An Occupied Grave

by A. G. Barnett

  Brock moved between them. “Mr Poole, I think you should leave.”

  “Oh, do you? So you’re the new surrogate dad are you?”

  “No, I’m his new bloody boss and I’ll have half of the police in Addervale down on your back if I catch you within one hundred yards of this man,” Brock snarled.

  Jack Poole’s eyes narrowed, though the smile stayed fixed on his face. Movement from behind the group made them turn to see two men who had positioned themselves on the pavement in front of them. Brock stared at them for a moment before turning back to Jack Poole.

  “Well,” Jack said, his eyes fixed on Poole who was still staring at him, his mouth hanging slightly open. “If you’re my son’s boss then I best not get on the wrong side of you, eh?”

  He stepped towards Brock who stiffened, and extended his hand. Brock glanced at Poole before exhaling through his nose and shaking Jack’s hand firmly.

  “Very nice to meet you, Inspector Brock,” Jack said. I plan to settle down around here, so I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.” He turned to Guy. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, Guy,” his face softened. “But I know it’s going to take time. I just wanted you to know that I’m back. The ball’s in your court now.” He gave him a small, pained smile and then walked past them and carried on down the street, the men who had been standing there falling in step behind him.

  Guy pulled his phone from his pocket, his hands shaking.

  “Mum?” he said as his call was answered, his voice desperate.

  “Guy? What’s wrong?”

  “Are you OK?”

  “Of course I am, what’s happened?” She sounded panicked now.

  “I saw him mum. I saw dad.”

  Brock had insisted that they still go to the pub and so they had swung by Poole’s flat and picked his mother up along the way.

  “I’m telling you, alcohol is the best thing for a shock,” the inspector was saying as he leaned on the bar of The Mop & Bucket waiting for their drinks.

  “You think alcohol is the best thing for everything,” Laura said, her eyes rolling.

  “Well I for one appreciate it,” Jenny Poole said, her eyes glassy from the tears she had shed while waiting, alone, for Guy to reach her. She had recovered now and had a light smile on her lips. “I have to say that I feel like I need a bloody good drink.”

  “Well I’ll drink to that,” Laura said. “And don’t worry, these are on Sam, and…” she said, her voice rising to cover his protests, “we’ll pay for a taxi home for everyone.”

  Brock huffed but said nothing.

  They settled around the table that Poole had sat on with Sanita and the others from the station previously. An awkward silence spread about them as though no one knew whether to talk about what had happened or not.

  “So,” Laura said breaking the ice. “What do you do, Jenny?”

  “I run an eBay shop selling crystals, good luck charms, essential oils, things like that.”

  “Oh, you’d love this new exhibit we’ve got at the museum. It’s full of African folk art and loads of it is about spiritual healing.”

  Poole watched his mother’s eyes light up as she enthusiastically got stuck into the subject. He caught Brock smiling at him.

  “Not the traditional celebratory case-closed pint,” he said leaning across the table to him. “But do you know, I’ve found that even when you win it often doesn’t feel like it.”

  Poole nodded. “I know what you mean, Sir.”

  “The good thing is,” Brock continued, smiling. “There’s always the mystery of what’s coming next isn’t there?” He nodded over Poole’s shoulder. He turned to see Constable Sanita Sanders enter the pub with the others for the station. She saw them and waved before moving to the bar.

  Poole turned back grinning and tried to bury his blush in his pint glass.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was three whole days before they could properly question Sandra Hooke. She had been treated for Jimson weed poisoning which had apparently been administered in the vicar’s herbal tea, probably for years.

  The psychiatric evaluations had indicated that there would be a long road to recovery.

  She sat now in the small interview room with a lawyer on one side and a psychiatrist on the other and fiddled nervously with the tissue in her hand.

  “Sandra, we need to know what happened the night Charlie Lake died. The truth,” Brock said softly.

  She bit her bottom lip hard. Poole could see that this was a habit these days, it was red raw.

  “Charlie didn’t really fit in with the rest of us,” she said in a small voice. “We were all young, experimenting, but he didn’t want any part of that. Charlotte would take anything under the sun to get herself high. It was like, the more tame her parents were, the wilder she was. Henry was obsessed with her.” She swallowed and tore the tissue into small strips. “And I liked Henry.” She shook her head violently. “It was all just such a mess. That night we fell out in The Bell. Charlie was giving us his usual speech about how we shouldn’t be so reckless. We all told him to sod off and went out.”

  She raised her head, her eyes closed, and took a deep breath.

  “We were out in Bexford until late, drinking and egging each other on until we were smashed. Charlotte was completely out of it. She started saying we should teach Charlie a lesson, scare him. We called him and told him he should sneak out and meet us on the green. We all thought it was hilarious.” Her voice caught in the back of her throat and she took the small cup of water in front of her and sipped at it.

  “I was driving. Henry and Charlotte said I was the most sober so I had to. We were going to scare Charlie, just scare him,” she said. Her voice was flat now, as though her mind had switched off and her voice was working automatically.

  “He was there on the green and I headed for him. I can remember his face. He wasn’t scared, he just looked annoyed. He knew it was all just a joke. I think that’s what annoyed Charlotte. That he wasn’t scared. She leaned over and grabbed the wheel and I couldn’t turn away and then.” She broke off and looked down at the tissue which had now been shredded.

  “Charlotte ran off home. Henry and I didn’t know what to do. So we went to dad. He convinced Henry to say he’d been driving.” She looked up at Brock sharply. “Do you know who David Lake is?”

  Brock nodded. “We do.”

  “Well then you’ll know why dad was trying to protect me. He knew what David would do to whoever killed his son. Henry knew his gran would be screwed if she lost her cottage and dad could kick her out if he wanted. Dad said he’d look after her, make sure she had the best care. Henry gave in.” She paused and stirred the scraps of tissue with her finger. “I think he did it for me as much as anything,” she said quietly.

  “Wasn’t your dad worried that Henry would say something?”

  “He visited Henry all the time, told him how his mum was. I think he thought David Lake would have him killed somehow, but he never did.”

  “Did David Lake ever threaten you?” Brock said.

  She shook her head. “He came to see me not long afterwards, but he saw I was unwell…” she paused again and frowned. “I think he preferred to see me suffer like that.”

  “And can you remember what happened when Henry was released?”

  She shook her head. “He was angry, he came to the house, ranting. Said dad had killed Edie. I went back out later to find him and I saw him on the green but he sent me away. I, I don’t know,” she said shaking her head again.

  “I think we might have had enough for now,” the psychiatrist said, giving a stern look to the inspector.

  “One more question,” Brock said. “Malcolm Paget.”

  “He was shouting about the crowbar dad had. He, he hit him with it and we had to move him. I…”

  “I really think this is enough,” the psychiatrist said standing up. Brock nodded as Sandra Hooke shook in front of them, her eyes staring at the wall.

&n
bsp; A few minutes later, Brock and Poole were back in their office.

  “If Edie Gaven hadn’t died when she did, then maybe all of this wouldn’t have happened,” Poole said, leaning back in his chair.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Brock said placing his hands behind his head. “Did you know that pneumonia is catching Poole?”

  “Catching? No, I didn’t sir.”

  “The vicar was volunteering at the hospital and apparently in the week before Edie was admitted, had been attending an elderly gentleman who had pneumonia.”

  “Are you suggesting he might have deliberately infected Edie?!” Poole said, sitting up straight.

  “Who knows?” Brock answered. “But maybe he thought Henry would tell his gran the truth once he got out of prison?”

  Poole sighed tying to take this in.

  “Have you heard anything else from your dad?” Brock asked, catching Poole by surprise. He felt the familiar iron ball in his stomach that appeared every time he thought of his father.

  “No,” he answered.

  “Good,” Brock said standing up and clapping his hands together. “How about we go and get a sandwich at Sal’s?”

  Poole grinned. “Sounds good.”

  Brock passed him his coat from the stand and put his own before pointing one large finger at Poole. “Just don’t tell Laura.”

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