by Steven Dunne
‘Did Clive tell you what we spoke about?’ asked Brook.
Laird nodded.
‘Everything?’
‘Everything,’ confirmed Laird. ‘And you were right. I lied but I did it for a friend and I won’t apologise for that.’
‘Which friend are we talking about?’ asked Brook. ‘Sam Bannon or Clive Copeland’s father?’
‘Both,’ snapped Laird. ‘It’s called loyalty.’
‘Some might call it deceit.’
‘And some would call it an honest mistake,’ retorted Laird, trying not to lose his good mood.
‘We all make mistakes, Walter, but some of us learn from them.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘You suppressed evidence in the Stanforth inquiry.’
‘I told you before, Tilly being at the Stanforth house that day was not relevant.’
‘Maybe not,’ said Brook. ‘But that act of suppression became very relevant when Tilly died two years later. Potential suspects had to be ignored because of what you did.’
‘They weren’t ignored,’ protested Laird. ‘Didn’t Clive tell you?’
‘They were ignored officially.’
‘I interviewed McCleary and Amelia Stanforth in nineteen sixty-five. . .’
‘But you couldn’t put it on the record because you’d painted yourself into a corner two years earlier.’
Laird hung his head. ‘I can’t deny that,’ he said. ‘But I did my job and all the right people were spoken to.’
‘Trevor Taylor?’
‘Especially Trevor Taylor,’ snarled Laird, sucking on his cigarette. ‘He killed Matilda, I’m sure of it. He gave me the shivers every time I saw him. Fucking pervert.’
‘And is that what you told Clive when he joined the force?’
‘Clive didn’t need telling,’ said Laird. ‘Everyone who lived on the Mackworth Estate knew he was a wrong ’un.’
‘But you couldn’t prove it.’
‘No. But he was the last to see Tilly alive, running up towards the heath.’
‘Towards Kirk Langley.’
‘Yes,’ answered Laird quietly. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another immediately, his hand shaky.
‘Towards a rendezvous with Brendan McCleary.’
‘So it seems,’ said Laird.
‘But she never made it.’
‘No.’ Laird shook his head. ‘Poor kid. Taylor probably followed her and had his way with her. . .’
‘And borrowed his mother’s car to move her body,’ said Brook.
‘We could never prove that.’
‘We’ll come back to that,’ said Brook. ‘Clive said you saw Taylor a couple of days before Matilda disappeared.’ Laird’s brow furrowed. ‘You were moving house.’
‘That’s right,’ said Laird, pointing a finger, his face brightening. ‘I’d cleared up all the odds and sods from the house and I left the spare keys with George, Clive’s dad. Asked him to keep an eye on the place until the new owners moved in.’ He shook his head. ‘It was getting late and Tilly had just taken the dog out. When I drove past, I looked back in the mirror and Taylor was right behind her, drooling all over her like the dirty old bastard he was. Made me sick to my stomach when I thought about it later.’
‘Presumably you went after him hard when Matilda’s body was found.’
A ghost of a smile crossed Laird’s face. ‘I’ll say. And I dare say we might have cracked him if that gamekeeper hadn’t done a runner. We wasted a lot of time and resources trying to connect Colin Ealy to Tilly.’
‘So you don’t think Ealy killed Matilda.’
Laird took a long pull on his new cigarette. ‘I couldn’t say for sure. But it seems a bit of a stretch putting Ealy so far from his place of work on a Tuesday night at the exact time Tilly Copeland walked past. And what little I saw of him, he didn’t seem the type. Not like Taylor.’
‘Or Brendan McCleary,’ added Brook.
Laird shot him a sidelong glance. ‘No.’
‘You and Sam made a big thing about transport in your paperwork. Presumably you cleared McCleary and Amelia Stanforth on those grounds. Unofficially.’
‘Right,’ said Laird through pursed lips.
‘But then Taylor didn’t have a car either, did he?’ said Brook. ‘For a body dump in Osmaston he’d need a vehicle.’
‘His mother had one.’
‘But you couldn’t prove Taylor borrowed it the night Matilda disappeared,’ stated Brook.
Laird’s features darkened. He knew what was coming. ‘Not according to the mother. I interviewed her.’
Brook nodded. ‘That’s what Clive said. Only I can’t find a report of that conversation either.’
‘It were near fifty years ago, lad,’ said Laird, finally losing patience. ‘Papers get lost, destroyed. The old battleaxe said the car hadn’t been out of the garage and we couldn’t find a neighbour to say different, you’ll have to take my word.’
Brook nodded. ‘But by this time the focus had switched to Colin Ealy.’
‘The minute he disappeared we thought we’d cracked it,’ said Laird. ‘He had transport and he knew the dump site. So we went over the van for a week and put out a nationwide alert. We tested everything he ever owned – and retested when DNA rode over the horizon. We got nothing, Brook. No connection to Tilly. No fibres, no prints, no DNA.’
‘But he remained a suspect.’
‘Oh, aye,’ conceded Laird. ‘But only because he’d dropped out of sight. If he came back tomorrow we’d still have had a job to convict without a confession.’
‘Why do you think Ealy disappeared if there was no evidence against him?’
‘I’ve tried to figure it out for nearly half a century, lad.’ The old man shook his head. ‘I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Was it because he got scared when he recognised DCI Bannon at the lake?’
Laird’s eyes widened. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Never mind. I can guess,’ snarled Laird. ‘You’ve spoken to Graham Bell, haven’t you? Jesus, Brook. Bell never made it past DS because he was useless and Sam Bannon said so when he came up for promotion. That’s why Belly always had it in for Sam. Always had something to say when Sam was on the sick.’ He took a long draw on his cigarette. ‘What did he tell you?’
Brook, pleased to be able to keep Rosie out of it, decided against contradiction. ‘That Ealy saw Bannon arrive at the lake and became edgy because he’d recognised him.’
‘That’s because Sam was always in the papers,’ replied an exasperated Laird. ‘Look, Ealy didn’t see anybody the night Matilda’s body was dumped or he would have mentioned it before then, whether he knew who it was or not. Jesus! I can’t believe you rang Australia to talk to that shithead.’
Brook shrugged. ‘So Bell’s lying.’
The old man hesitated. ‘He’s exaggerating.’
‘Then there was a reaction to Bannon.’
Laird was quiet until, ‘Yes. But you can’t mention this to Clive. He’ll get the wrong idea. And that’s not why Ealy did a runner.’
‘Why then?’
‘For God’s sake, Brook. Why not? He was a seventeen-year-old kid, good-looking. He probably wanted to see the world.’
Brook smiled. ‘So he headed for the wilds of Scotland.’
‘You know about that?’
‘It’s in the file.’
Laird laughed. ‘Clive’s left nothing out. You’ve got to hand it to him.’ He looked into his mind’s eye. ‘Crianlarich. I went there. Nice place, if you like it remote. There’d been a phone call, a report that Ealy had been seen but by the time I got there the bird had flown.’ He shook his head. ‘Clive took a couple of holidays there as well, looking for Ealy, and we’re talking fifteen years after the sighting. Poor sod. He thought about little else but Tilly before and after he joined CID.’
Brook drank his tea without taking his eyes from Laird. ‘Did you find out how Ealy got away?’
‘He disappeared.’
‘And left his van behind,’ said Brook. ‘Didn’t that strike you as odd? I mean he must have got to Scotland somehow.’
‘Maybe he took the train. . .’
‘But how did he get to the station? Was he noticed buying a ticket? How many people saw him on his journey? How many remembered him arriving somewhere so remote, a young Englishman in the wilds of Scotland?’
Laird stared hard at Brook. ‘I don’t know. We never found a witness. Maybe someone gave him a lift.’
‘John Briggs?’
‘He said not.’
Brook didn’t come back with more questions and the two men considered each other across the waves of blue-grey poison drifting on the air between them.
Investigating the investigation. Tough beat.
‘Is that it?’ inquired Laird, almost cheerful now. He’d answered all Brook’s questions and was six hundred fags up on the deal.
‘The night Sam Bannon died, he called you.’
Laird closed his eyes. ‘I don’t want to talk about Sam. It’s too painful.’
‘Then I’ll be brief,’ insisted Brook. ‘He called you.’
Laird sighed. ‘He did. I wish I’d. . .’ He shook his head, unable to go on.
‘You wish you’d done something differently,’ suggested Brook. Laird nodded. ‘But he was out of his head.’
‘Raving. I tried to calm him,’ said Laird.
‘What was he raving about? The Pied Piper?’
Laird looked at Brook, his eyes narrowing. ‘You’ve been talking to that junkie, Rosie Bannon, I can tell.’ No answer from Brook. ‘That bitch! I should never. . .’
Brook raised an eyebrow when Laird halted. ‘You should never have perverted the course of another inquiry to help her out. I agree. Funnily enough she said the same. She didn’t want the insurance money.’
‘It’s easy to say that when you’ve got plenty.’ Laird’s lip curled. ‘Besides, the money didn’t matter to me either. I was helping my friend save his reputation.’
‘Decent of you.’ Brook paused for effect. ‘So tell me what you thought about Sam’s Pied Piper theory.’ To his surprise Laird threw back his head and laughed.
‘Not you an’ all. I thought you had brains, Brook. That fantasy was dreamt up by a sick man and kept alive by a drug addict with too much time and money on her hands. I should have let her make her own way.’
‘Is that why you had her warned off?’
‘She was wasting police time and dragging her father’s reputation into the mud,’ growled Laird. ‘There is no Pied Piper. We had two boys murdered on the same day ten years apart. That’s not a serial, it’s a coincidence.’
‘And Harry Pritchett?’
‘Who?’
‘The boy who went missing in nineteen seventy-eight, the week before Sam died.’
‘Is he dead too?’ crowed Laird. ‘Where’s the body then?’
‘Hidden,’ said Brook hesitantly. ‘Maybe.’
‘That’s bloody convenient,’ sneered Laird.
‘Did Sam tell you Pritchett was the next kill?’
‘There was no kill because there wasn’t a body,’ insisted Laird. He panted, getting his breath back. ‘Look, the Pritchett lad was missing. Still is. So Sam signed him up to his fantasy.’
‘There were others. Davie Whatmore in nineteen eighty-three. Callum Clarke in eighty-eight. And now Scott Wheeler. They all disappeared on or just before Billy Stanforth’s birthday.’
Laird laughed again. ‘Scott Wheeler? What’s this now? The twenty-odd-year itch. Listen to yourself, Brook. Scott Wheeler’s dead. Brendan McCleary took him, raped him, killed him and buried him somewhere. When you find that scumbag, you’ll find Scott Wheeler.’
‘Sam Bannon knew who the Pied Piper was, didn’t he?’
‘Give it a rest, Brook. It’s time you went.’
‘He worked it out.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘He worked it out and he knew he was in danger,’ said Brook. ‘He knew someone was watching the house.’
‘Sam was paranoid, I’ll give you that,’ said Laird. ‘The poor man had lost the plot.’
‘He told you he was being watched?’
‘Yes, he told me,’ retorted Laird. ‘Said the Piper was after him and Rosie. He wanted me to look after her if anything happened.’
‘Something did happen,’ said Brook. ‘Bannon died.’
‘Think I don’t know?’ shouted Laird. ‘My best friend finally flipped out and killed himself, leaving his daughter to fend for herself. But still I helped him out, and her, because he was my friend.’
Brook was silent for a few moments before making his concession. ‘OK, let’s say I accept that Bannon was unbalanced.’
‘That’s putting it mildly.’
‘Just the same, he must have told you about the Pied Piper.’
‘Told me what?’
‘Told you who he was.’
‘He was unbalanced, you said yourself.’
‘That doesn’t mean he couldn’t give you a name, no matter how insane you thought he was.’
‘There is no Pied Piper,’ Laird croaked. ‘He told me nothing. And if he had, I wouldn’t have listened. I’d had enough and put the phone down on him.’ He ran a shaky, liver-spotted hand through his thinning white hair. A tear followed the irregular contours of Laird’s cheek as it rolled unevenly down his face. ‘Are you happy now? I let him down. I wasn’t there for him when he needed me. Now I’ve answered more than my share of questions and I think you should leave.’ He jammed a thumb and finger up to his eyes, panting with emotion.
Brook sat motionless for a moment but then stood. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
Laird looked up to plead with Brook. ‘Don’t come back until you’ve found Brendan McCleary and put him back behind bars.’
It was already dark when Brook parked in the overflow car park of St Agatha’s and hurried through the light rain to reception. Sharmayne, the girl on duty from his last visit, was at the desk but instead of a look of polite inquiry, her face betrayed alarm and relief.
‘Inspector Brook. Thank God. You got the messages then?’
‘Messages?’
‘We’ve been ringing you all morning but your phone was off. Amelia Stanforth’s gone.’
Brook hung his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘No, I don’t mean dead, I mean she’s disappeared.’
‘What? When?’
‘We’re not sure. When the nurse went to wake her this morning her room was empty. The staff are searching the grounds but there’s no sign yet.’
‘Maybe she made a bolt for the village?’ suggested Brook. ‘You said that happens sometimes.’
‘Not during the night,’ replied Sharmayne. ‘And there’s something else. One of our residents reported a prowler a while back and she says she saw him again last night.’
‘If there was a break-in you should’ve called nine nine nine.’
‘There wasn’t a break-in,’ said Sharmayne. ‘The French window in Amelia’s room was unlocked from the inside as though she let someone in. Also some of her clothes and a bag are gone. There’s another thing.’ Sharmayne cast around the surface of her desk, picking up an opened envelope and handing it to Brook. ‘We found this on her bedside table.’
Brook pulled out the paper. It was a confirmation slip for a coach ticket from Derby to London at six o’clock that morning. ‘Arriving in London at nine twenty,’ he read out.
‘If that’s where she’s gone, she’ll already be there,’ said Sharmayne. ‘What should we do?’
‘You didn’t call the police?’
‘She’s not a prisoner,’ said Sharmayne. ‘She’s a free agent. They all are.’
Brook closed his eyes to think while Sharmayne prattled on.
‘She’s here by choice and if she wants to leave—’
‘Is she on medication?’ interrupted Brook.
‘Of course. She ha
s a bad heart and takes tablets for blood pressure. They’re gone too.’
‘OK. Finish searching the grounds,’ said Brook. ‘But if there was a prowler, you can’t be sure she left voluntarily so if you don’t find her, report her missing.’
Back in his car, Brook sat and thought it through. First Edna, now Amelia . . . Instead of finishing the list, he turned the ignition.
‘Mr Mullen,’ shouted Brook, pounding on the front door, the smell of dog excrement assaulting his nostrils. He heard the stairlift apparatus clunking into life and stopped knocking. It seemed to take an age to descend so Brook stepped along the crumbling path to his right to gaze at the rear of the house for something to do. In the dark, he spied a decaying old shed barely standing in the far corner of the back garden, almost engulfed in the branches of an overgrown tree. There was a rusted padlock on the door. The path to the shed was nearly undetectable under the assault of uncontrolled mosses, grass and weeds. Brook could only imagine what the rest of the garden was like. For the first time he understood the logic of Walter Laird’s maintenance-free yard.
The whine of machinery ceased and Brook returned to face Edward Mullen at the front door. The old man stared back sullenly.
‘Inspector.’
‘Mr Mullen. Sorry to disturb you again. I thought you ought to know, Edna Spencer was found dead yesterday.’
‘Dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
Mullen shook his head. ‘Poor Edna. I should say I’m sorry but she was in a lot of pain. And after her husband passed—’
‘She was murdered,’ announced Brook.
Mullen’s bony hand shot to his mouth. ‘What? Are you sure?’
‘There’s no doubt.’
Mullen blew out his cheeks. ‘This is a shock.’ He stared at the ground, regaining his breath. He made to close the door. ‘Thank you for telling me, Inspector.’
‘That’s not the main reason I’m here,’ said Brook.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Mullen.
‘I need to ask a quick question.’
Mullen blinked and nodded. ‘Very well.’
‘You remember DCI Bannon? He was the senior investigating—’
‘I remember him,’ inserted Mullen. He smiled suddenly. ‘Was that the question?’