The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  Cooper nodded. ‘The old girl and McCleary go way back. DI Ford thought maybe she knew where he was hiding and McCleary wanted to shut her up. But he discounted it straight away because—’

  ‘DI Ford’s right,’ conceded Brook. ‘McCleary would’ve killed her with his hands. Somebody a little more subtle was here but the result’s the same.’

  Cooper hesitated. ‘I don’t know, sir. DI Ford said. . .’

  ‘DC Cooper. . . Dave.’ Brook smiled to reassure. ‘I wouldn’t be in here if Frank hadn’t asked me to take a look.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he told me to do what I want.’ Brook pointed an emphatic digit at Cooper. ‘Those were his exact words. Now get a full team in here and talk to the next-door neighbour, find out if she heard anything.’

  It was gone five o’clock in the morning when Brook left the sheltered flat of Edna Spencer. He was mentally and physically exhausted. Having considered his options on the way back to the BMW, Brook drove the ten miles out to the attractive village of Shirley and parked across the road from his destination. Rosie Shah’s shed keys were on the passenger seat so Brook opened the glove compartment to throw them in. The forgotten junk mail from Brendan McCleary’s flat was still there and Brook took out the three envelopes to flick through before disposal. One letter offered cheap dry-cleaning, one was from the Caravan Club and the other was advertising the benefits of satellite television. Brook tossed them on the passenger seat. Then he set the alarm on his mobile, closed his eyes and fell promptly to sleep.

  Forty-five minutes later Brook woke to the beeping alarm. He turned off his phone and looked over to the house. There was a faint light on downstairs so Brook roused himself to walk across the frosty road and knock on the door.

  Copeland’s puzzled expression gave way to relief and he checked his watch. ‘Brook. Six o’clock. You weren’t kidding. Expected you yesterday.’

  Brook decided not to mention the shooting. ‘Something came up.’

  ‘Come in. You look shattered.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Brook.

  ‘This job will do that to you,’ continued Copeland, as though Brook hadn’t said anything.

  Copeland showed Brook through the house to a conservatory facing out on to open countryside and gestured him to one of three ample armchairs before returning to the kitchen to make tea. No plants, no cane furniture, no glass-topped tables. Copeland was clearly and resolutely single.

  Brook slumped in the chair, staring blankly out at the dark sky, threatening clouds billowed on the murky horizon. He could just make out the trees that formed the boundary of the Osmaston Park Estate half a mile away.

  Copeland returned with a mug for Brook. ‘Can I make you a bacon sandwich?’

  ‘This is fine,’ replied Brook, taking a life-giving sip of the milky brown liquid.

  ‘Like the house?’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Brook mechanically. ‘No view of the lake though.’

  Copeland tried to smile. ‘Believe me, if there was a house with a view of the lake, I’d be living there.’

  Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘And does it help, living so close to where Tilly was found?’

  Copeland shook his head. ‘Not any more. When I bought this place thirty years ago I thought it might. But it’s a long time to stare out of a window, looking for ghosts.’

  ‘Amelia Stanforth did it for longer,’ said Brook.

  ‘True.’ Copeland took a deep breath and tried to get to business. ‘I spoke to Walter and told him you had my blessing to look into Tilly’s death.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Copeland hesitated before finding the right words. ‘He’s not happy but he’ll try to answer your questions.’

  ‘Try?’

  ‘He’s an old man. . .’

  ‘And his memory’s not so good,’ finished Brook. ‘Yes, he said.’

  ‘I hope you don’t mind, I mentioned you knew about the mix-up.’

  ‘What mix-up?’

  ‘Him thinking I already knew about Tilly and Brendan McCleary when I reviewed her case in seventy-seven.’

  Brook took a thoughtful sip of tea. ‘How did he react?’

  ‘He’s worried you’ll make a song and dance over nothing.’

  Brook grunted. ‘He had seniority. Let him worry.’

  ‘Look, protecting Tilly’s good name didn’t compromise either investigation, Brook. I wish you’d accept that.’

  Brook decided to change tack. The bond between Laird and Copeland was too strong for a frontal assault. ‘I re-read your sister’s file.’

  ‘Anything jump out at you?’

  ‘Should it?’

  Copeland shrugged. ‘I just thought. . . a fresh pair of eyes.’

  ‘I noticed a lack of information about Tilly’s boyfriends.’ Brook’s smile was tight. ‘That all makes sense now, though.’

  Copeland didn’t rise to the bait. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The daunting number of potential suspects.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I called on one of them,’ said Brook, watching his host for a response. ‘The shopkeeper’s surviving son, where Matilda worked.’

  Copeland nodded uncomfortably. ‘Winston Barney.’

  Brook watched Copeland to turn up the heat; silence was his favourite weapon and, as Barney had refused to be interviewed, his only one. Copeland was the first to crack.

  ‘I’m prepared for anything you throw at me, Brook. I have no excuses. I only hope you can understand what I was going through.’ Still Brook said nothing. ‘The first time I got my hands on Tilly’s file. . . I. . .’

  ‘You were overenthusiastic,’ put in Brook drily to move things along.

  Copeland put a hand to his brow. ‘That’s putting it mildly. You see, I’d waited twelve years – years of pent-up frustration – waiting for the chance to do something meaningful for Tilly, something in an official capacity. And when I got that opportunity, I admit I went at it like a bull in a china shop.’

  ‘And that included intimidating witnesses,’ said Brook.

  A pause. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Physically?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Winston Barney? His brother Arthur?’ offered Brook.

  ‘The father too, I think. I forget. I’m not proud, Brook. But I wouldn’t be the first copper to cut a corner or two.’ Copeland’s accusatory glance found its mark.

  ‘And there it is,’ nodded Brook, standing. ‘I wonder it took you so long.’

  Copeland stood to block Brook’s exit. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry. Please don’t go. I meant no offence.’

  ‘Two things you should know about me, Clive,’ said Brook, still on his feet. ‘First, I never take offence. Second, I won’t be played.’

  ‘Played?’

  ‘If you think for one minute that my disciplinary record can be used to shut me up if I find something irregular—’

  ‘No,’ insisted Copeland. ‘I never thought that. I’m sorry. Please sit.’

  After a suitable pause to drive the point home, Brook sank back into the armchair.

  ‘It’s just. . . reliving the past is difficult, facing up to what I did, the kind of copper it made me,’ said Copeland, also sitting now that Brook was back in his chair. ‘I’m very ashamed and I’d apologise to Barney. . . if I could.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s wise.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he ever a credible suspect?’

  ‘There were no witnesses to the actual abduction, Brook, so at some point they all were. Arthur, Winston, their father Derek. The gamekeepers. . .’

  ‘John Briggs and Colin Ealy.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your neighbour, Trevor Taylor.’

  Copeland looked out at the lightening sky. ‘Him too.’

  ‘But not Brendan McCleary.’

  Copeland’s voice tightened, expecting more disapproval about the cover-up. ‘Not in nineteen seventy-seven, as I only found out a
bout him and Tilly the year after. And with Ealy still in the wind, I concentrated on the Mackworth witnesses.’

  ‘Plenty of those that night,’ said Brook.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Trevor Taylor was the last to see her alive, running up the lane towards Kirk Langley.’

  ‘He was,’ agreed Copeland.

  ‘The files imply that Laird and Bannon were keen on Taylor,’ said Brook.

  ‘They were. Apart from being last to see, all the other witnesses placed Tilly on the estate.’

  ‘And he was a single man with his own home,’ added Brook. ‘Privacy, if needed.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Copeland. ‘He looked every bit the prime suspect. I’d known him since I was a kid and he was always a bit weird. A loner, low intelligence, probably low self-esteem too—’

  ‘But he didn’t have any transport,’ put in Brook.

  ‘His mother had a car,’ replied Copeland.

  ‘I didn’t see any paperwork on that,’ said Brook softly. ‘Wasn’t she interviewed?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Copeland. ‘According to Walter, Mrs Taylor said the car hadn’t been out of her garage for months.’

  ‘So why is there no record of that in the file?’

  ‘I was a kid at the time,’ answered Copeland. ‘You’ll have to ask Walter.’

  ‘Let’s hope he can remember.’

  ‘That’s unnecessary, Brook,’ protested Copeland. ‘Tilly died forty-seven years ago. In cases this cold, often whole files have been misplaced. I’m afraid it’s the nature of the beast.’

  Brook shrugged. ‘So, according to Walter, did he believe Taylor’s mother about the car?’

  ‘Not without corroboration,’ replied Copeland. ‘But Taylor was put on the back burner because suddenly they had a better suspect.’

  ‘Colin Ealy,’ suggested Brook.

  ‘Right,’ said Copeland. ‘He disappeared. A young lad working as an assistant gamekeeper, on his own for much of the time, access to transport – it looked all over bar the shouting.’

  ‘But it wasn’t.’

  Copeland took a deep breath. ‘In hindsight, no.’

  ‘What about the van?’

  ‘Ealy was using it the night Tilly disappeared.’

  ‘According to Briggs?’

  ‘True,’ said Copeland. ‘But the work log backed him up. Ealy had signed for the van. He was shifting logs from the park until late that night. Nobody saw him, though Briggs said the logs had been moved as directed.’

  ‘He could have moved them the day after,’ proposed Brook.

  ‘True.’

  ‘And the van?’

  ‘The techs worked it over pretty thoroughly but found nothing to connect Ealy to my sister. And no forensics at his parents’ house either.’

  Brook drained his tea. ‘So why do you think Colin Ealy ran?’

  Copeland shrugged. ‘I don’t know. If he didn’t kill Tilly. . .’

  ‘What did John Briggs think?’

  ‘You’ve read the file. Briggs was in the dark. He’d worked with Ealy for about a year. Said he was hard-working and reliable. A bit of a dreamer. Not the brightest.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Copeland hesitated. ‘Briggs did say one thing which may not be in the file. He said Ealy was very nervous all of a sudden. The day before he disappeared, Briggs said the lad became agitated and edgy.’

  ‘Do you know how hard Laird went at him?’ asked Brook.

  ‘Pretty hard according to Walter.’

  ‘And Briggs?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘And what about you twelve years later?’ asked Brook.

  Copeland hung his head briefly. ‘I gave Briggs a hard time, I won’t deny it.’

  ‘Is that code for an assault?’

  Copeland’s face betrayed anger but he controlled it. ‘I want to make something clear, Brook. I didn’t assault Briggs. Or the Barneys, for that matter. I stepped over the line with them, yes. But the most I did was put the fear of God into them that if they lied to me they’d never see the light of day again. The only time I laid hands on them was maybe to grab some lapels to stick my face into theirs but I never hit them, Brook. And that’s the truth.’

  ‘That’s a comfort then.’

  Copeland couldn’t contain himself any longer. ‘My sister was murdered, Brook. Possibly raped as well. . .’

  ‘Which is why you shouldn’t have been anywhere near it, Clive,’ retorted Brook forcefully. ‘Your judgement was impaired.’

  ‘Don’t you think I know that?’ shouted Copeland. The atmosphere crackled in the ensuing silence and Copeland’s whole body was stiff with tension. He sank back into his chair, defeated. ‘Of course I knew but by then it was too late. I was young and driven. I had my sister’s killer to find. What would you have done if it had been your daughter?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ conceded Brook. ‘But it doesn’t justify—’

  ‘I’m not justifying anything,’ insisted Copeland. ‘I know what I did was wrong. And if you talk to anyone connected to Tilly’s case who still wants to make a complaint, I’ll cop to it. I know I’ve no career to lose, but I still have my reputation and I’ll put that on the line if you want me to make amends, even now. You see, I’ve learned my lesson the hard way, Brook. The more I wanted Tilly’s killer, the harder I went at people, the less likely the chances I was going to find him. I realised that, over time.’

  ‘So you changed tack,’ said Brook.

  ‘I was grinding to a halt and one day it hit me,’ sighed Copeland. ‘I knew if I didn’t take all the emotion out of it, I couldn’t function. That’s when I became more methodical, compiling background, doing the legwork. You’ve seen the file.’

  ‘It’s impressive,’ said Brook. ‘No doubt about that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But it was too late, wasn’t it?’

  Copeland lowered his face and nodded. ‘The damage was already done. The Barneys wouldn’t speak to me freely, not without legal counsel present. And John Briggs was scared to death of saying anything in case it was the wrong thing.’

  ‘Wrong thing?’

  ‘About Ealy,’ said Copeland. ‘You see, I thought maybe Briggs knew where Colin Ealy had gone, maybe even helped him get away to Scotland.’

  ‘Scotland. Right.’ Brook’s smile was involuntary.

  ‘What?’ queried Copeland.

  ‘Forgive me. But an unsophisticated seventeen-year-old boy running away to a remote part of Scotland and hoping to blend in. I don’t think so.’

  ‘People don’t always do what you expect.’

  Brook conceded with a shrug. ‘But why Scotland?’

  ‘My guess was that Ealy, being a woodsman, thought he could survive better in the wilds than in a big city,’ said Copeland.

  ‘Your guess or Walter’s?’

  ‘Does it matter? We don’t pick our evidence, Brook. When the national alert went out, that’s where Ealy was seen. Someone rang in a tip.’

  ‘And Laird went to Scotland to follow it up.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it came to nothing.’ Brook nodded, deep in thought. ‘You went too.’

  ‘I took some annual leave in Crianlarich,’ said Copeland, shrugging. ‘Well, why not? And it was very beautiful, very wild.’

  ‘But you were looking for Colin Ealy.’

  ‘Of course.’ Copeland took a sip of tea. ‘But I didn’t find him.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried Brass might get wind that you were looking for your sister’s killer?’

  ‘How? I was the only one reviewing the case. And I wasn’t stupid enough to traipse up to Scotland during working hours. I was on leave.’

  Brook was quiet for a moment. ‘Tell me about the night Matilda disappeared.’

  ‘Tuesday, thirty-first of August nineteen sixty-five,’ announced Copeland, as if he was reciting mathematical tables in school. ‘An ordinary night. Tilly was her usual bubbly self. It was still light when she
called Ebony and said she was taking the dog out. The dog came back. Tilly didn’t. The rest is in the file. She was seen walking around the estate with Ebony and then running up Radbourne Lane without him.’

  ‘By Trevor Taylor.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you remember how Matilda seemed before she left?’

  ‘If you mean did she seem preoccupied by thoughts of meeting her prohibited boyfriend, the answer’s no,’ said Copeland. ‘But then I was a young boy. Such subtleties passed me by.’

  ‘Your parents noticed nothing?’

  ‘Nothing they ever communicated to me. Or Walter.’

  ‘You asked him?’ said Brook.

  ‘When I was old enough.’

  ‘When you went to see McCleary in prison. . .’ began Brook, feeling no need to finish the sentence.

  Copeland nodded. ‘Yes, he confirmed they were meeting that night.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Halfway between Mackworth and Kirk Langley.’

  ‘But your sister never arrived.’

  ‘No,’ mumbled Copeland.

  ‘According to McCleary.’

  ‘You said it yourself,’ said Copeland. ‘He didn’t have a car. His father didn’t. I had no reason to lay Tilly’s death at his door.’

  ‘Nor Trevor Taylor’s neither.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Copeland.

  ‘Taylor became a suspect because he was the last to see Matilda,’ said Brook. ‘When you found out about McCleary, you must have taken Taylor out of your calculations.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Taylor’s sighting suddenly made sense.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean he couldn’t have gone after her and killed her.’

  ‘Before helpfully telling the police he’d seen her?’ Brook smiled. ‘Not very bright.’

  Copeland’s sullen shrug conceded the point. ‘He wasn’t bright and he was still a creep.’

  ‘With access to his mother’s car,’ added Brook.

  Copeland was tight-lipped. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Pity there was no proof against him then,’ concluded Brook.

  ‘There was one thing, though you could hardly call it evidence.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Two days before, Walter had cleared the last of his stuff from his house and dropped the keys off with Dad.’

  ‘His house?’