The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Doesn’t miss a trick, this one,’ laughed Laird. ‘She’ll go far.’

  ‘Aye, too far one day,’ observed Copeland. ‘Thought you had a headache, madam.’

  ‘I’m feeling a lot better, Dad.’ She knew what was coming and smiled to disarm her father.

  ‘Just not well enough to go to church this morning, is that it?’

  A sassy comeback played around her pretty mouth for a moment but she settled for, ‘Thought I’d take the dog out. Get some air. You know how much I like to help out.’ She stroked her curmudgeonly father’s thinning hair. ‘You should wear a hat in this sun, Dad.’

  The two men laughed. ‘Cheeky beggar,’ said her father.

  ‘What’s funny about that?’ said Clive, to cause more merriment. Confused, he looked from face to face.

  Matilda called the dog to her and she set out along Radbourne Lane towards Station Road.

  ‘Can I go with her, Dad?’ pleaded Clive.

  ‘No. Get them marbles cleared up and get ready for bed.’

  The boy blew out his cheeks in dismay. ‘O-kay.’

  ‘And don’t you be long, young lady, it’s already half past eight,’ Copeland shouted after Matilda. ‘Just round the estate.’ She raised an arm in acknowledgement without looking back. Copeland rolled his eyes at Laird. ‘Kids today.’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me, George.’ Laird straightened, preparing to leave. ‘Half eight, you say. Didn’t realise it was so late.’ He looked at Copeland’s wrist for confirmation but saw no watch.

  Copeland noticed him looking and nodded towards an untidy figure, shambling along the pavement in the same direction as his daughter, a trail of cigarette smoke billowing behind him. ‘Don’t need a watch, Wally, when not-so-clever Trevor’s on his way to the Northern for his four pints. Half eight on the dot. Every night without fail.’ He laughed. ‘And I’d be going with him if I lived on me tod.’

  ‘You’d make a good detective, George.’ Laird hesitated. ‘Everything OK with Matilda?’ he ventured, nodding at the retreating figure of Copeland’s daughter.

  ‘Don’t worry, Walter,’ said Copeland, his face suddenly severe. ‘I keep more than a weather eye on that one, thanks to you.’

  ‘A weather eye on what one?’ asked Clive, the lolly stick hanging out of the side of his mouth, a box of marbles nestling under his arm.

  ‘Never you mind,’ replied his father. ‘Ready for bed.’

  ‘But I want a ride in Walter’s car,’ whined Clive.

  ‘And what does wanting get you?’ demanded Copeland. ‘Bed.’

  ‘Yes, Dad,’ mumbled the boy, his shoulders slumping dramatically. ‘See you Walter.’

  ‘Night, Clive. Another time for that ride,’ consoled Laird, giving him a pat on the head as he trudged away. With the boy inside, Laird and Copeland shook hands. ‘Thanks for everything, George.’

  ‘You’ll be missed, Walter.’

  ‘I’ll pop back from time to time,’ said Laird. ‘And I hope you and the lovely wife will be coming to the wedding in five years.’

  ‘Five years? You’ll not get away with it that long, lad.’ The two men’s laughter was interrupted by the impatient honking of the Jaguar’s horn. They laughed again.

  Two minutes later Laird and his fiancée drove along Radbourne Lane, past the athletic, languid frame of Matilda Copeland as she guided Ebony off the main road and back into the estate. Laird sounded the horn as they passed and she raised an acknowledging hand, without turning to look. He watched her disappear in the rear-view mirror, the unkempt figure of Trevor Taylor shuffling along behind, his hooded eyes glued to Matilda’s backside. Laird returned his eyes to the road ahead, a strange sense of foreboding washing through him.

  Fourteen

  Brook turned on his laptop and wearily pulled the Stanforth file back towards him for another read-through. As the screen came to life and cast its light over the manila folder, Brook’s eye was drawn to a series of indentations on the cover that he hadn’t noticed before. He held the folder to the light and moved it around to decipher the marks. Something had been written on the folder and, later, vigorously erased, leaving a slightly lighter blue colour on the card.

  A trace remained so Brook took a pencil and used the flattened point to rub lightly over the affected area. A couple of minutes later he was able to make out the faint outline of what had been removed.

  Pied Piper

  63 WS 1st?

  22/12/73 JW 2nd or 3rd? Wrong MO

  Dec 78? 3rd or 4th?

  Others?

  No 68. Why? FS?

  ‘The Pied Piper,’ mumbled Brook. A fairytale figure who played a magic pipe to entice rats away from a small German town.

  He copied the note into his pad then removed all the documents from the Stanforth folder to search for any mention of a Pied Piper, missed first time round. He couldn’t find a single reference. However, by comparing several handwritten reports against the mysterious message, Brook found a match against a report signed by DCI Samuel Bannon, SIO of the Stanforth inquiry.

  The Pied Piper didn’t just lure away rats, thought Brook, rubbing his chin. When the townspeople refused to pay, he lured the town’s children away from their homes as well. According to legend they never returned.

  Robert Browning had written a poem about the Pied Piper so Brook loaded it from the internet but, after reading all fifteen verses, was no closer to understanding why Bannon had scribbled the note on a fifty-year-old murder file.

  ‘63 WS 1st?’ read Brook. ‘William Stanforth in 1963. The first.’ Was Bannon speculating that Stanforth’s murder was the first of a series, the second of which occurred in December 1973?

  ‘JW on December the twenty-second, nineteen seventy-three,’ said Brook. ‘Billy’s birthday, ten years later. That’s a very long wait for a second kill, Sam. Even a third.’ Maybe that’s why he rubbed out the note.

  Out of interest, Brook Googled the date of the second kill and soon found the story in archives of a murdered young boy, Jeff Ward, twelve years old. But instead of being burned alive, Jeff had been strangled on a golf course in the dead of winter. The killer was never found.

  ‘Wrong MO,’ said Brook, echoing the note. ‘Although, I suppose both Billy and Jeff died from lack of oxygen.’ He screwed up his face. ‘Flimsy, Sam.’

  Reading on, Brook learned that Jeff Ward was last seen kicking a football around the back garden of his family’s home in leafy Allestree to the north of the city. As dark had fallen, his mother had called him but Jeff was nowhere to be seen.

  The police were alerted and a search undertaken. It seemed the boy had wandered away but the police were able to follow his footprints in recent snow and it didn’t take long to find the boy’s remains, less than a mile away on the snow-covered putting green of Allestree Park Golf Course.

  Brook logged into the PNC and loaded what details there were in the database. He smiled when he saw the SIO. Walter Laird, by now a DI, had picked up the case. Interestingly, Clive Copeland, then a callow DC, was on the investigation with him.

  The facts of the case were a bit more detailed than the story in the local paper. Another set of prints were found besides Jeff Ward’s leading to the crime scene. Heading away from the killing ground were the lone tracks of the murderer. Two things had struck the investigating team. It seemed Jeff Ward had followed his killer to the putting green where he’d died and, in so doing, had made a deliberate attempt to eradicate the footprints of the perpetrator.

  Secondly, the lone tracks leading away from Jeff’s body were small enough to have belonged to a child, though no witnesses were ever found to support this hypothesis.

  Brook sifted through the crime scene and autopsy photographs but they shed no further light on an apparently brutal and senseless crime. He was puzzled. Why would Bannon connect the two deaths, especially as he had no investigative role in the Ward killing? And why was the only reference to Sam’s theory an erased scribble on a folder?

  Pu
tting himself in Bannon’s shoes for a minute, Brook tried to compile a list of common features that might have encouraged his premise. It wasn’t long.

  Pied Piper

  1) Victim – young/teenage male (sporty/robust)

  2) Possible child as killer?

  3) Date of death – 22 December (ten years apart)

  4) No witnesses to abduction (Lured away by Pied Piper?)

  5) Walter Laird investigates (Bannon?)

  6) Death by asphyxiation

  Brook shook his head and turned his attention to the third date – Dec 78? This time only a five-year gap between kills. Brook’s 1978 search for a murdered boy was more of a fishing expedition because this time there was no specific date in Bannon’s notes, just the month. There were also no initials to identify potential victims. But assuming any murder consistent with Bannon’s theory would have happened around the date of Billy’s birthday, Brook searched for unlawful killings on 22 December. It was a short search. Nobody had been murdered in the Derby area on that date in 1978.

  Brook widened his search to include the whole of December but this also proved fruitless. There was the odd murder but not one of the victims was a teenage boy. It was a dead end. But that prompted the obvious question. Why would Bannon theorise about a murder that didn’t happen in 1978? And what was the connection to the Stanforth and Ward killings years earlier?

  ‘No initials,’ mumbled Brook, holding up an index finger. ‘So maybe Bannon wrote this note before December 1978 because he saw a pattern that led him to believe there would be a murder committed on that date.’ But there wasn’t.

  His eye moved further down the note. ‘Others?’ he read. ‘No 68. Why? FS?’

  As Brook typed 1968 into the search engine, he realised there had been a death in that year on 22 December – Francesca Stanforth had drowned in her bath after hitting her head.

  ‘FS?’ Was Bannon’s note speculating that Francesca hadn’t died accidentally, that she had in fact been murdered? It appeared so.

  ‘But you weren’t sure because her death had been classified as an accident and the other victims were young boys,’ said Brook. ‘Different victim profile to the other two – hence the question mark.’

  Brook located his mug and finished his tea, now cold. ‘Sorry, Sam, it doesn’t hold together. A serial offender committing five-yearly kills on a preordained date. Where’s the escalation? Where’s the evidence?’ Clearly Bannon’s theory had foundered on the same problem.

  Brook gave up and walked thoughtfully into Copeland’s office to make another tea.

  ‘Clive,’ said Brook. ‘When you reviewed the Billy Stanforth killing in the seventies, did you ever hear any mention of the Pied Piper?’

  Copeland returned Brook’s inquiring gaze. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The Pied Piper?’ repeated Brook.

  ‘The only Pied Piper I know was a rat catcher in a German fairytale,’ Copeland replied, a silly grin distorting his features.

  ‘I was thinking more in terms of a nickname for a killer in Derby,’ said Brook.

  Copeland shook his head. ‘In Derby? Can’t say I’ve heard that one. Why?’

  For reasons he couldn’t put his finger on, Brook decided not to specify. After all, somebody had erased Bannon’s jottings. Maybe it wasn’t Sam. ‘Just something I read somewhere.’

  ‘Where exactly?’ smiled Copeland. ‘That might help me place it.’

  Brook hesitated. He had the distinct feeling Copeland was ruffled and was trying not to show it. ‘I found it on a scrap of paper in the Stanforth file.’

  ‘Really?’ Copeland did a good impression of someone racking his brains before shaking his head. ‘I don’t remember seeing it or hearing any reference. Sorry.’

  Brook took a sip of his hot tea. ‘It’s probably nothing. Thanks anyway.’

  Back in his office, Brook tore out a blank sheet from his notebook and wrote ‘The Pied Piper?’ with his left hand. He omitted the rest of the message he’d found on the cover. He popped it in the front of the file, so Copeland wouldn’t waste too much time finding it, then erased his own pencil marks from the cover until Bannon’s scribbling had disappeared again.

  Leaving the file on the table for his colleague to find, Brook shouted a cheery goodnight through Copeland’s door and headed for his car.

  Fifteen

  That night, back at the cottage, Brook ate the samosas purchased in Normanton earlier in the day and stared into the fire, brooding over his momentary lapse of self-control with Hendrickson that afternoon. If anyone else had seen the way he’d manhandled the sergeant – and it was a miracle that no one had – he could have kissed his career goodbye, on the spot.

  That didn’t worry him unduly; he’d embraced the notion often enough. What worried Brook more was that the act of assaulting Hendrickson had generated within him a pleasure that he knew was both addictive and unhealthy. It was the product of a volcanic anger that had first erupted in the Reaper investigation in the early nineties and culminated in his mental breakdown.

  Brook examined his right hand, remembering that dark time. He wondered again if it was time to get out while he still had the semblance of a reputation. He retrieved his resignation letter, reading it for the hundredth time since writing it at the start of his suspension, five months before. He took out a pen and, for the first time, actually signed it, folded it into an envelope and, after sealing it, wrote Chief Superintendent Charlton’s name on the front.

  He couldn’t deliver it yet, though. To abandon a case in midstream, even one as fruitless as the Stanforth murder, was anathema to Brook. But preparing the ground gave him a tremendous sense of relief. He put the envelope in his jacket for the right moment.

  ‘You win, Charlton. You too, Brian.’ And by going at a time of my own choosing, perhaps I win too. Brook lifted a foaming pint glass to his mouth and took a celebratory sip of his Indian lager.

  As he padded into the kitchen with his plate, a knock sounded at the door. Brook instinctively looked at his watch. Visitors to his cottage in Hartington were rare, and non-existent during the dark nights of winter. And although Christmas was looming, he hadn’t heard the singing of carols in the night. He peered out into the darkness before pulling open the door.

  ‘John?’

  Noble leaned on the door jamb and grinned ruefully back at Brook. ‘I was just passing.’

  Brook discharged his usual one-note laugh. ‘Just passing?’

  ‘If you’re entertaining a lady. . .’ said Noble, raising a mocking eyebrow.

  Brook rolled his eyes. ‘My juggling days are over, John. Come in.’

  Noble removed his coat and put it round a kitchen chair, looking about him as he sat. ‘Nice place. Quaint.’

  ‘You’ve not been here?’ said Brook, half-question, half-realisation. ‘No, of course you haven’t. That’s my fault.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Noble. ‘We used to see more than enough of each other before your suspension. Not got round to putting up the Christmas decorations yet?’

  ‘No,’ conceded Brook, unable to elaborate with an excuse. He hesitated, unsure what to do, his hosting skills atrophied over many years. ‘Some news about McCleary?’

  Noble shook his head. ‘I think he’s in the wind.’

  ‘And Scott Wheeler?’

  ‘Nothing to show he’d ever been in McCleary’s flat but we’re still waiting on tests. Post office?’

  ‘No show.’

  Noble nodded. ‘You didn’t expect him to, did you?’

  ‘Not really,’ admitted Brook.

  ‘You were right. But I had an unmarked car there all day just in case.’

  ‘You might have said.’

  Noble shrugged. ‘I figured you’d appreciate being under the radar after Brian Burton’s antics. And after tonight’s press conference, we won’t be seeing McCleary any time soon either, if he’s got any sense.’

  ‘Ford really went public on the strength of those old photographs?’ asked Brook.<
br />
  ‘Afraid so,’ said Noble. He handed the evening paper to Brook.

  ‘You told him to sit tight and watch the flat?’ said Brook, skimming through the main points.

  ‘Wasting my breath,’ sighed Noble. ‘It was all I could do to make him wait for the tests to shake out.’

  Brook tossed the paper on the table.

  ‘It gets worse,’ Noble grunted. ‘McCleary’s been a subscriber to shooting magazines for a few years.’

  ‘But he’s an ex-con, he can’t own guns.’

  ‘Not officially, he can’t,’ replied Noble. ‘But there’s nothing to say he can’t read about guns. Ford says we can’t take the chance so he’s putting an armed unit on standby.’

  ‘Great,’ said Brook, dismayed.

  ‘How’s life in the Cold Case Unit?’ asked Noble.

  ‘Not good. Staring at four walls. . . doesn’t suit me.’

  ‘I’m surprised,’ teased Noble.

  ‘Me too, actually,’ smiled Brook. ‘But Charlton’s masterstroke is a life without daylight. That’s the killer. I need to be out amongst the living.’

  ‘As you stand over the dead.’

  ‘At least I can see a victim’s corpse, John. At the moment I’m chasing phantoms. Charlton’s finally got my measure.’

  ‘Never happen,’ retorted Noble. ‘You should tell him where to stick the Ghostbusters and get back to working cases. We need you. He’ll back down, you’ll see.’

  Brook wondered whether to mention his resignation but couldn’t think how to phrase it without sounding pathetic. I’m worried about my self-control. I can’t work in an office without daylight. I don’t like taking my own notes. He settled for, ‘I doubt it.’

  Noble spied Brook’s pint glass. ‘Anything to drink?’

  ‘Aren’t you driving?’

  ‘I only knocked off an hour ago and I’m stone cold sober,’ replied Noble.

  Brook removed a bottle of Cobra from the fridge. ‘How did you find the cottage?’

  ‘I asked at the pub. Briefly,’ Noble added as Brook hesitated with the bottle opener. ‘I mean, Hartington’s not big, is it?’ He accepted his drink and poured the beer into a glass. ‘Hadn’t pegged you for a lager man.’