Poole nodded, his focus slipping away from the murder and towards his father. It was time, he had to tell him.
“Sir, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“That your father is being released from prison tomorrow?” Brock replied immediately.
Poole frowned and for a moment felt silly. He knew the inspector had looked into his background. Why had he assumed that he wouldn't look into his dad's release date?
"Um, yes, Sir."
"Do you think he'll try and get in touch?" the inspector asked.
Poole took a deep breath and gripped the wheel tightly. "I have no idea what he'll do."
"Do you want me to put a uniform on your house?"
Poole's thoughts flicked from appreciating the gesture, to imagining Constable Sanders being stationed at his house.
"Thank you Sir, but I'm sure he won't try and contact me. My mum's staying with me.”
Brock nodded. "Fine. Well, the offer stands.”
They drove on in silence for a few miles, Poole’s mind full of images of his father. He had been a fun dad, always ready to play football with him, to listen to stories of his day at school, to read to him when he was in the bath. And then it had all stopped.
For his fifteenth birthday his parents had bought him a Playstation 3 to go alongside his already well used Xbox. His two best friends, Simon and Alfie had been there, eating cake and playing games while his mother fussed around bringing an endless supply of food and drink. His dad had been like a kid himself, joking and laughing every time someone lost a life on one of the computer games.
The first real shot hit the TV, exploding it into a million fragments which sprayed across the three teens who sat cross legged in front of it. The second hit Poole in the thigh. He screamed out in pain as blood from Simon’s chest sprayed across him as the third bullet burst through him. He had passed out then, with the screams of his mother in his ear and the thick blood running down the inside of his jeans.
Over the next few days he learned that Simon had died. The hole in Poole's leg, operated on twice, was nothing to the hole he felt in his chest. He had learned that his father, also sporting a minor flesh wound to the arm, had been led away by the police after they had found evidence of his criminal empire littered around the house.
By the time he left the hospital, his mum had already put the house on the market and was moving them for a new life in Oxford. Away from the life of false security and happy memories that could never be recreated.
“I didn’t know,” he said as he pulled the car over into the station car park. Brock turned to him questioningly. “I mean, about my dad. I didn’t know what he was. All I knew was that he ran his own business.”
“You were just a boy,” Brock said softly. “No one should have gone through what you did.” He placed a hand on Poole’s shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Poole.”
Poole nodded in shock and the inspector stepped out of the car, pulled his coat tight around him and headed off towards the town centre.
He even knows about the shooting. The realisation had sent a shudder through him. He had never talked about it with his former colleagues at Oxford, though he guessed they knew. He never wanted to talk about it again.
Poole arrived back at his block of flats and heard whale song as soon as he began ascending the staircase. His heart sank. His mum was here with all her nonsense, but then again, his mum was here. That was what was important.
They just needed to get through tomorrow, and then he would politely send her back to Oxford safe in the knowledge that he was ok.
He opened the door to find his mum lying face down, her lycra clad bottom pointing to the heavens and a young, swarthy looking man holding her hips and nodding.
“Yes, Jenny, yes!” the man exclaimed before he seemed to notice Poole and stepped back. “Oh, hello,” he said putting his hands on his hips.
He closed the door as his mum stood up. “Oh Guy, you’re home. I hope you don’t mind, but I was just so stressed with everything that’s going on, I called Ricardo here to come and realign my core.”
“Right,” Poole said, giving a curt nod to Ricardo. “I’m actually going out for a bit,” Poole said, surprising himself as much as his mother.
“Oh, right,” she said looking nervous.
“It’s fine, Mum,” he said. He gave her a smile which he hoped was reassuring and stepped back out of the flat and headed down the stairs.
When he reached the street his first instinct was to head back to the station. It was late now though, and there was nothing that could be done until tomorrow when the inspector was back in.
He looked up and down the street. A few people hurried along in big coats and scarves against the cold. It wasn’t a night for being out. Suddenly he thought of the only place he knew other than Sal’s, which wouldn’t be open; The Mop & Bucket.
He made his way there in a daze. Placing one foot after another while his mind flicked between the murders of Henry Gaven and Malcolm Paget, then back to his dad and the death of his friend.
Eventually he saw the long and low, white building with the faded green sign and stepped inside. He had made his way to the bar and ordered a pint of Bexford gold when someone moved alongside him at the bar. He turned to see Sanita Sanders lean against the gleaming mahogany. She turned to him. “Oh, Sir!” she said straightening up.
“Sanders,” Poole said awkwardly as the barman approached them. “After you,” he said pointing the barman towards her.
She wore a low slung cream top and a short denim skirt and to Poole's mind, looked fantastic. The sudden informality of her clothes intoxicating him and then instantly deflating him. She was probably here on a date, he thought miserably, before he began to tune in to her order.
“Two pints of Bexford Gold, one gin and tonic, a merlot and tonic water please.”
He breathed a sigh of relief. She must be here with friends, unless her date was a seriously heavy drinker.
The barman sauntered off and she turned back to him. “Do you want to join us, Sir? Just a few of us from work having a couple.”
“If you’re sure?” he said uncertainly. He knew he should say no to this. The last thing they wanted was a superior officer hanging around so they all had to be on their best behaviour. The lure of company though, and in particular that of Sanita Sanders, was too much.
“Course!” she said smiling. “The more the merrier. Davies is just filling us in on his love life. It’s hysterical.” She turned away as a grin broke out across Poole’s face which he tried in vain to subdue. She smiled back at him. “We’re over in the far corner,” she said heading off in the direction that he and Brock had sat in previously.
Poole bought a pint of Bexford Gold and ducked through the archway which led into the various nooks and crannies that housed the tables and chairs. He spotted Davies immediately. He was sat under a window that housed an orange table lamp, which gave him an eerie glow. His face itself was bright red, but whether this was from the alcohol or embarrassment he couldn’t tell. Sanita caught Poole’s eye from a stool on the left of the small group and gestured to an empty one next to her.
“And then there was all this shrieking and commotion," Davies was saying as Poole approached. He was staring soulfully at his beer as though he was reliving a nightmare. The rest of the group were leaning in, hanging on his every word. "And I panicked and was trying to get up but the baby oil made me slip over and then suddenly the light flicked on and I was lying flat on my back in the middle of the room naked.”
“And what had happened? Why was Lisa shrieking?” asked Roland Hunt. Poole thought he looked even larger once he was out from behind the reception desk at Bexford station.
“That’s just it,” Davies said miserably. “It wasn’t Lisa.”
“What?! Hunt said incredulously. “Then who the hell was it?!”
“It was her mum,” Davies said quietly.
The whole table erupted in laughter.
“Oh,
hello, Sir,” Davies said seeing him. Poole was delighted and surprised to find that the young constable didn’t seem remotely embarrassed at his arrival in the middle of this story. Instead he looked slightly relieved.
Poole was introduced to the still chuckling occupants of the table. As well as Sanita, Davies and Hunt, there was a young, rosy-cheeked woman called Ellie Gould; an administrator in the coroner’s office, and Agatha Jones; an elderly, bird-like woman who was swaying gently on her stool. As he took his seat the group all looked at him expectantly.
“I’m sorry Davies,” Poole said looking across the table at him, “but I’m going to have to know the beginning of that story.”
Davies hung his head and groaned as everyone else around the table laughed and Roland began shouting, ‘Again! Again!’ and hitting the table.
Brock walked the short distance from the station to his house at varying speeds. At times his powerful legs ate up the distance as he thought of Laura’s soft smile and eyes alive with mischief and warmth. Then slowing as he imagined that soft, kind face in tears. Hearing that her dream might be further away than ever, and worse, that he had been lying to her.
Eventually he arrived at the small row of neat houses that formed Cedar Avenue and walked down the path. He took a deep breath and opened the door.
“Hello?” He shouted down the hallway as he hung his coat up.
“Hello!” Laura’s voice shouted back. She appeared from the kitchen doorway carrying two glasses of red wine.
“Wine?” Brock said smiling.
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him lightly. “I read a magazine article on the plane that sometimes couples can put so much pressure on themselves that the stress can slow the whole thing happening in the first place.”
“Oh, right,” he said smiling. Something dark squirmed in his gut.
“I thought we’d get a takeaway tonight, I’m shattered,” she said, turning back towards the kitchen.
He followed her through and they both sat at the breakfast bar.
“So come on, tell me what he’s like,” she said eagerly.
“Well, he looks like he’s made out of pipe cleaners for a start, all limbs.”
“Right…” Laura said slowly.
“And his hair looks like it’s something that grows under a tree.”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Sam, what’s he like?!”
Brock sighed and looked down at his glass. “His whole life has been defined by something that happened to him as a kid. I don’t think he’s made a single decision in his life since that wasn’t determined by it.”
“Bloody hell, the lad sounds a wreck,” Laura said, her face full of sympathy.
“Actually, he’s not. He’s going to be a bloody good detective, and he’s alright company.”
Laura smiled and punched him on the arm. “And there was me worrying you were going to go all crazy that he was going to die at any moment! Instead you’ve gone and made a friend!” She laughed and took another sip of wine.
Brock smiled, but she saw that somehow it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Oh,” she said, putting her hand on his arm.
Brock took a large swig of wine before talking. “There was a suspect,” he said. “He was holding a crowbar and Poole ran towards him and I…” He placed the glass down on the countertop. “I froze.”
She put her glass down and stepped off her stool, throwing her arms around his neck.
“Oh Sam, you don’t need to feel bad about that after what you’ve been through.”
“I don’t feel bad about it, I feel bloody foolish. Thank goodness he didn’t realise, but I was bloody angry with him afterwards as well.”
“I’m sure he understood.”
“It’s not that.”
Then what is it?” Laura asked.
“With all that happened to him, all he’s been through. He ran towards the danger.”
Chapter Fourteen
“They’ve matched DNA from both Henry Gaven and Malcolm Paget on the crowbar,” Brock said, putting his phone back into his pocket. It had rung almost as soon as Poole had picked the inspector up from the station carpark and so, as yet, they had not had time to talk.
“It’s not looking good for Stan Troon is it, Sir?” Poole said.
“No it’s not, but a case is never closed until you’ve followed all the leads to the end.”
Poole nodded and pulled into the carpark of the Little Chef where they were to meet David Lake’s right hand man, Hands. Lake had called into the station asking for Brock early that morning. He’d told him that he’d been thinking of what the inspector had said and had spoken to Hands again. Apparently he had some more information for them and knowing that they would want to speak to him anyway, Lake had arranged a meeting.
They stepped out of the car and headed towards the small café, the cars roaring along the main road behind them.
They spotted Hands as soon as they had entered. A large, hulking man was squashed into a booth against the far wall. His slitted eyes darted across to them and he nodded in a jerky motion which sent his multiple chins wobbling impressively. They sat on the bench opposite him, Poole pulling his notepad and pen out which Hands eyed suspiciously.
“So,” Brock said. “You’re our mysterious walker from the footpath in Lower Gladdock?”
Hands grinned. “That were me!”
“So come on, tell me what you saw.”
“I saw Gaven in the lane and told David,” he said in a breathless, wheezy voice. “I followed him back into the village and saw him arguing with that weird couple.”
“The Pagets,” Brock said.
Hands nodded. “That’s who David said they were, yeah.”
“And then what?”
“I followed him back towards the lane but there was a bit I didn't mention before." He looked slightly sheepish. "I didn't think anything of it." He shrugged.
"Well?" Brock demanded.
"He met someone on the grass bit as he was going back.”
‘The village green?” Poole asked.
“Yeah.” Hands looked at him with a smile, apparently finding the phrase village green amusing.
“Who did he meet?” Brock asked, his voice tense.
“Some girl. Had mad hair all over the place. Looked like a loony to me...”
“What colour was her hair?”
Hands frowned. “Brown?” he said, his sweating brow wrinkling.
“And were they arguing? Talking? What?”
“Well she was hugging him and she said something but he just pushed her away and walked off.”
“And what did she do?”
“Nothing, just went running off. So I didn’t think much of it.”
“And then? What happened to Henry Gaven?”
“And then nothing. He just went back to his gran’s place. Next thing I hear is he’s turned up dead.” He paused and looked at them both. "But I didn’t do him in, and neither did David.”
Brock leaned back in his seat and stared at the Hands as though deciding something. “Give Poole your contact details; address and phone number,” he said before standing and heading back out to the carpark.
Poole joined him there a few moments later having got the information, to find him smoking.
“Three months I hadn’t had a cigarette for, three bloody months. Now I'm back on it and my little swimmers are probably keeling over in coughing fits.”
Poole began to laugh and then stifled it as he saw the inspector’s expression.
“That’s what this bloody case is doing to me,” Brock continued.” He moved off towards the car suddenly and Poole jogged to keep up with his long stride.
“He was obviously talking about Sandra Hooke,” he said as he moved alongside. “I take it we’re going to see her?”
“Bloody right we are,” Brock answered. “I don’t care how fragile she is, she needs to start answering some questions. Like why she hasn’t mentioned that she saw Henry Gaven on the night h
e died.”
Brock climbed in the car, cigarette still in hand. Poole climbed in next to him and discreetly lowered the passenger window from the controls on his door.
“There’s something not right here, Poole,” Brock said, turning and blowing a long jet of smoke through the crack. “Not right at all.
“It doesn’t look as though the vicar is here,” Poole said as they walked towards the door of the vicarage. He gestured to the empty driveway on which Nathaniel Hooke’s car normally stood.
Poole pressed the Victorian doorbell and waited only a few moments before the door was opened by Sandra Hooke. Her eyes widened as she looked between the two of them, but she silently turned and walked back into the house leaving the door open for them to enter through.
They followed her into the front room where she sat down, perched on the edge of the sofa and waited. She had a kind of smile on her face that Poole couldn't decide was one of serenity or detachment.
“Sandra, we need to ask you some more questions about Henry Gaven,” Brock said, taking the same seat as he had done on their last visit.
“I knew you would,” she said softly. “Policemen always want to know everything.”
Poole frowned slightly at her flat, calm tone. She seemed to be a very different woman today. Less manic, less scared.
“Did you talk with him after he had been released from prison?’ Brock continued.
“No,” Sandra said smiling.
Brock paused for a moment before continuing. “We have a witness that says you spoke to him on the village green, late on Friday night. The night he was killed.”
“Henry was brave,” she said, tilting her head on one side. “Not like Charlie. Charlie wasn’t brave, he was afraid of things.”
Brock said nothing. Poole turned to him but Brock lifted his hand slightly from his knee, telling him to say nothing. Her head straightened up and she stared at a point behind them, as though they weren’t there at all.
An Occupied Grave_A Brock & Poole Mystery Page 13
