The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Stopped?’

  ‘Actually it stopped in nineteen eighty-eight,’ said Rosie, looking at the floor. ‘I just didn’t realise for another five years.’

  Brook fixed his eyes on the 1993 column. LUCKY JIM FOUND SAFE AND WELL screamed the headline.

  ‘James Stroud was the only Derby boy who went missing that December,’ explained Rosie. ‘They found him wandering the streets of London, stoned off his tits.’ She shot Brook an apologetic glance. ‘As we ex-junkies used to say.’

  ‘So he hadn’t been killed or abducted, he had actually run away from home.’

  ‘Right.’ Rosie nodded briefly at the previous column. ‘The Clarke boy was the last.’

  Brook turned to the 1988 disappearance. Callum Clarke. Went missing on 22 December 1988 and was never seen again.

  ‘December the twenty-second?’ said Brook. ‘That’s late.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ mumbled Rosie.

  ‘In nineteen seventy-eight, Harry Pritchett disappeared on the fifteenth. Five years later, Davie Whatmore went missing on. . .’ Brook squinted at the fading newsprint with difficulty in the dim light, ‘December the twelfth, nineteen eighty-three. But Callum didn’t vanish until the twenty-second, the day the Pied Piper is supposed to kill his victims.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said Rosie.

  ‘Callum Clarke went missing on his way home from school after breaking up for the Christmas holidays,’ read Brook.

  ‘Tragic case,’ said Rosie, tight-lipped. ‘His family lived not far away. The final victim of the Pied Piper.’

  Brook glanced at her then at the brand-new column, headed 2012. Scott Wheeler’s face stared back at him. ‘Until now.’

  ‘It’s getting late, of course you must stay,’ insisted Rosie, nodding at the small room off to the side. ‘The bed’s already made up.’

  Brook thought about trying to sleep in the gloom of his windowless office at St Mary’s. He didn’t want to drive back to his cottage, especially with an unknown gunman on the loose. ‘You’d trust me with all your father’s papers in here?’

  Rosie smiled. ‘I have copies of everything.’

  ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

  She grinned and handed him the shed keys. ‘So? What do you think?’ She waved an arm at the wall.

  Brook looked beyond her to the new batch of papers assembled under the date label 2012. On crisp newsprint, the headlines, ‘WHERE IS SCOTT?’ above a picture of the missing boy and ‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?’ beside a picture of grizzled ex-con Brendan McCleary.

  ‘I don’t know, Rosie, and that’s the truth,’ said Brook, untying a shoe. ‘Twenty-four years is a long time between kills, never mind five.’

  ‘Maybe the Piper moved away for a while,’ she suggested.

  ‘Unlikely. In a series like this, wherever those bodies are, the killer will want to be near them.’

  ‘Why?’

  Brook considered her curious face. ‘A variety of reasons. And none of them pleasant.’

  She nodded slowly at him, assimilating his meaning, deciding not to press for more information. ‘There’s always prison. He could have been out of circulation.’

  ‘You’re quite good at this, aren’t you?’ said Brook.

  ‘I’ve had to be,’ she said, moving to the door. She nodded at the picture of McCleary on the wall. ‘And if my dad was right. . .’

  ‘Then our current suspect is innocent because he was behind bars when all the boys were taken,’ said Brook, removing his other shoe.

  ‘You’re quite good at this, aren’t you?’ Rosie smiled.

  ‘Why twenty twelve?’ said Brook.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if this is the Pied Piper, he’s a year early,’ said Brook. ‘By rights, he shouldn’t be striking until next December.’

  Rosie shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s starting a new sequence.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s getting too old and this is his swansong,’ said Brook. ‘It’s also possible—’

  ‘Inspector,’ interrupted Rosie, moving to the door. ‘Get some sleep.’

  Brook nodded. ‘You’re right.’ She left a little unsteadily and Brook sat at the desk for five minutes, his mood grave. It was nearly one in the morning. ‘I may not be as good as I used to be, Rosie. But even I know your father didn’t have a crystal ball.’ He turned off the lamp and padded through to the tiny single bed and, with a huge sigh, lay down on it fully dressed.

  Twenty-Three

  Wednesday, 19 December 2012 – early hours

  In the middle of the night, Brook felt the vibration of his phone. After the second pulse, he realised it wasn’t a text but didn’t move to answer. Eyes closed, he was prepared to ignore it when he realised it might be Terri ringing about Christmas.

  He opened his eyes, blearily checking the display. It wasn’t Terri or Noble, the only two numbers on his contact list. He sank back on to the pillow, yawning.

  Against his better judgement, but in accordance with parents everywhere, Brook pressed the answer button. Terri could be calling on a friend’s mobile even at that time. Of course, it might also be his Good Friends at BT ringing from India to hammer home their Season’s Greetings with an unbeatable offer.

  ‘Hello.’ There was a pause before he received an answer.

  ‘Hello,’ replied a male voice. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Don’t you know what time it is?’ answered Brook, moving his thumb to ring off.

  ‘Brook, is that you?’

  Puzzled, Brook returned the phone to his ear. ‘Who is this and what are you selling?’

  ‘It is you, Brook. I’d recognise your toffee-nosed voice anywhere.’

  Now Brook recognised the caller. ‘Ford? How did you get this number?’

  ‘Nice to talk to you too.’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘That’s a very good question, Brook.’

  Brook let himself out quietly and double-locked the door. Instead of returning to the house, he walked across the damp lawn to the drive that would take him back to the street. Once on the asphalt, Brook glanced up at a light at the top of the house. Framed in the glow was Ollie Shah, staring down at Brook as he picked his way towards the road.

  ‘Now he sees me.’

  A few minutes later, Brook pulled over to the kerb in Mount Street and parked in front of the ambulance to walk the few steps to Edna Spencer’s front door. Two orange-bibbed support workers were standing in a circle with the ambulance driver, chatting over cigarettes and stamping their feet to keep warm. As he approached, they followed his progress and Brook saw the condensation of their breath increase as they muttered something in his direction.

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ said one of them in greeting, barely able to suppress a snigger.

  Brook couldn’t remember his name but for once didn’t agonise over his failings.

  ‘Valued support worker,’ he responded dismissively on the way past.

  The unnamed support worker did not appreciate Brook’s jibe about their relative status. ‘Think we’ve got nothing better to do than stand around here waiting for you to sign off on a suicide?’ he called after him.

  ‘I don’t think about you at all,’ retorted Brook over his shoulder, to the amusement of the man’s co-workers. Brook continued towards the ground-floor flat, pulling out a pair of latex gloves and feeling rather pleased with his reply.

  Before he could get through the front door, DI Ford emerged. ‘Brook. You didn’t need to come round.’

  ‘I was close by. Is Noble in there?’

  ‘He’s following up a lead on McCleary,’ said Ford. ‘We’re just finishing up.’

  ‘I thought I’d come and take a look for myself, if that’s OK?’

  Ford’s smile was as genuine as he could manage but he didn’t stand aside. ‘No need, Brook. You’ve explained how Edna came to have your number. And I do remember her from the Stanforth inquiry now.’

  ‘You reviewed Billy St
anforth’s murder?’ asked Brook.

  Ford waved a hand. ‘Not really. I carried DCI Copeland’s coat when he interviewed the old dear once, after she’d moved to Derby.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Many moons ago.’ A grin formed on Ford’s lined face. ‘So don’t fret, Brook, that’s a case even good coppers haven’t cracked.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Brook, a tight smile forming. ‘I’m close to an arrest.’

  Ford’s fake bonhomie fell to its death. He braced himself as though Brook might try to push past. ‘Well, I’ve eliminated you from our inquiries, Inspector,’ he said loudly for the benefit of the assembled support workers.

  Brook heard approving laughter behind him and resisted the temptation to turn. There was an awkward pause while each waited for the other to move. ‘So can I go in or not?’

  ‘Like I said, there’s no need,’ said Ford. ‘Clear suicide – case closed.’ Ford stood his ground. ‘My case.’

  ‘Involving a witness in my case,’ flashed back Brook.

  Ford glared at Brook, eventually coming to a decision. ‘Know what? Do what you want, Brook. Be a jerk and waste everyone’s time.’ He moved past Brook. ‘Cooper can sleep-walk you through it.’ He marched towards his car, shouting across at the knot of freezing workers. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to wait, fellas. DI Brook wants to have a gander.’

  Brook didn’t wait to hear the moaning and pushed through the door. Edna Spencer’s body was immediately visible, sitting in the same armchair Brook had last seen her but now even the limited movements available to her that day had gone with her to eternity.

  DC Cooper turned, surprised to see Brook. ‘Sir?’ He had been leaning against a wall but stood off at Brook’s approach then turned back to the pale corpse of the old woman, eyes shut tight as though counting down to a round of hide and seek. ‘DI Ford’s gone home.’

  ‘I saw him. . . Dave,’ replied Brook stiffly, pleased to be able to remember Cooper’s first name from their time on the Deity case. He moved to watch the kneeling scene of crime officer go through his routine. He bagged an empty glass then peered through the plastic bag at the spray of white grains pooled at the bottom.

  ‘Suicide,’ murmured Cooper. ‘Name’s Edna. . .’

  ‘I know her,’ said Brook.

  ‘Course,’ nodded Cooper. ‘She had your number.’

  ‘Has the PS done a preliminary?’

  ‘Higginbottom’s been and gone. No sign of violence on her. And traces of something in the dregs of a glass of stout. Sleeping pills, looks like,’ said Cooper. ‘There was an empty pill bottle on the floor. No label. Must have been old tabs – they save them up specially.’

  Brook stepped forward to peer down at the old woman. As he moved, he noticed the red standby light on the TV in the corner, gazed at it for a second then dropped to scour the floor. With two fingers he retrieved the remote from next to Edna’s armchair. ‘Evidence bag.’ Cooper obliged and Brook dropped the remote into the plastic bag and handed it to Cooper, who seemed at a loss what to do with it.

  Then Brook lifted the upturned picture frame on her lap with a latex hand. Edna’s youthful smile beamed out at Brook. She was arm in arm with her late husband who proudly held a large marrow in his hands as if it was a baby. He compared the face of the happy woman in the shot with that of the slackened corpse sitting before him now. ‘I was here a few days ago.’

  ‘How was the old girl?’

  ‘Lonely. In pain.’ Brook placed the frame back on her lap.

  Cooper nodded. ‘Makes sense then.’ He looked gloomily around the tiny flat. ‘Truth be told, if I ever have to live like this, I’ll be taking the same way out, pain or not. There isn’t room to swing a cat.’

  Brook nodded grimly before walking into the tiny kitchen where he’d poured himself tea on his last visit.

  ‘Nothing in the kitchen,’ Cooper called after him. ‘If you can call it that. I’ve given the bedroom a quick once-over. Bed’s made and the room’s spotless.’

  Brook paused at the sink. A single cup and saucer, stained with tea dregs, sat in the stainless steel bowl, a dirty spoon beside the cup.

  Returning to the tiny lounge, Brook began opening drawers and rummaging through the detritus of a life in retreat. He found hundreds of unsorted photographs amongst old birthday and Christmas cards.

  ‘The cards are from her son, Stephen,’ said Cooper, when Brook examined one. ‘Though we’re not sure where he lives yet.’

  ‘He lives in Australia, Dave.’

  Cooper’s face creased in confusion and even the SOCO stopped what he was doing and looked up to listen.

  Brook indicated the pair of Christmas cards on the mantelpiece. One was old and had seen many Yuletides. From her dead husband, no doubt. Like Terri’s – brought out every year in the absence of a replacement. The newer one had a kangaroo on the front. He held up several older cards from the drawer. ‘Sydney Opera House, crocodiles, Aboriginal designs.’

  DC Cooper smiled. ‘Right.’ He took out a pen and made a note.

  Brook pulled out more drawers – ironed handkerchiefs, odd gloves, scarves, a bag of old coins containing pennies, halfpennies and threepenny bits.

  ‘Why do old people keep those when they can’t use them?’ said Cooper.

  Brook looked up briefly. ‘She’s holding on to the past, Dave. It was a time when she was happy.’

  Cooper smiled patiently. He was hoping to get this over and get home to a warm bed but still Brook searched. Another drawer contained the meagre medical supplies a pensioner surviving on the margins could afford – cheap aspirin and antacid lozenges, a few dog-eared sticking plasters and a roll of grubby elasticated bandages studded with safety pins.

  ‘No pills,’ Brook muttered. He opened more drawers filled with pens, drawing pins, crossword books, puzzle magazines and packets of seeds for a variety of herbs.

  Brook broke off to gaze at the desultory Christmas streamers and the minute fake tree off in one corner. Was this the future that beckoned all elderly partners of the deceased? A life of penury lived out in a bare room with only the local newsagent for daily conversation. For once Brook took some comfort from his gender. For a change, men got the sweet deal. Shorter life expectancy. Men didn’t linger when decay summoned. A short illness, a quick death and a tearful send-off, assuming there was anyone left to care. Hallelujah.

  ‘What about paperwork?’ prompted Brook. ‘I don’t see any cash or utility bills.’

  ‘Not seen any.’

  ‘You’ve checked the safe?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Safe?’ Cooper’s mouth creased in amusement.

  Brook knelt beside the frail corpse of Edna Spencer, sitting upright in her chair, head lolling slightly to the side. ‘Your parents are still alive, I take it.’

  ‘They are. Though Dad’s a bit. . .’

  ‘You’ve got this to come then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, if Edna’s anything like my mother. . .’ Brook slid a hand down the side of the armchair and felt around before plucking out a large brown envelope and tossing it to Cooper. ‘The safe,’ Brook said as he stood. ‘If you’re old, you literally sit on your valuables. You don’t use banks because you can’t get to them. You pay all your bills in cash at the post office when you collect your pension and never get behind in case you die and your reputation is besmirched by debt.’

  Cooper rummaged in the straining envelope, hearing the chink of coins at the bottom.

  ‘You’ll find upcoming bills in envelopes with the exact money tucked inside. If I were a betting man, I’m guessing you’ll also find a fully paid-up funeral policy down there too.’

  Cooper discharged a little laugh and held out a document to show Brook. GUARANTEED FUNERAL PLAN. ‘Bang on.’

  ‘Sad, isn’t it?’ said Brook, looking at Edna’s slackened face. ‘Old people prepare everything so when they go they won’t be a burden.’

  ‘Makes our job easier when it’s this tidy,’ s
aid Cooper.

  ‘You call this tidy?’ Brook eyed the young detective, wondering when to break the bad news. He took a final three-sixty around the room. No pictures of the son, interestingly. Not on display at least. Two cards on the mantel. Brook picked up the old one, yellowed and warped, propped against the chimney breast to stay upright.

  ‘With you forever, my darling Edna. All my love, Eric.’ Sombre, Brook put the card back on the mantel.

  The SOCO stood off his haunches, pulling off his gloves. ‘I’m done, Coop. You can take her away.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cooper moved towards the door.

  ‘Wait,’ said Brook. ‘Get a team in here. I want the whole place dusted, including the TV remote and the crockery in the sink. The killer may have touched them.’

  ‘Killer?’ exclaimed Cooper. ‘I don’t understand. DI Ford has already called it – suicide.’

  Brook stared at the young detective, tight-lipped, his reaction expected. ‘Someone else was here. Mrs Spencer was murdered.’

  Cooper was still not processing the information. ‘Murdered?’ The SOCO stood mute, waiting for a winner. ‘There’s no direct evidence of that,’ reasoned Cooper.

  ‘But there’s plenty of indirect evidence,’ said Brook. When Cooper splayed his hands for clarification, Brook continued, realising the absurdity of what he was about to say. ‘For one thing, she left the TV on standby.’

  Cooper’s head spun round to the television in disbelief. ‘The TV?’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Brook. ‘If she was going to kill herself, she would have switched off every single appliance at the plug to avoid running up a bill. There’s also an unwashed teacup in the sink. She wouldn’t leave that. It’s slovenly.’

  The SOCO smirked but muffled it quickly while Cooper just stared, his forehead creased in confusion. ‘But who would want to murder the old girl?’

  ‘I don’t know, Dave,’ said Brook patiently. ‘That’s what a murder inquiry is for.’

  ‘You think it was McCleary because he lives in the next block,’ offered Cooper.

  ‘Is that why DI Ford got the call?’ asked Brook.