The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Can we discuss it inside please?’ asked Brook. ‘It’s freezing out here.’

  The ghost of a smile crossed Laird’s features as various offhand replies came to mind. After allowing Brook to shiver in the cold for a few moments longer, the old man shakily drew back the chain and turned away to shuffle back to his tasselled armchair, using his stick for balance. Brook followed him at a necessarily sedate pace.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Laird through the tar, nodding at the small dining table by the window. There were two clean plates with knives and forks. A jar of Morrison’s pickled beetroot stood next to the salt, pepper and malt vinegar. Laird saw Brook glance at them. ‘It’s fish and chip day,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t that usually Friday?’ smiled Brook, pulling out a dining chair and crouching on the end while Laird readied himself to sink back into the sole armchair, in front of the single-bar electric fire.

  ‘OAP discount on Monday.’ He sank back, pulling a blanket over his legs, his breath whistling through his cheap teeth. ‘Sorry it’s not so warm. Fuel poverty. Not a lot of money in honest coppering in my day.’ He looked across at Brook. ‘Got any cigarettes, lad?’

  ‘I gave up,’ replied Brook.

  ‘Gave up? On the job?’ snorted Laird. ‘Must be a desk jockey if you can get through the day without something to take your mind off it.’

  ‘I was off work for a spell,’ explained Brook, wary of opening the topic of his local infamy. ‘But it’s harder now I’m back working cases. Even cold ones.’

  Laird produced a tobacco tin from down the side of his chair and proceeded to roll up for himself. When finished he snapped the lid back on his tin and shoved it down the side of his cushion. ‘You’ll not be wanting one of these then,’ he said, lighting up and exhaling smoke towards Brook.

  Laird sat back with a sigh and studied Brook, a smirk playing around his whiskered lips. ‘Off work,’ he chuckled through the lingering blue-brown smoke. ‘Is that what you call it? I’ve not lost all my marbles, Brook. I read all about it. You got carpeted by Brass.’

  Brook shrugged. ‘I can’t deny it.’

  ‘But you felt the need to lie about it.’

  ‘I didn’t lie,’ answered Brook softly. ‘But I don’t routinely volunteer my disciplinary problems to strangers.’

  Laird picked a stray shred of tobacco from his tongue and flicked it at the hearth. ‘You also don’t share that you’re that London fella who went doolally and transferred up from the Met a few years ago. Caused a right fuss in the local force, that did.’

  ‘No,’ replied Brook with a tight smile.

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘No, I don’t share that either as my colleagues already know about it.’

  ‘Does Clive?’ continued Laird.

  ‘Not from me,’ said Brook. ‘But I’m sure someone told him.’

  ‘Typical,’ opined Laird. ‘The Met dropping their unfit officers in our lap like we’re nothing. Arrogant southerners.’ Like many people of advanced age, Laird rattled off the insults as though oblivious to the wounds inflicted, before giving the game away and looking coldly at Brook to check his barbs had broken the skin.

  And this is why I never mention it. ‘I do recall a little hostility when I arrived, now you mention it,’ replied Brook drily.

  Unexpectedly, Laird laughed at this though it was difficult to work out where his merriment started and his coughing ended. ‘Good for you, Brook. Don’t let the bastards grind you down, eh?’ He grinned at his guest now, exuding sudden bonhomie. ‘Call me Walter. I was never a fan of Brass either. Give ’em a committee to sit on and they’ll chew your bloody ear off. Stick the buggers in front of a blagger with a knife and they’d soon be crying for Mummy. Why don’t you make us a cup of tea, lad? Two sugars for me.’

  Brook duly trotted off to the tiny dishevelled kitchen and made tea. ‘I’m actually here about two of your old cases,’ he said eventually, setting down a mug on the arm of Laird’s chair.

  ‘Two?’ exclaimed the old man.

  ‘It’s a bit sudden,’ said Brook airily, aware of the reaction he might get, ‘but I’m also looking into Matilda Copeland’s murder.’

  ‘Tilly? Clive asked you to look at that?’ Laird was uncertain for a moment but the suspicion soon returned. ‘No chance. Clive wouldn’t let anyone else near it in a million years.’

  ‘You remember the case then?’ said Brook.

  ‘Like it was yesterday, lad. She died in sixty-five. Picked it up with Sam Bannon. I reviewed it in sixty-nine and again in seventy-three.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘We never closed it.’ He shrugged. ‘And as soon as Clive was old enough to join CID, it was all down to him. No one else got near.’

  ‘That is odd,’ said Brook, ‘because according to the file, you also signed off on reviews into her death in nineteen seventy-seven and then again in nineteen eighty-one. Why would that be?’ Brook paused. ‘Walter.’

  Laird’s superiority complex evaporated along with his bonhomie and he studied Brook. ‘A troublemaker like you is going to quote the rulebook at me? Clive’s a friend, Brook. His sister had been murdered. You expect colleagues to keep him away from it?’

  ‘That’s the regulation.’

  ‘I don’t know what it’s like in the Met, lad, but here in Derbyshire, coppers help their friends when they need it.’

  ‘So you didn’t actually review Matilda Copeland’s murder in nineteen seventy-seven and eighty-one?’

  Laird eyed Brook with distaste. ‘No. And you won’t make many friends with that attitude.’

  ‘I’ll withdraw my name from the popularity contests,’ replied Brook.

  The old man grunted – appreciative if unamused. ‘Pity DI Ford’s tied up with this missing kid. He knows how to treat an old colleague. What about Bob Greatorix? He reviewed the Stanforth file four or five year ago.’

  ‘Retired,’ said Brook. ‘Ill health.’

  Laird chuckled. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. He was a big unit, all right. Nearly bust that chair you’re sat on. Got himself a nice pay-off, did he?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Course he did. Big money playing that game these days,’ continued Laird. ‘Still, good luck to him. He was a good officer, respectful, knew not to tread on toes. . .’

  ‘That was always his strong suit,’ replied Brook.

  ‘. . . when to take advice and when to leave well alone.’

  Brook shrugged in mock regret. ‘Afraid I don’t have his skills.’

  ‘So I see,’ said Laird, trying to reignite his tab.

  ‘What advice did you pass on to Greatorix?’

  ‘To stop wasting everyone’s time,’ growled the old man. ‘The Stanforth boy’s killer is likely dead. And if he isn’t, there’s not a scrap of proof available to put him in the frame. Believe me. We looked hard enough, me and Sam.’ Laird made the sign of the cross. ‘God rest his soul.’

  ‘You had a male suspect at least.’

  ‘We had several of each,’ blustered Laird.

  ‘Put him in the frame, you said,’ pointed out Brook. ‘Who are we talking about? Brendan McCleary? Edward Mullen?’

  ‘Mullen?’ laughed Laird. ‘That little pipsqueak.’

  ‘He’s the only person we know who was definitely alone when the shed caught fire. And he’d had an argument with Billy. . .’

  ‘Good God, man, the little pansy couldn’t step on a spider without coming off worse.’ Laird laughed again, though he seemed to be forcing it. ‘And Billy’s mum alibied him.’

  ‘Who then? McCleary?’

  ‘Who else?’ snarled Laird. ‘Born killer, that one. Murdered his own father in cold blood. Blew his head off with a shotgun then went upstairs and slept like a baby.’

  ‘That was six years later,’ remarked Brook. ‘It doesn’t prove he set the fire that killed Billy Stanforth.’

  Laird sighed. ‘And don’t I know it. We would have put him down for it if we could and we went pretty hard at the scumbag, believe me
.’ He smiled. ‘You could in them days, especially if the beggar was a known villain.’

  ‘He wasn’t much of a villain in nineteen sixty-three,’ observed Brook. ‘A bit of theft and affray.’

  ‘He was a wrong ’un,’ insisted Laird. ‘You don’t need a full jacket to know someone’s not right. Decent coppers get a feel for it.’

  Brook acknowledged with a hunch of the shoulders. ‘But you didn’t get a confession.’

  ‘We couldn’t shake him,’ said Laird. He raised a thick white eyebrow. ‘Surprising thing was we couldn’t shake the lass, Amelia, neither, though we didn’t pile into her as heavy, obviously. But we played the two against each other – separate interviews, gave them the old he-said-she-said routine. Nothing.’ He fixed Brook with a pale eye. ‘He wasn’t a great loss to humanity but we might have saved Malcolm McCleary’s life if we’d nailed Brendan back in sixty-three, though he was too young to hang. When we finally did nail him the bloody government had stopped stringing the buggers up, more’s the pity. His sort need putting out of circulation permanent, like they do in China.’

  ‘An enlightened country,’ retorted Brook. ‘With a fine record on human rights.’

  ‘Mock all you want,’ snapped back Laird. ‘But people will wish we had the same system if McCleary’s done for that Wheeler kid, like they’re saying in the papers.’

  ‘He’s just a person of interest at the moment,’ replied Brook. ‘So they tell me.’

  Laird’s cackle turned into a rasping cough. ‘Convicted killer, living in the same neighbourhood and he’s done a runner – do me a favour, Brook. He’s done for that kid, no doubt. The only shame is I didn’t realise he was a kiddie fiddler back in the sixties or I’d have had his bollocks off.’

  ‘McCleary killed his father in a domestic over forty years ago,’ said Brook. ‘Apart from that he’s got no history of random violence and no record of abusing children, sexually or physically.’

  ‘The news said they found kiddie porn in his flat,’ growled Laird. ‘What do you call that then?’

  ‘They can’t be sure it belonged to McCleary,’ Brook said. ‘Not definitely.’

  ‘Just means he’s been careful,’ sneered Laird, fixing Brook in his sights. ‘You dig deep enough, something’ll turn up.’

  Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘And you didn’t?’

  ‘Like I said, we were all over McCleary for the Stanforth fire but we couldn’t pin it on him, thanks to his girlfriend.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’ Brook saw an opening. ‘Do you mean Amelia or the other one?’

  Laird eyed him suspiciously. ‘Poor Billy’s sister, aye. Talk about misguided loyalties. And you’re right, the silly bitch protected him even though Brendan had other girlfriends, some of them under age as well.’ Laird raised a gnarled yellow finger at Brook. ‘There’s your history of child abuse.’

  ‘It’s only abuse if he had sexual relations with them.’

  ‘Course he did. That’s what he was like.’

  Brook took out his notepad. ‘Can you give me some names? If his other girlfriends are still alive, I’d like to speak to them.’

  Laird looked off into the fire. ‘I don’t remember and that’s a fact.’ He took a pull on his roll-up.

  ‘Please try.’

  ‘It were near fifty year ago, lad,’ said Laird. ‘I’m an old man.’

  ‘Funny how so many witnesses say they don’t remember anything,’ said Brook, sipping at his tea. He grimaced. The milk was turning sour. ‘Then they tell you to leave them alone because they want to forget.’

  Laird’s customary grunt progressed to a tarry chuckle. ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘But here’s the thing, Walter. In all my years in the job, that’s never once applied to a detective. We can’t seem to let go, especially if it’s an unsolved murder. I know from personal experience, we can remember, and obsess over, the smallest details from decades ago.’

  Laird glared at Brook, took a futile pull on his barely visible cigarette and tossed it aggressively into the hearth. ‘I haven’t forgotten, Brook. I remember everything that’s relevant and whoever Brendan McCleary was knocking off on the side was not relevant to the inquiry. If it had been, I would’ve remembered.’

  Brook’s grin formed slowly but was all the more unsettling for the time it took. ‘And there’s the magic word.’

  ‘Magic word? Have you got a screw loose?’ inquired Laird.

  ‘We’ve already established that,’ answered Brook.

  ‘Then what are you on about?’

  ‘You’re the fourth person I’ve interviewed about Billy Stanforth’s death,’ explained Brook. ‘And every time I get to the subject of Brendan McCleary’s other girlfriends, I’ve had the same response. Not relevant.’

  ‘Because it wasn’t and it isn’t.’

  ‘Four witnesses, including you, used that exact same phrase.’

  ‘Who else you been speaking to?’ demanded Laird.

  ‘The only ones left,’ said Brook. ‘Edna Spencer, Edward Mullen. . .’

  ‘Mullen? Waste of time.’

  ‘And Amelia Stanforth.’ Brook smiled. ‘Oh, wait. You already know I spoke to Amelia, don’t you? Because I bumped into your son at her care home.’

  Laird was impressed. ‘You’re good, Brook, I’ll give you that. Yes, my Darren was there. He’s a local copper on a routine call. Some sort of prowler, he said.’

  ‘Did that involve leaving his number to be notified in the event Amelia Stanforth has visitors?’

  ‘There’s no mystery there,’ said Laird. ‘If McCleary’s in the wind, he may try and contact her, tap her up for money. The poor old girl might be confused enough to give it to him.’

  ‘She was a silly bitch five minutes ago,’ snapped Brook. ‘What makes you think she’s confused?’

  The old man hesitated, forming his answer carefully. ‘Because she was no different in sixty-three when she defended McCleary.’ Laird’s fists were clenched and his breath was harsh and rasping now. When it returned to normal he held up a hand. ‘OK, maybe I’m being too severe on the lass. Let’s say she was young and foolish back then. Easily led by career scumbags like McCleary.’

  ‘She was easily led, I can agree to that.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Laird’s breathing shortened again. It was clear to Brook that he wasn’t used to being challenged and didn’t like it.

  ‘It means someone fed her a line, Walter. And Edna Spencer. And Edward Mullen.’ Brook waited for Laird to react but instead the old man turned to gaze at the electric fire, mouth tight, trying to breathe slowly. Brook knew he’d hit his mark. ‘I don’t know many twelve- and thirteen-year-olds who use the word relevant, do you? Yet three people, who were young children at the time of the fire, answered the same question with the same phrase, almost fifty years after the fact.’

  ‘What question?’ growled Laird, staring down at the hearth.

  ‘Who was Brendan McCleary’s other girlfriend?’ Brook paused to tighten the screw. ‘Know what I think, Walter. I think not relevant is the kind of phrase a CID officer would use to keep a witness on the subject when their mind begins to wander.’

  ‘What you implying?’

  ‘I think Edna, Amelia and Mullen were all coached.’

  ‘Why would they be coached?’ mumbled the grizzled old detective.

  ‘That’s what I asked myself,’ said Brook.

  ‘And?’

  ‘When they were interviewed about the fire in nineteen sixty-three, I suspect they volunteered information about Brendan’s other girlfriend. But for reasons unknown, someone didn’t want to know and didn’t want it on the record. Someone who was investigating that fire drummed it into everyone who mentioned her name, told them so often that it wasn’t relevant that their reaction became automatic. The only question is, was it you or DCI Bannon?’

  Laird pulled his tobacco tin from the side of the chair and proceeded to roll another cigarette. When he’d finished and lit up, he exhaled towards
Brook. ‘Sam wasn’t there. Not at first. He had other things on his mind.’

  ‘Then you coached them.’

  Laird looked unswervingly back at Brook. Eventually, ‘Yes. I coached them. But only because it wasn’t relevant, Brook. They were just kids. I was trying to keep their minds clear.’

  ‘Well, you drummed it in so effectively, even now it’s their reflex answer,’ said Brook quietly. ‘Yours too.’ Silence. ‘So tell me now, Walter. Who was Brendan’s other girlfriend?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t remember,’ he growled.

  ‘You’re lying,’ replied Brook softly.

  Laird’s breathing quickened and he found Brook’s eyes again but the younger man’s gaze didn’t falter. Eventually Laird’s breathing slowed. He nodded acceptance, his features becoming friendly, reassuring. ‘Will you take it on trust, one copper to another, that whoever else Brendan was seeing had no bearing on the inquiry?’

  Brook was surprised to be asked. ‘I’ll consider it if you tell me who she was.’

  Laird shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Who are you protecting?’

  ‘I don’t want to discuss—’

  ‘Is it DCI Bannon?’

  ‘I said I can’t tell you,’ Laird snapped.

  ‘If your SIO made an error of judgement. . .’

  ‘Leave him out of it,’ snarled Laird. ‘Sam was my friend.’

  ‘He was your friend and colleague, I understand that. But DCI Bannon is long dead. Nothing you say to me today—’

  ‘I think you’d better leave now,’ said Laird, struggling to stand on the threadbare carpet.

  ‘We haven’t discussed Matilda Copeland’s murder yet.’

  ‘And we’re not going to until I speak to Clive. I can’t believe he’d let you look at her file without speaking to me first. And yet you walk in here, bold as brass, riding roughshod over people’s reputations. . .’