The Unquiet Grave (3 page)

‘But—’

‘Enough!’ shouted Laird. ‘Now get yourself away from here before I have you escorted away.’

Bannon’s expression was dismayed. ‘You’d do that to your old guv’nor?’

Laird stared at him, his jaw set.

Bannon nodded unhappily before turning to stumble away. ‘All right, Wally. But you’ll see,’ he muttered over a shoulder. ‘You’ll see I’m right.’

When Bannon was fifty yards away, Laird turned back to the crime scene.

‘Guv?’ ventured Copeland.

‘Don’t ask,’ ordered Laird.

Two

Sunday, 22 December 1963 – Kirk Langley, Derby

‘Say cheese, everyone.’ Bert Stanforth squinted at the group through the viewfinder of his shiny new Kodak Instamatic 100, one leg kneeling on the carpet.

‘Cheese!’ screamed the assembled youngsters. The noise was cacophonous and the children – grinning, gurning and gap-toothed – clung to each other, many off balance in contortions only young bodies could allow, their hands clutching at friends’ garments for ballast.

Stanforth tried to hurry as every second that elapsed increased the certainty of chaos, inevitable when the young are invited to be still.

‘Hang on.’ Stanforth lowered the small camera from his face and looked at the flash cube before making an adjustment. He smiled apologetically at the assembly. This was his first ever camera, specially purchased for the occasion, and his discomfort with the technology was evident.

‘Ready this time. Cheese!’

‘Cheese!’

Awaiting the flash, the youngsters wriggled like eels against the confinement of proximity, some leaning on a quivering leg, kept upright by other bodies as they leaned towards birthday boy Billy Stanforth, arm in arm with best friend Teddy Mullen, at the centre of shot. Others grinned shyly, hiding their bashfulness behind the shoulders of friends while Charlotte Dilkes just stared dreamily at Billy, her features wreathed in adoration.

Party hats, made from yesterday’s newspaper, fell to the floor or were grabbed and held to the head, causing further commotion. Others, boys in particular, railed against being demoted to the back row and pushed down on the front row’s shoulders, straining to be centre stage in this pictorial record of William Stanforth’s thirteenth birthday.

‘I’m Hillary on top of Everest,’ shouted one boy, raising his head above the rest.

‘And I’m Sherpa Ten Pin,’ shouted another, trying to join him on the backs of others.

‘Just a minute,’ tutted Bert Stanforth, checking the flash again. The noise amongst his subjects ramped up further.

‘Hurry up, Bert,’ said his wife from the kitchen doorway, from where the delicious smell of baking sausage rolls wafted. ‘The kids are starving.’

‘OK, this time,’ shouted Stanforth. ‘Cheese.’

‘Cheese!’ screamed the young voices, even louder than before.

To one side of the scrum of giggling kids stood Billy’s elder sister, fifteen-year-old Amelia, looking on indulgently at the squirming mass of youth, urging her father to take the photograph. Her lips-only smile tightened when she glanced at the grandfather clock, her mood darkening with every second of captivity.

Take the flipping picture, will you, Dad? Brendan will be waiting for me.

She looked round at her escape route but it was blocked by her mother, smiling happily, her hands habitually hidden in a crumpled tea towel. Ruth Stanforth was a plump woman in her late forties. Her only respite from delivering and raising three children was standing in front of a stove cooking the meat her husband brought home from his butcher’s shop. The constant standing, combined with the protein-rich diet, had made her legs fatter at the ankle than the calf.

Amelia caught her mother’s eye and was forced to fake joy for the second it took to turn away in frustration.

He won’t wait if I’m late and then what? The rest of the day babysitting these flipping nippers
. She gulped back her emotions.
I’m losing him. Plenty of girls after my Bren. He won’t wait. And he won’t come up to the house to see me. Not after Dad sent him packing that time.

‘You’re not to speak to that young man again, Amelia,’ he’d said. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

Amelia shuddered at the memory of her father’s tone and the subsequent overheard conversation with her mum.

‘That Brendan’s a wrong ’un, Mother.’

‘But Bert, she’s nearly sixteen and old enough to live her own life,’ her mum had replied.

‘She’s not sixteen yet.’

‘But Bert—’

‘Not while she’s under my roof, Mother. Not with him. The McClearys are criminals, no-good gypsies. Walter Laird tells me young Brendan is already on their radar for thieving.’

‘I know he’s a bit wild, Bert, but he’s only young.’

‘He’s seventeen, Mother, and Walter says he smokes and drinks and God knows what else. Do you want your daughter ending up in the family way like that trollop Vivienne what’s-her-name down in the village?’

Amelia tried not to scowl at her father, his face hidden behind the camera.
Have you never been in love, Dad? If so, you wouldn’t make me suffer like this, forbidding me from seeing my Brendan.
Forbidden love. Amelia knew about that. She’d been close to tears during a reading of
Romeo and Juliet
last month. According to her Lit teacher, Romeo’s lover was even younger than she was and yet, barely old enough to have her monthly cycle, Juliet had allowed nothing, not even death, to come between her and the boy she loved.

Amelia looked again at the clock, ticking down to her sixteenth birthday as well as her rendezvous in Kirk Langley. In a few short weeks she’d be a woman. Then there’d be no good reason to resist Brendan’s coaxing. If only she could keep him happy until then. Already her young body ached, physically ached, to be near him and, once enfolded in his strong arms, Amelia Stanforth had felt temptation stirring within her. She loved Brendan and, before she’d let him put his hands under her jumper, Brendan had been forced to confess his love in return.

Once she would have felt dirty but not any more. Temptation was in the Bible. She’d learned that in RE. Only a week ago, they’d studied the story of Adam and Eve and their encounter with the serpent in the Garden of Eden. And although the teacher had explained their fall from grace with thin-lipped disgust, Amelia had begun to understand their folly in a way that Sister Assumpta would never be able to appreciate if she taught the subject until she was a hundred.

Amelia glanced at the clock again. Her eye was taken by her younger sister, standing beside her at the end of the front row. Billy’s twin, Francesca, was the only child not grinning or fidgeting with impatience at their father’s incompetence. Instead she looked coolly at Amelia’s private smile of anticipation and leaned over to her. ‘Missing Brendan, I bet.’ Amelia blanched at her sister’s taunt. ‘Well, he’s not missing you.’

‘Shut up,’ whispered Amelia.

‘Was that his new dolly bird earlier?’ murmured Francesca, out of the side of her mouth.

Amelia turned to her, face like thunder. ‘I said shut up, Fran.’

‘Nearer my age than yours, the dirty old man,’ continued Francesca, under her breath.

The sudden explosion of the camera caused a whoop of excitement and rubbing of eyes before the roiling mass of young bodies attempted disentanglement.

‘OK. One more,’ joked Bert Stanforth, unleashing a chorus of protest. He laughed as he wound on the film. ‘Just kidding.’

‘Brendan loves me,’ insisted Amelia to her sister’s leering face. ‘It’s Billy’s birthday. Better not start a barney, Fran.’

The grin on Fran’s face disappeared and she turned white. ‘It’s my birthday too,’ she spat.

Amelia grinned, sensing swift retaliation. She looked round with mock interest. ‘So tell me, sis. Which of these nippers are
your
friends? Oh, wait a minute. None of them. You haven’t got any.’

Mrs Stanforth reappeared at the kitchen door, tea towel in hand once more. She smiled maternally at the assembled party. The feast was ready. Ham sandwiches with the thinnest scrape of butter, homemade egg and bacon tart, sausage rolls, tinned peaches and Carnation milk to follow, topped off by trifle and a plate of Jammie Dodgers for those keen to force as much of heaven’s bounty down their throats as they could manage.

‘Go through to the dining room and help yourself to cordial, children,’ she said to an answering hoot of pleasure. ‘I’ll bring in the food.’

‘Let’s eat,’ said Mr Stanforth, ushering the eager mass of youth towards the dining room with its brand-new, extended drop-leaf table and borrowed chairs. ‘Make sure your hands are clean,’ he chided, as he shooed them along.

‘Want to sit next to me, Billy?’ breathed Charlotte Dilkes, grinning bashfully at Billy.

‘No, thanks,’ replied Billy, brushing abruptly past her scrawny frame. Teddy Mullen, cruising in Billy’s wake, smiled cruelly at her and she gulped back a tear before sullenly following the others into the dining room.

The hall was nearly empty and Amelia waited for her father’s back to turn before sidling towards the door.

‘Where are you going, Amelia?’ called Francesca, a malicious grin returning to her features.

Bert Stanforth turned to see Amelia’s retreating frame. ‘Amelia?’

Amelia turned, a pallid smile fixed to her face. ‘Going to round up the strays, Dad.’

‘But the gang’s all here,’ beamed Mr Stanforth. ‘Come on, give us a hand.’

Amelia dutifully followed him to the dining room, glancing fiercely at Francesca as she passed.

Amelia stood in the lean-to conservatory at the side of the house, occasionally looking out into the dark windy countryside. Through the rattling windows, she hoped to catch sight of Brendan walking back down Moor Lane from Kirk Langley to his father’s rented bungalow on Pole’s Road. She should have met him an hour ago and, in her heart of hearts, she knew he wouldn’t have waited more than ten minutes.

Amelia was always on time to their secret trysts and this would be the first time she’d stood him up. At least she was still in credit there – Brendan had stood
her
up three times. And when he did turn up, he was always late.

‘My turn,’ shouted Billy.

‘Move up,’ moaned Teddy. ‘You’ve got more room.’

Amelia turned back from the darkness, the damp bath towel hanging limp in her hand. Billy and Teddy Mullen dunked their heads in unison into the barrel of water, trying to get what teeth they had into the apples bobbing on the surface. After several unsuccessful attempts, Billy took his hands from behind his back and gripped the side of the barrel. A few seconds later, he tossed back his wet hair and bit down hard on the green apple.

‘I win!’ shouted Billy, grabbing the towel from Amelia. ‘I win.’

‘You cheated,’ gasped Teddy, emerging from his fruitless trawl of the water. ‘You’re supposed to keep your hands behind your back.’ Teddy turned to Amelia. ‘He didn’t keep his hands behind his back, Amelia. You saw. He cheated.’

Amelia bridled under Teddy’s beseeching gaze, the reluctant referee of these childish pleasures. Her dad was in charge of blind man’s buff in the lounge and Mum was organising pin the tail on the donkey.

‘No, I never,’ insisted Billy. ‘I kept my hands behind my back. Tell him, sis.’

‘He did,’ confirmed Amelia, unable to look at Teddy.

Billy began to jump up and down, punching the air to celebrate his victory. Teddy ignored his friend’s goading and stared at Amelia, struck dumb by the decision.

‘It’s not fair,’ he croaked, when he could finally speak.

Billy threw the sopping towel at Teddy’s head. ‘
It’s not fair
,’ he mimicked. ‘Dry up and dry off, dumbo. It’s
my
birthday, after all.’ He marched off to the next game while Teddy pulled the towel limply across his hair, training his gaze on Amelia once more.

Silently he handed her the wet towel and shook his head. ‘It’s not fair,’ he muttered, before turning to follow his crowing friend back into the house.

A blindfolded Edna Hibbert steadied herself after three dizzying turns. Equilibrium restored, the spindly legged girl took a hesitant step then paused to brush a strand of blond hair away from an ear to listen for clues. The other children looked at each other, barely containing their glee. Some held their breath, trying not to give away their position but the more attention-seeking made little noises to spin Edna in their direction then became giddy with excitement at the prospect of the limelight. The rustle of a child’s clothing, a suppressed giggle, a chair moving – Edna’s sightless head jerked round at every sound. Finally she took a decisive pace, hands exploring ahead, and came to a halt virtually standing on top of Charlotte Dilkes, cowering behind a chair, her tears over Billy forgotten in the thrill of the chase.

A second later, Edna pounced on the girl and pulled off her blindfold as Charlotte screamed. ‘Got you.’

‘You’re it, Charlotte,’ chuckled the portly Bert Stanforth, snapping on the big light and fiddling with his unlit pipe. Edna handed him the knotted blindfold to untie.

‘What’s that?’ said Charlotte, pointing through the window at thick grey smoke and the orange glow of flames. She ran to the back door and into the back garden for a better view.

‘Bonfire,’ shrieked the diminutive Roger Rawlins, jumping up and down with delight. ‘Bonfire, bonfire.’

Bert Stanforth ran out into the darkness, followed by Edna and the other blind man’s buffers, while children arrived from the conservatory with wet hair, squealing and pointing at the flames, breathless in their exhilaration.

‘Mother, the shed’s on fire,’ Stanforth shouted at his wife above the noise of the inferno as she arrived with more excited children. ‘Ring the fire brigade.’

‘It’s too late, Bert,’ retorted Ruth, the tea towel gripped tight around her hands.

Stanforth turned back to the towering flames just yards away. She was right. The blaze was out of control. The paint thinners were kept in the shed, a jerry can of petrol too. Mentally Stanforth stood down, stepping back and stretching out his arms to keep the goggle-eyed pack of excited children at a safe distance. Luckily the old shed stood on its own in the middle of the garden, away from the house. ‘You’re right, Mother. At least it’s not likely to spread. Just keep everybody back.’