The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  Mullen’s cruel smirk was constant. ‘You have a question.’

  ‘Simple. Why Callum?’ said Brook. ‘He wasn’t a killer. Were you desperate? Is that why you harvested him on Billy’s birthday? Couldn’t find anybody to fit your specifications?’ Mullen’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘I want full cooperation or the deal’s off.’

  ‘I am cooperating,’ said Mullen.

  ‘So tell me. Why change your MO for Callum Clarke?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘No answer means no deal,’ said Brook. ‘No solitary. No port. No chess.’

  Mullen shook his head. ‘You’re an intelligent man, Brook. Let me spell it out for you.’ He spoke slowly for emphasis. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  Noble clicked the mouse to close the screen. ‘What’s he playing at?’

  ‘I’m not sure, John,’ said Brook. ‘I thought we had him. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Noble. ‘You got him talking at least. We’ll just have to pick it up after Christmas.’

  ‘It’ll be easier when you’ve identified the bodies in the allotment,’ said Brook. ‘The families have waited a long time; they can wait a few more days.’

  Thirty

  Christmas Eve 2012

  The next afternoon Brook took the goose out of the freezer, more in hope than expectation, and drove to Derby with his most expensive bottle of wine in the passenger seat. He pulled up outside Rosie Shah’s house forty minutes later and jogged up the steps.

  ‘Damen,’ shouted Rosie, opening the door. ‘You made it. Come in, come in.’ She spotted the car keys in his hand. ‘You’re driving?’

  Brook had his get-out clause handy. ‘I’m expecting my daughter over from Manchester. I can only stay an hour or two.’

  ‘Never mind, you’re here.’ She beamed, a little less brilliantly.

  She took him through to the kitchen and introduced him to the handful of friends and neighbours standing around with wine glasses in their hands, chewing on the finger buffet of sandwiches and crisps.

  ‘Everyone, this is my hero, Detective Inspector Damen Brook,’ announced Rosie.

  The conversation dried as all contemplated Brook. He poured himself a soft drink and nodded awkwardly to all the faces, listening to their names go in one ear and fly out of the other.

  Fortunately attention shifted when the kitchen door opened and Ollie came in with a friend, the two teenagers dressed in almost identical fashion, the same clothes and the same hair jutting out in every direction under the influence of the same gel.

  ‘Can we have another beer, Mum?’ asked Ollie, at his most charming.

  ‘You’re under age, Ollie.’ Rosie glared at her son with big eyes, glancing slyly across at Brook. ‘Remember?’

  ‘Yeah, OC,’ giggled his friend. ‘You’re under age. Best not be smoking no blow neither,’ he added, wagging a censorious finger at him. The pair fell about and Rosie tried to usher them out.

  ‘We’re seventeen, Mum,’ complained Ollie. ‘And it’s Christmas.’

  ‘There’s a policeman here,’ she said, tight-lipped, gesturing Ollie to leave.

  ‘Don’t mind me,’ said Brook. ‘They can rob a bank for all I care. I’m off duty.’

  ‘Is that work duty or parental,’ tittered a middle-aged woman with red hair and too much make-up. Brook had forgotten her name already.

  ‘Both,’ said Brook, smiling politely.

  ‘See?’ protested Ollie. ‘Just one more.’ He held up a single digit. ‘Please.’

  Rosie opened two small bottles of lager and shooed the pair away.

  ‘OC?’ inquired the red-haired woman.

  ‘Ollie’s initials,’ explained Rosie, blushing across at Brook for some reason.

  ‘It’s also some crappy Yank programme our kids watch,’ said one of the men. ‘They purposely put on rubbish so we’re forced to buy the kids a telly for their bedrooms. Bloody conspiracy, it is.’

  Everyone laughed and Brook stood there, a half-smile glued to his face, watching the clock tick round, calculating a polite time to withdraw.

  Fortunately, as the other guests got a little drunker, the tension eased and Brook didn’t feel quite so self-conscious tacking on to a group and saying nothing, occasionally catching Rosie’s attentive eye.

  ‘Toilet,’ he mouthed at her and she nodded towards the stairs.

  ‘Ollie.’ Brook nodded at Rosie’s son on the stairs.

  ‘Do you see a lot of dead bodies?’ quizzed the young man, without embarrassment.

  Brook never ceased to be amazed at the guilelessness of youth. ‘Some.’

  ‘I’ll bet,’ he nodded. ‘My mum likes you.’

  ‘I like her,’ said Brook, smiling awkwardly, looking beyond Ollie for the toilet.

  ‘Are you going to marry her?’

  Brook shouldn’t have been surprised by such a question but he was. ‘Ollie, I just met her.’

  ‘She’s lonely,’ announced Ollie.

  ‘I’m not sure she’d like you telling people that,’ said Brook, beginning to move round the olive-skinned boy but he wouldn’t be denied.

  ‘Do you fancy her?’

  ‘You seriously want me to answer that?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You think I’m unsuitable,’ smiled Brook, ‘because I’m a policeman.’

  ‘No. Grandad was too,’ said Ollie. ‘I just wanna know. Mum says you’ve got a lot in common.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Ollie laughed. ‘You both like hanging in that creepy shed for one thing.’

  ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘That place is dread, man. You won’t get me in there with all those stiffs on the wall. Place gives me the shits.’ Without further ado Ollie sprinted back into his room, the throbbing music invading the landing for the few seconds his door opened.

  Brook found the toilet, a bemused expression on his face. Kids.

  When he made his excuses, an hour later, Rosie walked him to the car.

  ‘I was hoping you’d stay longer, Damen,’ she said, grabbing his arm. ‘You could’ve slept over.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen enough of that shed,’ said Brook, smiling.

  ‘Maybe not the shed then,’ she replied, tilting her head coquettishly to one side.

  ‘My daughter. . .’ began Brook as she moved in for a kiss.

  Brook was too polite to break away so he implied a joint venture and withdrew at the earliest opportunity, looking affectionately into her eyes. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

  ‘When will I see you?’ she purred.

  ‘Soon,’ he said, turning towards his car.

  Back on the A52 to Hartington, Brook’s mobile began to vibrate. He pulled over to answer.

  ‘I took another crack at Mullen this morning,’ said Noble. ‘No joy, I’m afraid. He won’t tell me anything, won’t even talk to me.’

  ‘What about DNA on the. . .’ Brook’s head lifted in shock. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I had another crack. . .’

  ‘After that.’

  ‘No joy. . .’

  ‘He won’t tell you anything,’ said Brook.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘That’s not what he said to me,’ replied Brook, his pulse quickening. ‘Can’t, he said. There’s a difference.’

  ‘I don’t. . .’

  ‘Mullen spelt it out for me. I can’t tell you. Those were his exact words, John. Not, I won’t tell you. Don’t you see? He doesn’t know where Callum Clarke is buried because he didn’t kill him. That’s why he kept looking at his picture. It was a surprise. He didn’t bat an eyelid at the other two photographs. He knew he’d killed them. But Callum. . .’ Brook threw a hand over his eyes to think.

  ‘Are you there?’ No answer from Brook. ‘Sir, are you there?’

  ‘I’m here,’ said Brook quietly. ‘John, I need you to check something for me – a name. Then I need you to meet me. . .’

  Rosie Shah sipped her white wine sittin
g on the replica of her father’s desk. For once, the spot lamp was trained away from the accumulation of documents pinned to the Pied Piper wall, illuminating only a small bright oval on the blotter. The contents of the documents, waving gently on the wall, were difficult to pick out. As she could probably have identified every one blindfolded, that was just fine by her.

  She put down her glass to continue her labours, unpinning the mass of newsprint and photocopies from the pine boards and folding them flat into a box.

  ‘We did it, Dad,’ she said, a mix of pride and melancholy in her voice. ‘We stopped him.’ She gulped back her emotions and continued to deconstruct the display that had dominated her life, folding paper, balling Blu-Tack and throwing drawing pins into the metal bin with a clatter.

  Working methodically, Rosie finished removing all papers related to the 1983 disappearance of Davie Whatmore and with a sigh turned to the column marked 1988.

  As she reached for the date tag, a noise turned her head. The boards of the veranda were groaning under the weight of a person.

  ‘Ollie?’ she called. The only answer was the latch being lifted, followed by the creaking of hinges as the door swung open. ‘Who’s there?’ She reached for the spot lamp and flicked the shade towards the entrance.

  ‘Damen,’ she shouted, running to the door to throw her arms round him. ‘You came back.’ She buried her face in Brook’s neck and pulled him to her, only stepping back when Brook didn’t reciprocate.

  He unhooked her hands from behind his head and held her by the wrists. He glanced at the bare wall in the shadows then back at her. ‘What did you do, Rosie?’

  ‘I’m getting healthy like you said,’ she replied. ‘No more living in the past.’

  ‘What did you do?’ said Brook slowly.

  She studied his impassive face and retreated to sit on the desk where she picked up her wine. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she croaked.

  ‘The OC,’ answered Brook. ‘Oliver Callum Shah.’

  ‘That’s my son’s name, yes,’ she said defiantly, her voice under the strain of her first doubt.

  ‘Did you think giving your son his name would keep him alive in some way?’ said Brook, glancing at the wall.

  Rosie took a sharp breath, unable to look at him.

  Brook marched over to remove the paper covering Callum Clarke’s missing persons poster and ripped his doomed face from the wall. ‘That’s why Callum’s photograph is covered. You can’t bear to see his face.’

  ‘I don’t know what—’

  ‘Look at it!’ demanded Brook, thrusting it under her nose. ‘Tell me what happened. Make me understand how you can kill a child. And don’t blame the drugs.’

  She sat back, looked into the distance and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek. ‘It was the last day of the cycle. The twenty-second. I’d waited, I was patient. I scoured the papers, the TV. . .’ She shook her head.

  ‘But no boys disappeared,’ concluded Brook.

  She shook her head and more tears fell. ‘The Pied Piper had stopped. Everything my father worked for. . .’

  ‘Your father wanted it to stop,’ said Brook coldly. ‘That’s what he worked for.’

  ‘But if the Piper wasn’t caught, if he just stopped and melted into the background, all Dad’s efforts, his death, would be wasted,’ she sobbed. ‘I couldn’t let him stop. How could we catch him if he didn’t kill again?’

  ‘So you killed a child to keep your father’s theory alive,’ said Brook.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, gulping down on the word.

  ‘You found Callum Clarke and lured him here.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘I’d been drinking. . .’

  ‘Don’t blame the alcohol,’ shouted Brook.

  ‘No,’ said Rosie.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was the last day and already dark. I saw him alone on the high street looking in shop windows. I had an old bike to give away. It was easy. . .’ she managed before the tears continued.

  ‘Easy to kill him?’ demanded Brook.

  Rosie shook her head.

  ‘Did he beg you, Rosie?’

  She nodded again, staring into space. ‘I hit him and he looked at me, crying. He was so confused. “Please don’t”, he said.’ She looked at Brook now. ‘And I didn’t want to. I wanted to take it back but it was too late. So I hit him again and again and again.’

  ‘He’s buried under the shed, isn’t he?’ said Brook. ‘That’s why you had it built, to cover him over so nobody would ever know.’ Her silence was confirmation.

  Brook’s voice was more sad than angry. ‘And nineteen ninety-three?’

  She shook her head, her expression bitter. ‘I couldn’t do it again, not after waking up in tears every night for five years, seeing Callum’s face, hearing him beg. If the Pied Piper really had stopped, then so be it – I couldn’t kill again. I accepted it.’ She blew her nose on a tissue. ‘But I never stopped looking. I knew Dad was right. I knew he’d strike again.’ She looked up at him, hope in her eyes. ‘If I hadn’t kept looking you wouldn’t have saved the Wheeler boy, that’s true, isn’t it? Damen. That’s true. My tip saved Scott.’ Her desperate expression beseeched him for this slender thread of redemption.

  Brook nodded. ‘Yes, that’s true.’ She wept and Brook looked at her, a great knot of sorrow tightening in his stomach. ‘Let’s go.’

  Rosie nodded. ‘Please tell me it hurts. Tell me it hurts just a little bit.’

  ‘It hurts a lot, Rosie,’ said Brook quietly, nodding at the door.

  ‘Before we go, will you hold me?’ said Rosie.

  Brook sighed. ‘Why?’

  Her eyes beseeched him. ‘Dad never held me.’

  Brook moved clumsily towards her and Rosie fell into his arms, pulling him to her in a last act of love and longing.

  ‘I wish. . .’ she began.

  The veranda boards creaked under another’s weight.

  ‘That’s Ollie,’ said Rosie pushing him away. ‘Please tell him to go back to the house.’

  ‘He’s going to find out. . .’

  ‘But not yet, Damen, please. I need a minute. Don’t let him see me like this.’

  Brook put his head through the door. It was Noble. Before he could turn back to Rosie, Brook felt all her weight crash against him and he was pushed against Noble on the veranda. The bolts of the door were rammed noisily home from inside.

  ‘Rosie!’ shouted Brook, banging on the door. He heard a frantic scraping sound as something heavy was dragged across the floor. He heaved against the door. There was no give. She’d barricaded the desk against it. ‘Rosie! Come out of there. You’ve got nowhere to go.’

  ‘Look,’ said Noble, indicating the small window where flames shot up behind the net curtain and seemed to be spreading quickly.

  ‘There’s a gas tank in there,’ said Brook.

  Noble put an elbow through the glass but shutters were slammed across and bolted at once.

  ‘Help me with the door, John.’

  Noble stood shoulder to shoulder with Brook and they both heaved against the door. The wood split but the door, reinforced by the desk, wouldn’t buckle. ‘Again.’ They heaved again. By now smoke was gasping under the door and through gaps in the wood. They continued to crash against the door but it wouldn’t move.

  ‘Mum!’ screamed Ollie, sprinting into the garden. ‘Mum.’

  ‘Get back!’ shouted Brook.

  Ollie ignored him and put a foot up to the window and tried to kick it open. ‘Mum!’

  Noble ran across and grabbed Ollie by the waist and wrestled him on to the grass as thicker smoke began to billow from the shed.

  ‘This thing will go up in seconds,’ shouted Noble. ‘There’s no time.’

  Brook put his shoulder against the door again. More wood splintered and Brook scrabbled at the shards. ‘Help me, John.’

  But when Noble returned to the door, Ollie ran screaming to kick at the window again, so Noble broke off and wrestled the b
oy away from the shed and this time didn’t let go.

  ‘You can’t save her,’ shouted Noble, pacifying the eel-like boy wriggling to be free. A terrible, high-pitched scream rent the air and Brook became more frantic as he finally pulled a board of the door away. But this only increased the intake of air and the fire gained momentum, flames blackening the wooden roof.

  ‘It’s too late,’ Noble shouted again. The scream was lost under the rattle and hum of the flames and the sobbing complaints of the struggling boy. ‘She’s gone.’

  Finally Brook was forced away from the smoke seething under and through the door, windows and roof. He turned away, eyes streaming, unable to look, his clothes smouldering.

  He helped Noble drag the boy further from the flames as a loud explosion blew loose boards into the air and the roof collapsed, allowing more oxygen to fan the flames.

  ‘You killed her,’ screamed Ollie at Brook. ‘You killed her. I’ve lost my mum.’ His accusations were reduced to indecipherable howls and sobs.

  Brook looked at Noble, his eyes as dead as a feeding shark’s. He put his hand on Ollie’s gelled hair and pulled his head on to his shoulder, gripping him tight, whispering comfort into his ear.

  Noble looked over at the pair of them, his expression grim. ‘Everybody loses.’

  Two hours later Brook and Noble trudged through the knot of firemen, uniformed police and curious onlookers to their vehicles.

  Noble spied the Half Moon pub on the High Street and blew out his cheeks. ‘I need a drink.’ He squirrelled a glance at Brook, walking like a zombie beside him.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ said Noble, with a bitter laugh.

  ‘I’m expecting Terri,’ Brook lied.

  ‘I should come out,’ suggested Noble. ‘Be nice to see her.’

  Brook nodded, unable to meet Noble’s eyes.

  ‘Rain check on that drink?’ said Noble, anticipating Brook’s reflex reaction. Are you American?

  ‘Rain check,’ echoed Brook, oblivious.