The Unquiet Grave

by Steven Dunne

  Brook took another step towards Copeland. ‘And Ealy wouldn’t have turned his back on Sam Bannon, not after seeing him get out of the Jaguar. . .’

  ‘I like you,’ growled Copeland, turning to Brook. ‘But if you take another step towards me, don’t kid yourself I won’t use this. I’d try to wing you but I’m no marksman.’

  ‘Clive, this isn’t—’

  ‘Sit over there,’ ordered Copeland, gesturing at a wooden chair. ‘Palms on the table.’

  Brook hesitated, assessing his options before retreating past Laird to the cramped dining table. He placed his hands flat. ‘You can’t do this, Clive. It doesn’t count unless the killer faces justice. Your words.’

  ‘He’ll get justice,’ said Copeland, touching a hand to his crucifix under his shirt. ‘An eye for an eye – his life for Tilly’s.’

  ‘But you won’t be taking his life, Clive,’ said Brook sadly, ‘because he’s already lived it. Don’t you see? If you kill him he gets away with it.’ Copeland turned to hear Brook. ‘He doesn’t have to face his shame. He doesn’t lose his dignity. The only thing Walter has left is his reputation and that’s what we have to take. That’s why we need a confession.’

  ‘And how admissible do you think a confession would be with a gun to my head,’ snorted Laird, resurrecting a little aggression. ‘Dream on, Brook. I confess to nothing and there’s no proof I killed anyone.’

  ‘Don’t speak, Walter,’ said Copeland, raising the gun and gripping it hard then glancing over at Brook. ‘Walter’s right. It’s been too long. There’s no proof. No corroboration. He has to die or he gets clean away with it.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ said Brook. ‘We got the evidence earlier tonight – a confession.’

  ‘I told you. I’m confessing to nowt,’ croaked Laird.

  ‘You don’t have to,’ said Brook. ‘We’ve got a witness and enough for a charge.’

  ‘Don’t bother talking me down, Brook,’ said Copeland. ‘We both know there are no witnesses.’

  ‘Hear that, Brook?’ cackled Laird. ‘Clive doesn’t believe you.’

  ‘I told you to shut up, Walter.’ Copeland stepped across to put the barrel of the gun against Laird’s temple.

  But instead of cowering, the old man cackled. ‘Go ahead. Shoot, if you’re man enough. But I want a final cigarette. Allow me that at least.’ His chest continued to heave with merriment and Copeland’s calm demeanour began to disintegrate.

  ‘You murdering bastard. . .’

  Brook stood quickly, hands raised, and sidled to the fireplace. ‘He’s provoking you, Clive. He wants you to shoot him because he doesn’t want to go to prison.’

  ‘Sit down, Brook,’ shouted Copeland, pointing the gun at him.

  ‘Take it easy.’ Brook lowered his hand towards a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘Put the gun down, Clive. Listen to me for the time it takes Walter to smoke a cigarette and if you’re not convinced, I’ll walk out and leave him to you.’ After a brief hesitation, Copeland nodded. Brook took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth, lit up and passed it to Laird. The old man took a long draw of the poison into his lungs.

  ‘Tick-tock, Brook,’ said Copeland.

  ‘If you kill him, he takes your life as well as Tilly’s.’

  Copeland lifted the gun and snaked a finger round the trigger. ‘Think I give a shit about my life after I let down my sister like that.’

  ‘Tilly wouldn’t want you to sacrifice your life for hers,’ said Brook. ‘Think about that.’

  ‘My life? That was over the day she died, Brook,’ said Copeland. ‘Tick-tock.’

  ‘OK,’ said Brook, trying to think. ‘Shoot him now and he dies quick and clean.’

  ‘You said that already.’

  ‘But look around, Clive,’ urged Brook. ‘As miserable as his life is now, can you imagine how much worse it would be in prison? He’d be in a living hell, scared and alone, an ex-copper who murdered a child and was complicit in the deaths of other children.’

  ‘Other children?’ Copeland lowered the gun and stared at Brook.

  ‘We found Scott Wheeler alive a few hours ago,’ said Brook.

  ‘Alive?’ exclaimed Copeland. ‘Where?’

  ‘Do you want to tell him, Walter?’ demanded Brook. Laird grunted, eyes resolutely on the floor. ‘No? Well, perhaps you don’t know about that part of Mullen’s method. Scott was buried in an underground vault in an allotment near Mullen’s home.’ Brook spoke slowly to Copeland, being sure to leave nothing out. ‘We found him just in time and arrested Edward Mullen for kidnapping and attempted murder. We’ll be charging him with the murders of Jeff Ward in nineteen seventy-three, Harry Pritchett in nineteen seventy-eight and maybe other missing boys buried in the same allotment, an allotment which once belonged to Edna Spencer. He killed her too.’

  ‘Edward Mullen?’ said Copeland, shaking his head. ‘Walter always steered me away. . .’

  ‘He would,’ said Brook, watching Laird’s confidence drain away. ‘And you weren’t the only one. You see, Mullen and Walter had a mutual interest in turning a blind eye to each other’s crimes. But now we have Mullen in custody, he’s no longer under any obligation to protect Walter. He’s confessed to his crimes and he’s implicated Walter,’ Brook lied with all the conviction he could muster. ‘Mullen is the Pied Piper, a killer of children. Sam Bannon was right, Clive.’

  ‘My God,’ said Copeland, narrowing his eyes at Laird. ‘All those years I poured scorn on Sam, on your say-so.’

  ‘There’s more,’ said Brook. ‘Walter’s a serial killer in his own right.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Copeland.

  ‘You’re off your head,’ snarled Laird.

  ‘Am I?’ asked Brook. ‘You abducted and killed Tilly in nineteen sixty-five. You killed Colin Ealy to cover your tracks. And when Sam Bannon began to close in on Mullen, you were forced to kill him too.’

  ‘That’s a lie,’ shouted Laird. ‘Sam was my friend.’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ said Brook. ‘But when Mullen told you Bannon was getting close, he warned you that if he went down, you were going with him.’

  ‘It’s not true,’ snapped Laird. ‘And no one’s going to take the word of a nutcase like Mullen.’

  Copeland was confused. ‘He’s right. Why the hell would Walter kill his best friend on Mullen’s say-so?’

  ‘Because Mullen knew Walter had murdered your sister, Clive. And one word to you. . .’

  Copeland was silent, staring grimly into space. To Brook’s dismay he didn’t ask the question.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how he knew?’ asked Brook finally. Copeland nodded, without looking up. Brook took a breath to voice the absurd. ‘Mullen thinks he has a gift. He thinks he can see the dead.’

  ‘See what I mean?’ crowed Laird. ‘Who’s going to believe that shit?’

  ‘He thinks murder victims are bound to their killers in the afterlife and he can see them, trapped, asking for answers about what happened to them.’

  Laird grunted. ‘Listen to yourself.’

  ‘And you believed him?’ asked Copeland, finally meeting Brook’s eyes.

  Brook hesitated. ‘Course not. But I believe Mullen said enough to convince Walter. After that, Walter’s guilty conscience did the rest.’

  ‘But when did Mullen find out about Walter?’ asked Copeland. ‘Not on the Stanforth inquiry. Tilly and Colin Ealy were still alive.’

  ‘Two years after Walter had killed Tilly, he was reviewing the Stanforth case with Sam in nineteen sixty-seven. They went to interview Mullen. I’m guessing when Mullen was alone with Walter he said just enough to make Walter believe his secret was known. It always struck me as odd that Mullen had been interviewed so rarely since Billy’s death. Walter only made that one visit to his home in Normanton. One visit. He never went back again. And he persuaded every other officer reviewing the case to take Mullen out of their calculations. Most of them did.’

  ‘But Sam didn’t,’ said Copeland softly.
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  ‘No,’ replied Brook. ‘Despite all his problems, Sam gradually came to believe something was wrong about Mullen. And the idea took root that he was a killer.’

  ‘So Mullen killed Billy Stanforth,’ said Copeland.

  ‘No, that’s the irony,’ said Brook. ‘That’s what Bannon could never get round, why he couldn’t fit Mullen into his Pied Piper theory and bring him to justice. That, and his deteriorating mental health, meant no one would listen. All his allegations about the Pied Piper and Mullen fell on deaf ears.’

  ‘Lucky for Mullen,’ said Copeland.

  ‘Even luckier for Walter,’ said Brook, turning to him. ‘With Walter’s reputation, no one would question his loyalty to Sam and no one would doubt the pain it caused him to paint Bannon as a mentally unstable burn-out.’

  ‘You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ spat Laird.

  ‘Don’t I?’ said Brook. ‘You knew Bannon was getting close because Mullen told you he was. And when Bannon phoned you two days before Harry Pritchett was scheduled to die, you knew you had to act. Bannon had to die. And it was easy. Sam was unstable, a drunkard. Everyone knew he was fixated on catching a killer who’d burned a boy to death in a shed. What better way to deal with your friend than to fake a suicide using the Pied Piper’s own method? It would look like the final sad act of a deranged mind.’

  ‘All that phoney concern about Bannon’s reputation and his kid,’ growled Copeland, his face sour. ‘You sick, shameful old bastard.’

  Brook was pleased to see Copeland lower the gun. Keep talking until Noble arrives. ‘There’s more yet, Clive. Walter didn’t just kill people to protect himself. He went out of his way to ruin the lives of innocent people.’

  ‘More bullshit,’ sneered Laird, taking another long draw of his cigarette. There was silence now, except for the crackle of the burning tobacco. Brook watched Laird tight-lipped. Still no admission of guilt. He pressed on.

  ‘You deny planting those pornographic pictures in Brendan McCleary’s flat?’ asked Brook.

  Laird opened his arms wide, gesturing down at his withered legs, almost spitting in his vehemence. ‘Look at me, Brook. I can barely get to the kitchen.’

  ‘But your son could have done it,’ answered Brook. Laird looked for the words but didn’t answer. ‘Did you spin him some yarn about the greater good, about the end justifying the means? I hope so, for his sake, Walter. With luck, he hasn’t been poisoned by years of your toxic hatred.’

  ‘Leave my Darren out of this,’ blurted Laird, finally showing some emotion.

  ‘Why would Walter want to set up McCleary?’ said Copeland.

  ‘Walter has been trying to destroy Brendan McCleary ever since Billy Stanforth burned to death in nineteen sixty-three. He couldn’t pin that on him so the year after Billy died, he tried again.’

  ‘That’s because the lowlife killed Charlotte Dilkes,’ insisted Laird.

  ‘No, he didn’t,’ answered Brook. ‘Though you tried hard enough to prove it. And I dare say you would’ve put him away for Tilly’s murder the year after that, if doing so wouldn’t have exposed more of your dishonesty.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ mumbled Laird. It was a token effort. The flame of defiance was dying.

  ‘I can’t prove you killed Malcolm McCleary but—’

  ‘Malcolm McCleary?’ exclaimed Copeland, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ continued Brook.

  ‘You’re mental,’ growled Laird out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Am I?’ Brook shrugged. ‘Maybe I am overreaching but it seems the obvious move, having tried and failed to pin three murders on Brendan. Why not just take the initiative and frame him? And you were used to killing by nineteen sixty-nine. It was easy.’

  ‘If Walter murdered Malcolm McCleary, why didn’t Brendan ever contest the verdict?’ argued Copeland.

  ‘Because it was the perfect fit,’ said Brook. ‘Like the rest of the world, even Brendan assumed he was guilty. He hated his father. He was drunk that night and couldn’t remember anything. The perfect set-up.’ He turned to Laird stewing in his armchair, his cigarette burned down to the filter. ‘No denial.’

  ‘I’m not dignifying this bullshit,’ replied Laird. ‘McCleary’s a fucking paedo and a criminal.’

  ‘You say that and yet Brendan’s most serious crime in your eyes was to have fallen for Clive’s sister,’ said Brook. ‘Matilda, the pretty girl you lusted after, as you might, seeing her every day, walking down the street to school, or later to her work in Barney’s store. She told Brendan that one of her neighbours gave her the creeps but wouldn’t say who. Everyone thought it was Trevor Taylor but it was you. But she didn’t pay any attention to you, did she? Not the kind you wanted anyway.’

  ‘You’re sick,’ said Laird.

  ‘You were obsessed by her, Walter,’ continued Brook. ‘You wanted her but couldn’t have her. And maybe that would have been that except for one thing that turned the screw. Not only could you not have her but she was giving herself to someone like Brendan – a petty criminal. And that’s why you hated McCleary.’ Brook flicked an eye at Copeland. The anger had gone and only sadness remained. The gun was still in his hand but forgotten.

  ‘But I was engaged, remember,’ protested Laird, jamming a finger into his chest. ‘I had it on tap. Why would I lust after a little girl?’

  ‘Who knows why we obsess over anything,’ said Brook. ‘But you lusted after Matilda and she rubbed salt in the wound by treating you like the old man you were – a neighbour, an uncle figure, in the background. Worse, she was in love with a handsome boy, a rogue desired by girls and admired by boys.

  ‘To you, Walter, McCleary and his father were the antithesis of everything you stood for. And the idea that young girls, especially the young girl of your sick dreams, should give themselves to such a boy mortified you – you, a valued, upstanding public servant set against McCleary, an uncouth yob.’

  Laird gestured for another cigarette but Brook ignored him.

  ‘But a teenage girl doesn’t fall in love with social status, Walter,’ continued Brook. ‘And maybe you would’ve forgotten about the pair of them if one dark December night hadn’t presented you with a final opportunity, the chance you needed to draw yourself closer to the family, to Matilda.’

  ‘Billy Stanforth,’ said Copeland.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Brook. ‘After Billy’s death, you were able to show Matilda that you existed by keeping her name out of the inquiry. You proved your love for her and you wanted payback. The family was in your debt and, in your sick dreams, Matilda was too. She owed you.’

  Laird was sullen but managed to resurrect a little belligerence. ‘You can’t prove any of this nonsense.’

  ‘Thanks to Mullen I can,’ countered Brook, trying to keep the confident edge in his voice. If Laird didn’t crack soon, they’d have nothing. He played his last card. ‘You’re going to prison for the rest of your life, Walter. Stripped of respect, stripped of dignity. You raped and murdered a child and you killed a fellow officer. And when you get to prison, both sides of the system will be feeding on your soul.’

  From somewhere a smile invaded Laird’s features. He fixed Copeland with a stare. ‘Edward Mullen?’ laughed the old man. ‘You’ve met him, Clive. Surely you don’t buy this shit. He’s an even bigger nutter than Brook. No one will believe a word Mullen says. It’s not proper evidence like fingerprints. Eh, Clive? Haven’t I always helped you when you’ve been up against it? Put the gun away, lad, and we’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘I loved you like a father, Walter.’ A tear meandered down Copeland’s cheek but he ignored it. He slumped on to the back of a chair, his shoulders sagging, his hands hanging. The gun was almost falling out of his hand. He seemed on the point of collapse.

  ‘Walter Laird,’ announced Brook. ‘You’re under arrest for murder.’

  A car pulled up outside.

  ‘There’s DS Noble,’ said Brook, approaching Copeland. �
�Clive?’

  Copeland looked down at the gun and flicked the safety catch back on before pocketing it. He glared at Laird, who cast his eyes to the floor in defeat. ‘You killed my Tilly and you’re going to burn in hell, even if I have to take you there myself.’

  ‘I need you to give me the gun, Clive,’ said Brook.

  ‘Last chance for justice, Clive,’ panted Laird. Copeland ignored him and stood to leave, turning his back.

  ‘Clive, give me the gun,’ said Brook, arm outstretched.

  ‘Yeah, give him the gun so I can tell you how I raped your sister.’

  Copeland swivelled. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘That bitch owed me,’ shouted Laird at Copeland’s retreating frame. ‘I saved her from a criminal. I saved your family from humiliation.’

  ‘That’s enough, Walter,’ warned Brook. ‘Clive, the gun.’

  ‘She paid no attention to me,’ ranted Laird. ‘Me, a man to respect, to look up to, and she chose that fucking pikey over me.’

  ‘Give me the gun, Clive,’ said Brook firmly, his hand held in front of Copeland.

  Laird laughed, finding his script. ‘She owed me so I fucked her and when she started snivelling I choked the life—’

  ‘Clive!’ Copeland was pulling the gun from his pocket, moving towards Laird.

  ‘Shut up, you dirty bastard!’ screamed Copeland.

  ‘Clive, don’t,’ shouted Brook trying to interpose himself between Copeland and the old man. ‘That’s what he wants. Give me the gun.’

  Copeland pushed Brook aside with surprising strength and raised the gun.

  ‘You haven’t got the fucking balls,’ goaded Laird. ‘You fucking cry baby. Want to know something else? When I answered the call, that slut’s clothes were in the boot of the Jag all the time I was—’

  A shot rang out and, for a second, everything except cascading glass was frozen in time. The explosion rolled around the room, assaulting the eardrums of its occupants. Eventually Copeland’s gun hand lowered as he contemplated the inert figure of his aged mentor, white-knuckled, gripping the armchair, unshaven face wide-eyed in shock.

  A second later, Copeland crumpled to the floor and Brook fell on top of him, pulling at his shirt as the scarlet stain rippled outwards from his chest.