The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  ‘And he told you?’

  Copeland looked at the floor, shamefaced. ‘Not at first.’

  ‘But you persuaded him,’ concluded Brook, a grim smile on his face.

  Copeland glanced briefly up at Brook’s eyes to check he’d not misread the tone. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, gaze firmly back on the floor. ‘It was easier back then.’

  ‘And McCleary told you he and your sister had been having sex.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Must have been quite a shock.’

  Copeland smiled weakly. ‘You have no idea.’

  ‘For your parents too. Or did they already know about McCleary?’

  Copeland’s face was wreathed in pain. ‘Mum didn’t know that scumbag even existed, never mind the idea that Tilly was sexually active. But I think Dad must’ve known because I remember there’d been words between them a few months before she died.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘About where she’d go all day. How late she’d stay out.’

  ‘She was still seeing McCleary.’

  ‘Yes. Anyway, by the time I found out, it was academic. Dad had already passed away and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up in front of Mum. It would have killed her. I decided it was better she went to her grave. . .’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  ‘Believing her daughter had been raped and murdered rather than discover she was the willing sexual partner of a convicted killer.’

  Copeland suddenly smiled at the bitter joke forming in his mind. ‘You make it sound so sordid.’ His merriment ceased instantly. ‘May I?’ He held out his hand and Brook handed back the picture frame which Copeland placed reverently back on the table facing his chair.

  ‘So you didn’t realise until nineteen seventy-eight that Tilly must have been running up towards Kirk Langley to meet McCleary the night she disappeared.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Pity you didn’t know the year before,’ observed Brook.

  Copeland’s eyes widened in confusion. ‘How so?’

  ‘Nineteen seventy-seven was the first time you reviewed your sister’s murder, wasn’t it? As a CID officer.’

  Copeland stared. ‘Walter Laird signed off on that review.’

  ‘But you did all the investigating,’ said Brook.

  Copeland nodded. ‘Walter told you.’

  ‘Actually it’s common knowledge,’ replied Brook. ‘Laird just confirmed it.’

  A lowering of eyes before Copeland nodded. ‘Yes, nineteen seventy-seven was the first year I was able to investigate my sister’s murder. As a DS.’

  ‘And if you’d known about McCleary and your sister it would have helped your review, no?’

  Copeland smiled sadly. ‘It would. If only. . .’ He halted in mid-sentence.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If only I’d taken the dog out that night.’ Copeland’s eyes were back on the floor and Brook had the feeling he was finishing a different sentence. ‘It was my turn but Tilly said she wanted to do it. She must have had a date to meet McCleary. I never saw her again.’

  Brook pointed at the arm grabbing the dog in the photo. ‘So why was Tilly at the Stanforth house that afternoon?’

  ‘She was meeting McCleary.’

  ‘Presumably she wasn’t invited to the party,’ said Brook.

  ‘Course not,’ replied Copeland. ‘From what we knew of McCleary, from what Walter Laird found out about that night, we think McCleary arranged to meet Tilly to spite Amelia for some reason, to show her up for some imagined slight. He was, still is, a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘When I interviewed Amelia, Tilly’s death came up,’ said Brook. ‘Now I know why. She must have been livid.’

  ‘I wasn’t there,’ said Copeland.

  ‘No, but you spoke to Amelia about Tilly in nineteen seventy-eight, when you were reviewing her brother’s case.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was her attitude then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Brook waved a hand in the air. ‘I only saw Amelia a few days ago but she hadn’t forgotten about Brendan and his other girlfriend. And with your sister turning up at Billy’s party, I can understand why.’

  ‘You’re right. She was still bitter in nineteen seventy-eight,’ conceded Copeland. ‘About Tilly, yes, but more about the way McCleary had treated her, I think.’ He looked up sharply. ‘You have to believe that Tilly wouldn’t have known about Amelia and she didn’t stay when she found out. She wasn’t there when Billy Stanforth was killed. She came back home that afternoon. Otherwise, Walter would never. . .’

  ‘Would never have been able to keep her name out of it,’ finished Brook.

  ‘No.’

  ‘And that’s why her name wasn’t relevant to the inquiry, why he drummed it into all those children to forget Tilly was ever there, that they weren’t to mention her name.’

  ‘It was easy,’ said Copeland. ‘Kids did what policemen told them in those days.’

  ‘But why would Laird go to all that trouble to distort an inquiry like that?’ said Brook.

  ‘Because Walter Laird was, is, a friend of the family, long before I joined the force. He lived just a few doors away in the early sixties, knew Mum and Dad well. And he always dropped in presents at Christmas. Small things like liquorice for me and Tilly. Maybe chocolates for Mum and Dad.’

  ‘So in suppressing Tilly’s name from the investigation, Laird wasn’t protecting Sam Bannon, he was protecting your family.’

  ‘And Tilly’s good name. Don’t you see? She wasn’t involved,’ insisted Copeland. ‘Her being there wasn’t relevant. But to have her name linked with scum like McCleary. . . you’ve no idea what that could’ve done to her reputation in nineteen sixty-three.’

  ‘And at the time, you knew nothing about it,’ said Brook.

  ‘I was a child. I wasn’t told. I couldn’t have kept that quiet.’

  ‘But you say your father knew.’

  ‘Yes. I found out subsequently that Walter had told Dad, warned him so he could keep an eye on Tilly, try and keep her away from McCleary. It only made sense years later.’

  ‘I see.’ Brook shook his head in dismay. ‘So many secrets, Clive. This is what happens when you start down that road.’

  ‘I know. Walter regrets it but it didn’t seem a big deal at the time because Tilly wasn’t connected to the fire. . .’

  ‘She was connected to the statements witnesses wanted to make,’ said Brook emphatically.

  ‘He did it for Tilly’s sake, for her reputation. He went out on a limb for our family. He could have lost his job.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re in his debt.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why you told him I was investigating the Stanforth case,’ said Brook. ‘It wasn’t just professional courtesy.’

  ‘It was both.’ Brook grunted doubtfully before Copeland resumed. ‘You’ve got to understand, Brook. He was more than a friend to me, he was a hero, a great copper and I wanted to be like him, a big-time detective solving cases. He helped my career. I owe him a lot.’

  ‘So it would seem.’ Brook tapped a finger on his chin. ‘OK. Here’s what I can’t fathom. Walter Laird would have known you were reviewing your sister’s death in nineteen seventy-seven.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Copeland. ‘He signed off on it.’

  ‘Against all regulations.’

  ‘He did it out of—’

  ‘Loyalty and friendship,’ finished Brook, his voice clipped. ‘I heard you the first time. But tell me this. Why didn’t Laird tell you about your sister’s relationship with McCleary and her presence at the Stanforth party before you reviewed her case in nineteen seventy-seven? You were no longer a child, you were a colleague.’

  Copeland hung his head, his voice becoming difficult to hear. He took another cap of rum. ‘God, I wish he had. But we’re talking twelve years after she died. Walter assumed I already knew. After Tilly’s death, Dad told Walter he was going to tell me a
bout McCleary but he never did.’

  ‘I see,’ said Brook, shaking his head. ‘What a mess,’ he murmured eventually. Copeland didn’t deny it. ‘What about Sam Bannon?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘How does an experienced DCI like Bannon allow a detective constable to manipulate witnesses and an entire investigation like that?’

  ‘Because in nineteen sixty-three Bannon wasn’t around a lot of the time.’

  ‘But he was the SIO on a murder,’ insisted Brook. ‘He left the conduct of a murder inquiry to a detective constable? I don’t believe it.’ He thought of Noble. ‘A DS, maybe.’

  Copeland sighed. ‘Sam Bannon was a great copper, Brook, but by December nineteen sixty-three he was a broken man.’

  ‘Because his wife had died,’ suggested Brook.

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I’m re-investigating the case, remember?’

  Copeland smiled. ‘This is why I gave you Tilly’s file, Brook – your thoroughness. I checked your record on major cases and I don’t care what Charlton or any of the dickheads at this nick say. You’re streets ahead of them.’

  ‘That’s very gratifying,’ replied Brook.

  ‘You’re angry.’ Copeland’s expression hardened. ‘I suppose it’s understandable. Does that mean you won’t look into Tilly’s death?’

  ‘You were telling me about Bannon’s wife,’ insisted Brook.

  ‘I need to know Tilly’s in good hands, Brook.’ Copeland waited, breath held. ‘I won’t be around forever.’

  ‘Too much time has passed, Clive. I’m not a miracle worker.’

  ‘Please tell me you’ll try,’ said Copeland. ‘I’m begging you.’

  Brook exhaled, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He hated conversations in which people needed careful handling. This was the point he normally stepped away and gestured for Noble to take over. His detective sergeant always knew how to manage the emotionally challenged. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he replied, an approximation of a sympathetic smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘First things first.’

  Placated, Copeland continued. ‘Sam’s wife had died in childbirth a few months before the Stanforth fire and he hadn’t got over it. Walter told me Sam would put in appearances and try to do his job but he just wasn’t up to it. He was still grieving. Also he had a newborn baby to look after.’

  ‘The baby survived?’ said Brook.

  ‘She did,’ smiled Copeland. ‘Little Rosie was a battler. And with no mother and a broken-hearted father, she needed to be.’

  ‘Rosie,’ repeated Brook slowly. The notebook in his pocket jammed against his thigh, goading him to check a detail.

  ‘Rose Emily Bannon.’

  Brook was silent for a moment. ‘And that’s when Laird began to cover for Bannon’s absences.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Copeland. ‘Walter loved that man. He would have done anything for him. And it wasn’t hard. Walter may have been just a DC but he was a damn good detective. I saw that at first hand when I signed up. He made DS in no time – DI too.’ Copeland shook his head. ‘The sad thing is, despite Walter’s help, Bannon never really recovered and it became harder to shield him from scrutiny, especially if cases were in the public eye.’

  ‘Like Tilly’s murder two years later.’

  ‘Exactly,’ nodded Copeland. ‘By the time Tilly was killed, Bannon was becoming erratic. Fortunately Walter was a DS, he could cope. He had to. Bannon was little help.’

  ‘But Bannon’s name is on all the reports,’ argued Brook.

  ‘Because Walter protected him, made sure he kept a profile, made him sign all the paperwork to make it look right. But Bannon was taking more and more time off, sitting at home alone, dwelling on things, drinking. You, of all people, must know what happens when you take it home with you.’ Copeland glanced up at Brook. ‘With that thing you had.’

  ‘Mental breakdown,’ said Brook softly. ‘Call it what it is.’

  ‘Right,’ said Copeland. ‘You managed to recover. Sam didn’t. His mind started to go and, eventually, Brass started to notice. I never saw Bannon in his prime, only the remnants of the man. Tragic to see. The drinking took over and he began to unravel. I mean we all like a drink,’ Copeland lifted his flask. ‘Hell, sometimes we need more than one but control is everything, right? We have our loved ones to consider – wives, daughters. I only have Tilly and she’s dead but that’s still enough for me to keep a lid on it.’

  ‘But Bannon had a daughter to see to,’ reasoned Brook.

  ‘It made no difference,’ replied Copeland. ‘He couldn’t get back to what he was after his wife died. Tragic.’ Copeland stood to stretch his legs. ‘You asked me about the Pied Piper.’

  Brook was taken aback. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was a product of Bannon’s decline.’ He looked hard at Brook to ensure the clarity of his message. ‘When he began to be overlooked for big cases he started brooding about his unsolveds and even incidents he knew nothing about. By the early seventies, he was drinking a lot. I was still a raw DC but I saw it with my own eyes. He’d retired but sometimes he’d wander into the station, smelling of drink, and try to take files away with him.’

  ‘You didn’t give them to him.’

  ‘Walter did,’ admitted Copeland. ‘At first. He thought Sam might do some good, see something they’d missed.’

  ‘Like the Stanforth murder?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Copeland. ‘Sam had the file for a couple of years after he retired. I mean he’d been a DCI. . .’

  ‘Was Jeff Ward one of the files he wanted?’ asked Brook.

  ‘The file on my desk.’ Copeland nodded. ‘He wanted it but Sam had retired by the time the Ward boy was killed and Walter kept him at arm’s length. It didn’t stop him asking for it. By that time he was obsessed.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I don’t know if I should tell you this but somehow Sam managed to turn up at the crime scene the same morning the body was found, only a few minutes after Walter.’

  ‘Really? How did Bannon even know there’d been a murder if he was a civilian?’

  ‘Sam said he was monitoring police chatter on the radio,’ said Copeland. ‘He said he was expecting a kill on December the twenty-second, waiting for it, like he knew it would happen.’

  ‘Because it was the tenth anniversary of Billy Stanforth’s death,’ said Brook.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘He was right,’ said Brook.

  ‘He was insane,’ snapped Copeland.

  ‘So what happened that morning?’

  Copeland shook his head. ‘It broke Walter’s heart to see him. Sam was drunk and he looked like a tramp. And by now even Walter had had enough and he had Sam escorted away. I mean, there was snow on the ground, footprints to be preserved.’ He shook his head. ‘It made no difference. And because he’d somehow predicted Ward’s murder, Bannon’s mania got worse. He latched on to the Ward killing, looking into it on his own time. He wouldn’t stop.’

  ‘And so he came up with the theory of a serial killer murdering teenage boys on Billy Stanforth’s birthday,’ said Brook.

  ‘He even came up with the name – the Pied Piper – because of the way Stanforth and Ward had been coaxed away from their homes.’

  ‘It’s pretty tenuous,’ said Brook.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ said Copeland.

  ‘Did Bannon ever say why the Pied Piper killed these particular boys?’ asked Brook.

  ‘No,’ replied Copeland. ‘But that’s because he didn’t know, if you ask me. It was just a product of his ailing mind.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look at the Ward file?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Copeland rummaged in his desk and slid a green folder across the table.

  Brook opened the file then looked at Copeland. ‘Ten years is a long time between kills, Clive.’

  ‘Exactly what Walter told him,’ agreed Copeland. ‘Where’s the escalation, right? It’s absurd. Serials
can’t control themselves for that long. They need to chase the high of that first kill. And another thing – you’d expect the MOs to be the same with a series like that but the two kills were completely different.’

  ‘Maybe there were others before Jeff Ward,’ suggested Brook.

  ‘That’s what Bannon thought,’ said Copeland. ‘Before he retired he began to look for other suspicious deaths of teenage boys – same date, different years.’ But Christ, this is Derby not Detroit and it didn’t take Sam long to find out there were no suspicious deaths for any teenage boys on that date in any of the intervening years. Not a single teenage boy murdered on December the twenty-second.’ He shrugged. ‘But he wouldn’t see reason. It was tragic to watch.’ Copeland fixed his eye on Brook. ‘You know how Bannon died?’

  ‘A shed fire,’ said Brook.

  ‘Just like Billy Stanforth,’ said Copeland, significantly. ‘Though it was more than a shed, more like a summer house, as I remember. Bannon used it as a study, kept all his papers there, all his notes, all his ravings about the Pied Piper pinned up on the walls. Worst of all he even had a camp bed and a small stove in there. I mean, he had a daughter and a big house twenty yards away but he chose to live in that shed, even had his meals there. He was completely fixated.’

  ‘It happens,’ said Brook, quietly. ‘And if he was drinking heavily, accidents can happen.’

  Copeland grunted. ‘Is that what Walter told you?’

  ‘You’re saying it wasn’t an accident?’ snapped Brook. Copeland hesitated. ‘Clive, if you want me to look into Matilda’s death you have to be completely honest with me.’

  Copeland paused. ‘This stays between you and me, Brook.’

  Brook grimaced. ‘More secrets?’

  Copeland’s face hardened. ‘This is ancient history, Brook. Trust me. I need your word this goes no further.’

  Reluctantly Brook relented. ‘As long as no laws were broken.’

  ‘Bent maybe.’

  ‘Clive. . .’

  ‘Walter was protecting his friend.’

  Brook sighed. ‘He seems to do a lot of that.’