The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  Emboldened by his sense of grievance, his face like thunder, his fists balling, Ford made another attempt to move against Brook but Copeland and Noble wouldn’t budge.

  ‘You piece of shit,’ shouted Ford, eyes bulging with sudden fury. ‘You should’ve been drummed out of CID years ago.’

  ‘Get out,’ Charlton roared at Ford. ‘And close the door behind you.’

  All four detectives froze at the unaccustomed violence in Charlton’s voice. Then all eyes turned to Ford. A moment later, the veteran detective snorted his disdain and stomped towards the door. He turned and extended his scorn to Charlton. ‘Why we bend over backwards for this washed-up. . .’ He shook his head in disgust and slammed the door on his exit.

  Charlton looked after Ford, briefly assessing the diplomatic effort required to bring him back into the fold. He turned to Copeland. ‘Sam Bannon, Clive?’

  Copeland shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Not in a million years did I suspect. . .’

  ‘Why would a DCI abduct Tilly, a girl he doesn’t know, and kill her?’ demanded Charlton.

  ‘Why do people do anything?’ said Brook, puzzled by Charlton’s easy familiarity with the case. Tilly? ‘He wasn’t in his right mind. His wife had died and he was unbalanced by her death. My guess is he saw Matilda walking up the common to meet her boyfriend and stopped to pick her up.’

  ‘And then?’ asked Charlton.

  ‘Then?’ Brook opened his hands. ‘Maybe something happened, something triggered inside him and he lost his head. Perhaps he tried to kiss her and she resisted. Maybe she screamed or promised to tell someone and Bannon just snapped. Whatever happened, he killed Tilly then drove to Osmaston and dumped her body in the lake where he was seen by Colin Ealy.’

  Copeland stared. ‘And you have proof.’

  Brook sighed. ‘Shouldn’t we be concentrating on Scott right now?’

  ‘Your credibility in this division is zero, Brook,’ said Charlton. ‘I’m not letting you loose on another officer’s case until I know I can trust you. Now do you have proof or not?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Brook. ‘But I’ve got a good idea where to find it.’

  Darkness had fallen when Charlton speared a look of contempt towards Brook, caught in the reflected shimmer of the two arc lights trained on the lake.

  ‘Why do I listen to you, Brook? Whenever I give you a chance, I end up with egg on my face and a bloody great hole in my budget.’

  Brook decided silence was the best answer. He’d gambled and lost.

  ‘What really disgusts me is holding out hope for a missing boy just to save your career. On my desk, tomorrow,’ said Charlton, feeling no need to qualify the remark. ‘And give the whereabouts of Brendan McCleary to Noble. Now! Or you’ll be losing your liberty as well as your career.’

  Charlton squelched away from the edge of the lake towards the Osmaston Park access road and its line of awkwardly parked vehicles. Brook watched him leave, disconsolate not about his own failings but the hope of resolution he’d given Copeland. The divers had been searching for several hours now and failing light combined with plummeting temperatures would soon curtail their work in the water.

  Unable to watch, Copeland had stayed, hunched in his car, saucer-eyed as he contemplated the end of a near fifty-year search and then, when failure loomed, sat reflecting on its continuation. Brook exchanged a dejected glance with Noble, walked to Copeland’s car and got into the passenger seat.

  ‘I’m sorry, Clive,’ he said. ‘I thought. . .’

  Copeland turned to him with a thin smile. ‘Don’t be sorry. At least you’re doing something, trying something.’

  ‘I don’t think Charlton will be quite so forgiving.’

  ‘Leave Charlton to me,’ said Copeland quietly.

  Brook studied him in the gloom. ‘You have influence?’ Copeland shrugged. ‘That day when you and Charlton were arguing about letting me work a particular case, it was Matilda’s, wasn’t it?’ Copeland nodded. ‘And you insisted I be put on it.’

  Copeland turned to him. ‘I told you, Brook. Everything I read told me you were the best man for the job.’

  ‘But Charlton doesn’t think that.’

  ‘In his heart of hearts, I think he does,’ said Copeland.

  ‘He’s got a funny way of showing it.’

  ‘That’s just his way.’

  ‘Sounds like you know him well.’

  ‘All my life.’ Copeland smiled apologetically at Brook. ‘He’s my nephew on my mother’s side,’ he explained.

  ‘Your nephew?’ said Brook. ‘You mean—’

  ‘Yes,’ interjected Copeland. ‘Tilly was his aunt – would’ve been. He missed her by a year.’

  Brook looked off into the black woods, mist beginning to snake along the ground. So much now made sense.

  ‘Why here?’ said Copeland suddenly.

  ‘The lake? It’s perfect,’ said Brook, rousing himself to dredge up his failed theory. ‘Who’d look for a body in a place that had so recently been thoroughly searched?’

  ‘Especially if somebody knows to weigh the second body down.’ Copeland nodded. ‘Yes, I see that.’

  ‘It seemed to make sense when I thought of it,’ said Brook. ‘Except for one thing.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Something Walter Laird said. If Ealy saw Bannon the night Matilda’s body was dumped, there should’ve been a report that he’d seen someone but there wasn’t.’

  ‘Maybe Ealy didn’t realise he’d seen anyone until Bannon came to the lake that day,’ suggested Copeland.

  ‘Or the report got mislaid,’ countered Brook.

  ‘That’s possible. It’s been a long time.’ Copeland shook his head. ‘What I don’t understand is why Walter didn’t tell me.’

  ‘He was protecting his friend,’ said Brook. ‘And now it looks like he had good reason.’

  The two detectives were startled by an urgent hammering on the window.

  Charlton finished tying his shoes and picked up his dirty wellington boots. He’d tried to scrape off all the mud on some bracken but it was impossible in the pitch black so he made do with laying the boots on an old newspaper.

  He slammed the boot but before he could tiptoe delicately round to the driver’s door, a noise off in the darkness turned him round. It was Brook.

  ‘Don’t bother to apologise, Brook. Because of you, I’ve got a senior officer to placate—’

  ‘Sir,’ interrupted Brook. ‘They’ve found a body.’

  ‘I owe you an apology, Brook,’ said Charlton, gazing down at the skull by the light of a flashlight.

  ‘No need, sir,’ said Brook. ‘We all get overwrought when cases get personal.’

  Charlton’s head darted towards Brook then over at Copeland who seemed to be in a trance. ‘Yes we do,’ he conceded, putting a consoling arm on Copeland’s shoulder. ‘It’s over, Clive.’

  ‘Fractured skull, would you say?’ said Copeland, ignoring Charlton. He knelt to touch the large crack in the back of the skull.

  ‘Looks that way,’ said Brook. ‘Bannon must have caught Ealy off guard and hit him with something when his back was turned.’

  ‘When his back was turned,’ echoed Copeland. He looked up as though about to ask a question then seemed to think better of it. ‘Yes.’ He glanced towards his colleagues. ‘Well, it’s been a long day.’ He marched away like a robot towards the access road.

  ‘He’s in shock,’ said Brook to Charlton.

  ‘It’s been a long time,’ said Charlton. ‘Are you staying?’

  Brook shook his head. ‘I’ve still got Scott Wheeler to find and his time’s almost up.’

  ‘OK, Brook,’ said Charlton. ‘You’ve got my attention. Tell me.’

  ‘I have to do this alone.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Because it involves breaking the law,’ sighed Charlton.

  ‘Maybe a slight bend.’ Brook waited, his lips pursed. He knew he�
��d get the go-ahead – finding the missing boy would be a massive feather in Charlton’s cap.

  ‘Deniable?’ asked a weary Charlton. Brook nodded. ‘And after that?’

  ‘If I’m right, I’ll need a large search team prepared to move on my say-so. Dogs, helicopters, the lot.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. Hopefully—’

  ‘Wait, you don’t have any idea where Scott is?’ said Charlton, his expression showing pain.

  ‘None,’ replied Brook.

  Charlton closed his eyes and rubbed a gloved hand over his brow. ‘What do you need from me?’

  ‘I just need you to be ready. And Sergeant Noble.’

  With a resigned sigh, Charlton gave Brook a sideways glance. ‘Take him. It’s his case, after all.’

  Brook returned to his vehicle in the dark. Clive Copeland’s car was gone.

  ‘Clive gone home?’ he called over to Noble.

  Noble nodded. ‘He looked exhausted.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘Must be weird finding a killer you’ve been hunting for that long. Then suddenly it’s over.’

  ‘It’ll never be over,’ said Brook.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘To Clive, this isn’t a result because he can never face his sister’s killer.’ After a moment’s silence, Brook cleared his head with a long pull of oxygen. ‘Speaking of killers, John. We’ve got work to do.’

  ‘The Pied Piper?’ inquired Noble. At Brook’s slight nod, he smiled in the gloom.

  Brook hesitated. ‘I may have to get a little. . . creative with how I proceed,’ he said.

  ‘You mean you’re going to break the law.’

  ‘If you’d rather—’

  ‘Let’s go get him, sir. There’s a young lad who should be with his family.’

  Twenty-Six

  Friday, 21 December 2012 – early hours

  Edward Mullen woke to the high-pitched whine of the smoke alarm, leapt out of bed and ran along the landing. Stepping over the stairlift at the top, he bounded down the stairs and, from the bottom step, peered warily through the smoke. Adjusting his eyes to the gloom, he was surprised to see the bucket of water no longer behind the door but standing half-empty against the back wall. Further, burnt newspaper was floating in the water, doubtless the source of the flames.

  With the alarm at its loudest, Mullen moved smartly to the door, his bare feet squelching on the sodden carpet. Reaching out a hand, he opened the door to waft away the lingering smoke. After a moment, the smoke cleared and the alarm fell silent and Mullen refastened the door, leaving the key in the lock.

  Mullen’s breathing began to slow as his brain picked up the pace. In the pitch black, he spun round, his squinting eyes alighting upon a foreign object in the living room, a shadowy figure sitting motionless at the dining table.

  ‘Is that how it was with Joshua and Scott?’ said a male voice Mullen recognised.

  Mullen stared at the indistinct outline then back at the locked door. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘I broke in,’ replied the voice, without embarrassment.

  Mullen paused to process the information, saying nothing. Shivering, he padded into the room and reached for an old cardigan on the back of a chair, slipped it over his pyjamas then pulled a box of matches from the pocket to light a candle. Its meagre light trembled to reveal his uninvited guest and Mullen stared into Brook’s cold eyes. ‘I thought we had an understanding.’

  ‘I asked you about Joshua and Scott,’ said Brook. ‘If you’re having trouble with your memory, it was October the thirty-first last year, the night Joshua Stapleton was murdered.’

  Mullen was sombre. ‘I remember perfectly. It was trick or treat night – an evening of dread for respectable homeowners everywhere.’

  ‘And you had no treats to offer them,’ put in Brook. No response this time. ‘And so they pushed a burning rag through your letter box.’

  ‘They did,’ replied Mullen evenly. ‘Only back then I didn’t have a bucket of water to douse the flames or an alarm to wake me. I could have been killed.’

  ‘But you weren’t,’ replied Brook. ‘It must have helped being so nimble, especially for a man with a stick and a stairlift.’

  ‘The lift was for my mother,’ explained Mullen, finally cracking a smile. ‘I’ve always been sound of limb.’

  ‘If not of mind.’

  Mullen grinned. ‘Ouch.’

  Brook’s face was impassive, determined. ‘So you’re able to leave the house whenever you like.’

  Mullen shrugged. ‘I haven’t exaggerated my difficulties with people but I can get around as I please. Nights are best.’

  ‘And when you’d put out the fire, you went out that night,’ continued Brook. ‘In search of the perpetrators.’

  Mullen hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And decided to come out of retirement.’

  ‘Retirement?’

  ‘You were. . . are the Pied Piper,’ said Brook.

  Mullen’s smile was modesty itself. He lit another candle. ‘DCI Bannon’s name for me.’ He moved to the wood burner and threw on newspaper and a few sticks and revived the glowing ashes with another match. ‘I suppose it accurately sums up what I do.’

  ‘Then why kill again after nearly a quarter of a century?’ asked Brook. ‘Or have you never stopped?’

  ‘Oh no, I stopped.’ Mullen continued lighting candles, warming to the conversation. Brook followed his progress around the room. In the burgeoning light Brook saw the place setting in front of him then the whole table – a dozen party plates and beakers, brightly coloured napkins on top. A Sara Lee birthday cake sat in its box in the middle of the table. After another candle, he noticed the tired, old-fashioned birthday cards on the mantel and the large banner tied across the hearth. HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILLY.

  ‘I had no intention of killing again, no need,’ continued Mullen, blowing out a match and moving to sit opposite Brook. ‘Billy had more than enough company to see him through eternity.’ Mullen’s face hardened. ‘But when those two little shits imposed themselves on my life, I couldn’t help myself.’

  ‘Old habits?’ suggested Brook.

  ‘Something like that,’ chuckled Mullen.

  ‘So you followed them?’

  ‘Only to see who they were,’ explained Mullen quickly. ‘I had no thought of harvesting one of them.’

  Harvesting! ‘But all that changed the moment you saw Scott kill his friend.’

  Mullen’s eyebrow arched in surprise. ‘You know?’

  ‘I do now,’ said Brook.

  Mullen nodded. ‘Not before time.’

  ‘You seem annoyed.’

  ‘You would be too,’ said Mullen. ‘Seeing a life taken so. . . thoughtlessly. No sense to it.’

  ‘Your killing is different,’ said Brook.

  ‘Very,’ replied Mullen, raising an index finger. ‘Seeing that animal Scott behaving like that. . . it was sickening. The Stapleton boy was no angel but he didn’t deserve to die like that.’

  ‘And Scott does,’ said Brook.

  ‘Absolutely,’ retorted Mullen, indignant. ‘He’s a killer and I only harvest the guilty, Brook. I only select those with no thought for others.’

  ‘So Scott selected himself by killing his friend.’

  ‘You understand perfectly,’ smiled Mullen.

  ‘Far from it, he’s a thirteen-year-old boy,’ said Brook.

  ‘Thirteen. Thirty. What does it matter?’

  ‘Quite a lot under the law.’

  ‘The law,’ laughed Mullen. ‘After what you’ve done, you’re getting on a very high horse. No matter. Think me a monster, if you must, Brook, but when Billy needed company, I never once considered taking the innocent, only the guilty. Francesca, Jeff Ward and the others, they all had it coming.’

  ‘Because someone close to them had died.’

  ‘Died?’ exclaimed Mullen. ‘That’s a polite way of putting it. Every child I’ve taken has killed, has deliberat
ely taken another life.’

  Brook studied him. ‘You know that for a fact?’

  ‘Not for a court of law,’ replied Mullen. ‘But I know it.’

  ‘Because you see their victims in a vision,’ said Brook contemptuously.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mullen, unabashed. ‘Except for Scott. I was a live spectator to his fall from grace.’

  ‘Francesca too, I think.’

  Mullen was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You told me once that she killed Billy,’ said Brook. ‘You were there that night. You must have seen her do it.’

  ‘What do you think I am?’ said Mullen, his eyes blazing. ‘My friend died in agony. If I’d seen her lock Billy in that shed, I would have moved heaven and earth to stop her.’

  ‘Then how did you know what she’d done?’

  ‘I saw her, of course,’ said Mullen. ‘Not then. Years later.’ The pain etched on his face turned to pleasure. ‘I saw Billy again. He was with her, do you see?’

  ‘No, I don’t see,’ snapped Brook. ‘Any more than you do.’

  ‘I sometimes wish you were right.’ Mullen hauled himself to his feet and moved to the cabinet, extracted the near-empty bottle of port and poured himself a small glass. ‘When my family moved to Derby after Billy died I didn’t see anyone from Kirk Langley for years. I tried to forget what happened to my friend. Then, when I was sixteen, I had an accident. I fell from a tree branch and hit my head and my life changed forever. That’s when I began seeing things.’

  ‘Ghosts,’ mocked Brook.

  ‘Not ghosts,’ protested Mullen. ‘Imprints of people’s lives that have been snuffed out by lethal violence.’

  ‘The unquiet grave?’

  ‘Exactly, Brook. The victims of violence attach themselves to their killer forever and I could see them. It was driving me insane until I realised what I was looking at. Stepfathers with their abused and murdered children, old people with a spouse they’d suffocated with a pillow, young men walking next to the drunk they’d stabbed. I nearly went mad.

  ‘But one marvellous day I met Francesca again and I saw Billy. She was outside a pub in town, drunk at eleven thirty in the morning. Billy was with her. At first I thought I was dreaming. The friend I’d lost was there before my eyes.’ Mullen laughed without humour. ‘I even shouted across to him. He didn’t respond, of course, and Francesca was too drunk to understand. But I wasn’t. And I realised what I was seeing.’