by Steven Dunne
‘And why was that good?’
‘Because being a fruitcake, they no longer thought I was a threat and they stopped visiting, socially at least.’
‘Why would they think you were a threat?’
‘Because Dad didn’t really kill himself and it wasn’t an accident. Somebody murdered him and I think they were involved.’
‘Can you prove that?’
‘No, I can’t. You said it yourself – there’s never been any concrete proof. But my window was open and I did hear something that night.’
‘What?’
‘Dad was arguing with someone.’
‘Are you sure your dad wasn’t talking on the phone? It would be the middle of the night.’
‘I heard another man’s voice.’
‘Your father rang Walter that night,’ said Brook. ‘They spoke about the Pied Piper.’
‘It wasn’t on the phone. The other man asked Dad why he had official documents on the shed wall. They argued. I heard them.’
‘Official documents?’ repeated Brook.
‘Exactly,’ grinned Rosie. ‘Who would know they were official documents except another policeman?’
‘What documents?’
‘His Pied Piper documents. Dad had all the incident reports, witness statements, autopsy reports, photographs of victims, newspaper coverage of all the kills.’
‘And they were destroyed in the fire.’
‘Yes. . .’ Rosie smiled and reached out to flick on a pair of spotlights trained on the bare wall. ‘And no.’
Puzzled, Brook’s eyes followed her to the desk drawer from which she pulled out a cheap wooden doorknob and moved to the wall. On closer inspection, Brook noticed a small screw, incongruously jutting out from the pine boards next to the door jamb as though someone had miscalculated the depth of the wood from the other side. She twisted the doorknob on to the inverted screw and when it was tight, pulled it. The whole partition was a false front on hinges and it swung away from the door jamb all the way to the adjoining wall, where Rosie fastened the hinged board in place.
The recessed wall and the inside surface of the false wall were covered in papers, photographs, copies of police reports, documents and newspaper pages. Brook’s jaw dropped.
‘The history of the Pied Piper,’ Rosie announced grandly. ‘The timeline of a killer who doesn’t exist.’
Brendan McCleary readied a bin bag. He brushed a little dirt from the trainers and placed them in the bottom of the bag. Next he folded up the hoodie as neatly as he could. Before putting it on top of the trainers, he held it to his face and took a deep breath. He nodded in satisfaction and placed it in the bag. Next the tracksuit bottoms. He held the trousers up first to get an idea of size then folded them into the bag. They were a bit creased but that was to be expected.
It was time. He slung the bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the black night, cloudy and grey. There wasn’t an artificial light to be seen anywhere on the horizon.
Perfect.
Picking his way carefully across the field, McCleary unlocked the Land Rover and threw the bag of clothes into the boot. The loaded rifle was already there.
Brook shivered, feeling the bite of winter on his cheeks, in his bones. He looked across at Rosie who was lighting a stove attached to a gas bottle to warm the place.
‘They said Dad was crazy,’ she said. ‘Now you must think the same about me.’
‘You did all this?’
‘Who else? In fact I’ve made a few additions since Dad died.’
Brook approached the display to examine the multitude of papers pinned neatly to it. He recognised many of the documents from the Billy Stanforth file, though they didn’t appear to be originals. Besides police reports and other official documents, there were yellowed newspaper pages splashing the various stories and photographs and maps pertaining to the case as they’d appeared in the local press.
‘Look familiar?’ asked Rosie, sitting on the desk to observe Brook. ‘It’s not the same as Dad’s Pied Piper display. But I’ve done my best.’
‘These aren’t original reports.’
‘They’re copies. Dad was always meticulous about having duplicate paperwork. The amusing thing is that a lot of this stuff was copied by Walter Laird when Dad was still on his game.’
‘But if he kept them in the original shed, why weren’t they destroyed in the fire?’
‘They were. But newspapers can be replaced.’
‘And the police papers?’
She smiled. ‘Those are copies of copies. Just before he died, Dad took everything off the wall and photocopied it at the library. The photocopies got burned when he died; but the original copies, if that makes sense, were in a steel box hidden in the house. And only he and I knew where. See, Dad knew he was in danger. He was getting close to the Pied Piper and he knew he could end up dead.’
‘Murdered by the Pied Piper?’ offered Brook, sceptically.
She shrugged. ‘Or those protecting him.’
Brook lowered his head.
‘What?’ demanded Rosie.
‘That’s a huge leap, Rosie. Firstly, the fire investigator said it was suicide. . .’
‘Suicide can be faked. Especially by people who know what they’re doing.’
‘You’re suggesting police officers conspired to kill your father, a fellow officer and a friend. Why?’
‘To protect the Pied Piper.’
‘A killer that nobody knows exists, Rosie. Same question. Why would senior detectives in Derby want to protect a child killer to the extent that they’d kill one of their own? It’s very hard to believe.’
She took a sip of wine. ‘That I don’t know,’ she conceded. ‘But they all lied at the inquest.’
‘I know they did. And they shouldn’t have. But they persuaded the fire investigator to fudge his report so you and your father wouldn’t be saddled with the financial and emotional stigma of his suicide. They thought they were doing the right thing.’
‘I never cared about the money.’
‘You might if you’d been left penniless.’ Brook stared at her for a while, gathering his thoughts. Bannon had mental problems. Is his daughter the same? He turned back to the papers on Billy Stanforth’s death, looking at each in turn. Bannon had even managed to get copies of the photographs taken of the partygoers by Bert Stanforth on the day of the fire.
‘What’s this?’ Brook pulled an unfamiliar document from its Blu-Tack fastening. It was a letter from the Chief Constable of Derbyshire delivering an official warning to DCI Bannon about his conduct following a complaint by a harassed witness. It was dated 1969. He showed it to Rosie.
‘Dad had a couple of those.’
‘I didn’t see them on his personnel file.’
‘Presumably they expire or something, like driving endorsements,’ suggested Rosie. She became animated. ‘Or maybe someone’s removed them deliberately.’
‘Let’s not think everything’s a conspiracy,’ sighed Brook.
‘So you don’t think it’s significant.’
‘The fact your father kept it in his documents must mean something,’ conceded Brook. ‘But what’s it doing with the Stanforth papers? This letter was issued six years after Billy’s death.’ He found his answer at the bottom of the page. The complainant was Billy Stanforth’s mother.
‘Ruth Stanforth complained about your father’s conduct in nineteen sixty-nine,’ mused Brook. He turned to Rosie. ‘Any idea why?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t know for sure but he got that after he went to the funeral.’
‘Which funeral?’ demanded Brook.
Rosie pointed further along the wall. ‘That one.’
Brook approached the jaundiced copy of the local paper dated 23 December 1968. The headline read, TRAGIC TWIN DIES ON BIRTHDAY. It was the story of Francesca Stanforth’s accidental death, slipping and hitting her head on the side of the bath and drowning after consuming a bottle of spirits.
‘Bill
y Stanforth’s sister?’ Brook raised a doubtful eyebrow at Rosie.
‘I don’t know why Dad kept her death in the sequence. I think he thought it might be important because she died on Billy’s birthday. And hers. She was only eighteen.’
‘So five years after Billy’s murder, your father went to Francesca Stanforth’s funeral and offended her mother. How?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘If he was mentally unbalanced it could be anything,’ suggested Brook.
‘Yeah, maybe he dropped his trousers and waved his dick around in the church,’ retorted Rosie, sarcastically.
Brook’s expression soured but he didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Whatever your father did, I’m not sure this belongs in Billy’s murder book.’ Nevertheless he returned the letter to its place on the wall. ‘Though finding out why it was issued could change that. And maybe tell us why your father saw fit to include reports of Francesca Stanforth’s death in his sequence.’
‘That’s always puzzled me,’ put in Rosie. ‘The Pied Piper likes young boys.’
‘Perhaps he was looking for a death that fitted his theory,’ suggested Brook.
‘Could be.’
‘I don’t see any papers from the Matilda Copeland case.’
‘Clive Copeland’s sister? That was nineteen sixty-five – not part of the Pied Piper’s cycle.’
‘I know but it’s one of the cold cases I’m looking into.’ Brook stroked his chin. ‘And there was a connection to the Stanforth murder that your father may not have known about at the time. You know the details?’
‘Dad mentioned it sometimes. Poor girl. Walter Laird was distraught, apparently. He knew the Copeland family. Clive was just a boy and took it hard.’
‘I know,’ said Brook. ‘He’s still consumed by her death after all these years.’
‘And that’s unhealthy, right?’ snapped Rosie, defiantly.
Again Brook didn’t rise to the bait. ‘What did your father say about it?’
Rosie became hesitant. ‘He told me he felt guilty because he was in a bad way when she disappeared – it was a few days after Mum and Dad’s wedding anniversary and he was off work, drinking a lot. Walter Laird pretty much ran the show solo though he got Dad to sign all the paperwork to keep up appearances.’
‘How did your father feel about that?’ asked Brook.
‘Bad. But Walter Laird was already a DS and Dad rated him to do the case justice. Unfortunately, because Laird knew the girl, it became more personal for him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Dad couldn’t help and Laird resented it more because he couldn’t make any headway on it. It was around that time he started losing faith in Dad.’
‘You can see his point, Rosie.’
‘I suppose,’ she conceded. ‘I do remember one thing Dad said about that case.’
‘What?’
She hesitated. ‘I don’t know if I should tell you.’
‘That’s why you should,’ replied Brook.
She considered. ‘A few days after they discovered Matilda Copeland’s body, Dad made an effort and drove up to the lake where they found her.’
‘Osmaston Park.’
‘That’s right. Dad had just parked up and was walking over to talk to Walter and DS Bell, who were interviewing the estate’s two gamekeepers. I don’t remember their names.’
‘John Briggs and Colin Ealy.’
‘If you say so.’ Again she hesitated. ‘Don’t take this wrong but Dad spotted one of them looking over at him.’
‘Looking over at him? How?’
‘I don’t know, sort of funny somehow. Staring. Dad wondered if he knew him from somewhere but he was pretty sure he didn’t. And neither gamekeeper had a criminal record so he didn’t know them from work.’
‘Maybe he recognised your father from the crime scene,’ said Brook, bracing for a reaction.
‘Oh, so now Dad killed Matilda Copeland as well,’ said Rosie angrily. ‘I might have known you’d twist it. It’s a good job I know you’re wrong.’
‘You have to admit it’s pretty odd.’
‘Why couldn’t he have seen Dad in the papers?’ argued Rosie. ‘Dad was always getting his picture in. That’s how I knew you.’
‘Which gamekeeper?’ said Brook, to change the subject. ‘Briggs or Ealy?’
Rosie took a sullen slug of white wine. ‘I don’t know the names,’ she finally answered, ‘but it was the young one, the one that ran off.’
‘Colin Ealy?’ said Brook. She shrugged. ‘What happened then?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied. ‘That was it. Though Dad knew then the lad was suspect. When he disappeared the next day that seemed to confirm it.’
‘Did your father think Ealy had killed Matilda Copeland?’
‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘He reckoned it was some weirdo neighbour living on the Mackworth Estate. And Walter Laird was pretty keen on him too.’
‘Trevor Taylor?’ offered Brook, rubbing his eyes, lack of sleep beginning to catch up.
‘I can’t remember. But Laird got nowhere with it. See, he was nothing without Dad there to do the thinking.’ She was beginning to slur her words. She raised her wine glass to her lips but then put it aside. ‘You look tired,’ she said to Brook. ‘You should take a nap. There’s a bed in there.’
Brook studied her. The adrenalin had left her and she seemed to be brooding. ‘I’m OK. And I’m sorry you’ve had to confront unpleasant thoughts about your father.’
She didn’t reply for a while. ‘How about a coffee then?’ When Brook nodded she slid off her chair and left the shed.
Sharmayne moved her thumb expertly around her iPhone keypad, sometimes grinning, sometimes laughing at texts and pictures from friends. The building was quiet and she had the night to herself, her headphones thumping and her head moving to the beat. A light on her panel distracted her. With a sigh, she removed her headphones and depressed a button. ‘Are you OK, Mrs Pinchbeck?’
A querulous voice answered. ‘There’s a man again.’
‘What’s that, dear?’
‘He was here. The prowler. Outside my window. I saw him. Hurry.’
‘OK, my love. Craig’s on his way.’ Sharmayne blew out her cheeks and flicked at another button. ‘Craig. You there? Get your arse over to Jessica’s room asap and throw a bucket of water over the daft cow. The old bat thinks she’s seen a prowler again.’
Brook drained his coffee, not taking his eyes from the document-covered wall. The bulk of the papers belonged to the 1963 Stanforth case because Bannon was the SIO on that inquiry and had better access to the files.
The papers under the other dates on the Pied Piper’s five-year cycle were much less dense and consisted mainly of local newspaper articles. Under the label for 1968 were several front pages reporting the tragic death of Francesca Stanforth on 22 December and her funeral in January 1969. As her death wasn’t the subject of a murder inquiry, there were precious few police reports although Bannon had managed to obtain a copy of the autopsy report, declaring her death an accident.
The same paucity of documents was true of Jeff Ward in 1973. By now Bannon had retired from the force and had been compelled to rely exclusively on newspaper stories and whatever he picked up on police frequencies. Brook sifted through all the newspaper content, examining the different photographs, trying to find something of interest. The grieving family took centre stage in most pictures, as did snaps of both dead Ward boys, smiling into the camera.
‘Not much here,’ mumbled Brook, comparing it to the Ward file he’d read the night before.
Slumped on a chair, Rosie stirred at the sound of Brook’s voice. ‘Like I said, Dad was out of the loop and couldn’t get his hands on police papers. He tried to tell them Ward was killed by the Pied Piper but they wouldn’t listen.’
Brook returned his gaze to the wall. The next date label, five years after Jeff Ward, was 1978. Three more labels were arranged in columns around the wall and rose in
five-year intervals until 1993. Each label had a Missing Persons leaflet pinned underneath, a young teenage boy frozen in time on the cover. Police documents were conspicuous by their absence.
Brook moved to the 1978 section where there were two sets of newsprint, one front page dealing with ex-DCI Bannon’s accidental death in a fire, the larger batch concerning the continuing search for a missing boy, Harry Pritchett, who’d vanished the week before.
‘Missing persons,’ said Brook. ‘No body. No murder inquiry.’
‘Clever, right?’ Rosie grinned. ‘After Jeff Ward, the Pied Piper must have known Dad was getting close. He changed his MO. Instead of killing the boys, he abducted them and killed them later but kept the corpses hidden. Or else he destroyed them with acid or something.’
‘Nineteen seventy-eight, Harry Pritchett. Nineteen eighty-three, Davie Whatmore. Nineteen eighty-eight, Callum Clarke,’ Brook read aloud. He flicked up a stray newspaper covering the Callum Clarke photograph before letting it fall. ‘So all these boys are technically still missing.’
‘Correct,’ answered Rosie. ‘And with Dad gone, no one will ever know they were killed.’
‘Copeland was listening to him at least,’ observed Brook. ‘He knew about Harry Pritchett.’
‘What did he say?’
‘The general feeling was Pritchett’s father abducted Harry and took him to London when he couldn’t get custody.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Rosie. ‘There’d be a trail. Pritchett’s dad wouldn’t have the skills to hide his son forever. The Piper took him.’
‘And hid him?’
‘Exactly,’ she replied emphatically. ‘Harry Pritchett disappeared the week before Dad died. And when Dad realised what was happening, he found as much background on Harry Pritchett as he could and told everyone who’d take his calls.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘And that’s why he died. Coincidence?’ she challenged Brook. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘So all these papers after nineteen seventy-three are your work,’ noted Brook.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘The day after the fire, I bought all the newspapers carrying reports of Dad’s death. And when I rebuilt the shed ten years later, I hunted down all the back issues for the other cases. After that, everything you see was collected by me. All the way to nineteen ninety-three – when the killing stopped.’
