The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  ‘And Clive?’

  ‘Same.’

  The obstructions were cleared and the dog handlers led the way into the dark allotment beyond. The helicopter moved overhead to illuminate the ground.

  There were no sheds or greenhouses in this part of the allotment, just a cordon of overgrown fruit trees, making it difficult to see the ground from outside and above. Looking across the terrain, Brook was the first to spot the sawn-off drainpipe protruding a few feet from the soil. ‘Over here,’ he shouted, running over to it. The aperture at the top of the pipe had been covered with clingfilm, now damp with condensation. Brook tore it off and recoiled from the harsh stench of ammonia. He shone a torch down its length. He could see what looked like an arm. It was inert and covered in filth.

  ‘Scott!’ shouted Brook. No movement. He stepped back to examine the area around the pipe.

  ‘Is he there?’ pleaded Charlton.

  Brook nodded. ‘He’s there.’

  ‘Alive?’

  Brook didn’t answer. One of the search team readied a spade but Brook threw an arm across him. ‘Wait. The ground’s untouched. It could take ages to get through and if we dig on top we might bring the whole lot down on him.’ Brook took the spade from him and began probing around the plot. ‘There has to be an easier way.’

  Like Brook, the officers with spades began probing around the site, their breath steaming in the sharp air. Meanwhile, Charlton leaned over to Cooper. ‘Get back to the house and take Mullen into custody.’ He looked back at Brook jabbing the spade gingerly into the soil around the pipe. ‘And get the paramedics in here, stat.’

  Brook hit something metallic with the point of the spade. ‘Here.’

  Charlton, Noble and Cooper watched Brook and the search team carefully but quickly lift dirt away from around the pipe. Brook glanced around at his surroundings as he worked. At the edge of the helicopter searchlight he saw two other plastic pipes standing proud from the ground. They were older and weathered. Still digging, he gestured across to Noble who nodded in grim comprehension.

  A moment later, one of the search team fell to his knees, shouting. He uncovered a metal handle, brushing dirt away from it. Brook knelt down to help and the pair pulled it firmly upwards. A large heavy board began to move and the pair recoiled as one from the stench. Other bodies bent to hoist the board further skywards. At forty-five degrees, large sods of freezing wet soil began to slide off until the assembled officers were able to propel the board, its air pipe still attached, away from the hole.

  Everyone blanched at the aroma of human waste emanating from the boy and each member of the search team shared a look of horror with a colleague. The boy was covered in dirt, crawling with insects and his blackened, motionless form was wasted and unrecognisable. What parts were visible showed his skin like parchment, cracked and infected.

  ‘Scott,’ shouted Noble, jumping down into the foul-smelling grave and brushing dirt away from the boy’s mouth and nose. A paramedic arrived beside him to check the boy’s airways. Noble placed a finger against Scott’s neck as more paramedics ran towards them.

  ‘I’ve got a pulse,’ shouted Noble, suddenly hoarse with the release of tension.

  The paramedics eased Noble out of the way and jumped down to tend to the boy, forcing a mask over his uncovered mouth and nose. After massaging the boy’s chest and his extremities for thirty seconds or more, the rapt audience sighed with relief at a cough and a splutter. Scott’s lungs began to fill with oxygen and the paramedics prepared to heave Scott on to a gurney.

  In the harsh light, Noble’s face began to quiver. He pushed the back of his hand across his mouth to staunch the flow before gazing across at Brook. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed before the tears began to fall.

  Brook nodded, tight-lipped, his own sangfroid beginning to crumble. He felt Charlton’s gloved hand slap him on the shoulder and stay there as they watched the boy being hurried to the ambulance.

  ‘That goes for all of us.’ Charlton’s face was creased with happiness. ‘Damen.’

  Back on the concrete of Overdale Road, Charlton and the CID officers were greeted by Brian Burton and a photographer now alerted to the drama taking place. Cameras flashed and Charlton basked in the limelight but wasn’t too self-satisfied to forget Brook. He turned to grab his arm and hold it aloft. ‘Here’s your hero, Brian. DI Brook saved Scott Wheeler’s life.’

  Burton tried to smile as he recorded the quote in his notebook. Brook tried not to, as he watched the journalist making notes, his teeth grinding in frustration.

  And your third-rate book saved mine, Brian.

  Half an hour later the adrenalin of the chase had evaporated and Brook, Charlton and the others began to feel the rigours of a long day and night. Edward Mullen had been taken to St Mary’s Wharf for processing and SOCO teams were commencing the grisly business of excavating Mullen’s allotment for further victims. Noble had left with the ambulance after ringing Scott’s mother with news of her son’s survival.

  Fortunately the cold drizzle had kept most sightseers away but both local and national TV and press had joined Brian Burton at the newly erected crime scene perimeter where Charlton had made various statements to the media.

  Before he left for the night he made sure of a parting word with Brook. ‘You’ve filled up the mortuary today, Brook,’ said Charlton, declining to mention the detrimental effect on budgets. ‘And you’ve taken a serial killer out of circulation. The citizens of Derby are grateful. Go home and get some rest.’

  Brook nodded and shuffled away in apparent compliance, dragging his weary body back to his car outside Mullen’s house, refusing all requests for an interview.

  As he slid into the driver’s seat, Brook glanced across at Mullen’s decomposing home, its appearance befitting the evil that had been hatched there. Blue-suited technicians were already beginning the process of taking Edward Mullen’s life apart, to bureaucratise and render banal the details of his sad and twisted life. Brook was glad to leave them to it and embark on his short journey.

  He pulled his car into Rosie Shah’s drive but instead of jogging up the steps and pounding on the door, he crept into the back garden and let himself into the shed. He flicked on the desk lamp and stared at the Pied Piper wall, its mass of papers still waving in the draught from his entrance. One newspaper strained enough to finally pull its drawing pin from the wood and clattered to the floor.

  Brook stooped to pick it up. It was a 1978 edition. Harry Pritchett’s doomed grin stared back at him. It was a page he hadn’t seen before – a picture of Harry behind a chessboard, his black combatants scattered in the Sicilian Defence.

  Brook shook his head. ‘Insane,’ he mumbled, pinning the yellowing print back in place.

  ‘Who’s insane?’ asked Rosie from the door of the small bedroom.

  Brook was startled. ‘Rosie! I’m sorry. I thought you’d be asleep in the house.’

  Rosie stepped into the main room. She was fully dressed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I was in the neighbourhood. . .’ he hesitated, ‘and I needed to get a couple of hours’ sleep.’

  ‘Don’t you have a bed at home?’ she teased.

  Brook hesitated. ‘I also needed to speak to you before anyone else does.’

  Her face registered the gravity of Brook’s tone. ‘What is it?’

  ‘There have been developments,’ he said softly. He plumped for the good news first. ‘We found Scott Wheeler.’

  ‘Alive?’

  Brook nodded.

  Rosie’s face creased with joy. ‘That’s marvellous. Is it something to do with that bloody helicopter keeping everyone up?’

  Again Brook nodded, his face drawn.

  ‘And the Pied Piper?’

  He sighed, picking his words. ‘I can’t discuss it but it looks promising.’

  Her face erupted in tears and she ran towards him, throwing her arms round his neck. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she spluttered. ‘After all these years.’ Her
hands stroked his neck, pulling and hugging him, the emotion shaking her body to its core. Finally she pulled away from his unyielding frame and stared into his ashen face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘We found another body late yesterday – the skeleton of a young male in Osmaston Park Lake. We think it’s Colin Ealy.’

  Rosie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God. The gamekeeper.’

  ‘The gamekeeper,’ repeated Brook. ‘He didn’t run away. He never left Derbyshire.’

  Rosie couldn’t mistake his tone and her face hardened. ‘And why did you feel an urgent need to tell me this?’

  ‘Because Colin Ealy knew something about Matilda Copeland’s murder and was killed for it.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Whoever abducted and killed Matilda was seen by Ealy. He was scared. Maybe he tried to run but someone cracked open his skull when his back was turned.’ Brook stared at Rosie, his expression grim. ‘Then, alive or dead, he was placed inside an old crime scene body bag and weighed down with stones by someone who knew what he was doing. A professional,’ he added pointedly. ‘Then he was dropped into the deepest part of the lake, probably from one of the boats the gamekeepers used.’

  To Brook’s surprise, Rosie suddenly smiled. ‘And you think my dad killed the gamekeeper because he recognised him from the night the girl’s body was dumped.’

  ‘Walter Laird confirmed your story about the day your father visited the lake. Reluctantly, I might add.’

  Rosie laughed now, shaking her head for good measure. ‘You’re wrong.’

  ‘Rosie, I understand—’

  ‘No you don’t. Dad wasn’t at the lake that night—’

  ‘Rosie—’

  ‘Because he didn’t abduct Matilda Copeland.’

  ‘You don’t know that. Your dad was in turmoil, you said it yourself.’

  ‘But he couldn’t possibly have been at the lake.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he was pissed out of his head in the Half Moon up the road.’

  ‘Rosie, you were only two years old.’

  ‘You remember I told you about Dad’s disciplinary record.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Brook doubtfully.

  ‘I told you he’d got a couple of written warnings about his behaviour. One was for harassing Ruth Stanforth at her daughter’s funeral; the other was for getting drunk and into a scuffle at his local on the night Matilda Copeland disappeared. That’s why Walter Laird had to take the call on his own. So, you see, Colin Ealy couldn’t have seen my dad at Osmaston Park Lake the night Matilda was dumped. He was drunk. He could barely walk, never mind abduct and kill a young girl.’

  Brook’s mind was racing as parts of the jigsaw fought to rearrange themselves in his brain. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely certain. He was drinking in the local from opening time to last orders and beyond. After the fight, the landlord closed up and walked Dad home with a friend. He even helped my aunt put him to bed. I remember her saying it was well past midnight.’

  Brook stood there unmoving so Rosie grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him to the desk. She opened a drawer and after a few moments’ rummaging, extracted a document and thrust it at Brook. It was another disciplinary letter. Sam Bannon had got falling-down drunk and into an altercation with another customer in the Half Moon public house in Littleover on 31 August 1965, the night Matilda Copeland had been abducted. He received a formal reprimand about his conduct.

  Brook lowered his hand and stared at the disc of light on the desk. His eyes came to rest on the photograph of the young Walter Laird and Sam Bannon leaning on Bannon’s Jaguar. Brook’s eyes closed in realisation.

  . . . when his back was turned. . .

  ‘Brook? Are you OK?’

  He opened his eyes to look at Rosie. There were questions he wanted to ask her to confirm what now made sense but he knew he didn’t have the time. Instead he smiled. ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re glad,’ said Rosie haughtily. ‘You’re going?’

  ‘I have to.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘The dead will keep a little longer, Rosie. I have to see to the living.’

  Brook ran to his car, his fatigue forgotten. He pointed the car at the inner ring road and fifteen minutes later squealed to a halt outside Clive Copeland’s village home.

  Unlike his previous visit, there was no sign of life and the house was dark. Brook hurried through light rain to bang on the door. A censored light came on but nothing else stirred. The drive was empty. Copeland’s car was gone.

  Brook jogged back to his car, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket.

  ‘John. How’s the boy?’

  ‘Stable. Are you home yet?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘I meant to tell you, Terri rang me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A few days ago, after you were shot at. She wanted to know what was wrong when you brushed her off for Christmas so she rang me to get a straighter answer.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘The truth,’ said Noble. ‘I said you were safe and I’d let her know when things were back to normal. I texted her five minutes ago, so expect a call.’

  ‘I suppose I should thank you,’ said Brook after a pause.

  Noble laughed. ‘No, just don’t lie to her next time. She’s a grown woman.’

  ‘Right,’ said Brook feebly. He jumped behind the wheel and turned the ignition. ‘I can’t talk now. . .’

  ‘There’s something else, something bothering me.’

  ‘John, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘It’s about Josh Stapleton’s murder and the Pied Piper.’

  Brook was turning the car round but stopped in mid-arc to listen to Noble. ‘I’m listening.’

  Twenty minutes later, Brook screeched to a halt in the dark and mounted a kerb outside the house. Not bothering to lock his car, he ran through the rain towards Laird’s terraced cottage and came to a halt at the plastic door with its funeral-urn knocker. Panting, he knocked on the urn whilst looking for movement inside. A faint light was visible through the mottled glass so Brook opened the unlocked door and hurried inside.

  The single-bar fire was on and Brook could see the gnarled hand of Walter Laird gripping the arm of his chair. ‘Walter.’ No response. ‘Laird. It’s me. Brook.’

  Brook walked to the chair and pulled it round.

  Laird’s head tilted back to stare glassily up at him. Blood shone above his left eyebrow. He struggled to speak. ‘Brook. Thank God. I thought it were our Darren.’

  ‘Darren?’

  With a flick of his eyes, Laird pointed Brook in the direction of the kitchen from where a voice sounded, calm and resigned. ‘He’s worried his son might turn up and get himself killed trying to stop me.’

  Brook turned to see Copeland step from the shadows. He carried a gun. ‘Clive. You worked it out.’

  ‘That’s right, Brook. I worked it out,’ said Copeland, a bitter smile twisting his face. ‘Only took me forty-seven years. And me a DCI. Pathetic.’

  ‘He was your hero, Clive,’ said Brook softly, trying not to stare at the gun. ‘We blind ourselves to their faults.’

  ‘Well, I’m not blind now,’ replied Copeland.

  ‘It was the car, wasn’t it?’ said Brook. ‘That’s what Colin Ealy recognised, not Sam.’

  ‘The Jaguar Mark X,’ confirmed Copeland.

  ‘Ealy hadn’t seen a man the night Matilda’s body was dumped, that’s why there was no report of a sighting. But he had seen a car, he just didn’t realise it until he saw Bannon pull up in the Jaguar. But Bannon wasn’t driving it the night your sister disappeared, am I right? He couldn’t have been. He was falling-down drunk in a pub.’

  ‘Was he?’ said Copeland. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ He gestured at Laird with his gun. The old man lowered his head. ‘I only know that Walter loved that car. He often borrowed it. He had it that week to help him move.’
Copeland’s breathing revealed a quiver of deep-seated tension. ‘He even turned up in it after we reported Tilly missing on the night. . . after he’d. . .’ Copeland bit down on his emotions but felt no need to complete the sentence.

  ‘And after Ealy recognised the car, who would he tell?’ continued Brook, edging closer to Copeland. ‘Not Sam Bannon, obviously, not the owner of the car, but another policeman, someone he could trust. . .’

  ‘Someone he thought he could trust,’ said Copeland, staring at Laird. ‘That’s why Walter killed him.’

  ‘He had no choice,’ said Brook. ‘If Ealy mentioned the car to someone else, it wouldn’t take long to piece together. Must have been quite a shock, Walter, having to work so fast.’ No response. Brook eased himself a few more inches towards Copeland. ‘What did you do, Walter? Arrange to meet Ealy at the lake that night? Tell him not to speak to a soul until a case could be built against Sam Bannon. Must have been difficult.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ sneered Copeland. ‘Walter’s got a silver tongue.’

  ‘Still, so much to organise,’ continued Brook. ‘Rustling up a body bag without arousing suspicion. Can’t have been easy. There was already a convenient boat at the lake for the gamekeepers’ use. That was useful. You’d need it to get the body to the deepest part of the lake. I’m guessing you arrived early to hide the body bag, making sure you weren’t seen. Then, when Ealy appeared and his back was turned, you let him have it.’

  Laird grunted in derision. ‘You’re off your rockers, the pair of you.’

  ‘It wasn’t the most satisfactory outcome because there was no evidence that Ealy killed Matilda,’ said Brook. ‘That would have sealed it. And you still had her clothes.’

  ‘Why didn’t you use them to incriminate Ealy, Walter?’ barked Copeland.

  ‘Oh, he would have if he could,’ said Brook. ‘But the van and the workshop had already been searched, remember. It would look suspicious if an item of your sister’s clothing turned up after that. No, better that Ealy just disappeared. And when the time was right, Walter could fake a sighting in Scotland to keep the pot boiling.’

  ‘You bastard,’ said Copeland. ‘That boy trusted you, Walter. Tilly too. And you murdered them.’