An Occupied Grave: A Brock & Poole Mystery

by A. G. Barnett

  “You think she might have had something to do with this?” Poole asked.

  “Either that or she’s next,” the inspector answered darkly. “I spoke to my contact in London. I’d asked him to put the feelers out around David Lake, see if any of his old contacts might have been called in for a bit of extra work.”

  “And were they?”

  “Well if they were no one’s talking about it, but I did get one name. There was a guy that Lake used to work with all the time, his right hand man. Which is odd as apparently everyone knows him as ‘Hands’, don’t ask me why. To be honest I don’t want to know. Anyway, he’s apparently a big guy, which would fit the description of the walker the vicar saw. Very loyal too apparently, so it wouldn’t be surprising that Lake called him up for one last job.”

  “Killing Henry Gaven,” Poole said.

  “Exactly, or at least grabbing him so that Lake could do it himself.”

  “By the way,” Poole continued. “I tracked down a taxi firm from Bexford who’d taken him to Lower Gladdock. They dropped him on a back road. I got them to talk me through where it was on a map and it looks like it’s a few fields over from where Edie’s cottage is. I’m guessing he came in that way so no one from the village saw him.”

  “And yet just a couple of nights later and he’s running round the village and getting into an argument with the Pagets.” Brock said thoughtfully.

  They both stared at their drinks for a moment while they thought about this, then Brock broke the silence suddenly.

  “Have you wondered why you were transferred here?”

  “There weren’t the opportunities in Oxford that there are here. Smaller station, more responsibility for everyone. I was told it would be good for my career.”

  “And did you believe that?”

  Poole smiled. “No. I was moved here because of my dad.”

  Brock smiled back at him and nodded. "Good, I was worried for a minute that you thought being placed with me was a good thing." He swirled the remaining liquid in his glass before looking up at Poole with an intense gaze. "So you’ve heard all about the ‘cursed detective’, have you?”

  Poole frowned. "The cursed detective? What's that? A film or something?"

  Brock smiled, but it lacked any humour.

  "No, it's not a film. It's me." He stood up and waggled his glass. "Another?"

  "Yes, thank you," Poole answered, feeling like something significant had just happened, but he hadn't a clue what.

  A few minutes later, Brock returned with the restored pint glasses and sat back down.

  "I'm the cursed detective, Poole."

  “Sir?” Poole looked up at him and felt the intense gaze of the inspector’s cool, grey eyes hit him like a hammer. Poole got the impression he was being weighed up, judged somehow.

  “This is dangerous work, just look at the case right now. We’re trying to catch a murderer. Someone willing to take another life. Do you think they’d hesitate to get rid of one of us if they had the opportunity?” He sighed and stared at the table top.

  “Ian Carter was an inspector, I was a sergeant. We were working a case looking at a series of armed robberies that were happening at bookmakers. Long story short, we ended up cornering one of them and he pulled a gun. Carter got hit before the cavalry showed up and didn’t pull through.”

  “I’m sorry,” Poole said quietly.

  “John Reeves was my first sergeant, we were responding to a tip off about a possible sex slave ring and he was stuck with a knife. It nicked an artery and by the time we got him into an ambulance he was gone.”

  Poole said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  “Before you feel too sorry for me,” Brock continued. "I don’t blame myself, they knew the risks of the job. I’m still the cursed detective though,” a wry smile played across his lips, “and you were stuck with me because of your dad. So now we both know where we stand, I just have one question.”

  Poole nodded.

  “Has your dad being who he is ever affected your ability to do your job?”

  “No,” Poole answered immediately, “I haven’t spoken to my dad since I was fifteen.”

  Brock nodded slowly and drank deeply from his pint glass.

  “Good. So, what do you say that you and I show all these doubters what we can do and solve this bloody murder case, eh?”

  “Yes, Sir,” Poole said smiling again. He was starting to like Brock. Despite his general abrasiveness, loudness and all round grumpiness, he said what he thought and there was a lot to be said for that.

  He felt a small worm of guilt starting to crawl in his stomach. He hadn't told Brock that his dad was to be released in a few days.

  "It was a good catch with the wheelbarrow,” Brock said.

  “Thanks,” Poole replied, grateful for the change in subject.

  “You don’t get to be detective sergeant at your age without being good, I can see that. It’s been a while since I’ve had a sergeant, I’ve had to make do with Sanders and that idiot, Davies. So I’m officially welcoming you to the team.” He lifted his glass and clinked it against Poole’s.

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Now go and get me another drink. My wife gets home tomorrow and it’ll be all ovulation charts and peeing on sticks, so I’m making hay while the sun shines.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Poole woke to the sound of his phone alarm with his head pounding. He risked opening his eyes and immediately regretted it. He had seemingly forgotten to close his curtains last night and sunlight was streaming in like a lazer. He felt as though his retina were on fire. He shielded his eyes and with great effort pulled himself up.

  He really wasn't used to drinking like he had last night. He vainly tried to remember how many Bexford Golds he'd had last night and gave up after he'd remembered four.

  Poole showered for a long time. Standing under the hot stream and closing his eyes, hoping his headache would subside. It didn't, but by the time he'd dressed, eaten a plate of scrambled eggs and thrown a cup of coffee down his throat, he was at least feeling better. That was until he saw his mother sat in the middle of his front room. Crossed legged and wearing only lycra.

  “Oh bloody hell mum, can’t you wait until I’ve gone out?”

  “This is my daily routine, Guy. You can’t expect me to change it just because it might make your straight little world wobble for a while.”

  “Fine,” Poole answered feeling like a stropping teenager. “I’ll just start leaving earlier.”

  “Well you know I’m only here for a few days,” she answered. “Just until…”

  “I know,” Poole answered softly, a hole opening in his gut.

  Though they hadn’t spoken about it, they both knew why she was there. Soon his dad would be released from prison, and neither of them knew what to expect.

  Would he seek them out? Or start a new life somewhere else? Maybe even abroad?

  One thing was for sure, they had to face it together.

  The station seemed different when he arrived at it an hour later. For the past couple of days it had seemed a strange and intimidating place. Now it felt a little more like he belonged.

  As he walked across the carpark his phone buzzed in his pocket.

  "Hello?"

  "Guy, I forgot to say that you simply have to try this new juice purification diet."

  "Mum," Guy said wearily. “Can we do this later? I’m just getting to work.”

  “Well pardon me for trying to make you live a longer, healthier life! Anyway, I’ve only been on it for three days and I can't believe the difference in me!"

  "Like what?" He sighed as he jogged up the steps to the station.

  "I feel dizzy, nauseous and weak!"

  "OK..." Guy said slowly, feeling he was missing something.

  "Well don't you see? That's the toxins leaving the body! I'm being purified!"

  Poole nodded at Roland behind the reception desk and swiped his card to enter the office.

&
nbsp; "Mum, put down the banana and go and buy a pain au chocolate and a large latte and stop kidding yourself. You’re feeling like that because you've eaten nothing but bloody fruit!" He shook his head as he heard the huff of annoyance from the other end of the line. "Look, I'm at work now, I'll see you later, OK?"

  "OK, love," she answered in a slightly defeated tone.

  Poole stopped halfway through the open plan office and closed his eyes. "It's going to be OK Mum, alright?"

  "I know love," she answered, trying to sound brighter. "See you later."

  He put the phone down and decided to head straight for the canteen. It was where he had found the inspector previously and more importantly, it was where he'd find more coffee.

  The canteen was virtually empty. Two constables sat at a table towards the till and inspector Brock sat at the same table he had the other day. He looked up, caught Poole's eye and gestured for him to come over.

  "Bloody hell, Poole," he said as he approached. "You look like you could do with a full English." He gestured down in order to indicate that that was what he had just polished off.

  "I think I might actually, Sir," Poole replied. Feeling slightly annoyed at how unaffected Brock seemed by last night's activities.

  "Well go on then and you can get me another coffee while you're there."

  Poole nodded and turned away. He grabbed two coffees from the machine before loading up his plate with two sausages, two bacon, a hash brown, mushrooms, beans and two fried eggs. Then, at the last minute, he added a plate of toast to his tray as well.

  He paid and then made his way back to the table where the inspector grinned when he saw the plate of food.

  "Now that's a breakfast," he said, the grin fading into a look of slight sadness. "Last day of it for me, I'm afraid," he said sourly.

  Poole's swallowed the mouthful he had shoved in and looked up at him. "Because your wife's getting home?"

  Brock nodded. "She's got me on some diet that's supposed to increase fertility." He sighed. "As if eating tonnes of asparagus, broccoli and walnuts is going to make any difference. Only thing it's given me is wind."

  Poole laughed and almost choked on the bacon he had been in the process of swallowing. For some reason Brock's openness didn't bother him as much anymore. His mind turned to his father again and his impending release.

  The bell chimed as Poole stepped through the door to the Lower Gladdock stores. David Lake looked up from the floor where he was knelt placing tins of beans on the low shelf in front of him.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the police back to harass me some more about the death of my son.”

  “Actually Mr Lake, we’re more interested in the whereabouts of your friend, Hands, at the moment,” Brock said. He followed Poole through the door and threw a boiled sweet into his mouth.

  For the first time it struck Poole that they were possibly a replacement for cigarettes. Either that or the inspector’s wife had heard they were good for fertility.

  Lake stood up and sighed. “Fair enough inspector, you’ve looked into me and found out the name of someone close to me in the old days. Excellent police work.” He stared at them both for a moment, as though weighing them up.

  “I don’t know where Hands is at the moment,” he continued. “But I can find him for you. It might not do you much good though, Hands isn’t a big fan of the police.”

  “Then maybe you can tell us what we need to know?” Brock said. “Was Hands in the village? Did you hire him to take care of Henry Gaven?”

  Lake's drooping, soulful eyes grew hard again.

  “I guess you might as well know, Inspector. There's nothing that can come back on me, just in case you're getting your hopes up. Yes, I hired Hands to come down here. I knew Gaven would come back, where else was he going to go? With his gran sick and all on her own, I knew he’d turn up.”

  “So you hired Hands to keep an eye out for him? And then what?”

  “And then come and tell me. I wanted to handle Gaven myself.”

  “And did you?” Brock asked, a steel to his voice.

  “I didn’t have the pleasure, no. Hands saw him alright, coming out of old Edie's house.”

  “He didn’t see him going in?”

  “No, we think he must have come in a back way somehow, knew people would be looking out for him."

  “And where did he go when he left?”

  “To Malcolm and Marjory Pagets of all places. Had some sort of bust up with them according to Hands, then he went home.”

  “And did Hands go there? To his Gran’s house?”

  “Nope, he came and told me.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  Lake laughed. “I did nothing. Like a bloody fool, I thought I had time. Next morning I heard that his Gran was dead. I wasn’t sure what he’d do then. I guessed there would be nothing keeping him in the village, so I went round there. There was no one about. I guessed that he’d scarpered. That’s why we were happy when you brought us the good news that the sod was dead. I thought he’d gotten away with it.” David Lake’s eyes filled with a mixture of anger and sadness.

  “And your buddy Hands will back all this up, will he?”

  “He will.”

  Brock smiled, but there was no warmth behind it. “I’m sure he will. You should know Lake, you’ve moved to the top of our suspect list.” Brock said, turning towards the door.

  “Lucky old me,” Lake grinned.

  Chapter Twelve

  The Paget's melodic doorbell rang out as they stood in the driveway in silence. They had noticed the lack of a car in the driveway, just as in their last visit. When Marjory Paget opened the door, Poole could tell by the expression on her face that Malcolm had not returned.

  "Oh..." she said, her hand rising to her mouth.

  "Malcolm hasn't come home?" Brock asked.

  "No, he called though. He said..." The words stuck in her throat.

  “What did he say, Marjory?"

  "He said he'd found something. He told me to make sure all the doors were locked and that he'd be home in a few hours."

  "And when was this?"

  She caught another sob. "Eleven last night."

  "And you haven't heard from him since?"

  "No," she said in a small, terrified voice.

  "Oh, hello Inspector, Sergeant." They turned to see the vicar approaching from the road.

  “Morning Vicar, were you looking for us?”

  “Actually, no,” he peered round to look at Marjory Paget, “I was just wondering if everything was alright with your car, Marjory?”

  “Our car? What do you mean?” she asked, her voice rising in panic.

  “Well I saw it parked on the edge of the green and wondered if something had happened, broken down or something?” he asked, looking between the three of them with the look of a man who realised he was missing something, but without knowing what.

  Marjory burst past Poole and ran down the drive to the road where she vanished to the left.

  “Get after her Poole, and don’t let her touch anything!” Brock shouted pushing his sergeant in the back as though to emphasise the point.

  Poole caught up with her well before the green and they jogged along together until they reached the cool green grass and he told her to wait.

  He circled the car, carefully peering into its windows and breathing a sigh of relief when no body appeared to be present inside.

  It was pulled half up onto the grass from the road. Poole realised with a pang of annoyance that they must have passed it as they had come into the village that morning, but there was nothing to mark it as anything out of the ordinary.

  “Is this your car, Mrs Paget?”

  “Yes,” Marjory replied shakily.

  “Poole?” Brock called as he and the vicar arrived at the green. Poole looked up and shook his head, knowing somehow that the inspector was thinking the same as he had been. That Malcolm Paget may be dead inside the vehicle.

  “Is there
anywhere in the village your husband might have gone, Mrs Paget?”

  “I… no, I don’t think so.” She seemed to be in a daze. The vicar approached her and took her hand lightly, at which point she fell upon his shoulder and exploded into sobs. Brock and Poole convened at the rear end of the car, putting a discreet distance between them.

  “Looks like he was in a rush,” Poole said, pointing to where tyre impressions weaved up onto the grass a few feet before turning back to the road again.

  “I don’t like the coincidence of it,” Brock answered.

  “Sir?” Poole looked up at him.

  “Another car, on the green.”

  Poole realised what he meant. Four years ago a car mounting the green had been the cause of so much anguish in this little village, and had possibly resulted in the more recent death of Henry Gaven.

  “Get the crime scene guys on this, and get a uniform out here to take a formal statement from Mrs Paget. And tell them to hurry up as we need to go.”

  “Go where sir?” Poole said, pulling his phone from his pocket.

  “Well, Malcolm Paget isn’t the only person who’s missing, I want to see if Stan Troon’s reappeared."

  They stood around the car as though it were a gravestone they were paying their respects to. Only the vicar moved, hurrying off to check on his daughter and bring Mrs Paget a cup of tea in a small Thermos.

  By now their presence on the green had begun attracting attention from the inhabitants of Lower Gladdock in general. Poole watched David Lake step out of his shop and peer down the street. A number of people had suddenly found an urgent need to walk their dogs on the green. They milled about in groups, gawping at the car and concocting grizzly reasons for its appearance.

  “Has someone put it in the local paper or something, Sir?” Poole muttered from the side of his mouth as he gazed around at the onlookers.

  “That’s villages for you Poole. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. Everyone’s scrabbling around in the muck of everyone else.”

  Poole glanced at him. The inspector seemed to lurch between good humour and then these morose spells. He was starting to wonder if they coincided with how they were progressing on the case.