by Steven Dunne
‘Brendan McCleary? So you know him.’
‘We’re both from Kirk Langley so, yes, I know him, have done for years. Only to speak to, mind. Say hello of a morning. We don’t have a lot in common with him being. . .’ she hesitated.
‘A career criminal?’ suggested Brook.
Edna smiled her agreement. ‘Poor boy. He’s not had the best of times.’
‘And did Inspector Greatorix manage to see him?’
‘I wouldn’t know about that. Brendan and me aren’t on those familiar terms. Last time he came round was to borrow a fiver, a year or so ago, but I don’t have that kind of money to spare. Still,’ she said with a gleam in her eye, ‘Dotty gets very excited about my gentlemen callers. Very excited.’
‘When was the last time you saw Brendan?’
‘He’s not been round since then and I don’t see him in the neighbourhood much any more. I only get out twice a week myself. For my pension and suchlike.’
‘The warden says Brendan’s pretty much moved out.’
‘If you say so, dear.’
Brook took a sip of tea. ‘What do you think of him?’
‘Brendan? He’s a very sad old man,’ she said. ‘Very sad. And bitter. He wasted his life, I mean a lot do these days, don’t they? So much love he could have had from poor Amelia.’ She shook her head. ‘She loved Brendan with a passion, would have done anything for him.’ She glanced slyly up at Brook, suddenly aware of the implications of what she’d said.
Brook latched on. ‘Anything? Would that include lying for him?’
For the first time a frown appeared on her face. ‘Amelia?’ She shook her head. ‘I’d say no but if you live long enough you realise anything’s possible. She loved him for years; even when he went to prison she defended him around the village. And when her sister and her parents died, she had that big house all to herself and no man to share it.’
‘An odd way to live,’ observed Brook. ‘Alone in a house with so much death.’
‘I know,’ agreed Edna. ‘It doesn’t do to live with ghosts for so much of your life. At least poor Francesca had moved out before she passed. That would have been too hard for Amelia to bear.’
‘Do you remember how Francesca died?’
‘She drowned in a bathtub, dear. Slipped and banged her head, they say, but I know the truth of it.’
‘Truth?’
Edna waggled her wrist in the internationally recognised code for an alcoholic. ‘Drank like a fish, did Francesca. The day she died in nineteen sixty-eight was her birthday. Billy’s too. She must have took to her bath, drunk as a skunk. Celebrating? Mourning? Who knows? But the rest you can work out for yourself.’
‘How did Amelia take her sister’s death?’ asked Brook.
‘Hard,’ said Edna. ‘Amelia tried to get away but she never could. Her parents needed her. And also she couldn’t bear to leave her Billy like that. Then, when Bert and Ruth went, she could’ve moved away. She had money from the insurance. But it was too late by then.’
‘Too late?’
‘Brendan was already in prison up in Leeds. He’d killed his father,’ she explained. ‘He got drunk one night. When he came home there must have been a row with his dad and there was a shotgun nearby, like there would be in the countryside in them days. Well, drink and guns. . . not a good combination, is it? The next day the police found his dad downstairs with his head blown off and Brendan asleep in his bed, blood all over him. There wasn’t a long investigation, put it that way. Very sad. They might as well have taken Amelia to prison that day as well, instead of leaving her in that house, like Miss Havisham, with all those memories. Both their lives ended that night as far as I can see.’
‘What about Billy’s party? Did you see Brendan that afternoon?’
Edna gave a little laugh at Brook’s persistence. ‘No. He wasn’t there, far as I could tell, though I’ve heard said he passed by.’
‘Where were you when the fire broke out?’
‘In the lounge with Mr Stanforth. There were a few of us playing blind man’s buff.’
Brook sipped his tea. ‘You’ve got a good memory, Mrs Spencer.’
‘It’s not so hard when all you do each day is sit and reflect. When you have a shrinking future, memories become your present as well as your past. You’ll get there, young man.’
Brook’s smile managed to mask the dead hand of existential terror suddenly constricting his heart. I hope not. He took out the folded sheet he’d extracted earlier from the file. ‘Edna, this is a plan drawn up by DCI Bannon and—’
‘Who?’
‘DCI Bannon. He was the policeman in charge of investigating the fire.’
‘Was he? I never met him. The other one took my statement.’
‘DC Laird?’
‘That’s the one,’ smiled Edna, turning her gaze on to the A4 sheet.
‘This shows where everyone was when the fire broke out.’ Brook leaned over to point to various details. ‘BMB would have been blind man’s buff in the room where you were playing. Is that right?’
She read out the names. ‘Me, Charlotte Dilkes, Roger Rawlins, Francesca Stanforth. . .’ She paused over the last name and tried to think.
‘You don’t remember Francesca being there?’
‘I think so, at least part of the time.’ She handed back the sheet to Brook with a smile. ‘We were playing blind man’s buff, remember. The lights were off. That’s why we were the first to see the fire. We saw it through the window.’
‘What happened when you saw the flames?’
‘We ran outside, screaming and shouting, made a terrible racket, as you can imagine. Funny. It was exciting at first.’ A tear pricked one eye. ‘We never knew our friend was burning inside.’
‘Did you hear anything? A scream, maybe.’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘And according to most accounts, those playing with you arrived at the burning shed first. Is that right?’
‘Yes, well, the lounge was closest,’ said Edna. ‘I got there at the same time as Francesca. We were just behind Charlotte.’
‘Charlotte Dilkes was first there? The girl who drowned the year after.’
‘Yes, poor little thing.’
‘And then the other children came to see what all the noise was about.’
‘That’s right.’
Brook nodded. ‘Was there anybody not in your room who seemed to arrive before you or even at the same time? Perhaps someone from the dining room or the conservatory.’
Edna looked at the plan, trying to remember. ‘I don’t think so. It was all very confusing.’
‘Nothing that struck you as odd in any way?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Nothing relevant.’
‘Nothing relevant,’ echoed Brook, finishing his tea. ‘What about something irrelevant then?’
Edna’s milky gaze pierced him for a moment. Brook got the impression she was taking a decision. ‘No.’
Brook drained his tea. ‘Well, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘No, I haven’t,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve not told you anything new.’
Brook took the floor plan of the Stanforth house from her and returned it to his pocket. ‘So what do you think happened to Billy?’
‘I couldn’t tell you, Inspector.’
‘Not even a bit of wild speculation?’ prompted Brook. ‘It won’t go any further.’ She smiled her reluctance so Brook threw her a conversational lifebelt. ‘DC Laird and DCI Bannon were convinced it was McCleary.’
‘Brendan kill Billy?’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t see it. I mean, why would he?’
Brook thought about the pictures in McCleary’s flat. ‘Maybe Brendan was interested in Billy. . . in a different way.’
‘Different?’
‘I’m not sure how to ask this.’
‘Straight out with it works best for me,’ said Edna.
Brook smiled sheepishly. ‘Did Brendan ever seem like he was sexually attracted
to Billy?’
Edna Spencer’s eyes widened in shock. ‘Good lord, no. Brendan was a ladies’ man through and through. Flocked around him, they did, and he loved it. Whatever made you ask that?’
‘Just looking for a different angle,’ lied Brook.
‘It’s different, all right. I never saw anything like that in Brendan. And the idea he’d set a fire as well. . .’
‘What?’
‘Well, it wasn’t his style. If Brendan had a quarrel with someone, he’d just march up to them and punch their lights out, he was that straightforward – not that he was especially violent. But to burn his girlfriend’s brother to death, that’s too measured for young boys.’
‘You think maybe this was a woman’s crime?’
‘Well Amelia and Charlotte had some kind of a motive but it’s harder to see why Francesca—’
‘Sorry,’ interrupted Brook. ‘Amelia had a motive?’
‘Well, not one you’d think she’d kill her brother over.’ Brook egged her on with a gesture. ‘See, it was Billy who told their parents about Amelia stepping out with Brendan. Caused a right kerfuffle, I can tell you. Mr Stanforth wouldn’t have Brendan anywhere near the house and forbade Amelia to see him.’ She smiled. ‘But forbidden fruit, eh?’
‘And Charlotte?’
‘Charlotte was sweet on Billy,’ said Edna. ‘Followed him everywhere. Course he was a year older and much more grown-up. He wouldn’t give her the time of day. That has to take its toll, I imagine.’
‘And she was first to arrive at the burning shed.’
‘Yes, she was. And the first to notice Billy was missing. She cried for weeks after they found the body, though. Hard to imagine her setting the fire and locking Billy inside.’
‘Hell hath no fury. . .’ Brook broke off when he realised Charlotte Dilkes had been a long way from womanhood. ‘What about Edward Mullen?’
Edna smiled with pleasure. ‘Teddy? What about him?’
‘He was the only child who was alone when the fire was set.’
‘And you think. . . ?’ She shook her head. ‘No, Inspector. Teddy didn’t kill Billy. He loved him. He couldn’t kill Billy in a million years.’
‘But they’d argued. . .’
‘Teddy didn’t kill Billy, Inspector.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘Just want to save you the time and trouble.’
Brook nodded then tore a page from his notebook and wrote down his mobile number. ‘If you remember anything else about that day, Mrs Spencer, please give me a call.’
‘I will, Inspector.’
‘Or even if you just want a chat,’ he added.
‘A chat?’ Confused at first, Edna gave him a searching look before smiling, almost overcome. Brook rose to leave, glancing at the muted TV. The local news was on, showing a picture of Scott Wheeler. Instead of turning it back up, Edna closed her eyes in pain and made the sign of the cross. ‘Poor boy,’ she said. ‘No child deserves to die before they’ve had a chance at life.’
‘We don’t know he’s dead yet,’ said Brook from the door.
‘That’s how these things always end,’ said Edna softly. Brook considered contradicting her but decided against it. ‘Inspector,’ she called, as Brook made to leave.
‘Yes?’
The old woman hesitated, glancing at the television. She seemed on the verge of tears, unable to speak. A second later, she shook her head so Brook thanked her for the tea and walked out into the gloom.
On his way home, Brook called into Sainsbury’s at Kingsway’s Retail Park to buy desperately needed groceries, unaware of McCleary’s Land Rover pulling into a nearby spot. He didn’t get past the newspaper stand where the Derby Telegraph front page stopped him in his tracks.
DISGRACED DI TAKES TEA WHILE SEARCH FOR SCOTT WIDENS. Brook picked up the top copy. Below the headline was a picture of him, drinking from a plastic beaker in the station car park as Burton had promised.
Brook didn’t bother to read the article, dropping the paper back on the pile. He glanced over at the tobacco kiosk as he turned towards the exit but managed to drag himself back to his car without buying a pack.
Back at the cottage, Brook was also able to ignore the culinary attractions of a can of lentils; instead, he poured a large whisky and water which he nursed in a chair. He texted Noble to inform him of his plans for the morning and asked about developments from McCleary’s flat.
Five minutes later Noble replied. ‘Seen paper L SOCO still working. Ford to go public, tipping off BMc LL Watching flat until. Why PO if benefit ck still in flat.’
‘You missed your question mark,’ mumbled Brook, tapping out his scrupulous reply. ‘It’s still pension day. He may go there first.’ He finished with ‘Nothing better to do’ but deleted it.
‘Want back-up?’ replied Noble.
‘No,’ Brook sounded as he texted.
Twelve
Thursday, 13 December 2012
The next day Brook drove straight to McCleary’s local post office on Normanton Road, glad of the chance to avoid the station and all those, including Charlton, who might feel inclined to comment on his unflattering appearance in the local paper.
There was a café nestled between all the Asian stores and Brook settled into a window seat with a tea, propping a printout of an old picture of McCleary against the salt cellar. Immediately his nostrils were assaulted by the smell of frying bacon and he realised how hungry he was. He’d eaten nothing but boiled rice smeared with Laughing Cow cheese the last few days and knew he had to take on board some proper fuel or risk falling victim to the winter weather.
Thirty minutes later Brook finished his all-day breakfast as though it was his death row meal, savouring every salty mouthful and chasing the last of the egg yolk round the plate with a triangle of white toast. After the hot meal, Brook became sleepy so he switched to drinking bitter powdered coffee while his gaze alternated between his notebook and the doors of the post office.
After a fruitless morning, Brook paid his bill and drifted out on to the street.
Having scanned the perimeter fence for photographers, Brook trudged wearily towards the station through the rain, only a full belly and a bag of Indian groceries in his boot to show for his morning’s work. He might have hurried had he not been aware that he was saying goodbye to natural light for another day.
To dampen his mood further, Hendrickson was leaning on both elbows at reception, reading Brian Burton’s puffed-up story on the counter. When the desk sergeant lifted his head, the grin began to form immediately.
‘The Chief Super was looking for you,’ he said. ‘Sir.’
Brook nodded and quickened his step.
‘You also had calls from East Midlands Today and Radio Derby wanting a word,’ called Hendrickson to Brook’s retreating frame. ‘I told them you were on a tea break.’
Brook kept walking.
Barely able to keep the laughter at bay, Hendrickson added under his breath, ‘That’s right, mental boy. Run away.’
Brook, nearly at the double doors, stopped dead. After a few seconds he turned slowly to face his grinning tormentor. ‘What did you say?’
Hendrickson’s expression took on the innocence of the cornered schoolboy. ‘Sir?’
‘I asked you what you said,’ replied Brook evenly, slowly retracing his steps towards reception.
‘The Chief was looking for you,’ replied Hendrickson with an air of insouciance.
‘After that.’
‘East Midlands Today.’
‘After that.’
Hendrickson looked mystified. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Sir.’
Brook arrived back at the counter and rested his hands lightly on the polished wood. He looked coldly at the grey-haired sergeant and fancied he detected a sliver of doubt flash across his flabby face. ‘Yes, you do. You called me mental boy.’
They were quite alone so Hendrickson swivelled round, his arms wide, seeking corroboration from non-existent witness
es. ‘I think you must have imagined it.’ He smirked at Brook then inclined his head slightly back towards the empty office to imply a pressing need to work.
Brook grabbed Hendrickson’s uniform lapels, pulling the sergeant’s upper torso down towards the wooden counter so that his right cheek was pressed against the wood, heavy jowls spilling across the surface. At the same time his left hand twisted Hendrickson’s thin black tie round his throat so he could do no more than splutter in shock and try to breathe normally. Then Brook pushed his own face into close proximity, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bulging with restrained violence.
‘Doesn’t an out-of-condition bag of guts like you worry that one day mental boy could lose his grip and do you some harm?’ snarled Brook through gritted teeth. ‘Think about that before you ever speak to me again.’ Brook held the old man’s gaze a second longer then released his hand and stalked away, looking calmer than he felt.
Hendrickson righted himself, rubbing his throat, his face borscht-red. ‘You fucking nutter,’ he spluttered. ‘You can’t do that to me, I’ll have your fucking job for that.’
‘For what?’ asked Brook, turning back to Hendrickson, arms out, looking round for support from the same non-existent witnesses who’d backed up the sergeant a moment earlier. With a thin smile, Brook continued towards the stairwell.
Hidden from view at the top of the stairs, Brook pulled out Hendrickson’s mobile phone, filched from the breast pocket of his uniform. It was new and expensive and it took him some time to find the text Hendrickson had sent to Brian Burton on the morning of Brook’s return to work.
When he found it he read it, this time with genuine anger. He was about to put the phone back in his pocket when a thought occurred. He flicked to Burton’s acknowledging text and pressed REPLY before tapping out a message in his usual painstaking manner but this time remembering to lower the standard of his grammar.
A moment later he re-read the text before sending.
‘Brook flipped out. Taken to Stoke loony bin in straightjacket. Not sure which one. Under false name.’
Shortly after, the vibration of Burton’s reply shook Brook’s pocket.
‘Big ta H. On my way. Another mega drink innit 4 you. Lol. Got him.’
