The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  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.’

  ‘I wonder how it started.’

  Amelia came running up unnoticed by all except Francesca who was holding on to her father’s trousers. Amelia’s face looked hot and streaked as though she’d been crying. But this time Francesca decided not to risk her wrath and said nothing.

  ‘What happened?’ screeched Amelia over the roar and crackle of destruction.

  Stanforth shrugged. ‘I wish I knew, love.’ He turned back to his wife, a look of confusion on his face. ‘Have you left something in the oven, Mother?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘I can smell roasting meat.’

  ‘The oven’s off, Bert.’

  Stanforth processed the information before snapping his head back towards the flames, a look of horror on his face. ‘Oh, my God. . .’

  At the same time, Charlotte Dilkes looked away from the blaze, her eyes darting across the gallery of gleaming, excited faces, their eyes gorging, hypnotised by the flames as the shed hummed and spat.

  ‘Where’s Billy?’ she wondered aloud.

  Three

  Monday, 23 December 1963

  The sun was absent from the leaden sky when DCI Samuel Bannon reached Kirk Langley ten minutes after setting off from his Derby home. He turned off the A52 on to Moor Lane and had no difficulty finding the scene. He pulled across to the kerb in his smart Jaguar and parked behind the line of police vehicles.

  Before pulling the door handle, Bannon extracted a flask from his pocket and spun off the cap. With a furtive look round, he took a long swallow of the fiery liquid before returning the flask to his overcoat pocket. As a final act of courage, he kissed his fingers and then touched the grainy snap of his recently deceased wife taped to the dashboard.

  The acrid smell of wood smoke and burnt chemicals greeted his nostrils as he stepped from the car and walked along the path to the house. Resisting eye contact, he nodded briefly at various uniformed officers standing around looking for something to do, while the crowd they were there to control slept in their warm beds. A couple of interested dog walkers had briefly watched proceedings from the lane but with nothing to see, they’d soon lost interest and drifted away to alert their neighbours.

  Bannon walked round the house to the back garden, where there was more purposeful activity. He spotted Detective Constables Walter Laird and Graham Bell chatting to a fire brigade officer and automatically reached for his packet of Capstan Full Strength cigarettes, pausing to light one with a strong hand cupped around the match. DC Graham Bell nudged Laird who turned and, after muttering something unheard to his colleague, waved a greeting.

  Bannon didn’t need to hear the muttering to know the gist of what was said. You shouldn’t be here, boss. Not yet. Not until you’re over it. Instinctively he reached towards the flask of whisky in his overcoat but managed to stay his hand. Maybe they were right.

  He approximated a return smile, the packet of cigarettes still in his hand. As Laird and Bell approached, he glanced across at the smouldering heap of blackened ash barely peeping above ground level. ‘I hope you’ve not dragged me out of bed on a Sunday morning for an illegal bonfire, Wally.’

  Laird’s laugh was forced, a gesture of normality intended for every eye watching Bannon for signs of grief and turmoil. Laird could already smell the drink. His grieving boss hadn’t yet recovered from the death of his wife while giving birth to their first child a couple of months before. There’d been complications; Bannon’s wife had never made it out of theatre, never held her newborn daughter. To be honest, Laird wasn’t sure if Bannon had either.

  ‘Didn’t expect you, boss,’ said Laird amiably. ‘Not wi
th a new baby at home.’

  Bannon’s expression soured. ‘My sister. . .’ He waved a hand to explain away his neglect.

  ‘How is little Rosie?’ asked DC Bell.

  As Bannon looked away, tight-lipped, Laird was able to fire a warning glance at Bell. Too soon, Graham.

  ‘Oh, she’s fine,’ snapped Bannon.

  Laird’s eye drifted down towards the pack of cigarettes in Bannon’s hand, spotting a chance to move away from awkward subjects. ‘Can I borrow a gasper, boss? Mine are in my—’

  ‘Other coat,’ finished Bannon, happy to accept the offer of well-grooved banter. He tossed the brown pack at him. ‘I don’t know how you can afford so many coats on your take-home.’

  A grinning Laird pulled out a cigarette and lit up. ‘Funny.’

  ‘So,’ said Bannon, feeling the need to announce his participation. ‘What have we got?’ He struck out towards the blackened ground, Laird and Bell falling in step beside him and flicking open notebooks.

  ‘William Stanforth burned to death in the garden shed. He was thirteen years old yesterday and they were throwing a birthday party for him.’

  ‘Many happy returns,’ said DC Bell.

  Bannon flicked a contemptuous glance at Bell. ‘Keep it down, soldier. What happened, Wally?’

  ‘It seems Stanforth went missing some time in the late afternoon/early evening and the alarm was raised when the shed caught fire,’ said Laird. ‘No one knew the lad was inside until it was too late.’

  ‘No screaming?’

  ‘Nobody heard it if there was.’

  ‘How are the parents taking it?’ said Bannon.

  Laird shrugged his reply.

  ‘Sorry, stupid question.’ They arrived at the mound of saturated ashes being carefully probed by a man wearing a white coat, white overalls and a face mask. ‘Where’s the body?’

  Laird’s expression betrayed a glimmer of the horror witnessed. ‘What’s left of him has gone to the mortuary. They’ll need to do tests. There were flammables stored in there – petrol, paint thinners. It was all over in minutes.’

  ‘Tragic.’

  ‘Tragic, yes,’ said Laird, leading his superior to a canvas sheet. Spots of rain tapped out a rhythm on the canvas. ‘Accidental? We don’t think so.’ The detective constable pointed at the mound of blackened, twisted metal on the ground. ‘That’s the hasp and the padlock.’

  Bannon narrowed his eyes, inverting his salt and pepper eyebrows into a wishbone. The padlock was closed through the ring of the hasp. ‘They’re intact.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘The kid was locked in from outside?’

  ‘With a key. No sign of the key,’ added Laird.

  ‘So it was murder.’

  ‘At least manslaughter, assuming the culprit is legally chargeable,’ confirmed Laird. ‘It was mostly kids at the party. Mr and Mrs Stanforth were the only adults. They were busy organising party games inside the house for the half-hour leading up to the fire. All the kids confirmed it.’

  ‘You’ve already spoken to the children?’ inquired Bannon, impressed, if a little put out. ‘What did they say?’

  Laird hesitated. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to be at home with your daughter, boss? Graham and me can handle this.’

  Bannon glared at him. ‘What did they say?’

  Laird shook his head. ‘Nothing relevant. No fingers pointed. No confessions. They were enjoying the party and then they saw the flames. They thought it was a bonfire.’

  ‘How many kids are we talking about?’

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘And you’ve interviewed the lot?’

  ‘We thought it best to speak to them all briefly while their memories were fresh.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Like I said.’

  ‘How hard did you go?’ asked Bannon.

  ‘Hard enough, boss. They’re young. There were a lot of tears.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘Apart from big sis, between eleven and thirteen. In fact, William and his twin, Francesca, were the oldest.’

  ‘His twin?’ said Bannon. ‘So it was her party too.’

  Laird shrugged. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Where are they now?’

  ‘I sent them all home,’ said Laird, producing a list. ‘They’re all local to Kirk Langley and they were all exhausted. I can re-interview if need be.’ Bannon caught his eye. ‘We can,’ Laird corrected.

  Bannon nodded. ‘So if we buy their collective testimony, the parents are in the clear.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘We’ll need to dig deeper on that. Parents do kill their children.’ He paused then added in barely a murmur, ‘And vice versa.’

  Laird flipped his notebook closed. ‘And if we clear the Stanforths?’

  Bannon shrugged. ‘The best we can hope for is some drifter wandered past, lured Billy into the shed and torched him after doing God knows what.’

  ‘Let’s hope that’s it,’ said Laird. ‘Kids shouldn’t be killing kids.’

  ‘Any of them seem wrong to you, Wally?’

  ‘Wrong, boss?’

  ‘Kids argue. Kids fight.’ Bannon shrugged as though the rest was obvious.

  ‘No one stood out,’ answered Laird. ‘And they mostly alibi each other.’

  ‘Mostly?’

  ‘One lad, the deceased’s best friend, Edward Mullen, known as Teddy, was the only one alone when the fire started.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the house. Or so he says.’

  ‘Any reason to disbelieve him?’ asked Bannon.

  ‘Not from the reaction to his friend’s death,’ said Laird. ‘He was beyond distraught, wailing and crying like a girl.’

  ‘Guilty conscience maybe,’ ventured Bannon.

  ‘There was talk of an argument between them but it was pretty minor,’ added Laird.

  ‘It may seem minor to us,’ commented Bannon. ‘Look into it. Any other possibilities?’ He sensed Laird had more to say and was keen to get to it.

  ‘William Stanforth’s older sister, Amelia. She’s nearly sixteen, though why she’d kill her little brother, God alone knows.’

  ‘Forget motive, Wally,’ said Bannon. ‘And you can ask God later. What about her alibi?’

  ‘Also unclear. No one saw her until the fire had started.’

  ‘Then she’s a suspect.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem the type, boss.’

  ‘There’s a type now?’ snapped Bannon. His expression softened at once. ‘Sorry. It’s been. . .’ Bannon shook his head, unable to go on.

  ‘Forget it, boss. You should go home.’

  ‘I will,’ nodded Bannon. ‘But I want to be kept in the loop.’ He eyed his detective constable. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

  Laird affected reluctance before grinning. ‘Amelia has a boyfriend,’ he answered. ‘Older.’

  ‘Who?’

  Laird smiled suddenly, savouring Bannon’s coming reaction. ‘We’re in Kirk Langley, boss. And it’s a small place.’

  Bannon stared at his colleague for a moment before realisation started to work on his face. ‘Not young McCleary?’

  Laird grinned again. ‘The very same. And he was seen by neighbours standing in the lane before the fire. Apparently he was supposed to be meeting Amelia last evening but she was busy at the party and stood him up.’

  ‘Which might make someone like him angry,’ reasoned Bannon.

  ‘Maybe even vengeful,’ added Laird.

  Bannon smiled for the first time. ‘I suppose with a father like Malcolm, it was only a matter of time before young Brendan stepped up to the big leagues. Pick him up.’

  Malcolm McCleary staggered into the kitchen in his stained long johns, running a hand through his unkempt, greying hair. Barefoot, he was forced to avoid the discarded beer bottles on the sticky floor before slumping on to a chair at the flimsy dining table. The surface was covered in dirty plates and full ashtrays and McCleary poked through the remains of discarded butts for
enough stray tobacco to fill a cigarette paper. While doing this he raised a bleary eye towards his son lying on the too-small couch, puffing away on his own roll-up.

  ‘Give me a cigarette,’ ordered McCleary senior.

  ‘I got mine where you’re getting yours,’ said Brendan, with barely concealed disdain.

  McCleary senior’s grizzled features were deformed by hate. ‘You cheap little bleeder. Can’t even buy some gaspers for your old man after all I’ve done for you? What about breakfast?’

  Brendan shook his head slowly, avoiding eye contact. ‘Parlour’s empty.’

  ‘You ate those two eggs I was saving?’ replied an exasperated McCleary.

  ‘You had them for your tea last night.’

  McCleary senior narrowed his eyes in disbelief. ‘I don’t remember that.’

  Brendan raised a sarcastic eyebrow. That’s not surprising.

  McCleary caught the scorn, adding quietly, ‘Not hungry anyway.’ He continued to root around amongst the dead cigarette butts, emptying singed, stale tobacco on to his rolling paper. ‘Get me a cup of tea.’

  ‘There’s a fresh pot on the side,’ answered Brendan, concentrating on reviving his own dormant roll-up.

  McCleary’s weasel eyes flicked around the debris on the table, before alighting on a teaspoon. He flung it at his son, hitting him on the top of his head and producing a cry more of shock than pain. The spoon glanced off and plopped into the ash-filled grate of a dead coal fire. ‘Then get off your arse and pour me some, you ungrateful little sod.’

  Brendan hauled himself off the sofa and poured tea, ignoring the beady eye trained on him. He plonked it sullenly down on the Formica table and tried to withdraw but the old man grabbed him by the wrist with a powerful hand and stood up to swing his other fist at the side of Brendan’s head.

  Caught flush on the ear, Brendan staggered back against the gas cooker, dislodging several used pots and pans standing dirty on the hob. Trying his utmost to avoid showing the pain, he gathered himself, keeping his eyes glued to his father, and retreated to the safety of the couch.