The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

‘I told you. He was a neighbour and a friend. He moved out the weekend before Tilly disappeared.’

  ‘So there was an empty house on your road?’ said Brook, surprised. ‘That wasn’t in the file.’

  ‘Because it wasn’t relevant, Brook.’

  Brook slowly lifted his eyes to Copeland. ‘Not relevant?’

  ‘I mean it was looked into. Dad had Walter’s house keys in case of emergency, a burst pipe or something. When the new owners moved in, he was to hand them over. So when Tilly went missing, the empty house was checked. There were no signs of a break-in, nothing out of place. No one had lured Tilly there. Besides, she was seen running towards Kirk Langley, remember.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Brook. ‘What time did your father ring the police?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Copeland. ‘About ten thirty, I think. After he’d been round the estate looking for her. The police arrived fifteen minutes later.’

  ‘And CID?’

  ‘They called Walter around midnight but only because my dad insisted,’ said Copeland. ‘The uniforms wanted to wait and see until the morning. Walter came round straight away.’

  ‘But not Bannon,’ said Brook.

  ‘I only saw the uniformed officers and Walter. Later, when I was older, I asked. Walter would only tell me Bannon was indisposed when the call came through.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Copeland opened his hands to offer a choice. ‘Drunk? Depressed? Take your pick.’

  ‘So Walter ran the investigation on his own.’

  ‘Most of the time,’ nodded Copeland. ‘He was used to it by then. And he was a top DS.’

  ‘You were telling me about two days before her disappearance,’ prompted Brook.

  ‘Yes, so when Walter dropped off the keys with my dad, Tilly was just taking out the dog. It was the Sunday before, about eight thirty.’ Copeland hesitated. When he continued, his voice had dropped down the register. ‘When Walter drove away, he passed Tilly and looked back at her in the rear-view mirror and Trevor Taylor was walking behind her on the way to the pub, looking at her.’

  ‘Looking at her?’

  ‘Looking at her in a way that lonely single men look at beautiful young girls. Walter said it sent a shiver down his spine.’

  Brook nodded slowly. ‘You’re right. That’s not evidence.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ said Copeland. ‘But Taylor was a loner, an oddball. He was a prime suspect with good reason.’

  ‘So Taylor killed Matilda and twelve years later, overcome by guilt, committed suicide by jumping off a railway bridge. Is that the theory?’ Brook stared at the glass-panelled roof of the conservatory as though reading the words from it. ‘That’s quite a gestation period for guilt.’

  ‘Thirteen years,’ corrected Copeland. ‘Taylor died in nineteen seventy-eight and the coroner concluded it could have been accidental. He’d been drinking.’

  ‘So he had,’ agreed Brook. ‘So when exactly did he die?’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘Humour me.’

  Copeland’s brow furrowed. ‘January, February, I think. I remember when we scraped him up off the track, the ground was frozen solid. I can check.’

  ‘No, that’s near enough,’ said Brook. ‘So it was a few months before you reviewed the Stanforth murder.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And found out about Tilly and McCleary.’

  ‘Yes.’ Copeland shook his head. ‘Taylor’s poor mother. There wasn’t much of her son to identify.’

  ‘You spoke to her.’

  ‘Someone had to.’

  ‘That was good of you,’ said Brook. ‘I would have delegated. And how did Taylor seem to you when you spoke to him the previous year?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I’m presuming you re-interviewed him as part of your review.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well. Did he seem suicidal to you?’

  ‘Honestly, no,’ said Copeland. ‘He stuck to his story, his account, word for word. But I went at him hard and—’

  ‘Raking it all up again may have triggered something in him,’ finished Brook. ‘Yes. I can see how it would.’ He lapsed into silence.

  Copeland brandished his cup. ‘More tea?’

  ‘No thanks.’ After deliberation Brook announced, ‘I spoke to Rosie Bannon.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘I expect you to be thorough but she should come with a health warning, Brook. She’s a drug addict and she has her father’s delusional genes. You should give her a wide berth.’

  ‘She didn’t seem delusional, Clive. Obsessed maybe.’

  ‘Like her father then.’

  ‘People in glass houses. . .’

  Copeland raised a hand. ‘Fair comment. But really, Brook, this Pied Piper fantasy. . .’

  ‘She doesn’t think it is.’

  ‘Two young boys murdered on the same day ten years apart,’ sneered Copeland. ‘That’s hardly a compelling pattern.’

  ‘What about Billy’s sister, Francesca?’

  ‘Her death was squared away as an accident, Brook. Which just leaves two unsolved murders ten years apart – Billy Stanforth and Jeff Ward.’

  ‘If that’s where it ended,’ said Brook. ‘Rosie seems to think the Pied Piper is still active.’

  Copeland pursed his lips. ‘Like I said, delusional.’

  ‘After Jeff Ward, she says her father got close to catching him. From nineteen seventy-eight, she thinks the Pied Piper started abducting the boys instead, killing them in secret to stay under the radar.’

  ‘Harry Pritchett again.’ Said Copeland.

  ‘There were other plausible disappearances after Pritchett.’

  ‘Don’t get dragged into her fantasies, Brook,’ said Copeland. ‘Look what happened to Sam.’

  ‘Look what happened to Scott Wheeler,’ replied Brook.

  Copeland shook his head. ‘Harry and Scott are not dead until their bodies show up. Just because they’re missing doesn’t mean they’ve been killed and it certainly doesn’t mean there’s a series. Teenagers go missing all the time, Brook. And if you’re looking for suspects. . .’ Copeland looked sharply up at Brook, then away. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘No, tell me,’ said Brook.

  Copeland took a huge breath. ‘I shouldn’t say this, and Walter would have my guts if he heard me, but when Sam Bannon turned up at the Jeff Ward crime scene, just after Walter had arrived, I was suspicious. I even suggested to Walter that maybe Bannon was schizo. That a part of his personality had murdered Jeff Ward and, out of guilt, the other half was trying to catch his killer. Like two different halves of the same twisted psyche. I don’t suppose you considered that, did you?’

  ‘Actually I did,’ said Brook. ‘I still am.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ sniffed Copeland. ‘And, of course, if Bannon was a killer, it would also explain his method of suicide.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Copeland. ‘He died like Billy Stanforth, burned to death in a shed – a parting shot to convince Walter and me the Pied Piper was real.’

  ‘What did Walter say to that?’

  Copeland smiled. ‘I prefer not to repeat the language he used. Let’s just say he wouldn’t accept it.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Look, I don’t believe Sam Bannon was a child killer, not for a second,’ said Copeland. ‘But patterns can be found if you’re looking for them, Brook, especially if you’re mentally unstable.’

  ‘I know.’ Brook wondered what Copeland would say if he knew about Colin Ealy recognising Bannon at Osmaston Park Lake. He decided that was a conversation for another time. He clambered wearily to his feet. ‘OK. If there’s nothing else you can tell me. . .’

  ‘If I think of anything I only have to walk across the corridor,’ smiled Copeland. ‘You’re always there. I’ve noticed and I made sure Charlton knows it too.’

  Brook inclined his
head to approximate thanks.

  Copeland stood and grabbed Brook’s hand. ‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Brook.’

  Brook tried to smile in return. ‘I haven’t done anything yet.’

  As Brook clambered wearily into his car, a clear blue dawn was breaking in the east. As he sank into the driver’s seat, his phone vibrated. Brook checked the display and braced himself.

  ‘You’re up early, John.’

  Even across the ether, Brook could sense Noble’s annoyance. ‘Have you any idea of the earache I’ve just had from DI Ford?’

  ‘What about?’ asked Brook innocently.

  Noble wasn’t playing. ‘He’s seething.’

  ‘Is this about Edna Spencer?’

  ‘Yes, this is about Edna Spencer. Ford is fuming and he’s every right to be.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be too hard on himself, John,’ said Brook. ‘It wasn’t obvious to the untrained eye.’

  ‘That’s not funny. And I doubt Charlton will be laughing either when Ford sees him.’

  ‘Knowing Charlton, I’ve got until lunchtime then,’ said Brook.

  ‘It’s still not funny.’

  ‘No, you’re right,’ said Brook. ‘A boy’s life is at stake. . .’

  ‘What’s Scott Wheeler got to do with it? I’m talking about Edna Spencer and you calling out a full SOCO team.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then what do you mean about Scott?’

  Brook sighed, uncertain he should raise expectations. ‘What if I told you there’s a slim chance he could still be alive, John?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Something cropped up in my cold case work. There might be a connection.’

  ‘Is this something to do with that Pied Piper tip we logged?’

  ‘That’s right – a serial killer who doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Then why think there is one?’ demanded Noble.

  ‘Because a dead copper spotted a pattern of young boys dying, enticed into danger somehow and killed.’

  ‘But how could a serial killer go undetected?’

  ‘Because he stopped leaving us the bodies, John,’ explained Brook. ‘That dead copper got close before he died. And now the Pied Piper takes the boys and they’re never seen again.’ It sounded absurd when he said it. ‘Or that’s the theory.’

  ‘So instead of a murder we have a missing teenager who could have run away from home. . .’

  ‘And he draws a fraction of the attention.’

  There was silence while Noble thought it through. ‘It has a certain logic. But if there’s a chance, we should take it to Charlton.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Brook. ‘It’s a huge long shot and the Chief won’t buy it.’

  ‘He won’t if you don’t tell him,’ replied Noble.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Noble. ‘You can’t just leave me dangling like this.’

  ‘I have to,’ said Brook. ‘If I come in, I’m going to be explaining myself to Ford and Charlton, and if Charlton doesn’t bite I could end up suspended again. Or worse.’

  ‘That bothers you now?’

  ‘Only because it would render me impotent,’ said Brook. ‘And if this killer exists, the Wheeler boy’s got less than three days to live.’

  ‘Three days?’

  ‘I haven’t got time to explain, John.’

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘John, you’ve been passed over for promotion because of me. Don’t compromise yourself further. I’m turning off my phone. That should keep Ford and Charlton off my back for a while. . .’

  ‘You’ve got to give me something,’ pleaded Noble.

  Brook paused. ‘Edna Spencer knew something and she died because of it. The killer was too careful. You won’t find anything at the scene. But dig deep into the old girl’s background. There’s something in there that got her killed.’

  Brook rang off and turned the ignition. He was sorely tempted to risk driving back to the cottage and sink into a coma for the rest of the day. But he remembered the keys to Rosie Shah’s shed and made the shorter journey back into town. He let himself into Sam Bannon’s replica shed and climbed on to the small camp bed in a state of near collapse.

  Twenty-Four

  Brook was woken by the sound of crockery in the main room of the shed.

  ‘Brunch,’ called out Rosie. ‘Get it while it’s hot.’

  Brook opened his eyes, swung his legs off the bed and hobbled into the main room, shoes in hand, yawning all the way to the desk. The smell of cooked bacon made Brook almost hallucinate with hunger. ‘This looks good. What time is it?’

  ‘It’s one in the afternoon,’ she said.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Ollie tells me you left in the middle of the night.’

  ‘He’s very observant,’ said Brook diplomatically.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The policeman’s lot,’ he said, taking a large bite from the bacon sandwich, followed quickly by another.

  ‘Did you sleep?’

  ‘Like the dead,’ answered Brook, with mouth full.

  ‘Had a chance to mull over what we discussed?’ she inquired, nodding towards the Pied Piper wall.

  ‘Not yet,’ replied Brook, without looking up. ‘But I will.’

  Rosie narrowed her eyes at him. ‘There’s a problem, isn’t there?’

  Brook looked at her. ‘Can we do this later? I’m barely awake.’

  ‘Tell me now,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m a grown-up.’

  Brook sighed and replaced the half-eaten sandwich on the plate. ‘The problem is, if the Pied Piper exists then we have two confirmed kills and two dead bodies, exactly ten years apart.’

  ‘Stanforth and Ward,’ agreed Rosie warily.

  ‘Maybe you can say three kills if, like your father, you put Francesca Stanforth into the mix.’ Brook spoke slowly.

  ‘OK,’ said Rosie.

  ‘But in nineteen seventy-eight, five years after Jeff Ward’s murder, the Pied Piper changes his MO and abducts Harry Pritchett in the lead-up to December the twenty-second because he doesn’t want to leave a body and draw attention to the sequence.’

  ‘Still no argument here,’ she said. Her arms were crossed. Not a good sign.

  Brook paused, hoping she’d work it out before he had to voice it. ‘The problem is your father flagged up this change of MO the week before the twenty-second and died two days before the anniversary passed.’ He stared at her to gauge her reaction. ‘So how did he know the MO was about to change before it actually did?’

  Rosie was silent for a minute then shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’ She became defensive suddenly. ‘You’re not still suggesting Dad had something to do with these murders, are you?’

  ‘And try to get former colleagues involved in the case? That doesn’t make sense unless. . .’ He left the sentence for her to finish.

  ‘Unless he was insane,’ she said, her face tight. ‘Brook, for the last time, Dad was not crazy.’

  Brook splayed his hands. We’re just talking. ‘OK, if we accept that your father was sane – troubled, obsessed but sane. . .’

  ‘I’ll settle for that.’

  ‘There is a way round it, a reason he could have expected a change in the MO before it happened.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  He sighed. ‘Not only did your father know who the Pied Piper was, the Pied Piper knew he knew and realised he had to alter his method. When Harry Pritchett disappeared, your father realised what was happening.’

  Rosie was speechless for a second then shook her head. ‘But if Dad knew his identity, why didn’t he tell someone?’

  ‘Maybe he couldn’t prove it,’ offered Brook.

  ‘What does that matter? He would still tell someone in case anything happened to him,’ pleaded Rosie. Brook smiled quietly, waiting for her to catch up. When she di
d, the violence of her emotion took him aback. ‘Jesus. He did tell someone. That’s what got him killed.’

  Later that afternoon, Brook parked the BMW in the former pub car park in Rawson Green and retrieved the tightly packed carrier bag from the boot.

  Braced for a cool reception, Brook knocked on the plastic door two minutes later, hoping he wouldn’t have to talk his way past Laird junior. A moment passed before the door opened as far as the chain allowed. Walter Laird’s beady eye gazed balefully back at him.

  ‘Brook.’

  ‘Walter,’ said Brook cheerfully. ‘How are you?’

  Laird tapped his chest and cleared his throat. ‘I’m not feeling so good this afternoon.’

  ‘Did Clive ring you?’ said Brook, still grinning as hard as he could manage.

  ‘Aye, but I’m not up to it, lad. We’ll have to do this another time.’ The door began to close.

  ‘So you’ll not be wanting these then?’ Brook drew one of the cigarette cartons from the carrier and waggled it in front of Laird. ‘Peace offering.’

  The old man’s eyes lit up and he looked greedily at the carton and the other four hundred cigarettes in the bag. He held a hand through the chained door for the box of delights. ‘Very nice of you.’

  Brook pulled the carton out of range, his smile rebuking Laird for misunderstanding the terms and conditions. With a resigned sigh, Laird drew back the chain and snatched at the first ingot of death, scuttling back inside to the warmth, clawing at the cellophane as he moved. Brook followed and sat down at the table as Laird lit up with a moan of pleasure then fell back into his armchair, face wreathed in ecstasy. ‘Can’t afford to buy these beauties usually. Thanks, Brook.’ He looked furtively across at Brook, who was still clutching the bag but relaxed when the younger man leaned over and dropped the rest of the bounty in his lap.

  ‘Any danger of a cup of tea?’ asked Brook, deprived of his usual flask and suffering withdrawal.

  ‘Just made a fresh pot,’ replied Laird with a nod to the tiny kitchen. Brook poured the tea and returned with two chipped mugs.

  For the first time, Laird considered Brook with a kindly face as he took a mug of tea from him. ‘I’ve misjudged you, lad. Showing respect – it’s appreciated.’ His smile died slightly when Brook fished out his notebook. ‘And now you want to ask me about poor Tilly.’ His head lowered. ‘Aye. Terrible business.’ He took a long draw and exhaled towards the hearth.