noble nodded in sympathy. ‘That was below the belt. Burton needs a good hiding, you ask me.’

  ‘He’s just doing his job, John. It’s serving coppers I can’t excuse.’

  Noble tilted his head. ‘You still say Hendrickson tipped him off.’

  ‘I saw the text to Burton with my own eyes, John. It was sent the morning I returned to duty.’

  ‘You saw the text? How?’ The inquiry in Noble’s expression disappeared with Brook’s reluctance to elaborate. ‘You’re taking chances someone in your position shouldn’t be taking.’

  ‘The point is, I was right, John. And I can prove it, if I have to.’

  ‘So what are you going to do about Hendrickson?’

  ‘There’s not much I can do,’ said Brook.

  ‘But what if—’

  ‘He won’t, John. He knows I’ve seen his messages to Burton and he’s already on thin ice with Charlton.’

  ‘That makes two of you,’ replied Noble.

  ‘That’s why we have a mutual interest in treading lightly around each other,’ smiled Brook. ‘Any developments?’

  Noble sighed, his shoulders slumping. ‘Nothing good. News about McCleary’s stash of kiddie porn was all over the papers and local telly again.’

  ‘Do you even know it was his yet?’

  ‘The opposite,’ said Noble. ‘We can’t find a single print of McCleary’s on any of it. And I doubt we’re going to be able to ask him anytime soon.’

  ‘He might still pop up, John,’ said Brook. ‘Criminals don’t always behave logically. He must be short of funds and nothing motivates ex-cons like money.’

  ‘I know,’ said Noble. ‘We’re maintaining surveillance on the flat and the post office but he won’t show if he’s got any sense.’

  Brook nodded in sympathy, glancing at the newly promoted Gadd surrounded by well-wishers, enjoying her last day as one of the gang. ‘How are you coping?’ he said to Noble, tight-lipped in commiseration.

  ‘Jane? Yeah, well. Who needs it?’ said Noble. ‘Let her take the strain. I’m happy as I am. I’ve seen what the pressure can do to people.’ He stared down into his lager.

  ‘You’re not wrong,’ agreed Brook. ‘And CID could certainly do with less testosterone sluicing around.’ He eyed Noble. ‘And I meant what I said last night. If I ever stop chasing ghosts, I want you to know how much I value your work.’

  ‘Well!’ replied Noble, to draw a line under the matter. ‘What are you drinking, guv?’ he added in a Dickensian cockney accent.

  Brook laughed and grimaced simultaneously. ‘Don’t. It’s on me.’

  Noble looked theatrically at his watch. ‘Better remember the date – the first drink from my DI.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ protested Brook. ‘According to my accounts, I’ve bought you at least three cups of tea over the years.’

  ‘As many as that?’ replied Noble. ‘I stand corrected. I’ll have another lager, thanks. Now you have been to a bar before. . .’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Brook, setting off towards the counter.

  Eighteen

  Saturday, 15 December 2012

  The next morning, Brook woke later than usual and instead of dragging himself down to his small kitchen, his eyes barely open, he lay in bed for a few minutes, won
dering whether he was expected to work weekends. He’d become so detached from the rest of his colleagues that following any kind of shift pattern had begun to seem irrelevant.

  Recalling with dismay the exchange with DI Ford the previous evening, Brook decided to go to the station. If nothing else, he was determined to keep his nose to the grindstone, no matter how futile the work. No one would be able to criticise him on that score.

  Before setting off, he sat down with a tea and scoured the anthologies on his bookshelves. ‘The Unquiet Grave,’ he muttered when he found what he was looking for. ‘Anonymous.’ He read the seven-stanza poem, giving voice to one of the verses.

  ‘The twelvemonth and a day being up

  The dead began to speak:

  “Oh who sits weeping on my grave,

  And will not let me sleep?”’

  An hour later, Brook parked at St Mary’s Wharf. To avoid any chance of meeting Hendrickson, he decided to walk all the way round the building to the service entrance, which took him directly to the basement and, with a little effort, his new office in the depths of the building.

  Finally, slumped in his chair, he poured himself a tea and glanced at the file on his blotter. It wasn’t the Stanforth folder. He found it back on the trolley with the others. Brook flipped it open. Copeland had left the fake Pied Piper note, written by Brook, in the file. But carelessly he’d put the folder back in the wrong place. Even sloppier, Copeland had left a different file on Brook’s desk.

  ‘You’re getting old, Clive,’ said Brook, absent-mindedly picking up the new folder in front of him. His mood darkened when he saw the date: 1965.

  ‘This is getting ridic—’ Brook halted, mid-rant, when he saw the name at the top of the file. Matilda Copeland. Clive Copeland’s sister? He took a quick peek at the first page to confirm it then looked at the cold case sheet which was nearly full and contained the names of several high-ranking detectives over the years.

  Ex-DI Walter Laird had indeed been a good friend to Copeland, signing his name to reviews of Matilda’s murder in 1969, 1973, 1977 and 1981.

  Copeland was too young to be in the force in 1969 and, in 1973, would have been a callow 21 year old, so the first two case reviews were probably genuinely carried out by Laird. Brook suspected Clive Copeland would have first re-opened his sister’s murder in 1977, when he would have been a Detective Sergeant.