by Steven Dunne
Mullen’s self-assurance unnerved Brook so he reached for his final round of ammunition.
‘And your moral posturing is in tatters after killing Edna.’ Brook watched closely, no great confidence in his accusation but Mullen was taken aback.
After a beat, the old man’s surprise gave way to admiration. ‘I’m impressed. How did you know? I made it look like suicide.’
‘I’m a trained detective,’ replied Brook. ‘I told you she was murdered and the natural question was to ask how. You didn’t. But more than that, Edna would never leave a dirty teacup in the sink if she was going to commit suicide. You should have known that much. That’s not how your generation do things.’
‘I underestimated you, Brook,’ said Mullen thoughtfully.
‘So much for harvesting the guilty.’
‘I’m not ashamed, Brook. Yes, Edna’s here with us because that’s what she wanted. She’s happy here.’
‘Why would she be happy?’ demanded Brook.
‘Because she wanted me to kill her.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Brook. ‘You’re saying it was a mercy killing?’
‘No, Edna was in a lot of pain but she could handle that,’ replied Mullen. ‘It was her mental suffering she wanted to end. You see, she wanted me to help her the way I helped her husband when he was dying.’
‘Assisted suicide?’ exclaimed Brook. ‘You’re lying. Edna Spencer was a Catholic. Her husband too.’
‘But their devotion dwindled when they realised how their God had abandoned them,’ said Mullen. ‘Edna couldn’t stand to see Eric suffering. They were my friends so I helped him on his way. That meant he could cling to me. When Eric was gone, I was able to tell Edna that he was with me, that he was safe, that he loved her.’
‘She was a client?’
‘She was a friend,’ said Mullen. ‘And when the time was right, Edna wanted me to do the same for her so she and Eric could both be together for the rest of time.’
‘With you?’
‘A small price to pay.’
‘In your little stable of ghosts.’
‘If that’s how you want to describe it.’
Brook shook his head. ‘A mercy killer. I don’t think so. You killed Edna because she knew you’d taken Scott.’
Mullen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not so.’
‘You couldn’t let her live. She might have given you up.’
‘No.’
‘She knew something that could harm you and you killed her because she was a threat.’
‘She wanted my help,’ insisted Mullen. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’
‘“No child deserves to die.” Edna’s last words to me,’ said Brook. ‘She knew what you were, Mullen – a child killer. Maybe she did turn a blind eye because she thought you were some kind of link to her husband but that was about to change.’
‘You’re guessing.’
‘Am I? She was on the verge of telling me. She couldn’t stand the thought of another boy suffering. Instead, she spoke to you to tell you to stop and you killed her for it.’
‘All the effort you’ve put into these wild allegations and you can’t prove any of it, can you?’ smirked Mullen. ‘Curiously, I have Sam Bannon to thank for forcing me to make myself bombproof.’
Brook’s eyes bored into Mullen. ‘You’re not bombproof yet. We’re still working the forensics on Edna’s flat and if they find something—’
‘They won’t.’
‘If they do—’
‘If they do, you will bury it,’ said Mullen, bringing a fist down on to the table. ‘Because when it comes to making accusations of murder, your hands are tied.’
‘As others have been before me?’ asked Brook. Mullen opened his mouth to speak but closed it again. ‘One visit,’ continued Brook. ‘Did they think I wouldn’t notice? Did you?’
‘Go home, Brook,’ said Mullen.
‘Do you think your ghost stories will stop me from putting you away?’
‘Without a doubt,’ said Mullen. ‘You’ve got too much to lose.’
‘It’d be my word against yours and who’d believe you?’
‘Can you take that chance?’ countered a grinning Mullen. ‘Read the papers, Brook. You’re not well-liked. Something else we have in common. There’ll be plenty of takers if you force me to turn you in.’
Brook didn’t answer for a while, simply staring thoughtfully at Mullen. ‘Where’s Scott?’ he said eventually.
‘Do I have to call the police?’ demanded Mullen.
‘Your friends can’t help you any more,’ said Brook. ‘You need professional help.’
‘Then for your sake, let’s hope I don’t get it,’ said Mullen. ‘Now I need you to leave. I’m tired and I’ve got a busy day ahead.’ He stood to draw matters to a close.
Brook considered him for a moment before also getting to his feet. He walked solemnly to the front door.
Mullen’s friendly smile returned. ‘Don’t worry, Brook. I never betray a confidence.’
Brook opened the door, turning back to Mullen for the last time. His eyes alighted on the oak table. The chessboard was bare.
Mullen followed his glance to the empty board then grinned back at Brook. ‘Game over, Brook. You lose.’
Brook took a step across the threshold before shouting, ‘Sergeant!’
Mullen’s face drained. ‘What are you doing?’
Noble walked through the door and held a document in front of Mullen. ‘Mr Edward Mullen, we have a warrant to search your property. Please step aside.’
Mullen snatched the warrant and glared at Brook. ‘You’ll be sorry for this.’
Brook ignored him. ‘I’ll take the upstairs, John. You do downstairs.’ He pulled out his mobile as he trotted to the first floor. ‘Sir? DI Brook. I need that team now.’
Mullen sat resentfully at the table in front of the chessboard unable to do little more than stare at the heavy curtains. All around him uniformed officers poked around the room, some searching shelves and cabinets, others pulling up the ancient carpet to check the integrity of the floorboards. DS Noble and DC Cooper sifted through the untidy bookcase. Other officers did similar work in the kitchen and adjacent dining room.
‘It might help if we had more light,’ said Cooper. ‘Is this guy Batman or what?’
‘Eyes on the prize, Dave,’ reproached Noble. ‘We’re looking for a lost kid, remember.’
Chief Superintendent Charlton walked through the front door at that moment, getting his bearings and looking round in distaste at the furnishings and general state of decay.
Mullen jumped up to speak to him but was held down by a uniformed constable. ‘Are you in charge?’
Charlton nodded in acknowledgement.
‘I want to swear out a complaint or whatever it is I need to do,’ said Mullen. ‘This is an outrage. I’m an intensely private man and Detective Inspector Brook broke into my home and interrogated me against my will.’
‘That’s a very serious charge,’ said Charlton. ‘Broke in how?’
‘Through the front door. He knocked over my water bucket.’
Charlton backtracked to the front door to examine the locks. ‘I don’t see any damage.’ He patted the sopping wet doormat with a shoe and, confused, glanced up at Noble who made a circular sign against his head with a finger. Crazy.
‘He’s a policeman, isn’t he?’ protested Mullen. ‘He must have skeleton keys or something.’
‘Sergeant?’ said Charlton.
‘Total rubbish, sir,’ said Noble. ‘DI Brook and I knocked on the door and served the warrant together.’
‘He’s lying,’ spat Mullen.
‘Another serious charge,’ said Charlton, not taking his eyes from Noble. The detective sergeant blanched under his searching gaze.
‘I don’t even know what I’m supposed to have done,’ protested Mullen, again failing to get to his feet.
‘Calm down, sir,’ said Charlton. ‘You’ll get a hearing once we finish
our business.’
‘But you’ve no right,’ protested Mullen. ‘And no evidence of wrongdoing. At least tell me what you want.’
Brook came down the stairs, his expression severe. He didn’t need to speak but shook his head briefly at Charlton for good measure. Charlton pursed his lips but resolved not to interrogate Brook in front of a civilian.
‘John?’ ventured Brook. Noble shook his head in turn and Brook turned away to mask his frustration.
‘Perhaps it’s good that you’re here, after all,’ said Mullen, a smile forming.
‘Sir?’ inquired Charlton.
‘I should tell you that on an earlier visit, DI Brook confessed to me that he’s a murderer.’ Mullen looked cheerfully round the gathering to gauge reaction, his eyes landing finally on Brook’s impassive features.
‘Murderer?’ said Charlton.
‘You heard me,’ confirmed Mullen, pointing at Brook. ‘Him. See, he’s not bothering to deny it.’
‘What are you talking about, sir?’ asked Charlton.
‘In nineteen ninety-one, when DI Brook was serving in London, he encountered a black man named Floyd Wrigley, during a case. And when he couldn’t prove this man was a killer, Brook executed him.’
‘Executed?’ Charlton looked at every face, baffled.
‘Cut his throat,’ added Mullen with relish.
There was complete silence for half a minute as six law enforcement officers contemplated the slight figure of Mullen before them. Noble broke the silence, his emerging grin turning into laughter which the others, Charlton aside, echoed.
‘What are you laughing at?’ cried Mullen. ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Brook is a murderer. And you can check what I say.’
‘How do you know this?’ asked Charlton, looking from Mullen to Brook, fighting his own nascent smile.
‘There was a Floyd Wrigley involved in the original Reaper inquiry in London, sir,’ said Noble. ‘I’ve read about it.’
‘The Reaper case! Yes,’ said Mullen, turning to look gleefully at Brook.
‘Is that true?’ Charlton asked Brook.
‘About Floyd Wrigley?’ said Brook. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Mullen’s correct. Wrigley did live in Brixton and his throat was cut. It’s public knowledge. He and his family were killed by the Reaper.’
‘Brian Burton wrote a book about the case after the Reaper struck in Derby,’ put in Noble.
‘Brian Burton, yes,’ nodded Charlton uncertainly. ‘I remember it.’
Mullen’s confidence turned to confusion when he saw the pity in the expressions of his audience. He turned to see DC Cooper behind him, holding aloft a book in his gloved hands. It was called In Search of the Reaper, by Brian Burton.
‘Is this the book?’ said Cooper.
‘That’s the one,’ confirmed Noble.
Mullen turned back to Brook, his face draining of blood. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘It was on your bookshelves, sir,’ said Cooper.
‘That’s a lie!’ said Mullen, trying again to stand but being pushed down again. ‘Brook brought that with him or else one of you planted it.’
‘How many allegations are you going to make tonight, sir?’ said Charlton.
‘I’ve never owned that book,’ said Mullen. To Brook he said, ‘You planted it. Admit it.’
‘You need help, Mr Mullen,’ said Brook.
‘Hang on, there’s a page marked,’ said Cooper. He opened the book and showed the page to Charlton who stared at the underlined name of Floyd Wrigley.
‘Mr Mullen,’ said Charlton quietly, taking the book and showing the page to the old man. ‘When you level false accusations against any of my officers, I guarantee I’ll come at you with everything the law allows.’
‘That’s not my book, I tell you,’ Mullen spluttered.
‘It was on your shelf, in your home.’ Mullen was silent. After a pause, Charlton continued. ‘So, we’ll forget the wild allegations, shall we, sir? Before you get into any more trouble.’
Mullen opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He glared at Brook. Brook held his gaze before glancing at the chessboard then back again. His meaning didn’t escape Mullen. Game over.
Mullen stared back at him. OK, I’ve lost a battle but I’m winning the war. ‘Very well. But I want you out of here,’ he insisted, dredging up a semblance of indignation. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
Charlton couldn’t argue. He looked round at Brook. ‘Is there anything more?’
‘There’s a shed at the back of the house,’ said Brook, glancing at Mullen. His slender hopes were dashed when a confident smile began to spread across the elderly man’s face.
‘And then will you leave?’ said Mullen.
‘Certainly, sir,’ said Charlton smoothly, already plotting a course back to being the helpful public servant rather than law enforcer.
Mullen got grudgingly to his feet and, feigning disability, hobbled to the rear of the house to pluck a bunch of keys from a hook.
The senior officers of the search party trooped through the back door after Mullen, Brook in tow, his heart heavy. As Brook had surmised on his previous visit, the garden at the rear was a jungle, with grass and weeds above waist height. The overgrown path had to be negotiated with care, torches trained on the ground to avoid animal excrement and slugs. At the ramshackle shed, Noble took the padlock key from Mullen, unlocked it and pulled open the flimsy door.
The blades of a helicopter roared overhead and a strong searchlight illuminated the scene. Brook glanced at Charlton.
‘Ours,’ said the Chief Superintendent.
Three lights shone into the shed and Noble squeezed himself inside, head stooped. He walked to the far end of the shed, knocking forlornly on walls, ceiling and floor with a knuckle. The structure was virtually empty and when Noble returned he had only a shiny new spade and garden fork to show for his search.
‘Gardening tools,’ said Mullen, trying to keep the smugness in check. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Well, that’s it,’ said Charlton, turning away. ‘I’m sorry you were inconvenienced, sir.’
‘Inconvenienced?’ cried Mullen above the roar of the helicopter. ‘I’ve been violated and you haven’t heard the last—’
‘Wait!’ said Brook. All heads turned.
‘What?’ said Charlton.
‘The spade.’
‘What of it?’ demanded Charlton.
‘It’s new,’ pointed out Brook.
‘And?’
‘Right. Why does he need a spade at all?’ said Noble. ‘He’s not using it in this garden.’
Charlton turned to Mullen. Brook was thrilled to see anxiety spread across the old man’s face. ‘Well, sir. Do you have an explanation?’
Before Mullen could answer, Noble spoke. ‘Sir, DI Brook asked me to look into Edna Spencer’s affairs.’
‘Edna Spencer?’ answered Charlton. ‘What has—?’
‘Years ago, she and her husband lived a few streets away in Overdale Road.’
‘So?’ said Charlton.
‘So, behind Overdale Road there are garden allotments and the Spencers had one that backed on to their house,’ continued Noble. ‘They even had a gate put in, I think.’
‘She moved to Mount Street years ago,’ said Brook.
‘But she kept the allotment,’ said Noble. ‘It’s still in her name and the annual subscription is renewed every year. It was in her financial records.’
‘That’s why Mullen killed her,’ said Brook, looking at the old man’s deathly white features for confirmation. ‘He’s got the allotment and that’s where the bodies are buried.’
‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ shouted Mullen. ‘But DI Brook did. And he’s not the only copper I know. . .’ Brook gestured Cooper to escort Mullen back to the house. ‘No, you’ve got to listen to me,’ shouted Mullen, before he was led out of earshot.
‘I thought the allotment was searched when Wheeler went missing,’ said Charlton.
‘It was,’ c
onfirmed Noble. ‘Every shed. Every greenhouse.’
‘You don’t use a spade to hide people in a shed,’ said Brook.
Charlton nodded. ‘Does the warrant cover it?’
Noble nodded. ‘House and grounds.’
‘Get the dogs.’
Twenty-Seven
It was four in the morning yet still Clive Copeland sat on in his dark conservatory, oblivious to the passage of time. When he did look up, his eyes found the treeline of Osmaston Park and beyond it the lake, in which his sister’s body had floated for four summer nights almost five decades ago.
He lifted his hand and with it the gun, examined it as though for the first time, almost in wonder. He caressed the stock, stroked the muzzle and ejected the clip, checking it for the hundredth time, before heaving it back up into the handle. Without looking at it, Copeland flicked the safety catch on and off with his thumb.
The phone rang somewhere in the house but aside from a brief dart of the eyes, Copeland didn’t react. It tripped over to answering machine.
‘Sir, this is DC Cooper. We’re in Normanton and we think we may have caught a break on the Scott Wheeler case. It ties into some of your old inquiries so DI Brook thought you might want to be here.’ Cooper gave directions to the allotment and hung up.
The machine cut out but Copeland remained motionless. He raised the gun with two hands and simulated taking a shot out into the night then stood to gather up his car keys from a table.
The owner of Edna Spencer’s old home on Overdale Road was already at the front door, alerted by the helicopter overhead. His curiosity turned to concern when a delegation of police officers opened his gate and marched up to his house.
‘Sir, we need access to your back garden.’ After Charlton had quickly explained the situation and been granted the permissions he needed, he gestured several uniformed officers towards the rear of the house, two of them with sniffer dogs. Brook, Noble and Cooper followed.
The bottom of the back garden allowed no admittance to the allotment but the constables set to work removing the old doors and planks which barred the way where once there’d been a gate.
‘Why isn’t Ford here?’ asked Brook.
‘Dave rang him but he wasn’t in,’ said Noble.
