The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  ‘It may yet come out but if we’re not contesting the plea, their barrister may not need to bring it up.’

  ‘I still don’t like it,’ said Charlton.

  ‘Justice is blind, sir.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Brook tried to pick his words with care. ‘Your uncle and Walter Laird were very tight in the seventies and eighties.’

  ‘And?’

  Brook sighed. ‘I got to know Clive over the last two weeks. He had his secrets and they caused him pain. More than his sister’s death could account for.’

  ‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’ said Charlton, ready to take offence.

  ‘“He couldn’t even drive”,’ said Brook.

  ‘What? Who couldn’t drive?’

  Brook reached into a pocket and pulled out a dog-eared sheet. He unfolded it and dropped it on Charlton’s desk. ‘Trevor Taylor couldn’t drive.’

  ‘Clive’s neighbour?’ said Charlton. Puzzled, he read the report. ‘This is an interview with Taylor’s mother.’ Brook nodded. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Hidden in Walter Laird’s papers,’ answered Brook. ‘Trevor Taylor couldn’t possibly have abducted Matilda and driven her to Osmaston Park Lake. He didn’t know how. But by removing this from Matilda’s file, Walter kept Taylor in Clive’s sights. Then, in nineteen seventy-seven, Walter wound Clive up like a clockwork toy and let him loose on Matilda’s case. He withheld that document and filled Clive’s head with tales about Trevor Taylor’s deviancy and how he escaped justice.’

  ‘Do I want to hear any more?’ said Charlton, tight-lipped.

  ‘There is no more,’ said Brook. ‘Trevor Taylor fell to his death from a bridge that winter and Clive finally got to speak to Taylor’s mother.’

  ‘And she told him what was in this document,’ mumbled Charlton, shaking his head. ‘Why did Laird do it?’

  ‘To have something on Clive, sidetrack him, make him spend time covering his own tracks instead of looking for Matilda’s killer. Take your pick.’

  ‘An insurance policy.’ Charlton nodded. ‘Poor Clive.’ He picked up the dog-eared document. ‘So what am I going to do with this report?’

  Brook stared hard into Charlton’s eyes for longer than was comfortable. ‘What report?’

  Eventually Charlton’s eyes lowered. He folded the document into his breast pocket and returned his attention to Walter Laird’s statement.

  ‘You’re right, Brook,’ said Charlton in his most businesslike voice. ‘Without an accommodation, this bad apple could say anything about events surrounding the Pied Piper, or anything else for that matter.’ He paused to look up at Brook. ‘Walter won’t survive his sentence and this concession is a fair price to close the book on that period.’

  Charlton’s demeanour changed when his eye fell on the front page of that afternoon’s Derby Telegraph, celebrating the safe return of Scott Wheeler to his parents. The lead picture showed Charlton addressing the media. He looked authoritative and commanding. And no hint of smugness, he thought smugly, nodding solemnly.

  ‘Yes. We must accentuate the positive. We’ve done a lot of good here.’ Charlton looked across at Brook, who didn’t seem to be accentuating as positively as himself. ‘And don’t think I’ll forget your role in all this,’ he said. ‘You’re finally due that promotion. Clive was right about you.’

  Brook hadn’t realised that being in Charlton’s good books was just as uncomfortable as being in the bad. ‘Sir. . .’ he began.

  ‘No, don’t be modest. Your skills deserve wider recognition.’

  ‘DS Noble deserves all the plaudits, sir.’

  ‘Very generous of you, I’m sure,’ replied Charlton. ‘Which reminds me. How are he and Ford getting on with Mullen?’

  ‘Not one word since his arrest,’ said Noble. ‘I think he’s working up to an insanity plea.’

  ‘It might even be true,’ said Brook.

  ‘But if I’m to move against Scott, I need Mullen to make a statement about Josh Stapleton’s death,’ said Noble. Brook detected something in his voice and glanced across. Noble smiled. ‘Well, you know him best.’

  ‘But it’s your case, John,’ said Brook.

  ‘Are you worried he might start making wild allegations again?’

  ‘No. But he thinks I planted evidence in his house.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ said Noble softly. ‘So there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’

  Brook didn’t answer.

  ‘All right, if you could just watch the monitor,’ said Noble. ‘Give us some pointers. We’d like to wrap it before Christmas – for the sake of the families.’ Noble waited, a plaintive expression on his face. ‘Christmas is a terrible time. . .’

  ‘When?’

  ‘We’re taking another punt now,’ smiled Noble.

  ‘I don’t know why you need me,’ said Brook. ‘You’ve got the bodies. Just charge him and move him on.’

  ‘We would,’ said Noble. ‘But we’re missing one.’

  ‘Missing one?’

  ‘We’ve only got two bodies,’ explained Noble. ‘Three underground chambers – two with bodies and one for Scott. But if the Pied Piper material is right, there should be another victim, right?’

  ‘Harry Pritchett, Davie Whatmore and Callum Clarke.’

  ‘We’re still digging up the allotment and the back garden. So far only the two and there’s nothing on infrared,’ said Noble.

  ‘Any ID on the two you have got?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Waiting on DNA,’ said Noble.

  Brook trained his eyes firmly on Mullen as the interview began. He hadn’t seen him since that highly charged night at his house and he’d changed. Now the old man’s expression was completely blank, almost catatonic, staring absently off into space, even when his solicitor tried to speak in his ear. Maybe he has lost his mind.

  Ford strutted around making the introductions for the tape, while Noble sat down sifting through the documents and evidence Ford would use against the suspect.

  But after fifteen minutes, Ford’s hectoring had produced barely a blink from Mullen, The DI sat down and looked across at Noble, tagging him into play.

  ‘Mr Mullen, I want you to look at these pictures,’ began Noble, his voice soft and sympathetic, respectful – a contrast to Ford’s old-school bluster. He pulled a series of dated glossy portrait photographs from an envelope. ‘This is twelve-year-old Harry Pritchett who went missing on December the fifteenth, nineteen seventy-eight. He was last seen walking home after a game of football. He lived in Stimpson Road which is no more than a mile from your home. He hasn’t been seen to this day.’

  Mullen didn’t react or move a muscle.

  Noble peeled another photograph from the stack. ‘This is thirteen-year-old Davie Whatmore. He was last seen on December the twelfth, nineteen eighty-three, walking across Markeaton Park, near the pond. He lived on Old Road, again just a mile from your house.’ Pause. No reaction.

  Brook wondered why Mullen’s solicitor hadn’t tried to call a halt, maybe even ask for a doctor to examine Mullen. He must be receiving instruction. There’s nothing wrong with Mullen.

  ‘This is thirteen-year-old Callum Clarke,’ continued Noble. Mullen’s eyes darted briefly to the photograph then away.

  Brook craned closer to the monitor. ‘What was that?’ He watched intently as the old man reassembled his mask of impassivity.

  ‘Callum was last seen walking home in Littleover on December the twenty-second, nineteen eighty-eight,’ continued Noble. ‘He lived less than half a mile from your home.’

  Again, Mullen’s eyes shifted to the photograph and back, too quick for Noble to see it.

  ‘Callum Clarke,’ murmured Brook, thinking it through. ‘He must be special. He must be the missing body, John.’

  ‘Mr Mullen, the only thing the families want from you at this moment is to know what’s happened to their sons. If they’re dead, they want to grieve; they want to take their
children home and lay them to rest so that they can mourn them properly and get on with their lives—’

  ‘After you wrecked them, you sick bastard,’ inserted Ford.

  Noble looked across at his senior officer and the solicitor muttered something. Ford put up his hands in apology. Brook kept his eyes on Mullen, torn between the monitor and going next door to help.

  ‘You’re going to be confined for the rest of your life, Mr Mullen,’ Noble continued. ‘Nothing will alter that and nothing will bring these boys back. But if you have any shred of decency left in you, give these families the peace they deserve.’

  No response. Noble looked up in despair at the camera but after a pause carried on. ‘Sir, would you at least tell us which boys were buried in your allotment? We’ll find out eventually so it can’t hurt to tell us that.’ Pause. No reaction. ‘Would you at least tell us where the third boy is buried?’

  Again, quick as a fox, Mullen’s eye flashed across to the picture of Callum Clarke but, again, he did not reply. But this time Noble noticed the involuntary glance and picked up Callum Clarke’s photograph.

  ‘That’s it, John,’ mumbled Brook.

  ‘Callum is the third boy, right?’ said Noble. ‘Is he buried somewhere else? Where, Edward? Where did you bury Callum?’

  Brook’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not where, John, but why did he bury him somewhere else?’ Brook scraped back the chair when it hit him. ‘It’s the twenty-second, John. He changed his MO. He killed Callum on Billy’s birthday and buried him where he harvested him.’

  Noble was beginning to lose patience. He pulled out a picture of Jeff Ward. ‘You strangled Jeff Ward to death on December the twenty-second, nineteen seventy-three, but left the body. After that, you changed your method. You abducted the boys and started burying them alive, letting them die slowly until the twenty-second, your friend’s birthday. I’ve seen the banner and the cards and the cake. These boys are birthday presents to your friend Billy, aren’t they?’ Noble stood behind Mullen, silently blowing out his cheeks in exasperation.

  ‘Why did you take Callum Clarke so late?’ persevered Noble.

  ‘Very good, John,’ murmured Brook. ‘Stay on that.’

  ‘Was it a last-minute kill?’ continued Noble. ‘Bit of a panic? Is that it? Is that why you buried him somewhere else?’ No response. Noble looked over to the camera in frustration. ‘Interview suspended.’

  Brook placed the two thin beakers of coffee on the table. Without looking at Mullen or his solicitor, he pulled out two fat candles from his pocket and, after lighting them, put them on the table on a sheet of A4 to catch the wax. He then snapped off the overhead light and turned on the tape to list those present.

  ‘Thanks for my drink,’ said the solicitor sarcastically. ‘What’s with the candles?’

  ‘Mood lighting,’ Brook explained. He glanced at Mullen for the first time and slid the coffee towards him but then said nothing further for several minutes, choosing just to gaze at Mullen. The old man wouldn’t reciprocate; he sat, arms folded, staring at the wall, his coffee untouched and unacknowledged.

  After fifteen minutes, the duty solicitor became agitated, mouthing at Brook to speak or draw the interview to a close.

  ‘I’ve been asked to have a word, see if I could. . . move things along,’ said Brook eventually. No reaction. ‘And I brought you something,’ he added, as though just remembering. ‘From the house.’ He pulled a plastic bag from his jacket and took out the travel chess set Mullen had given Billy Stanforth nearly fifty years ago.

  Mullen’s eyes moved briefly to the set then back to the wall.

  Brook opened the case and took out the tiny board. ‘Everything’s ready for a game.’ He swivelled the board between the two of them. ‘In light of recent events, I think I should be white.’ He picked up the king’s pawn and moved it two spaces, looking at Mullen for a reaction. Again, gimlet-eyed Mullen flashed a glance at Brook’s opening gambit.

  ‘DI Ford thinks you’re insane,’ said Brook. ‘Sergeant Noble’s not so sure but he says he’ll go along with it.’ He looked up at Mullen. ‘But I said no. Edward Mullen is not crazy.’

  Brook waited.

  ‘I said Edward Mullen has a gift that the world has failed to understand or appreciate.’ Wait and watch. ‘I said Edward Mullen has fought his entire life for control of that gift and to throw in the towel and accept a plea of insanity would mean betraying it. To do that would hand ammunition to all those people who have poured scorn on who he is.’ Wait and watch. Sip of cold coffee. ‘Finally, I said that everyone who dislikes and fears gifted people like Edward Mullen would be delighted to dismiss his talents as the ravings of a delusional—’

  ‘Pawn to king four,’ said Mullen, looking up at Brook but making no attempt to move his piece. Brook reached over and moved Mullen’s black pawn to block his white pawn. He responded by moving his queen’s pawn alongside his king’s.

  ‘My pawn takes your queen’s pawn,’ said Mullen.

  Brook removed his pawn and responded by moving out a knight to threaten Mullen’s advanced pawn.

  ‘I know what you’re doing, Brook.’ Mullen’s cold eyes finally alighted on Brook. ‘You think I’m going to tie my forces in knots defending that pawn while you bring out the heavy artillery.’

  Brook smiled as Mullen reached for his cold coffee and took a sip. After putting the beaker down, Mullen scanned the room, an odd smile playing around his lips. Brook resisted the urge to look for Mullen’s ghosts.

  ‘It’s crowded in here,’ said Mullen. He turned to the solicitor. ‘You can leave now.’

  ‘I don’t advise that,’ replied the solicitor.

  ‘You’re fired,’ said Mullen. ‘Get out.’

  The solicitor glanced at Brook, happy to register no further objections. He scraped his chair back and made a haughty exit which Brook recorded for the tape.

  ‘OK, Brook. What do you want?’ asked Mullen.

  ‘I want you to take responsibility for your actions,’ said Brook.

  ‘Like you did,’ said Mullen, arching an eyebrow. Brook answered with a cryptic smile, dropping a pen on to a blank interview pad, expecting a repetition of earlier accusations. Instead Mullen became thoughtful. ‘You played the game well, Brook.’ He was silent for several minutes. Then, ‘I have three conditions.’

  ‘I only anticipated one,’ said Brook.

  ‘You’re slipping,’ Mullen mocked. ‘You should understand a brother-in-arms better than that.’

  ‘It’s been that sort of case, pitting my wits against a clever opponent,’ replied Brook.

  Mullen smiled faintly. ‘What’s my first condition?’

  ‘Easy,’ replied Brook. ‘You want to serve your sentence in solitary confinement.’ Mullen raised an eyebrow, waiting. ‘With limited access to the internet.’

  ‘Agreeable?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Brook.

  ‘What else do you think I want?’ said Mullen. ‘No pressure.’

  Brook considered the slight old man, thinking through their shared history and Mullen’s limited needs. ‘A bottle of port at Christmas.’

  Mullen nodded. ‘Agreeable?’

  Brook shrugged. ‘Tricky. We might manage a half bottle.’

  Mullen dipped his head in acceptance. ‘And the third?’

  Brook had to admit defeat. ‘The third? You’ve got me there.’

  Mullen looked at the table. ‘I want to play chess.’

  ‘I think that’s what we’re doing,’ said Brook.

  ‘I don’t just mean today,’ said Mullen.

  ‘There’ll be no problem taking a chess set to prison, Edward,’ said Brook, smiling. ‘I’m sure board games are encouraged.’

  ‘You’ve misunderstood,’ replied Mullen, fixing Brook with a mocking stare. ‘I’ll be in solitary, remember.’

  It took Brook a second to understand. ‘I don’t think that will be possible.’

  ‘I’ll only need an email address,’ said Mullen. ‘If I accep
t a life sentence with good grace, it’s only right that you do the same.’

  ‘Forget it. I don’t want you in my head.’

  ‘Then, I’m sorry. . .’

  Brook’s mind was racing. He wanted this settled. ‘What about a post office box?’ he said quickly. ‘I can accept that.’

  Mullen considered. ‘It’ll slow the games down.’

  ‘But that favours you,’ said Brook, ‘being the inferior player.’

  Mullen managed a smile. ‘Then I suppose that will have to do.’ The old man picked up the pen, ready to make a statement. ‘A life sentence together. And maybe this time I can win.’

  ‘I have a couple of conditions of my own,’ said Brook.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We’ve arrested Walter Laird for four murders and he’s given us a full confession. He’s admitted how he, and he alone, steered investigators away from you, believing you had knowledge of his crimes.’ Brook stared hard at Mullen, making sure his message was received. ‘So please restrict your statement to your activities as the Pied Piper. Start with why you took Scott.’

  Mullen stared back, a half-smile playing around his lips. ‘Very well,’ he replied softly. ‘Then you don’t want to know about Sam Bannon’s killing spree,’ asked Mullen, raising a mocking eyebrow.

  Brook’s smile tightened. ‘OK, Sam was no killer. You were right. I was wrong.’

  ‘What a shame I can’t have a recording of that,’ said Mullen. ‘Never mind. I heard it and I’ll treasure the sound. You have a second condition?’

  ‘We need to know what you did with the body of Callum Clarke.’

  ‘What happened?’ said Noble, two minutes later. ‘Everything was going so well.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Brook. ‘Play that bit back.’

  Noble clicked the mouse and both detectives watched the end of the interview intently.

  ‘We need to know what you did with the body of Callum Clarke.’

  Mullen smiled and replaced the pen on the table. ‘That, I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Not good enough,’ said Brook. ‘We need to know everything about all the boys you took and why.’

  ‘They were killers,’ said Mullen.

  ‘Were they?’ said Brook, rustling for a document. ‘We’ve done some research. Every boy you murdered, or attempted to murder, had lost a brother, a sister or a close friend. Every boy except the last one, Callum Clarke in nineteen eighty-eight. The last one before you stopped.’ Brook let the silence build for a while.