“Could we come inside for a moment?” Brock asked.
“I guess so,” she said meekly, standing aside for them to enter. Brock and Poole exchanged glances as they moved past her into the house. There was something going on here, Marjory seemed worried.
They sat at the same small kitchen table they had done previously, but this time there was no offer of drinks. She sat opposite them turning her wedding ring round on her finger again and again.
“Mrs Paget, I’m going to ask you the same question that I asked you yesterday. Have you seen Henry Gaven since he was released from prison?”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “I… we…” her voice quivered as her head sunk towards the table, “Yes,” she said sadly. “He came to our house, our house!” she shouted. “After what he did! After what happened to Charlotte!” She broke down in tears, stood up and vanished into the kitchen.
“Shall I follow her sir?” Poole asked.
“No, she’s not going anywhere. She seems more worried about whether her husband’s coming home or not.”
As soon as the inspector had finished talking, Marjory Paget emerged from the kitchen with a small pack of tissues in hand. “I’m sorry about that, it’s just all…” she waved her hands around in the air before slumping back into her chair.
“What did Henry Gaven want? Why did he come here?” Brock pressed.
Majory’s eyes darted around the surface of the table. “Malcolm’s handling it,” she said quietly.
“And where is your husband?” The inspector’s tone was harder now.
“I… I don’t know,” she choked on another sob.
“Mrs Paget, you need to start telling us what is going on right now or you'll need to come into the station for a more formal interrogation.”
Her head shot up, her expression one of shock.
“But the real reason you should tell us is for your husband's safety. He could be in danger.”
Her face now was full of fear. Poole was impressed with how Brock had managed to press the right buttons.
“Henry turned up here in the middle of the night on Friday,”
“What time exactly?”
“Around ten thirty,”
Hardly the middle of the night as far as Poole was concerned, but from his experience of the Pagets so far, he wasn't surprised it counted as a late night for them.
“Go on,” Brock said.
When she continued, she spat the words out angrily, “He was drunk! Prison hadn’t changed him, clearly. Coming back after what he'd done to this village and then drinking? He was throwing it in our faces.”
The inspector said nothing.
“Well,” Marjory continued, realising she had been showing a considerable amount of anger. "He was ranting and raving at first, not making any sense. He said that the accident wasn’t his fault and then started crying about Charlie.” She raised another tissue to her nose. “As if that’s going to do any good now! With Charlie and Charlotte both gone and poor Sandra as she is; he ruined all their lives.” She closed her eyes and said softly, “and ours.”
“Mrs Paget, where is your husband?”
Her teeth bit at her top lip. “Henry was saying all sorts of things, I’m sure he was just drunk, but…”
“But what?”
“He said that Charlotte didn’t…” she closed her eyes and took a deep breathe, steeling herself. “He said that she didn’t overdose, he said someone killed her.”
She looked up at the inspector, and Poole stared into her tear-filled eyes. He could see that she wanted it to be true. She wanted to believe that her daughter had been killed rather than had simply slipped back into a drug habit they had thought she had beaten.
“Did he say who? Provide any evidence for this?”
“He said someone would know, that we had to find out for ourselves.”
“And that’s where your husband has gone?”
She nodded with a small jerking movement. “He went to London, I don’t even know where he’s gone, I don’t think he even did. I’ve tried calling but his phone’s off.”
Brock sighed heavily and stood up. “We’ll look into it Mrs Paget, but the second your husband calls or arrives back home call us immediately. If there is anything to find, we’ll find it, but this isn’t a job for the public.”
She nodded.
“We’ll let ourselves out,” the inspector moved around to her side of the table and placed a hand on her shoulder for a moment before leaving.
Back outside, Brock threw another boiled sweet into his mouth before holding the bag out to Poole.
“No, thank you,” Poole said as they looked up and down the Main Street of the village, the breeze cool on their faces. There was rain in the air again.
“Let’s get back to the station,” he said as he looked up at the grey clouds above. “These four kids; Charlie, Henry, Charlotte and Sandra. Marjory Paget is right, their lives ruined, and the lives of those that loved them. For what? One night of recklessness? There has to be more to it than that. There has to be.”
As they climbed into the car and headed back towards Bexford, Poole couldn’t help wondering about the inspector’s desire to see more in all of this. That four young lives could be stopped so abruptly was an awful, shocking thing to believe and he seemed determined not to. Having something large, darker behind it all would at least mean that this kind of thing didn’t just happen, that it was the work of some ill mind.
Poole knew better. He knew that bad things did happen, they happened all the time. He had lived through them.
Poole glanced at the inspector as he fished out another sweet and stared back out of the window. He wondered for the first time if the inspector's thoughts were being skewed by the fact he and his wife were trying for a family.
Chapter Ten
Poole placed the phone back in its cradle and scribbled down some notes. He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at the back of his neck. He had been hunched over his laptop and phone for two hours now, but it had been worth it. He grabbed his mobile from his desk and tapped out a message to the inspector. He had been told to text when he had something worth talking about before Brock had vanished on whatever errands he had.
He slipped his notebook into his jacket pocket and stood up from the small desk, stretching his stiff limbs before opening the door onto the hallway.
At the same time as he stepped out, the door on the opposite side opened and Anderson appeared with a man Poole hadn’t seen before. Anderson’s lip curled into a sneer at one end of his mouth at the sight of him, but he said nothing. Instead he turned towards the door into the main office and opened it before stopping as the man behind him spoke.
“You must be Brock’s new man,” he said in a voice that sounded like a military general from a carry on film. He had dark grey hair and a moustache that looked like someone had stuck a square of card to his top lip.
“Sergeant Poole,” he replied, offering his hand. The man shook it with two firm shakes before letting go.
“Inspector Sharp. Anderson here tells me that you’re responsible for my coffee taking a long time the other day?” One eyebrow rose to seemingly indicate this was a slightly shocking occurrence. “Don’t let it happen again now, eh?” he said turning towards the door where Anderson, who had been hovering with his hand over the door handle, was now smirking.
Poole followed them into the office and then watched them leave through the far door which led into reception.
“Everybody’s favourite those two,” a voice came from beside him. He turned to see Sanita Sanders stood at the photocopier which sat to the right of the doorway.
“Afternoon, Constable,” he said rather primly. He instantly regretting the formality of the greeting and tried to rectify it. “What’s Inspector Sharp like?” he asked, trying to broach a more normal tone.
“Oh, he’s ok, a bit old fashioned, but I think he means well.”
“Unlike his sergeant, eh?” Poole immediately c
ursed himself mentally. Yes, Anderson was clearly a bully and a thug, but he was a colleague and above her rank. Why did he feel the need to put him down to Constable Sanders? It was unprofessional.
“I’m sorry Constable Sanders, I shouldn’t have said that. Sergeant Anderson is your superior.”
“I think the problem is he’s a little too superior,” Sanders said smirking. Poole couldn’t help but laugh. There was something about her soft Yorkshire accent that seemed to disarm him. Cutting away at the self imposed barriers he had spent so much time carefully erecting.
“Do you want to get a coffee, Constable? You can fill me in on some background here at the station?”
“Yes sir,” she said smiling. She turned towards the canteen and Poole followed in a bit of a daze.
He had heard the words before he had realised they were coming from his mouth. Of all the things he had considered doing in his first week at the job, asking beautiful constables to have a coffee with him was not on the list.
No, he told himself. This was appropriate. This was the kind of environment that the inspector wanted. He clearly often sat for breakfast with the constables, he had done it that morning. There was no ulterior motive here, only good team building.
As they poured their coffees in turn from the machine, he felt as though the eyes of four or five people who were dotted around the canteen were fixed on them. The back of his neck prickled with heat as he imagined the rumours of the new sergeant and the pretty constable floating round the station. He looked up as they turned back towards the room and felt foolish when he saw no one was looking.
“So what do you want to know, Sir?” Sanders said as they sat at a nearby table.
“How long have you worked here?”
“I came down a year ago,” she said. “I didn’t fancy working in the area I grew up, I’d have been arresting too many school friends!” She smiled and Poole returned it.
“And you like it here?”
“Love it,” she said taking a sip of coffee. “Bexford might not have as much going on as Sheffield, but it’s so beautiful, and of course it has Sal’s…”
“Oh don’t, I’ve been thinking about the sandwich I had there all day!” Poole said laughing.
“Ah, the inspector’s taken you there already then? Incredible isn’t it?”
“The best,” Poole said beaming. There was a pause in conversation as they both sipped at their coffee. Poole was surprised how at ease he felt with her. Even the small voice which had been shouting in the back of his mind that she was a junior officer and that he should just walk away had quietened down.
“I heard that you discovered the murder site?” she said, leaning forward and placing her elbows on the table top.
“A lucky catch, I just noticed the wheel tracks in the mud and followed them.”
“Davies thinks you’re some kind of super sleuth, I think Sherlock Holmes was mentioned.”
Poole looked at her mischievous smile and chuckled.
“All that means is Davies is easily impressed.”
“Ha! You can say that again, he’s like a puppy finding everything in the world exciting.” She looked down at her cup as she wrapped her hands around it. “This time though I think he might have been at least partly right.”
Poole felt a rush of panic and excitement rush through his chest. What did she mean by that?
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to see the inspector’s name lit up across the screen. “Sir?” he said, answering.
“Time for a quick recap and then call it a day Poole, I’m outside.” The call clicked off abruptly.
“Got to go,” he said standing. “Good talking to you, Sanders.”
“You too, Sir,” she said. They smiled at each other for a moment before he turned and headed towards the exit feeling at least two inches taller.
Poole stepped out into the carpark and looked around. There was no sign of the inspector anywhere. He was about to head out towards the main road on the far side of the tarmac when the familiar booming voice came from his left.
“Over here, Poole,” Brock called. He turned to see him sat on a low metal barrier which ran along the edge of the carpark to the side of the station building.
He was smoking a cigarette which he held between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, its glowing tip facing in towards his palm as though he was hiding it.
“You’re my right-hand man here now, Poole,” he said standing up as Poole arrived and headed along the metal barrier and away from the station. “And as such I expect your first loyalty to lie with me.”
“Yes, Sir,” Poole answered, confused about where all of this was going.
“Good, well the first test of your loyalty comes right now.”
Poole braced himself, his mind racing. Was this some kind of initiation? Was there some kind of corruption at the station that Brock was trying to wheedle out and he needed Poole onside?
“Under no circumstances are you to tell anyone that I am smoking this cigarette and I expect this discretion to extend to the next three or four that I am almost certainly going to smoke before the evening is over. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir,” Poole answered, feeling slightly disappointed and relieved at the same time. “Who exactly would I tell though, Sir?”
“My wife for one thing, any of the constables… oh I don’t know, just don’t tell anyone and we’ll be ok.”
“Yes sir,” Poole answered again. He considered the likelihood of being interrogated by Brock’s wife to be fairly remote bearing in mind he had never met her. Particularly as she was abroad at the moment. He decided to let it slide.
“I’ve got some info on the case, Sir,” he said, trying to turn the conversation to more familiar waters.
“All in good time, Poole. I’ve taken you to Sal’s, now it’s time to take you to the second best kept secret in Bexford.”
They walked on in silence. Poole was under the impression that the inspector was not in the mood for chitchat. In any case, his thoughts were easily turned to Constable Sanders.
For ten minutes they passed through narrow lanes that seemed to lean inwards, blocking what light was left in the darkening sky. Eventually they reached a short long building with walls leaning to one side as though drunk. A faded green sign hung over the door and two large bay windows which covered the front of the building. It read ‘The Mop & Bucket’.
They entered through the low beamed door and Brock pointed to an archway on the left. “Go and find a table, I’ll get the first lot in.”
Poole did as instructed, choosing a table for two in the corner next to a stained orange table lamp that sat on one of the large windows. The place seemed to be padded everywhere. The benches, the chairs, even the walls were covered with large sheets of thick material that had been stuffed with something or other, making them bulge. It smelt of stale beer and dust, but the place seemed busy. The maze of small booths, nooks and crannies which lined the walls were mostly full, though the lighting was so dim it was hard to tell. The amount of soft material in the place gave a dampened quality to the sound of people’s voices which put Poole in mind of the awful amateur dramatics his mother would drag him to at the theatre.
"Now," said the inspector arriving back with two pints of an amber coloured beer which he sat in front of them reverentially. "This is called Bexford Gold."
"Looks very nice, Sir,” Poole said, picking up the glass.
"Whoa, whoa!" Brock waved his hand at Poole instructing him to lower the glass. "This isn't stuff you just throw down your neck like any cheap beer you might find in the supermarket. This is something to savour. Smell it."
"Um..."
"Just smell it, Poole,"
Poole took the glass and raised it to his nose. "Smells a bit..." he sniffed again, "nutty."
Brock broke into a slow smile. "It is! Right, come on, have a sip."
Poole raised the glass slowly. He realised the response he was expected to give and so
had prepared himself to fake enjoyment, but as soon as the liquid touched his lips he realised he wouldn't have to. It was nutty, but there was much more. The flavour of caramel, chocolate and hops exploded in his mouth.
"Wow, that is good," he said taking another sip.
"I know," Brock said. "They brew it right here on the premises, best pint in the country if I'm any judge. Right, what have you found out about Charlotte Paget's death?”
Poole pulled his notebook from his pocket and laid it on the scratched table.
“There’s an organisation called Next Steps. Apparently it’s some kind of group therapy where people get together to talk about the issues which led to their addictions.”
“And Charlotte was in this group?”
“She was, for a full year.”
“A year? Doesn’t sound like it’s much good to me then,” Brock said taking another huge swig. Poole noticed that he was already halfway through his drink and sipped at his again quickly.
“Actually, it sounds like it was working. She had been clean for six months and had become one of the mentors there that helped new members.” He looked up to see Brock’s large brow furrowed in thought.
“Interesting. So this must have been some relapse she had?”
“If she had one… the pathologist I spoke to sent her report over. It confirms that there were no signs of recent drug use other than the one that proved fatal and one other that was recent. No needle marks other than that apart from some old scarring. Bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?”
“It is, and I don’t like it,” the inspector answered. “Henry Gaven goes out and gets drunk, then he drives home and mows down his best friend on the village green. He goes to jail. A little while later Charlotte Paget dies from an overdose despite being apparently recovered from her drug addiction. Then, Henry gets released from prison and is murdered within a week. The only person alive from the four friends is Sandra Hook, who seems at least a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“You think she might have had something to do with this?” Poole asked.
An Occupied Grave Page 10