by Steven Dunne
‘Is he allowed to just use the flat as a mail drop?’ asked Brook, remembering to omit her name for Noble’s sake. ‘There must be plenty of people waiting for sheltered accommodation.’
She shrugged. ‘None of my business until he snuffs it.’
Noble knelt to look through the letter box. ‘I can see some post,’ he said.
‘Do you ever collect his post for him?’ asked Brook.
‘Not my business unless we’re clearing a place.’
‘And nobody else would have a key?’
‘Nothing to stop him making a copy but I’ve never seen nobody else,’ she said.
‘Did Cooper check if he’s on benefits?’ Brook asked Noble.
‘He’s on Attendance Allowance on top of his pension and his cheques are posted,’ said Noble. ‘Does he pick up his cheques himself?’ he asked the warden.
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’ She shrugged, her disinterest reaching critical mass.
‘Maybe you see him on Thursday when he can collect his benefits and draw his pension at the same time,’ suggested Brook.
‘I don’t remember what day I seen him last,’ said Mrs Gross with a touch of impatience.
‘Which post office would he use?’ asked Brook. She shook her head, her chin waddle drawing the eye.
‘Then which is nearest?’ persisted Noble, his own patience beginning to thin.
‘Normanton Road, I guess,’ she said.
Brook produced his notebook and Noble’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘You’re making your own notes!’ he laughed.
Brook didn’t join in. ‘I don’t have a lot of choice.’
‘Well, I can’t stand around all day,’ said Mrs Gross, preparing to withdraw.
Brook glanced down at the bunch of keys swinging from a hook in her belt. ‘Can you smell that?’
Noble was puzzled for a split second then pursed his lips in disapproval.
‘I can’t smell anything,’ said Mrs Gross.
‘I thought I could smell gas,’ suggested Brook, unable to meet Noble’s reproachful glare. ‘Maybe when Sergeant Noble opened the letter box. . .’
‘Gas?’ The large woman became animated. ‘I can’t smell it,’ she repeated.
‘Maybe it’s nothing,’ said Brook. ‘Still, you’d better get on to the supplier. Can’t take the chance.’
‘That’s all I need,’ said the large woman.
‘I know,’ sympathised Brook. ‘They might have to break the door down. Evacuate the whole building.’
‘Oh, dear God, no.’
Brook imagined Mrs Gross was someone who regularly poked around in people’s apartments when they weren’t there. He made his bid. ‘If we could get in, I suppose we could take a quick look, put your mind at rest,’ he offered solicitously.
‘Well, we’re not supposed to,’ she frowned.
‘Of course not,’ soothed Brook. ‘But we are police officers.’
The prospect of further inconvenience spurred her and she fumbled for her keys before slipping the selected one into the lock and pushing the door open.
‘Better step back,’ said Noble, striding into the bare front room. ‘It might not be safe.’
‘Won’t be long,’ added Brook, following Noble inside and closing the door on the woman craning to see inside.
Once out of earshot, Noble turned to him. ‘I don’t believe it. A day back from suspension and you’re pulling these kinds of stunts. What if Charlton gets to hear about it?’
Brook shrugged. ‘What else can he do to me?’ He ran his eye quickly round the room which contained only a single armchair propped in front of a small TV on a lone dining chair.
‘He could have your job,’ retorted Noble.
‘True,’ conceded Brook. ‘But that wouldn’t grieve me. Having a limited future in the force is kind of liberating.’
Noble shook his head and turned to survey the apartment. ‘Let’s hope McCleary doesn’t find out.’
‘About what?’ smiled Brook. ‘We didn’t demand to be let in. She volunteered so she’s hardly likely to tell him.’
Noble grunted his sceptical reply.
‘And frankly, Mrs Gross should be the one complaining – about your manners,’ said Brook. ‘Don’t you know better than to laugh at people’s names?’
Noble made his way to the kitchen. ‘Then people shouldn’t have names that describe them,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘She’s got a chin like a Christmas turkey.’
Brook began a search of the single tiny bedroom. He searched the pockets of the few shabby clothes hanging in the built-in wardrobe then turned over the mattress and knelt to look under the bed.
‘Nothing,’ shouted Brook through to the kitchen.
‘Same in the kitchen,’ said Noble, meeting him back in the lounge. ‘There’s a packet of butter in the fridge – that’s it. The gas is off,’ he added wryly.
‘That’s a relief,’ replied Brook, sifting through the pile of junk mail and leaflets on the armchair. He isolated the brown envelope, no doubt containing a benefit cheque, and pocketed three brightly coloured direct mail envelopes addressed to McCleary. ‘Help with the recycling,’ he explained when Noble raised an eyebrow. He examined a shrink-wrapped magazine before showing it to Noble.
‘Sporting Gun – the complete shooting resource,’ read Noble. ‘A gun nut?’
‘It may just be more junk mail,’ said Brook.
‘It’s got McCleary’s name on it.’ Noble took the magazine. ‘No harm in checking. He gunned down his father, after all.’
‘Leave the benefit cheque?’ offered Brook.
‘I think so.’
Brook threw the brown envelope on to the doormat and, for authenticity, dropped the fast-food leaflets on top. ‘Well, it’s clear Scott Wheeler’s not here.’
‘You’d better make a note of that,’ teased Noble. ‘Two Ts in Scott.’
Brook smiled sarcastically and headed for the door. As Noble followed, he walked over a loose floorboard. He retraced his step and knelt to prise up the board. He extracted a large padded envelope from under the floor. Brook followed him to the armchair where Noble emptied out the contents. A smaller envelope contained photographs. Noble tipped them out and spread them around the cushion, his face souring. The pictures were of young naked boys, most masturbating for the camera. The photos were poor quality, old and dog-eared. In addition to the snaps there were three unmarked DVDs in blank cases with the handwritten titles, Little Squirts 1, 2 and 3.
‘Looks like you were right,’ said Noble. ‘McCleary’s a secret paedo.’
‘John, those pictures are ancient,’ said Brook. ‘They could’ve been there for years.’
‘Don’t think so. The envelope’s new and the state of that floorboard, whoever lived here would’ve found them as easily as us. They must be his or he’d have dug them out and binned them.’
‘OK, but even if we tie that lot to McCleary, it doesn’t put him next to Scott Wheeler.’
‘Not yet,’ said Noble. ‘But he’s local, he’s got a record, he’s got kiddie porn in his flat and he’s done a runner.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Maybe not,’ conceded Noble. ‘But he’s a killer out on licence. Even if he can convince me he had nothing to do with Scott, this stuff gets him off the streets.’ Noble’s face tightened as he reached the bottom of the pile of photographs. ‘It gets worse.’ He held up a flattened box which had once contained ammunition. ‘An ex-con paedo with a rifle. That’s all we need.’
Brook massaged his chin, staring at the gap in the floorboards. ‘This feels wrong.’
‘How so?’
‘This stuff was awfully easy to find.’
‘Most criminals are stupid. Didn’t you once tell me that?’
‘I suppose,’ admitted Brook.
‘And this was your idea.’
They heard a tapping on the door followed by Mrs Gross’s muffled voice. ‘Is it safe?’
‘Just a minute,’ shou
ted Brook at the door. ‘How do you want to play this?’ he asked Noble. ‘Search warrant?’ Noble was taken aback for a moment, unaccustomed to making the decision. ‘It’s your case, John.’
‘Search warrant,’ confirmed Noble. ‘We don’t want to give his brief any wiggle room.’
Brook gathered up the photographs and returned them to the envelope with the DVDs and handed the package to Noble who replaced them under the floorboards. Back outside they waited for Mrs Gross to lock up the apartment and shuffle away before Noble flipped out his mobile to arrange the warrant.
Brook knelt down to examine the simple latch. ‘A five year old could get past this.’
‘Let’s hope not,’ replied a grim Noble.
‘Funny there was no computer to view the DVDs,’ said Brook.
‘He might have a laptop with him.’
‘In which case he’d have access to the internet,’ observed Brook. ‘And it’s a pervert’s playground.’
‘Your point?’
‘The photographs, John. They were pretty old hat. There’s much harder stuff on the net. Why would he have such poor quality stuff when he can surf for up-to-date material in minutes?’
‘He’s an ex-con,’ said Noble. ‘Maybe he can’t afford a laptop. Or maybe he doesn’t want to leave a trail.’
Brook grunted his acknowledgment. ‘Will you get SOCO to check if the Wheeler kid’s been here?’
‘That’s up to DI Ford,’ said Noble. Brook was about to reply when the younger man continued. ‘But it’ll be hard to object if they’re already in the flat.’
Brook managed a half-smile as he left. ‘I’ve got another call.’
Noble’s voice turned him back. ‘Sir. Good catch.’
Brook shook his head. ‘No, John, it’s wasted on me. I was never here. This is your prize.’
It was sleeting when the two detectives parted outside and Brook decided not to stand around in the cold. Instead he watched Noble jog to his car to wait for his search warrant then followed Mrs Gross’s directions to Edna Spencer’s ground-floor flat.
‘Fucking coppers,’ spat the man, through broken, blackened teeth, slamming a palm violently down on to the steering wheel. From his battered Land Rover, Brendan McCleary watched, seething with anger as the two plain-clothes detectives spoke briefly in the street outside his flat, before going their separate ways. He’d never come across these two during his many skirmishes with the filth but he could smell coppers a mile away.
‘New faces,’ said McCleary, kneading the ache in his knee. ‘Same old problem.’ But for once he’d been lucky. Another minute and he’d have walked straight into their hands. Lucky? That’ll be the day. Through his misshapen mouth, between sagging, grey-whiskered jowls, he chuckled at the thought, tarry and bitter.
He slid down into his seat as the younger man walked towards the Land Rover, but the blond-haired young man got into his Audi before McCleary could begin to worry about being spotted. When the Audi didn’t drive away, McCleary sat upright, ready to leave. But before he turned the ignition, his eyes followed the older man. The middle-aged detective wasn’t waiting in the car with the young one. Instead he strolled to the next walkway and back into the complex. He was looking for another flat and McCleary instantly knew which one it would be. ‘Edna,’ he growled.
He was right. The policeman did a quick survey of the outside of her ground-floor flat then rapped on the door. McCleary had a flash of recognition at Brook’s profile. He reached for the afternoon edition of the Derby Telegraph, sitting under his bottle of tablets, and stared at the picture of Brook on the front page, then back at the man banging on Edna’s door.
‘Hello, Inspector Brook.’ He fingered the cold steel handle of the hunting knife strapped to his calf, still grubby from its last kill. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Brook followed the path, now slick with drizzle, to a front door identical to all the others in the building, including McCleary’s. But this time no blind blocked Brook’s vision and he stared through the mottled security glass, gleaning from interior lights that someone was at home.
He knocked, feeling immediate guilt at a blurred image of an old woman rocking herself upright to answer his summons. With no little difficulty, the figure eventually got out of her chair and was able to stand. An outside light came on despite it being mid-afternoon and the door opened to reveal a milky blue eye blinking at him through the straggles of grey hair and deep wrinkles. Brook had his ID ready.
‘Mrs Spencer, Detective Inspector Brook,’ he shouted, enunciating more than usual.
The door opened wider. ‘Why are you shouting, young man? You’ll have the whole block looking out of their windows.’
Brook smiled. ‘Sorry.’ He noticed the old woman’s piercing gaze move over his right shoulder and turned to see a net curtain fall in the opposite apartment.
‘Don’t worry, Dotty,’ she called out. ‘It’s just the police. I’ve robbed another bank, dear.’ She chuckled. ‘Come in, come in.’
With the aid of her stick, she shuffled back to her chair, Brook following behind at a funereal pace. Eventually Edna fell back into the well-padded armchair with a grating sigh, pressing her hand against her hip to alleviate the pain. She opened her eyes again when the discomfort passed. At once, she wriggled arthritically to get up again. ‘Where are my manners? Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘No, you must.’ She pulled herself forward, nodding at the china cup full of tea on an occasional table next to her chair. ‘I’ve just made a fresh pot. It’ll go to waste.’
‘Thank you, then,’ said Brook quickly, holding up a hand to halt her exertions. He knew from experience that the elderly and infirm set great store by the little rituals that populated a dull and seemingly relentless struggle against pain and loneliness. One of the most important of these was being a generous host, the more so when the opportunities became less frequent. ‘I’d love a cup but I can help myself.’
Edna beamed back at him. ‘Thank you, young man. My hip’s not good at this time of year. Arthritis does love the cold. There are biscuits in the barrel. And please excuse the mess,’ she shouted after him a second later. ‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
Brook poured his cup of tea in the small kitchen at the rear of the apartment. It was bare and spotless. Even the empty stainless steel sink shone like a mirror. He ran his eye and a finger over the cheap decor. Every surface, from floor to ceiling, was washed, wiped, hoovered or dusted.
Like most decent old people, Edna Spencer spent her days and what little energy she had available preparing to leave the world. This involved fighting a continuous war against grime that would leave her conscience as clean as her home. Only constant vigilance against the forces of filth could leave the aged unencumbered by worries that they might be thought slovenly or dirty when the undertaker arrived to remove them. Even untidiness was a habit that might flag up bad character to other members of their generation and most avoided it scrupulously.
It didn’t take long for Brook to see everything there was to see in her pitifully tiny apartment. There was a tiny windowless bathroom at one end and a bedroom off the lounge. It was the mirror image of McCleary’s flat in the next block, only with a lot more knick-knacks.
Brook opened the fridge. Apart from a carton of milk and a small block of dried cheddar cheese, it was empty. He poured his milk and reluctantly helped himself to a Rich Tea biscuit from the barrel, knowing it would please Mrs Spencer to be feeding a guest. Sitting down in her compact lounge wasn’t easy. As well as an armchair, Mrs Spencer had the matching sofa shoehorned into her living space and there wasn’t much room for anything else except a TV in one corner. She’d already muted the programme about antiques she’d been watching and she lifted her own cup to her mouth with a chubby hand.
‘Lovely tea,’ said Brook, raiding his memory for small talk. ‘Just what I needed in this terrible weather.’
‘Oh, don’t get me started on the wea
ther,’ she said.
Brook realised she was right and determined to get quickly to the point before he got drawn into the nation’s favourite conversation. ‘I’m here because—’
‘I can barely get down the road for my pension as it is,’ continued Edna. ‘If it’s not snowing, it’s raining and if it’s not raining—’
‘I’m re-investigating the Billy Stanforth case,’ announced Brook, quickly. Edna stopped cold and Brook realised the absurdity of his last utterance.
Edna Spencer laughed in disbelief. ‘Billy Stanforth?’ She shook her head in wonderment. ‘Billy Stanforth? What are you thinking? Leave it be, young man. You’re never going to find out who killed that poor boy after all this time.’
‘Probably not,’ admitted Brook. ‘But we have to try.’
‘Don’t take me wrong, Inspector. I’m not trying to get rid of you. I’m glad of the company.’
‘Me too,’ replied Brook, before he could stop himself.
She grinned mischievously. ‘You’re a polite young man. Dotty will be very jealous. I don’t get many handsome young men calling on me.’ She smiled up at a picture on the mantelpiece. ‘Not since my Eric passed.’
‘Your husband?’
Edna nodded. ‘Husband, best friend. . .’ her voice began to falter but instead of indulging herself in the modern way, her upper lip stiffened and, demonstrating a dying British art, she pulled herself together. ‘What happened to that great big detective who called last time?’
‘DI Greatorix?’
‘That’s him. A very big man. I hope he didn’t die of a heart attack. I told him to cut down. Had half a dozen of my biscuits. Ginger nuts, they were, an’ all.’
‘He retired,’ said Brook. ‘Four years ago.’
‘Four years?’ she exclaimed, shaking her head. ‘Where does the time go?’
‘What did DI Greatorix ask you?’
‘Do you know, he didn’t mention Billy or the fire. Not once. He just sat where you’re sitting now, drinking tea and eating biscuits and then he wrote something down and was off. Quick as you like.’
‘He didn’t ask any questions?’
‘I tell a lie, he wanted to know the way to Brendan’s flat.’
