The Unquiet Grave (13 page)

Brook was solemn. Mr and Mrs Stanforth had buried two of their three children – the unspoken dread of all parents. Worse, they had both died on their shared birthday, five years apart. Brook’s thoughts drifted to his daughter, Terri. It was against nature to outlive your offspring. They were the future. They carried the torch forward when you fell. Brook resolved to ring Terri to arrange a visit at the earliest opportunity.

He gazed again at the group photographs from the party – all those happy smiling faces just hours before tragedy had struck.

Correction: assuming Billy’s killing had not been spur-of-the-moment, maybe one of them was not happy, maybe one of them was harbouring murder in their heart. Yet, apart from Mr and Mrs Stanforth, all the suspects were children. Today, though still horrifying, thirteen year olds committing murder was all too plausible. In the sixties, the idea would have been greeted with shock and disbelief.

Brook’s pen hovered above the notebook. With a sudden shake of the head, he tossed both aside.
Interesting case but see it for what it is, Damen – bureaucratic form-filling.

He looked once more at the three group pictures on the display board on his dingy wall then at Billy Stanforth’s grinning, leering face. ‘Sorry, Billy,’ he said. ‘I’m sure better men than I have tried to give you justice.’ He shook his now empty flask, hauled himself up and stepped wearily into the corridor.

He knocked on Copeland’s door and marched in without waiting for a reply. He caught the tail end of Copeland’s arm moving to cover something on the table. Under his arm Brook could see the spine of a folder much newer than the ones he’d been handed.

‘I’m just going to get a tea from the vending machine,’ said Brook. He eyed Copeland, his arm still held self-consciously across the folder, although his demeanour tried to convince Brook that his position was natural. ‘Want one?’

Copeland glanced beyond Brook to the far corner of his room and Brook followed his gaze to a kettle, a packet of tea bags and a carton of milk that he hadn’t spotted earlier when Charlton had brought him down to meet his new colleague.

‘Help yourself,’ said Copeland. ‘I get through about twelve cups a day. You don’t want to be drinking filth out of a vending machine.’

‘That’s why I bring a flask,’ answered Brook. ‘But I’m empty.’

‘Boredom,’ said Copeland. ‘Pointless denying it,’ he added, when Brook began to prepare a rebuttal. ‘It’s the nature of the beast – sitting around in grimy rooms reading ancient history makes you thirsty.’

‘But you get used to it.’

‘Give it a few months,’ Copeland replied.

‘God forbid,’ said Brook before he could stop himself. He glanced at the single picture frame on Copeland’s desk. A string of rosary beads was draped over it. Brook edged round to see the photograph’s subject but couldn’t get a good angle without going to stand beside Copeland. ‘You’ve cracked one of these cases without DNA, you said.’

‘I wouldn’t do the job otherwise,’ replied Copeland.

‘How does that work?’

‘Like I said, sometimes a killer forgets what lies he’s told and gives himself away or an eyewitness remembers some apparently unimportant detail.’

‘Deathbed confessions?’ suggested Brook.

‘That can happen as well and it’s good to get closure but it doesn’t count as a win,’ said Copeland. ‘To chalk up a result, there has to be some notion that the doer faces earthly justice as a result of our inquiries.’

‘Earthly justice?’ said Brook, glancing again at the rosary. He tried to keep the cynicism out of his voice. ‘You mean, before God has his say.’

Copeland’s answering smile was thin. ‘You’re not a religious man, I think.’ Brook declined to answer. ‘Nor was I, once. Not until. . .’ Copeland halted, before smiling more effusively. ‘There comes a point in every man’s life when he realises he has to make amends.’ He glanced sadly at the picture on his desk before closing his eyes to remember.

‘Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done.’

Brook studied him briefly. ‘Tennyson.’

Copeland looked up in surprise. ‘You know “Ulysses”. I’m impressed.’

Brook raided his own memory.

‘Come, my friends,

’Tis not too late to seek a newer world.’

‘They said you were bright,’ said Copeland softly. ‘Too bright to believe in God?’

‘It’s not that,’ said Brook. ‘I was raised a Catholic.’

‘What then?’

Brook wasn’t sure he wanted to be drawn into a theological discussion. ‘Like Tennyson, I believe redemption has to be earned in life. Religion condones the worst sinners performing appalling acts by allowing them to wipe the slate clean with one act of contrition, one deathbed confession.’

‘So you don’t believe in forgiveness,’ said Copeland.

‘Not from a third party,’ said Brook. ‘We can forgive ourselves once redemption is earned through deeds, not mumbling a few words at a priest as you slip away.’

‘My God,’ said Copeland. ‘What happened to harden your heart against us poor sinners?’ He smiled at Brook. ‘Or was it something you did?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The worst poachers make the best gamekeepers, Brook.’

‘Do they?’

‘And have you?’ asked Copeland, a thin smile on his lips.

‘Have I what?’ inquired Brook.

‘Forgiven yourself.’

Brook was uncomfortable but held Copeland’s gaze. ‘Have any of us?’

Copeland blinked and his eyes flicked towards the photograph on his desk, before returning to Brook, a tentative smile appearing on his face. ‘Help yourself to tea whenever you like, Brook.’

‘Tomorrow perhaps.’ Brook turned to the door, glad to be leaving. ‘I didn’t bring a mug. Besides, I need to see daylight at least once before I go back to my dungeon.’

‘They’re not the best rooms, are they?’ said Copeland. ‘Not a lot of money floating around the budget for this kind of work.’

‘Not a lot of staff either,’ said Brook.

‘Don’t tell me you’re missing the warmth of human companionship,’ mocked Copeland. ‘I was told you were a loner.’

‘I’m used to having a partner to throw ideas at.’

‘You mean a dogsbody to show off to,’ grinned Copeland. ‘Don’t deny it, Brook. I was a DCI. I know how much ego can influence the clear-up. It’s pointless having skills if there’s no one around to appreciate them.’

Brook threw another discreet glance at the folder under Copeland’s arm and left the room.

Ten

Brook sipped his bitter tea in the car park, determined to enjoy the cold fresh air and fading daylight in spite of the gunmetal sky and dipping temperature. He was unaware of the two men, one a photographer with a telescopic lens at the perimeter fence, the other, a small rotund man grinning maliciously as he pointed at Brook. The cameraman responded by training his camera on the DI as he drained his cup and turned to walk back into the building, oblivious to the scrutiny he was under.

Noble walked round the corner, lighting a cigarette in a cupped hand. ‘Three times in one day.’ He smiled. ‘You might as well have kept your old office.’

‘I wish,’ retorted Brook.

‘How goes it?’

‘It’s like being in prison,’ said Brook, repeating his earlier grumble to Copeland.

‘You’ll get used to it. Cigarette?’ asked Noble, making no move to produce the packet.

‘I’ve given up, John. For good this time.’

‘It won’t last,’ retorted a grinning Noble. ‘And it’s expensive for me from the day you’re smoking again until the day you
accept
you’re smoking again.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ replied Brook. He crushed his plastic beaker and set off back into the building. Before he was out of sight, he turned back to Noble. ‘By the way, John, a word to the wise. Expect a visit from Copeland soon.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Noble. ‘I’ve already spoken to him. I bigged you up, good and proper.’

Brook closed his eyes in pain. ‘Meaning?’

Having found his target, Noble grinned again. ‘I gave you a glowing testimonial – nearly had
myself
in tears, I can tell you.’

‘That’s nice but he won’t be asking about that.’

‘Oh?’

‘I think he’s looking over the Wallis and Ingham files.’

‘He’s re-opening the Reaper killings?’ said Noble, suddenly animated. ‘Those are our cases. At least the Derby murders.’

Brook shrugged. ‘They’re unsolved. That’s what he does.’

‘And he had the brass neck to tell you he was looking.’

‘Not exactly. I went in to speak to him and he covered up the file he was looking at.’

‘Then how do you know it was the Reaper file?’ asked Noble. ‘Maybe he was looking over his sister’s murder again, like Rob said.’

‘Possible, but the file looked too new for that. Besides, why hide it unless he was embarrassed?’

‘He might be embarrassed looking over a file that’s personal to him.’

Brook conceded with a gesture. ‘You could be right. But best to be forewarned.’

‘Makes no difference,’ said Noble. ‘He can look all he wants; he won’t find anything at our end. We did everything we could and we did it by the book.’ Remembering Brook’s recent suspension, Noble’s eyes betrayed a glimpse of doubt. ‘Didn’t we?’

Brook’s answer didn’t reassure. ‘I think so.’

‘You don’t sound convinced,’ observed Noble. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’

Brook smiled. ‘Just be aware. There’s often something on a case you don’t see because you’re too close.’

He shivered as he walked through the front entrance to be greeted by the sight of Sergeant Hendrickson, leaning on the front desk, grinning at him like a Cheshire Cat.

‘Sergeant,’ said Brook icily, avoiding his eye and hurrying his step towards the lifts.

‘Inspector,’ replied Hendrickson. ‘We thought you’d retired,’ he shouted gleefully at Brook’s retreating frame.

Brook’s pace didn’t slacken and he pushed through the double doors a second later.

‘Still, not long now,’ muttered a chuckling Hendrickson. ‘And seeing you about to get royally fucked over is just as good, mental boy.’

Brook headed back down the stairs to the basement, a feeling of gloom growing with each step of his descent. Winter was here and the days were too cold and dark to sit in his cottage garden when he got home from work. Worse, what little daylight on offer at work was being denied him. It wouldn’t have concerned a younger Brook, but advancing age brought with it the instinctual dread of winter’s cold embrace that he’d once observed with bemusement in the elderly.

He opened the door to his bare office and slumped down, at least able to draw a measure of comfort from a familiar chair. He resisted picking another cold case file from the trolley and spent the rest of the afternoon searching the usual sites to confirm the continued well-being and last known addresses of the remaining living witnesses in the Stanforth murder. By the end of the afternoon, Brook had a list which included ex-DI Walter Laird, now in his seventies, Edward Mullen, Edna Spencer and Amelia Stanforth.

His final search was for Brendan McCleary. It proved more difficult as there seemed to be large gaps in his National Insurance and tax records, which usually meant one thing.

‘Prison,’ muttered Brook. He yawned and looked at his watch. It was nearly five. Not a long day by his standards but he’d hardly slept the night before and felt close to exhaustion when he left the office and trotted out to the darkened car park with his laptop and empty flask.

‘Good first day back, Inspector?’

Brook turned from unlocking his car to see the squat figure of Brian Burton grinning at him from behind the safety of another vehicle. He prepared an insult but kept it to himself when he saw the recorder in Burton’s hand.

‘You’ve just missed me, Brian,’ said Brook, opening the car door. ‘I left two minutes ago.’

‘Same old Brook, too arrogant to say a few words to the local taxpayers,’ commented Burton with a sneer.

‘Where’s the photographer you usually hide behind, Brian?’ said Brook.

Burton could scarcely contain his glee. ‘He’s back at the paper looking through the shots we got of you this afternoon, loafing around in the car park while there’s a kid missing. Good story that.’

Brook paused then stepped away from the car. ‘That’s a story? I’m not even on that case.’

‘Everyone’s on that case,’ insisted Burton. ‘Everyone who cares, at least.’

Brook was speechless for a moment. ‘This is harassment. We have laws.’

Burton clicked off the recorder for a moment. ‘Harassment, my arse. I’ll let my readers decide. They have a right to know how you spend your time and they’d like to know how you’ve got the nerve to draw your pay sitting on your backside at home for five months.’ Burton clicked the recorder back on, hoping for an indiscretion, an insult, possibly even an assault. ‘Still no comment,
Inspector
Brook?’

Brook felt his fist tighten and his mind unconsciously plotted the optimum route to his prey. A second later, he had control. ‘I spent part of that time in hospital because I was injured on duty, protecting the people of Derby.’

‘You were fucking suspended as well.’ Burton’s smirk afforded a glimpse of yellow teeth. ‘It’s a matter of record. But never mind,’ he said, clicking off the recorder. ‘I’m sure I can think of something better for you to say.’

‘You do that,’ said Brook. ‘And while you’re composing our fictional chat, Brian, think about what
you
do for the good of this city – that is, apart from pressuring vulnerable people to commit suicide.’

Burton’s grin faded and Brook returned to the driver’s seat and drove away.

When Brook reached the village of Kirk Langley he pulled off the A52 on to Moor Lane and slowed to a crawl looking for the Stanforth house in the dark. Amelia Stanforth had never married and had lived her entire life in her parents’ house – the same home, overlooking the same garden, where her younger brother had perished in an unexplained fire. Brook found it hard to imagine living nearly fifty years within sight of the spot where a loved one had died. Unless, of course, Billy Stanforth wasn’t as loved as a younger brother ought to be and Amelia had stayed out of a warped sense of guilt.