The Unquiet Grave (52 page)

‘Shut up, you dirty bastard!’ screamed Copeland.

‘Clive, don’t,’ shouted Brook trying to interpose himself between Copeland and the old man. ‘That’s what he wants. Give me the gun.’

Copeland pushed Brook aside with surprising strength and raised the gun.

‘You haven’t got the fucking balls,’ goaded Laird. ‘You fucking cry baby. Want to know something else? When I answered the call, that slut’s clothes were in the boot of the Jag all the time I was—’

A shot rang out and, for a second, everything except cascading glass was frozen in time. The explosion rolled around the room, assaulting the eardrums of its occupants. Eventually Copeland’s gun hand lowered as he contemplated the inert figure of his aged mentor, white-knuckled, gripping the armchair, unshaven face wide-eyed in shock.

A second later, Copeland crumpled to the floor and Brook fell on top of him, pulling at his shirt as the scarlet stain rippled outwards from his chest.

‘Clive.’

Copeland’s eyes were lifeless but his arms and legs attempted movement, futile and uncoordinated, as though swimming in tar.

The shattered door was kicked open and Darren Laird, rifle in hand, advanced towards them until he in turn froze, looking in astonishment at Brook. He scrunched across the broken glass towards the stricken Copeland.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ he said, aghast. ‘It’s Clive Copeland.’ He turned round to his father. ‘I saw the gun, Dad. I thought. . . Oh, Jesus. What have I done?’

‘Put the rifle down, Darren,’ said Brook, his bloodstained hands raised to pacify. ‘He’s alive. Ring for an ambulance.’

‘Shoot DI Brook, son,’ said Laird.

Darren was astonished. ‘What?’

‘They came here to kill me, son. Now shoot him.’

‘He’s lying, Darren,’ said Brook. ‘We came to arrest him.’

‘Shoot him!’ repeated Laird, struggling to his feet. ‘They’re armed.’

‘You’re arresting my dad?’ queried Darren.

‘What are you waiting for, son? Shoot.’

‘Your father raped and murdered Clive’s sister.’

‘He’s lying,’ spat Laird. ‘Shoot him.’

Darren shook his head. ‘Matilda Copeland? What’s he saying, Dad?’

‘Your father raped and murdered her,’ insisted Brook.

‘N-no, that’s not right,’ argued Darren. ‘Brendan McCleary killed her.’

‘You’ve got it, son,’ soothed Laird. ‘Now shoot Brook. We can sort it later.’

‘He can’t shoot me, Walter,’ said Brook. ‘Darren’s a policeman, like me.’

‘Yes he can. Now do it,’ screamed the old man, shuffling towards his son. ‘Or give me the rifle and let me do it.’

‘Dad, I don’t understand. What’s going on?’

‘Darren,’ said Brook, getting to his feet and feeling for his phone. ‘I’m phoning for an ambulance. Put the gun down. Your father’s under arrest.’

‘Shoot him, lad, before it’s too late.’

‘Dad, I can’t.’

Laird was only feet from the rifle. ‘You just shot a copper, son. If you don’t act now, you’ll be behind bars with the scum of the earth.’

‘You made a mistake, Darren,’ soothed Brook, dialling. ‘You saw a gun. You reacted. Honest mistake. We can fix it but we’ve got to get an ambulance for Clive.’

‘He also took a pot shot at you, Brook,’ snarled Laird. ‘How you going to fix that?’

‘Dad.’

‘We’re in deep shit, you lily-livered little pansy, so shoot or give me that gun.’ He reached Darren and grabbed the rifle from him, turning unsteadily to train it on Brook. ‘Call yourself a man,’ he hissed at his son.

Brook stood, hands outstretched, the voice of the emergency operator audible from the mobile. ‘How many more, Walter?’

‘Shoe’s on the other foot now, you smug southern bastard.’

‘Tilly, Colin Ealy, Malcolm McCleary, Sam Bannon. Four dead, Walter.’

‘What’s he talking about, Dad?’

‘Shut up, lad. You too, Brook.’ He wiggled the rifle at Brook. ‘Move out to the kitchen. There’s enough to clean up in here.’

‘No,’ said Brook. ‘Do it here. Then your son will have to drag us both out to the back garden to bury.’

‘Dad?’

‘Please yourself.’ As Laird levelled the rifle, Darren wrenched it away from him and pushed him away. Laird lost his balance and fell to the ground.

‘You do it then,’ he snarled angrily.

‘No, Dad,’ said Darren. ‘I’ve done enough shit for you. I’ll not kill a copper.’

‘Son,’ Laird pleaded. ‘Shoot him. For me.’

‘I can’t,’ replied Darren, gesturing at Brook to speak to the operator.

‘All right,’ screamed Laird, trying to sit upright. ‘Then for pity’s sake shoot me, you cowardly little cunt.’

Twenty-Eight

Brook sat in the ambulance, hunched with tension, while the paramedics worked. The frenzy of their efforts had diminished since the first urgent minutes in Laird’s cramped little house. One peeled away from Copeland’s inert form to speak softly to Brook.

‘He’s stable but it’s touch and go.’

Brook nodded. He was beyond exhaustion, too tired to speak, not that there was anything to say.

‘Brook.’ The croak from Copeland was barely audible.

Brook manoeuvred closer to the trolley, glancing at the paramedic.

The younger man shrugged back at him. ‘Can’t hurt.’

Copeland’s eyes were vaguely open but unable to focus. He lifted a shaking bloodied hand and fumbled for his crucifix. Brook grabbed the hand and guided it to the small silver cross under his spattered shirt. He took Copeland’s other hand to let him know he wasn’t alone.

Copeland’s smile was sightless. He spoke again but Brook couldn’t pick it up. An infant’s squeeze of his hand drew Brook to crouch over his friend, turning his ear to Copeland’s stained mouth. ‘Tilly says thank you,’ he mouthed under the mask feeding him oxygen.

‘Save your strength. You’re going to be. . .’ Brook choked on the lie. If he couldn’t be straight with a friend standing at the gates of heaven, when could he? ‘Save your strength,’ he repeated.

Copeland nodded minutely and mouthed something else. Brook patted him on the shoulder but Copeland wouldn’t be denied. He withdrew his hand from Brook’s and pushed the oxygen mask aside. ‘He. Couldn’t. Even. Drive.’

Brook pushed the mask back over his mouth. ‘It’s OK, Clive. I already know.’

Copeland pulled him back towards his mouth, trying to speak. ‘Priest.’

‘He’s coming,’ said Brook above the noise of the siren. He leaned in again. ‘He’s coming.’

The trolley was hurtling down the corridor, Brook trailing in its wake. They passed an intersecting corridor and Brook slithered to a halt and grabbed a man talking to a nurse.

‘Father. Come with me now.’

‘But—’

‘Don’t argue,’ insisted Brook. ‘My friend wants to make his peace with God.’

‘What religion is he?’

Brook snorted. ‘Does it matter?’

The priest prepared a counter-argument but thought better of it. ‘No. Lead on.’

Brook held Copeland’s cold hand for the longest time, aware of nothing but a strange peace washing over him. They were alone in the cubicle, the frenzy of the trauma team long past, the tubes and machines disconnected and inert.

Finally Brook blinked as though coming out of a coma. He unfastened the necklace of Copeland’s crucifix, examined it briefly then dropped it in his own pocket.

‘I hope you’re where you want to be, Clive.’

Brook gazed at his bloodied right hand before plunging it into the water. He cleaned the caked blood from between his fingers, and stared at himself in the small mirror. With his bloodshot eyes, he looked like death but after several handfuls of cold water over his face, he felt fresher. He emerged from the toilets and dragged himself to sit on the chair next to Noble. Copeland’s body was a dozen feet away being prepared for the mortuary.

‘You OK?’ asked Noble, handing him a beaker of hospital coffee.

‘I will be after a week’s sleep,’ replied Brook, too weary even to grimace at the coffee.

‘Quite a caseload you’ve cleared these last few days.’

‘Quite a caseload,’ echoed Brook. ‘Pity the results don’t reflect so well on the force.’

‘Hardly your fault,’ said Noble. ‘You did everything by the book.’

Brook turned to Noble, opening his mouth to speak.

‘Everything,’ repeated Noble.

Brook nodded his thanks and stared down at his drink. It was the colour of dishwater.

‘I’m sorry about Clive,’ said Noble.

‘Yep,’ mumbled Brook.

‘Walter Laird,’ said Noble, shaking his head. ‘How the hell did he get away with it?’

‘Different era, John,’ said Brook. ‘The cult of the personality. Charismatic coppers could do whatever they liked back then. It helped that Laird was running most of the investigations he misdirected. Matilda Copeland, Malcolm McCleary, Jeff Ward. And even if he wasn’t in charge, a word in the ear from an experienced officer like Laird could pervert any inquiry.’

‘Incredible,’ said Noble. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t complain about the PSD looking over our shoulders, keeping us honest.’

Brook smiled. ‘I wouldn’t start that conversation in the canteen.’

Noble grunted and looked across to the shrouded cubicle where Copeland lay. ‘At least Copeland got justice for his sister.’

‘There is no justice, John. There’s only ever retribution and, if we’re very lucky, redemption.’

Noble narrowed his eyes at Brook, unsure of his meaning. He realised now was a good time to focus on unpleasant reality. ‘When I spoke to you earlier. . .’

Brook took a sip of the bitter coffee and returned his eyes to the floor. ‘You’re right. All Mullen’s kills were in December. And if Noel Williams didn’t push Josh Stapleton off that landing, someone else must have.’

‘I’m right, am I?’ Noble cracked a humourless laugh. ‘You suspected it could be Scott from the off, didn’t you?’

Brook sighed. Noble was going to need handling. ‘It’s easier from the outside looking in, John. You get too close and it can be hard to see things right in front of you. You had a lot on your plate as well as Ford making all the wrong moves.’ He shrugged. ‘But you got there in the end.’

‘It’ll be a tough sell to Charlton,’ said Noble.

‘Most things are,’ replied Brook. ‘How is Scott?’

‘He’ll live,’ said Noble. ‘Mentally scarred though, I reckon.’

‘He’ll fit right in then,’ said Brook. ‘How will you go at him?’

‘Thought I’d give it time, let him get healthier first. Get a statement from Mullen then ask Scott to ID him.’

‘Good idea,’ said Brook quietly.

‘Once I’ve thrown Mullen into the mix, I can bring up the Stapleton boy’s murder; maybe even tell him we’re re-opening. Hopefully he’ll fold like a pair of twos.’

Brook took another sip of coffee. ‘And if he doesn’t?’

Noble was sombre. ‘Scott’s young,’ he said reluctantly. ‘We could offer his brief a deal, cushion the blow a bit.’ He sighed. ‘It’s just. . .’

‘The Stapletons, I know,’ said Brook. He looked at Noble. ‘Their son is still dead, John. There are no winners. With murder, everybody loses.’

When Noble had gone, Brook went searching for signs to the hospital chapel. There weren’t any. Now, those of religious inclination were offered the multipurpose Faith Centre.

Brook stepped inside. There was calmness here, a peace that Brook tried to breathe deep into his exhausted body.

The priest who’d received Copeland’s final confession was kneeling before the altar, head bent in prayer. On hearing Brook’s approach he raised his head, half-turned then stepped back from the altar to make the sign of the cross.

‘Father Christopher.’

‘Inspector Brook.’

‘I wanted to thank you. Clive can go to his maker with a clean slate.’

The priest’s smile widened in modesty. ‘Glad I was able to help.’ He studied Brook. ‘You’re not a religious man yourself.’

‘Is it that obvious?’ said Brook, fingering the crucifix in his pocket.

‘
Clean slate
. You see confession as something transactional,’ said Father Christopher. ‘A bargain entered into between a worshipper and a deity.’

‘That
is
why confession was dreamt up,’ replied Brook, sitting on the bench furthest from the cross. ‘Salvation for a fee.’

‘That’s a very cynical way of looking at it,’ said the priest, with the patience reserved for unbelievers. ‘And we don’t charge these days.’ The priest considered Brook and sat on the bench beside him. ‘Would you like to pray, my son?’

Brook laughed without amusement. ‘I haven’t prayed since I was a child.’

‘And what did you pray for?’ asked Father Christopher with a smile. ‘Toys? Sweets?’

‘I prayed for my father,’ said Brook, turning to face him. ‘I didn’t want God to let him die in pain. He was a miner in Barnsley.’

‘But he died anyway.’

Brook smiled as though it was self-evident.

‘Black lung?’

‘How did you know?’

‘My father was a miner in Nottingham,’ replied the priest. ‘His lungs killed him in his fifties.’

‘And did you accept your father’s death as part of God’s great plan?’ asked Brook, with an unintended touch of bile.

‘Prayer isn’t just about asking for favours, my son. If it were, there wouldn’t be
any
death in the world.’

‘You’re mixing with the wrong people, Father,’ said Brook. ‘The people I deal with wish death on others on a daily basis.’

‘Why are you here?’ asked Father Christopher, lowering his eyes. ‘You know I can’t discuss your friend’s. . .’

‘No need. I know what Clive told you,’ said Brook.

‘I still can’t. . .’

‘His name was Trevor Taylor,’ said Brook finally. Father Christopher’s expression neither confirmed nor denied. ‘Clive thought he deserved to die.’

‘And did he?’ asked Father Christopher.

‘Is that the sort of question a priest should ask?’ said Brook.

‘It’s the sort of question a man asks and I’m a man first.’

‘Then, no,’ replied Brook softly. ‘Clive killed an innocent man. Does that make a difference?’

‘Not to God.’

Brook looked at the priest. ‘And to you?’

Christopher smiled. ‘I’m a poor sinner like you, Inspector. I feel the impulse for vengeance when a child is murdered and I doubt the Lord when injustice flourishes. We’re all weak.’