The Unquiet Grave (47 page)

‘Francesca too, I think.’

Mullen was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You told me once that she killed Billy,’ said Brook. ‘You were there that night. You must have seen her do it.’

‘What do you think I am?’ said Mullen, his eyes blazing. ‘My friend died in agony. If I’d seen her lock Billy in that shed, I would have moved heaven and earth to stop her.’

‘Then how did you know what she’d done?’

‘I saw her, of course,’ said Mullen. ‘Not then. Years later.’ The pain etched on his face turned to pleasure. ‘I saw Billy again. He was with her, do you see?’

‘No, I don’t see,’ snapped Brook. ‘Any more than you do.’

‘I sometimes wish you were right.’ Mullen hauled himself to his feet and moved to the cabinet, extracted the near-empty bottle of port and poured himself a small glass. ‘When my family moved to Derby after Billy died I didn’t see anyone from Kirk Langley for years. I tried to forget what happened to my friend. Then, when I was sixteen, I had an accident. I fell from a tree branch and hit my head and my life changed forever. That’s when I began seeing things.’

‘Ghosts,’ mocked Brook.

‘Not ghosts,’ protested Mullen. ‘Imprints of people’s lives that have been snuffed out by lethal violence.’

‘The unquiet grave?’

‘Exactly, Brook. The victims of violence attach themselves to their killer forever and I could see them. It was driving me insane until I realised what I was looking at. Stepfathers with their abused and murdered children, old people with a spouse they’d suffocated with a pillow, young men walking next to the drunk they’d stabbed. I nearly went mad.

‘But one marvellous day I met Francesca again and I saw Billy. She was outside a pub in town, drunk at eleven thirty in the morning. Billy was with her. At first I thought I was dreaming. The friend I’d lost was there before my eyes.’ Mullen laughed without humour. ‘I even shouted across to him. He didn’t respond, of course, and Francesca was too drunk to understand. But I wasn’t. And I realised what I was seeing.’

‘When was this?’

‘About six months before I killed her. That’s when I got the idea.’ Mullen took a sip of port and stared off into the shadows. ‘That’s when I knew Francesca had killed my friend and suddenly I saw my path back to Billy.’ He looked at Brook, his eyes shining with zeal. ‘If I became a killer, if I killed Fran, then she would be with me forever and, if there was a God in heaven, Billy would be with me too.’

‘If he was an
imprint
, wouldn’t he be horribly burned?’ said Brook.

‘I wondered about that too,’ said Mullen. ‘But, no. You see he died of smoke inhalation, before the flames consumed his body. That’s why he didn’t scream.’

‘And so you killed Francesca on Billy’s birthday.’

‘It seemed appropriate somehow,’ said Mullen. ‘I was giving him the gift of my friendship for eternity – no more traipsing beside his killer, lost and confused in perpetuity. Apart from that, I was no killer so I worried about covering my tracks. I figured if the police became suspicious that Fran’s death wasn’t an accident, dying on her brother’s birthday might tip them towards suicide. Especially with her drinking.’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘It seems I needn’t have worried. The police didn’t give it a second look.’ Mullen broke into a huge grin. ‘It was all so easy. I was nervous naturally but as soon as the last bubble of oxygen had left her mouth, there they all were beside me. One big happy family, Francesca, Billy, Charlotte. . .’

‘Charlotte Dilkes?’ exclaimed Brook, narrowing his eyes.

‘Of course. Didn’t I say?’

‘You mean Francesca. . .’

Mullen nodded. ‘Drowned poor Charlotte, yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t be sure but my impression is that Charlotte saw the padlock key in Fran’s hand while the rest of us stood around watching Billy burn. The silly girl didn’t realise the significance until later and instead of telling an adult, she confronted Francesca.’

‘And Jeff Ward?’ said Brook. ‘What was his crime?’

‘Jeff had a younger brother. Donny,’ said Mullen. ‘He drowned in a river but it was Jeff who pushed him under. I’d harvested two killers, two more companions for Billy, two murders avenged. And, of course, I had the pattern of dates going now, so that was fun.’

‘Fun?’ repeated Brook. ‘You’re insane.’

‘If it’s crazy to remove two souls who killed siblings out of petty jealousy, bring on the straitjacket,’ said Mullen.

‘You couldn’t know that for sure,’ said Brook. ‘You had no evidence.’

‘Evidence,’ spat Mullen. ‘I have better than that. I can find the killers of people the police don’t even know are dead. Don’t talk to me about evidence when you lot can’t even arrest Scott Wheeler for killing his friend.’

‘It wasn’t my case,’ replied Brook, on the back foot suddenly.

‘And a killer escapes punishment. Well, my justice is not that random, Inspector,’ said Mullen. ‘I convicted Jeff Ward the first time I clapped eyes on him. His brother Donny walked beside him. When he drowned he was wearing a Dennis the Menace jumper – it was so wet and heavy, it almost covered his knees, the poor little mite.’

‘And the balloon?’

‘He must have been clutching it in his hand before he went in the water,’ said Mullen, shaking his head. ‘Can you imagine anything so pathetic? A little boy, dead forever and only his killer to know he’d been murdered.’

‘That’s why you impersonate the victim,’ said Brook. ‘To get the killer’s attention.’

Mullen was surprised and delighted. ‘You worked it out. Yes, I bought the same clothes as Donny, even managed to find the balloon, and all I had to do was wait for Billy’s birthday.’ Mullen grinned at the memory. ‘The murdering little swine’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets and he would’ve followed me to hell to hide what he’d done. You’ve read the case file?’

Brook nodded.

‘Does it mention how he obliterated all my footprints in the snow, thinking they were Donny’s? There’s guilt for you.’

Brook was impassive. Mullen was in the zone and Brook didn’t want to staunch the flow. ‘And Harry Pritchett’s sister?’

‘They thought she’d run in front of a car.’ Mullen shook his head. ‘But one little push changes everything. I think Harry was sorry he’d done it. That was something.’ He drained his glass, looking sadly towards the fire. ‘Then there was Davie Whatmore’s baby brother who was supposed to have succumbed to cot death.’

‘Have you considered that you might just be crazy?’ said Brook softly.

‘Of course,’ said Mullen. ‘But doesn’t considering it make me sane? Besides, I stopped at will.’ Mullen paused. ‘Just like you.’

‘Until Scott,’ retorted Brook, not rising to the bait.

‘Until Scott,’ conceded the old man. He raised a finger. ‘But would a lunatic stop at all? Could he? The opposite, I think. The mentally deranged killer can’t stop, not until he’s caught. No impulse control, you see. That’s not me. Or you.’ Mullen was suddenly sombre. ‘I only took those who deserved it, Brook, and I’ve no reason to doubt that you did the same. From what I’ve seen, Floyd was a killer too.’

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ said Brook.

‘On the contrary. I know you’re a killer. Like me.’

Brook was silent.

‘No denial?’ teased Mullen.

‘I won’t dignify it with a denial,’ said Brook. ‘Floyd Wrigley’s death—’

‘Is a matter of public record,’ smiled Mullen. ‘I know. And you were there.’ Brook didn’t answer. ‘And you were hunting a serial killer. The Reaper. But you found Floyd. Another killer. And you decided to act. After all, for a man of your talents, it must have been easy to chalk up his murder to the man you were hunting.’

Brook’s power of speech had deserted him. With a deep breath he found his voice. ‘You’re guessing. It was over twenty years ago. You can’t possibly know Floyd was a killer.’

‘Can’t I?’ Mullen’s expression was one of supreme confidence. ‘So did you kill the girl who walks with him as well? I’m shocked. I assumed Floyd had slaughtered her before you extracted vengeance.’

Brook was startled, unable to breathe, but he managed to pant an inquiry. ‘Girl?’

‘There’s a young girl with him in her own unquiet grave,’ said Mullen. ‘She’s had terrible violence done to her. Please tell me that wasn’t you, Inspector.’

Brook stared at Mullen, stony-faced.
Laura
.

‘Would you like me to tell you her name?’ asked Mullen, solicitously.

Brook shook his head. There was silence now. Brook had more questions but they could wait. There was only one issue now. ‘That changes nothing. Where’s Scott?’

‘That’s enough for tonight,’ said Mullen. ‘I’m tired. I think you should leave.’

‘I can’t do that,’ said Brook. ‘I won’t let you kill another child, no matter what he’s done.’

‘And I can’t let you have him,’ said Mullen, standing. ‘Not now. Everything’s prepared.’

‘Tell me where he is,’ insisted Brook.

‘He’s close.’

Brook sat up.
Present tense
. ‘In the house?’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘But he’s alive.’

Mullen looked around the room, smiling and nodding as though greeting friends at a party. ‘For a while yet, I think. But he’ll be along. They both will.’

‘
They
?’ repeated Brook.

‘Scott’s bringing Joshua with him. Keep up. They’re together forever. Like you and Floyd. And the girl. You didn’t kill her, did you? But she’s in your dreams, I’ll wager.’

‘Where is Scott?’ said Brook, managing to inject urgency into his request.

‘You’re becoming repetitive, Inspector. Your thoughts should be for his victim and the degrading way he died.’

‘If it was so degrading why did you watch it happen and do nothing?’

‘It may have escaped your notice but I’m an old man,’ protested Mullen in an injured tone. ‘I wasn’t going to get between Scott and his prey. The boy’s an animal.’

‘But it took Josh hours to die.’

‘His neck was broken. There was nothing I could do.’

‘You could have called an ambulance.’

‘Why? The boy was nothing to me,’ said Mullen. ‘If he’d had his way, I would have burned to death. I let things take their natural course and waited for justice to be done.’ He laughed. ‘But instead of arresting Scott, you pinned it on some bewildered tramp who happened to be dossing at the house.’

‘It wasn’t my case,’ repeated Brook, feeling the need for distance from DI Ford.

‘It’s academic now. Justice is near.’

‘An eye for an eye?’

‘I’m not a vigilante, Brook.’ The old man’s cold eyes goaded. ‘Not like you. But every time I saw my blackened door and Scott Wheeler’s grinning face in the paper, I felt the pull of the Piper, enticing me to one last kill.’ He laughed. ‘And I’ve got to be honest, playing Joshua was the most fun – he was much nearer my height and build, especially in the dark. Jeff’s brother too. The others were harder. I had to improvise. But Scott was careless. He allowed me to see the living victim, made it easy for me. I could impersonate Josh’s mannerisms and body language as well as wear the clothes. I could become Joshua’s double.’ Mullen laughed, warming to the memory. ‘You should have seen Scott’s face when he saw me that night. It was like he’d seen a ghost.’

‘You mean an imprint,’ said Brook, sourly.

Mullen smiled. ‘You’re getting the idea.’

‘So the others,’ prompted Brook. ‘The ones that were harder to take. Did you send them a letter like Scott’s?’

‘You saw that?’ said Mullen eagerly. ‘What did you think?’

‘A message from a dead friend,’ said Brook. ‘Hard to ignore.’

‘I cut the letters out of the paper from the day Joshua died,’ grinned Mullen. ‘For added effect.’

‘We noticed,’ said Brook. ‘Taken from the stack of old editions I found in your kitchen, no doubt.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘Exhibit A.’

‘I’m a hoarder, it’s true.’ Mullen was not put off his stride. ‘My own worst enemy – newspapers, candles, teenage boys.’

‘Tell me where he is, Mullen. If he’s alive, I can help you. You’re not well.’

‘If you’d seen just
one
of the victims, you wouldn’t say that.’

‘Spare me the fake sympathy,’ said Brook.

Mullen’s expression hardened. ‘I’m not made of stone, Brook. And if you’d seen Scott on Whitaker Road a few nights after he killed Joshua, you’d thank me for what I’m doing. The house was due for demolition and he went there and he watched where his friend died and I saw the cruel smirk on his face. He’d got away with it.’ Mullen grinned with satisfaction. ‘It was a pleasure slipping that letter into his pocket the week before I harvested him. And I can guarantee he hasn’t smiled from that day to this.’

‘Hasn’t he? Well, explain this,’ said Brook. ‘If Scott was such an animal, how did a frail old man like you manage to
harvest
him that night?’

Mullen tapped his skull. ‘Because his mind was gone, Brook. That’s why I gave him the letter. That’s what psychological warfare does to you. Like chess. Scott was a nervous wreck, always looking over his shoulder, jumping out of his skin at every loud noise. He only needed one more push to be a gibbering idiot and, when he saw me in Joshua’s clothes, he was finished. It was just a question of leading him where I wanted him.’

‘Where was that?’

‘Please stop asking.’

‘No,’ barked Brook. ‘Tell me where he is.’

‘I’ll let you know as soon as he joins us.’

‘I want him alive. Give him to me and I’ll see that he pays for Joshua’s death.’

‘Really? Like you paid for Floyd Wrigley’s?’

Brook was silent.

Mullen smiled in genuine sympathy. ‘We shouldn’t be arguing, Inspector. We provide a public service. We’re brothers-in-arms, you and I.’

‘We’re nothing of the kind,’ snorted Brook. ‘You don’t know me or what I’ve done.’

‘Think that if it gives you comfort.’ Mullen smiled. ‘But I warned you secrets can’t be kept from me.’ He took a sip of port. ‘Floyd will always be with you, Inspector. He belongs to you and has done since the day you killed him. Think yourself lucky you can’t see him. For some of my clients, even that was no consolation. They couldn’t handle it.’

‘Floyd Wrigley was a pimp who prostituted his ten-year-old daughter so he could buy drugs,’ said Brook softly, staring into space.