The Unquiet Grave (34 page)

‘So?’

‘So when they turned Bannon over, his front was burned just as badly as the back of him.’ Copeland paused to let Brook catch up to the implication. ‘You see, Brook, he was sitting at the desk when he set fire to himself.’

‘Maybe he was drunk and had an accident.’

‘He’d been drinking. But too drunk to crash out of a flimsy burning building when you’re on fire? I doubt it. But either way, it’s still not murder.’

Brook thought it through. ‘So why did Laird tell me it was an accident if it was suicide?’

‘Because he persuaded the investigator to fudge his report so it could be interpreted either way. That way Bannon’s kid could get looked after; financially, I mean.’

‘More facts massaged,’ sighed Brook.

‘Walter was helping a friend, Brook. To most people that’s a natural reaction,’ he added, with a hint of censure.

‘And the investigator went along?’

Copeland shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t he? A favour from one service to another.’

Brook shook his head. ‘It’s fraud, Clive.’

‘Jesus, you’re a father,’ Copeland spat. ‘Do you think the insurance companies were out of pocket? Fuck, no.’

Brook winced. ‘Easy, Clive.’

‘I bet they still turned a huge profit that year,’ continued Copeland. ‘But if Bannon’s death was certified as suicide, his life insurance would have been invalidated and Rosie would’ve been left penniless.’

‘But Laird had no right—’

‘Sam Bannon was a friend and colleague with a kid who was suddenly an orphan. There wasn’t time to debate it. What would you have done, Brook? Tell me.’

‘A crime was committed for financial gain.’

‘Not Walter’s gain,’ shouted Copeland. ‘Get off your high horse. Without that money, Rosie would have been homeless.’ Copeland sat back, calmer now. ‘It wasn’t just the money, Brook. You’re a father. Work it out for yourself. Walter didn’t want little Rosie growing up with that stigma, that shame gnawing at her, knowing that her father had topped himself rather than live with his daughter another day.’

Brook was silenced, remembering his angry conversation with his daughter only a few months before about Terri’s attempted suicide in her late teens. Leaving a loved one to pick up the pieces after self-destruction was the ultimate betrayal, the final kick in the teeth. He conceded with no more than a drop of the eyes. ‘I suppose. . . I can understand,’ he mumbled.

‘Welcome to the human race,’ said Copeland, sarcastically.

‘Save the smugness, Clive,’ replied Brook quietly. ‘If this wasn’t ancient history I’d already be banging on Charlton’s door. Laird has let down the force. Not to mention your sister.’

‘Matilda?’ exclaimed Copeland, making a stab at indignation. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘What Walter Laird did in nineteen sixty-three, had ongoing consequences. The fact that Matilda was Brendan McCleary’s girlfriend at the time of Billy Stanforth’s death was material evidence.’

‘But I had no idea until nineteen seventy-eight,’ responded Copeland.

‘But Laird did,’ said Brook, banging a fist on Copeland’s desk. ‘He knew in nineteen sixty-three and he knew two years later, when he and Bannon investigated your sister’s death. It was material then, maybe even crucial, and McCleary should have been interviewed.’

‘He was interviewed.’

‘By who? Bannon?’

‘No.’

‘No, because Laird had to keep Bannon in the dark about Matilda’s relationship with McCleary or compromise his actions in the Stanforth inquiry,’ continued Brook. ‘Laird was trapped in his own deceit, forced to conceal pertinent information.’

‘That may be so but Walter did interview McCleary about Tilly’s death,’ replied Copeland.

‘But it’s not in the file, Clive,’ said Brook. ‘It couldn’t be, could it? There’s nothing in there about Amelia either.’

‘Amelia?’ Copeland was puzzled. ‘What would Amelia have to do with my sister’s death?’

‘Are you so blinkered, Clive? Why would McCleary kill his girlfriend? Amelia had a much stronger motive than Brendan.’

‘Jealousy?’ Copeland drew a breath, reluctant not to concede the point. ‘I can’t believe she killed Tilly.’

‘What we believe as detectives is determined by the facts, Clive,’ insisted Brook. ‘And there are no facts, no interviews, no alibis, not a single mention of two potential suspects in your sister’s murder book because of your friend’s dishonesty. There couldn’t be or Walter Laird would have had to explain to superiors how McCleary and Amelia Stanforth came to be suspects in your sister’s death despite living three miles away from Mackworth and seven miles from Osmaston Park, yet not owning or having access to a car.’

Copeland was silent, complicit in the deceit. ‘Think what you like about me, Brook, but Walter Laird did his job. I’m convinced of that. He knew McCleary’s history with Tilly and he went after him hard. Brendan McCleary
was
interviewed. McCleary told me as much when I visited him in prison.’

‘And Amelia?’

Copeland hung his head.

Brook laughed without humour. ‘I see. The webs we weave, Clive.’

‘Walter did everything possible to find Tilly’s killer.’

‘Everything that didn’t shine a light on his past deception,’ said Brook. He shook his head. ‘It must have been frustrating for Walter, being hamstrung like that.’

Copeland was confused. ‘And what does that mean?’

‘Your sister died, Clive. McCleary would be the perfect fit for her murder,’ explained Brook. ‘But poor Walter couldn’t pin Tilly’s death on her boyfriend without damaging his own reputation.’

‘I don’t—’

‘Haven’t you noticed?’ continued Brook. ‘Laird seems to have a particular bee in his bonnet about McCleary.’

‘In what way?’ asked Copeland.

‘He had McCleary in the frame for Billy Stanforth but couldn’t prove it,’ replied Brook. ‘And the year after, he went after him again.’

‘Sixty-four? You mean the Charlotte Dilkes drowning?’

‘You’ve reviewed the files,’ said Brook. ‘Laird was all over McCleary
and
Amelia, trying to implicate them in Charlotte’s death. But he couldn’t swing that one either.’

‘I wasn’t there, Brook. You’ll have to ask Walter.’

‘Ask Walter?’ repeated Brook. ‘I don’t need to ask Walter about Brendan McCleary. He’s even got him in the frame for Scott Wheeler’s abduction.’

‘That’s because McCleary’s a villain,’ insisted Copeland. ‘And Walter has no time for villains.’ There was silence for a while until Copeland glanced at his sister in the picture frame. ‘Which just leaves Tilly.’ He looked at Brook. ‘Do you want to do this now?’

‘It’s late,’ replied Brook softly. ‘And this place is like a tomb at night.’

‘Then let’s get comfortable. Come back to my house. I can answer all the questions about her there.’

‘I can’t. I have another call to make.’ Brook didn’t elaborate. ‘Meantime, I need you to phone Walter Laird. He didn’t believe you’d let me near your sister’s file and wouldn’t talk to me about her.’

‘I know everything Walter knows and more but yes, I’ll speak to him.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But it’s still his case,’ said Copeland. ‘If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. You’ll have to make do with me.’

‘He’ll talk to me,’ said Brook, smiling suddenly.

‘Why so sure?’

‘Because I have something he wants.’

Copeland waited for an explanation that didn’t arrive before handing Brook an address card. ‘Come and see me as soon as you’re ready.’

‘You live in Shirley,’ said Brook, staring at the card. ‘Next to Osmaston Park.’

Copeland avoided the unspoken question. ‘Mornings are best. I’m up by six.’

Brook stared at him, wondering whether to ask. He decided against it. ‘Six it is.’ Copeland frowned in confusion. ‘I’m up at four,’ explained Brook.

When he was sure Copeland was on his way to the car park, Brook fumbled for his notebook and glanced briefly at a page of his notes then returned to his office to check a further detail from Sam Bannon’s personnel file.

Noble was still at his desk sifting through reports when Brook popped his head round the door. His head sagged on to his hands, telling Brook all he needed to know about progress on Scott Wheeler. After a curt greeting, Brook removed the three cartons of cigarettes from his old desk.

‘I knew it wouldn’t last,’ crowed Noble, glad to be able to crack a smile.

‘What can I say?’ conceded Brook.

‘How’s progress at the CCU?’ asked Noble, still grinning. He seemed light-headed with exhaustion. ‘Any
potential resolution
?’

Brook shook his head. ‘I’m dealing with memory and perception stretching back half a century, John. Even if I could guarantee witnesses weren’t lying to me, I can’t ensure they recall events correctly.’ He took a breath and voiced what was beginning to gnaw at him. ‘Know what’s worse? You start by looking at the facts but eventually all you end up doing is looking at the quality of the investigation.’

‘Tough beat.’

‘Tough beat,’ echoed Brook.

He left Noble and walked silently down to reception, for once oblivious to who was on duty. He caught sight of a new flyer with Scott Wheeler’s happy face on it above the hotline phone number and the banner HAVE YOU SEEN SCOTT?

Brook picked one up and slid it into the Jeff Ward file under his arm and left the building, brooding.

Scott Wheeler – missing person
.

Twenty-One

Edna Spencer put another cushion behind her back to ease the pain in her hip but it was no use. After shifting position several times, she rocked back and forth for impetus, then pushed her walking stick firmly down on to the floor and got to her feet with all the strength she could muster in her arms. Regaining her breath, in what passed for a standing position she rubbed her hip, one hand holding on to the mantelpiece for security. Gradually the pain eased.

Whilst there she took the opportunity to glance lovingly at the fading picture of her younger self and her late husband in pride of place above the fire. The Christmas card from her son and daughter-in-law stood next to it.

‘Still here, Eric my love,’ she said, a sad smile counteracting the tear of pain in her eye. ‘Bet you thought I’d be with you years ago, didn’t you, my darling?’ She felt the heat from the middle grille of the gas fire on her polyester slacks. ‘I’ll be with you soon enough, my love.’ She laid a light peck on his yellowing image, arm in arm with her younger self, standing in the vast allotment at the back of their former home.

Edna tarried a while, warming her body and soul at the thought of a past she visited more and more – she and her husband working the allotment all hours of the day, all days of the year with barely a pause when baby Stephen came along. Only three days after delivery, the baby was introduced to Edna and Eric’s pride and joy, where he would sleep for hours in his pram, shaded from the sun by a parasol, while they toiled over summer fruit and vegetables.

During the preparatory work of the winter months, Stephen would snooze contentedly in the lean-to shed, warmed by a few burning sticks in the pot-bellied stove. It was a wonderful time. Eric had spoken of it often since his death and she always dreamed that when God saw fit to take her to his bosom, the allotment would be the place where she and Eric would spend eternity together.

How she missed those times when she could talk with her beloved husband beyond the grave, take comfort from his presence, always keen to chat with her about the earth’s bounty.

What would he think now that fresh produce was a distant memory to her? Would he be angry? No, Eric was never ill-tempered, even when the cancer had ravaged him, denying him his one true pleasure – a life lived in tune with the seasons. Often, during the final months, Edna would take a basket of fruit or vegetables into the bedroom and proudly show him what he no longer had the strength to help nurture, nor even the capacity to chew in his liquid meals. Did he ever show resentment? Did he rail against a God that taunted him so? Not once. Not ever.

In fact, Eric insisted she show him every harvest, every dirt-crusted root vegetable, drew succour from her account of the day’s labours then gave her tips for the next season’s planting that he knew he wouldn’t see. He once even chided her for spending too much time caring for him when she should have been labouring in the soil, cultivating nature’s gifts.

Even after his death, Eric had said he understood why she’d had to sell their beloved house in Overdale Road so she could afford to live on her meagre pension, abandoning the allotment she loved.

And now her diet consisted of biscuits and cream cheese sandwiches leavened only by the occasional bag of chips when she could muster the energy to visit the local chip shop.

Once the owner used to sneak half a battered cod into her order without her knowing and, back in her sheltered flat, when she unwrapped her meal and bit down on the snow-white vinegary flesh, she used to think she’d died and gone to heaven. That was before that foreign gentleman had taken over the business and turned it into a burger and pizza takeaway, doubling the prices into the bargain.

Edna shuffled across her cramped living room to look out at the bleak weather outside. The nights were getting longer and the temperature colder but at least her little flat, two rooms and a kitchenette, were easy to heat on a low setting. She wondered what the weather was like where her son and his wife were. Hot, they said in their Christmas cards which always had a kangaroo on the front as though she was a simpleton who couldn’t grasp where they’d gone without clues.

She peered through the condensation of her ground-floor window at her woebegone herb planter on the sill outside. The herbs she nurtured so carefully in summer were just blackened stumps in the harshness of winter but, even in the hot months, the sun rarely visited her window and Edna was lucky if she could cultivate a spray of parsley to liven up her sandwiches.

She dropped the veil over the outside world and made her way back to her chair. Before easing herself down, she opened her weekly bottle of stout, her only luxury throughout the year. On Christmas Eve, if she’d been very careful with her pension, she’d get the annual council minibus to Asda and treat herself to a chicken leg, a packet of value mince pies and a half bottle of Emva Cream to celebrate the birth of the baby Jesus on Christmas Day.