by Steven Dunne
‘That’s because he’s a good man and loyal.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘I know how it sounds but hear me out, you’ll understand.’ Copeland gathered his thoughts. ‘It was December the twentieth, nineteen seventy-eight, two days before Billy Stanforth’s birthday. Bannon was convinced the Pied Piper was about to strike.’
‘Changing from a ten-year cycle to five,’ pointed out Brook.
‘Ah, but by that time Bannon had convinced himself that Francesca Stanforth was part of the pattern, even though she died an adult and her death was officially squared away as an accident. But because she’d drowned in a bath on December the twenty-second, five years after Billy, Sam enrolled her into his profile.’
‘It’s been suggested to me that Francesca might have committed suicide,’ said Brook.
Copeland opened his arms. ‘Same difference. It’s still not murder.’
Brook rubbed his chin. ‘And there was no murder on Billy’s birthday in nineteen seventy-eight either.’
Copeland smiled in sudden admiration. ‘You already checked.’
‘I did,’ said Brook. ‘Bannon was wrong.’
‘Thank you,’ said Copeland. ‘But that didn’t stop him networking all his old contacts in the run-up, claiming his imaginary serial killer was about to kill again.’ Copeland shrugged. ‘Sadly he died before he could be proved wrong.’
‘What happened on the night Bannon died?’ asked Brook.
‘Sam phoned Walter.’ Copeland hesitated. ‘To tell him he’d worked it out.’
‘Worked what out?’
‘The name of the boy that was going to die.’
‘What? Two days before?’ exclaimed Brook. ‘Who?’
‘Sam said his name was Harry Pritchett.’
‘Harry Pritchett? How could he possibly. . . ?’ Brook stopped. ‘Did Harry Pritchett go missing?’
‘How did you know?’ said Copeland.
‘There were no suspicious deaths on the twenty-second that year,’ reasoned Brook. ‘But if a missing person died and the body was never found, it might still fit the profile. No body means no murder, at least not one you can put on the books.’
‘I’m impressed,’ conceded Copeland. ‘You’re right. The Pritchett boy had disappeared.’
‘When?’
‘The week before but, Brook, Sam was wrong. There was no body because there was no murder,’ insisted Copeland. ‘Harry Pritchett walked away from home on December the fifteenth, nineteen seventy-eight, and was never seen again. Not in Derby anyway.’
‘Then in theory he could have been abducted and murdered by the Pied Piper,’ argued Brook.
‘In theory,’ admitted Copeland. ‘But do I need to tell you how many kids go missing every year, especially from broken homes?’
‘And was Pritchett’s broken?’
‘It was. His father was Irish, mother from Derby. Sean Pritchett had moved back to North London and tried to get custody the year before Harry disappeared. That’s where Harry ended up, I reckon, although Sean Pritchett would never come clean. He travelled back up when his son went missing, went through the motions of being a concerned father for a while then eventually returned to Kilburn. My guess is he’d snatched Harry and stashed him with relatives down there until things blew over.’
‘What were his grounds for custody?’
‘He said the mother was unfit. They’d had another kid, a daughter who died when she ran under a car three months after father and mother had split up. Pritchett said she was negligent and he didn’t want his son living with her.’
‘But Bannon didn’t think it was a custody battle,’ said Brook.
‘Course not,’ scoffed Copeland. ‘According to Bannon, the Pied Piper had snatched Harry to be his next victim.’ Copeland was scornful of Brook’s serious expression. ‘He was raving. And drunk, according to Walter. Paranoid too.’
‘Paranoid?’
‘Bannon said his house was being watched and he was concerned for Rosie. He was gibbering like a madman that the Pied Piper was out to get him.’ Copeland made sure he had Brook’s full attention for his next utterance. ‘When Walter didn’t take him seriously, that’s when Bannon threatened to kill himself.’
Brook was sombre. He could tell where this was heading. ‘Go on.’
‘That last night Walter managed to calm him down, told him to make some coffee and he’d come round in the morning and listen to everything he had to say, if only he’d stop drinking and get some sleep.’ Copeland was sombre. ‘That was the last conversation they ever had. Walter rang me at four the next morning to tell me the news. He picked me up and we went to Bannon’s house. Another ex-colleague of Bannon’s was already there – DS Bell. He talked us through what happened. The fire investigator had told Bell the blaze had been deliberately started from inside the shed. There was an empty petrol can and a camping stove under the desk where he would’ve sat. The nozzle of the stove was jammed open as though someone had turned it on and lit it. That’s where the fire started.’
‘Sam Bannon killed himself.’
‘That’s what happened.’
‘Suicide note?’
‘Not that we found.’
‘Then why not murder?’ argued Brook. ‘Maybe he was being watched.’
‘It couldn’t have been murder, Brook. The door wasn’t locked or barred, inside or out. Sam wasn’t trapped. He could have got out at any time. He just chose not to.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘He’d become obsessed with the Pied Piper and chose to die like the Stanforth boy,’ insisted Copeland. ‘Even the way he died defined his obsession.’
‘That’s speculation.’
‘No it isn’t,’ shouted Copeland. ‘Listen. Bannon was face down when they found him.’
‘That’s not unusual,’ argued Brook. ‘The smoke often kills people first and they collapse—’
‘And burn later,’ finished Copeland. ‘Yes, I know. But when that happens and a victim is face down on the floor, that part of their body is partially protected from the flames.’
‘So?’
‘So when they turned Bannon over, his front was burned just as badly as the back of him.’ Copeland paused to let Brook catch up to the implication. ‘You see, Brook, he was sitting at the desk when he set fire to himself.’
‘Maybe he was drunk and had an accident.’
‘He’d been drinking. But too drunk to crash out of a flimsy burning building when you’re on fire? I doubt it. But either way, it’s still not murder.’
Brook thought it through. ‘So why did Laird tell me it was an accident if it was suicide?’
‘Because he persuaded the investigator to fudge his report so it could be interpreted either way. That way Bannon’s kid could get looked after; financially, I mean.’
‘More facts massaged,’ sighed Brook.
‘Walter was helping a friend, Brook. To most people that’s a natural reaction,’ he added, with a hint of censure.
‘And the investigator went along?’
Copeland shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t he? A favour from one service to another.’
Brook shook his head. ‘It’s fraud, Clive.’
‘Jesus, you’re a father,’ Copeland spat. ‘Do you think the insurance companies were out of pocket? Fuck, no.’
Brook winced. ‘Easy, Clive.’
‘I bet they still turned a huge profit that year,’ continued Copeland. ‘But if Bannon’s death was certified as suicide, his life insurance would have been invalidated and Rosie would’ve been left penniless.’
‘But Laird had no right—’
‘Sam Bannon was a friend and colleague with a kid who was suddenly an orphan. There wasn’t time to debate it. What would you have done, Brook? Tell me.’
‘A crime was committed for financial gain.’
‘Not Walter’s gain,’ shouted Copeland. ‘Get off your high horse. Without that money, Rosie would have been homeless.’ Copelan
d sat back, calmer now. ‘It wasn’t just the money, Brook. You’re a father. Work it out for yourself. Walter didn’t want little Rosie growing up with that stigma, that shame gnawing at her, knowing that her father had topped himself rather than live with his daughter another day.’
Brook was silenced, remembering his angry conversation with his daughter only a few months before about Terri’s attempted suicide in her late teens. Leaving a loved one to pick up the pieces after self-destruction was the ultimate betrayal, the final kick in the teeth. He conceded with no more than a drop of the eyes. ‘I suppose. . . I can understand,’ he mumbled.
‘Welcome to the human race,’ said Copeland, sarcastically.
‘Save the smugness, Clive,’ replied Brook quietly. ‘If this wasn’t ancient history I’d already be banging on Charlton’s door. Laird has let down the force. Not to mention your sister.’
‘Matilda?’ exclaimed Copeland, making a stab at indignation. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘What Walter Laird did in nineteen sixty-three, had ongoing consequences. The fact that Matilda was Brendan McCleary’s girlfriend at the time of Billy Stanforth’s death was material evidence.’
‘But I had no idea until nineteen seventy-eight,’ responded Copeland.
‘But Laird did,’ said Brook, banging a fist on Copeland’s desk. ‘He knew in nineteen sixty-three and he knew two years later, when he and Bannon investigated your sister’s death. It was material then, maybe even crucial, and McCleary should have been interviewed.’
‘He was interviewed.’
‘By who? Bannon?’
‘No.’
‘No, because Laird had to keep Bannon in the dark about Matilda’s relationship with McCleary or compromise his actions in the Stanforth inquiry,’ continued Brook. ‘Laird was trapped in his own deceit, forced to conceal pertinent information.’
‘That may be so but Walter did interview McCleary about Tilly’s death,’ replied Copeland.
‘But it’s not in the file, Clive,’ said Brook. ‘It couldn’t be, could it? There’s nothing in there about Amelia either.’
‘Amelia?’ Copeland was puzzled. ‘What would Amelia have to do with my sister’s death?’
‘Are you so blinkered, Clive? Why would McCleary kill his girlfriend? Amelia had a much stronger motive than Brendan.’
‘Jealousy?’ Copeland drew a breath, reluctant not to concede the point. ‘I can’t believe she killed Tilly.’
‘What we believe as detectives is determined by the facts, Clive,’ insisted Brook. ‘And there are no facts, no interviews, no alibis, not a single mention of two potential suspects in your sister’s murder book because of your friend’s dishonesty. There couldn’t be or Walter Laird would have had to explain to superiors how McCleary and Amelia Stanforth came to be suspects in your sister’s death despite living three miles away from Mackworth and seven miles from Osmaston Park, yet not owning or having access to a car.’
Copeland was silent, complicit in the deceit. ‘Think what you like about me, Brook, but Walter Laird did his job. I’m convinced of that. He knew McCleary’s history with Tilly and he went after him hard. Brendan McCleary was interviewed. McCleary told me as much when I visited him in prison.’
‘And Amelia?’
Copeland hung his head.
Brook laughed without humour. ‘I see. The webs we weave, Clive.’
‘Walter did everything possible to find Tilly’s killer.’
‘Everything that didn’t shine a light on his past deception,’ said Brook. He shook his head. ‘It must have been frustrating for Walter, being hamstrung like that.’
Copeland was confused. ‘And what does that mean?’
‘Your sister died, Clive. McCleary would be the perfect fit for her murder,’ explained Brook. ‘But poor Walter couldn’t pin Tilly’s death on her boyfriend without damaging his own reputation.’
‘I don’t—’
‘Haven’t you noticed?’ continued Brook. ‘Laird seems to have a particular bee in his bonnet about McCleary.’
‘In what way?’ asked Copeland.
‘He had McCleary in the frame for Billy Stanforth but couldn’t prove it,’ replied Brook. ‘And the year after, he went after him again.’
‘Sixty-four? You mean the Charlotte Dilkes drowning?’
‘You’ve reviewed the files,’ said Brook. ‘Laird was all over McCleary and Amelia, trying to implicate them in Charlotte’s death. But he couldn’t swing that one either.’
‘I wasn’t there, Brook. You’ll have to ask Walter.’
‘Ask Walter?’ repeated Brook. ‘I don’t need to ask Walter about Brendan McCleary. He’s even got him in the frame for Scott Wheeler’s abduction.’
‘That’s because McCleary’s a villain,’ insisted Copeland. ‘And Walter has no time for villains.’ There was silence for a while until Copeland glanced at his sister in the picture frame. ‘Which just leaves Tilly.’ He looked at Brook. ‘Do you want to do this now?’
‘It’s late,’ replied Brook softly. ‘And this place is like a tomb at night.’
‘Then let’s get comfortable. Come back to my house. I can answer all the questions about her there.’
‘I can’t. I have another call to make.’ Brook didn’t elaborate. ‘Meantime, I need you to phone Walter Laird. He didn’t believe you’d let me near your sister’s file and wouldn’t talk to me about her.’
‘I know everything Walter knows and more but yes, I’ll speak to him.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But it’s still his case,’ said Copeland. ‘If he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t. You’ll have to make do with me.’
‘He’ll talk to me,’ said Brook, smiling suddenly.
‘Why so sure?’
‘Because I have something he wants.’
Copeland waited for an explanation that didn’t arrive before handing Brook an address card. ‘Come and see me as soon as you’re ready.’
‘You live in Shirley,’ said Brook, staring at the card. ‘Next to Osmaston Park.’
Copeland avoided the unspoken question. ‘Mornings are best. I’m up by six.’
Brook stared at him, wondering whether to ask. He decided against it. ‘Six it is.’ Copeland frowned in confusion. ‘I’m up at four,’ explained Brook.
When he was sure Copeland was on his way to the car park, Brook fumbled for his notebook and glanced briefly at a page of his notes then returned to his office to check a further detail from Sam Bannon’s personnel file.
Noble was still at his desk sifting through reports when Brook popped his head round the door. His head sagged on to his hands, telling Brook all he needed to know about progress on Scott Wheeler. After a curt greeting, Brook removed the three cartons of cigarettes from his old desk.
‘I knew it wouldn’t last,’ crowed Noble, glad to be able to crack a smile.
‘What can I say?’ conceded Brook.
‘How’s progress at the CCU?’ asked Noble, still grinning. He seemed light-headed with exhaustion. ‘Any potential resolution?’
Brook shook his head. ‘I’m dealing with memory and perception stretching back half a century, John. Even if I could guarantee witnesses weren’t lying to me, I can’t ensure they recall events correctly.’ He took a breath and voiced what was beginning to gnaw at him. ‘Know what’s worse? You start by looking at the facts but eventually all you end up doing is looking at the quality of the investigation.’
‘Tough beat.’
‘Tough beat,’ echoed Brook.
He left Noble and walked silently down to reception, for once oblivious to who was on duty. He caught sight of a new flyer with Scott Wheeler’s happy face on it above the hotline phone number and the banner HAVE YOU SEEN SCOTT?
Brook picked one up and slid it into the Jeff Ward file under his arm and left the building, brooding.
Scott Wheeler – missing person.
Twenty-One
Edna Spencer put another cushion behind her back
to ease the pain in her hip but it was no use. After shifting position several times, she rocked back and forth for impetus, then pushed her walking stick firmly down on to the floor and got to her feet with all the strength she could muster in her arms. Regaining her breath, in what passed for a standing position she rubbed her hip, one hand holding on to the mantelpiece for security. Gradually the pain eased.
Whilst there she took the opportunity to glance lovingly at the fading picture of her younger self and her late husband in pride of place above the fire. The Christmas card from her son and daughter-in-law stood next to it.
‘Still here, Eric my love,’ she said, a sad smile counteracting the tear of pain in her eye. ‘Bet you thought I’d be with you years ago, didn’t you, my darling?’ She felt the heat from the middle grille of the gas fire on her polyester slacks. ‘I’ll be with you soon enough, my love.’ She laid a light peck on his yellowing image, arm in arm with her younger self, standing in the vast allotment at the back of their former home.
Edna tarried a while, warming her body and soul at the thought of a past she visited more and more – she and her husband working the allotment all hours of the day, all days of the year with barely a pause when baby Stephen came along. Only three days after delivery, the baby was introduced to Edna and Eric’s pride and joy, where he would sleep for hours in his pram, shaded from the sun by a parasol, while they toiled over summer fruit and vegetables.
During the preparatory work of the winter months, Stephen would snooze contentedly in the lean-to shed, warmed by a few burning sticks in the pot-bellied stove. It was a wonderful time. Eric had spoken of it often since his death and she always dreamed that when God saw fit to take her to his bosom, the allotment would be the place where she and Eric would spend eternity together.
How she missed those times when she could talk with her beloved husband beyond the grave, take comfort from his presence, always keen to chat with her about the earth’s bounty.
What would he think now that fresh produce was a distant memory to her? Would he be angry? No, Eric was never ill-tempered, even when the cancer had ravaged him, denying him his one true pleasure – a life lived in tune with the seasons. Often, during the final months, Edna would take a basket of fruit or vegetables into the bedroom and proudly show him what he no longer had the strength to help nurture, nor even the capacity to chew in his liquid meals. Did he ever show resentment? Did he rail against a God that taunted him so? Not once. Not ever.
