An Occupied Grave: A Brock & Poole Mystery

by A. G. Barnett

  “Right as rain Poole,” he said smiling. “Let’s go and have a look at the scene shall we?”

  He turned and moved up the hill rapidly with his long stride.

  “What’s it looking like, Sheila?” he called into the grave as they reached it.

  The ladder which had been used to fetch the vicar out was still in use. Two crime scene operators were now in the grave, gently removing soil from around the body.

  “Not a lot yet Sam. It’s going to take a while to get it out I’m afraid. Ronald’s on his way.”

  This last missive was in a tone that sounded a little like a warning, and the inspector seemed to take it as such.

  “Thanks Sheila, we’ll catch up later. Come on Poole,” he said turning away. Let’s see what the constables have turned up and then get on our way.”

  They made their way down towards the group that had now diminished, leaving only one woman. The rest had begun to file into the various cars that were dotted around the green.

  “And I just don’t know if I can get my mum back over here again! And now you’re saying you don’t even know when it’s going to be!”

  “It’s not really our job madam,” Constable Davies stammered in reply. Poole watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down like a yo-yo in his throat before he turned to them with a look of relief.

  “Sirs, this lady is Kate Haversham, the niece of Mrs Gaven and she’s a bit miffed that the funeral's been cancelled.”

  "Well, luckily I doubt your aunty's that bothered, eh?" Brock said.

  The woman's face flushed red and Poole sensed she was about to launch into a tirade, so he decided to dive in with a question that had just occurred to him.

  "Could you tell us why people from the village haven't come to your aunt’s funeral? I believe she lived here for a number of years?"

  “Ha!” Tte woman said, her rage switching to a new target seamlessly. “This lot couldn’t care less about poor old Edie!”

  “Oh,” Poole said. “And why is that?”

  She looked at him oddly, as though she thought this was something she thought everyone knew. “Well the accident, of course.” She looked at the blank faces of the three men in front of her. “Edie’s grandson Henry had a few too many and killed a lad here in the village. These buggers disowned her for it! As if it was her fault! And he hasn’t even got the decency to turn up today, and after she raised him as her own an all!"

  She turned and stared behind her at a car from which a small, pale face stared out. “I need to get my mum back to our hotel. My husband’s had to go back to work and I thought I’d stay a night and give mum a little holiday.”

  Lovely, thought Poole. A funeral is just what you want for a few days away.

  “Where are you staying?” Brock asked.

  “The Bell in the village,” she said, pulling herself upright and staring at him. “We can only stay one more night mind, so that vicar better get a move on!”

  “I’m sure your convenience is the first thing in his mind,” Brock said before turning away towards the car.

  The woman watched the retreating figure looking slightly confused by the whole exchange and eventually turned back to Poole.

  “Well, I hope you hurry it all up!” she said before turning on her heels and heading back towards her mother.

  “Looks like we’ve got something to get our teeth into," Brock said as Poole reached the car.

  “We need to look at this accident.”

  Chapter Three

  Poole tapped away at the laptop in front of him. He had removed the stacks of paper from his desk and placed them on the floor to one side and was feeling better about the office space already.

  “So,” he said looking through the file, “it looks as though Henry Gaven was convicted of death by careless driving when under the influence. Had a pretty high blood alcohol reading by the looks of it. He was coming back from a night out in Bexford and lost control of the car as he reached the village green in Lower Gladdock. Veered up onto the grass and killed a young man who was walking his dog there. Charlie Lake.” Poole looked up at the inspector. His huge hands were clasped together in front of him, his elbows planted on the desk. “Sir, it says here he was released just last week.”

  Brock sighed. Well, I think we can take a guess at where he is,” he said quietly.

  Poole realised what the inspector meant with a bolt of shock. “You mean you think he’s the body, Sir?!”

  “Remember what Mrs Gaven’s niece said? That Henry Gaven hadn’t even bothered to turn up to the funeral today?”

  “But that doesn’t mean…” Poole countered. “I mean, if the man’s ok with having a skinful and then mowing someone down he’s probably not the sort to get all weepy about his gran dying is he?”

  "Not just his gran though Poole, she 'raised him as her own’ remember,” he said, quoting the woman outside the churchyard. “And it all seems too much of a coincidence to me that he’d be released and within a week his grandmother’s dead with a body in the grave and he doesn’t turn up to the funeral. Now come on, let’s go and get some lunch before we get stuck into the residents.”

  Poole stood up and followed the inspector out of the cramped office in a daze. It had been quite a morning.

  His mind drifted from murder to his new flat. He pictured it now, empty apart from the boxes containing the few meagre possessions he had. This fresh start was going to take some getting used to, but there was something more pressing he hadn’t yet had time for. “Erm, sir? Could I just nip to the loo?” he said as they reached the door to the main office. He grunted an affirmative as they stepped into the larger office and pointed to the door on the far side of the room. “Through there towards the canteen and it’s the first door on your left. I’ll wait in reception, there’s a parcel for me there I need to pick up anyway.”

  Poole made his way across the room, again feeling that people were watching him. This time though, he suspected that had more to do with this morning’s excitement rather than being the new guy. He opened the door and almost walked straight into Constable Sanders.

  “Sorry,” he said automatically, then realising who it was, followed up with “erm…”

  “Thank you for this morning sir,” she said looking around nervously. “It was very kind of you.”

  “Um, not at all, Constable. Just making sure everyone follows protocol that’s all,” he said.

  Why on earth had he said that?! Making sure everyone follows protocol?! He fought the urge to run and tried to think of something else to say. Why did this woman seem to turn him into an idiot?

  “So, any tips for someone just starting here?”

  She smiled at him. “The food’s ok, but don’t eat the stew. They just throw in leftovers from the week before and hope for the best.”

  He laughed. “Thanks, I’ll remember that,” he said as she moved away.

  Better, he thought, and pushed open the door to the men’s toilets and stepped inside.

  “Ah,” a voice echoed around the tiled space. “I was hoping I’d run into you.”

  He looked up to see Anderson stood in front of a wash basin, staring at him in the mirror.

  “And why’s that?” Poole asked, trying not to sound concerned.

  “I thought I should make sure that you knew your place around here,” he said, turning towards Poole and advancing slowly.

  “And where is my place exactly?” Poole asked. Though his bladder was telling him that right now, his place should be at a urinal.

  Anderson leaned in until his breath was hot on Poole’s face. “It’s wherever I say it is,” he snarled.

  “Did you have garlic for lunch?” Poole took a step back waving his hand in front of his nose.

  Anderson growled and barged past him, slamming the door as he went.

  A few minutes later and Poole found Brock studying a small wooden statue in the reception area along with the overweight officer behind the counter who he had seen this morning.


  “Could be a staff?” the constable said.

  “No Roland, I think it is what it looks like.” He looked up as he noticed Poole approaching. “Fertility statue from my wife,” he said by way of explanation. “She’s abroad at the moment.” He turned the object round to reveal a small, but extremely well endowed man.

  “Very, um, nice sir,” Poole said, for want of anything better.

  Brock shook his head, come on,” he said and stepped through the automated doors and into the carpark. He held the statue up as they walked. “It’s funny,” he said turning the object in the dim light. “They’ve made the wrong bit big.”

  Poole stared at the object. “Isn’t it a fertility statue?” he asked, “Seems like they made the right bit big to me sir.”

  “Think about it Poole,” Brock said, his eyes alive with a playfulness as he looked down at his new sergeant.

  “I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure what you mean?”

  “Ah well,” Brock said, wrapping the object back in the brown paper it came out of. “Let’s grab something to eat before we get back to the village, I know a place.”

  “Just here on the left,” Brock said, pointing at a tiny shop front with a bright yellow awning. Poole swung the car over and parked against the curb.

  “Come on,” Brock said. “This is probably the most important person you'll meet in Bexford.”

  Poole followed him into the tiny shop. A counter ran along the back with an enormous blackboard menu on the wall behind it.

  “Sam! Is this him?!” a woman with dark eyes shouted as they crossed the threshold. She wore a white and yellow striped apron and was currently beaming at Poole as though he was a long lost friend. Her hair piled up in some complicated fashion, but there was still enough of it to fall either side of her face. It hung over her large gold hooped earrings which twisted as she talked.

  “Poole, meet Sal Bonetti,” Brock said smiling.

  “Nice to meet you.” Poole extended a hand over the counter but the woman batted it away laughing. She moved round the side of the unit and embraced him in a tight hug.

  “It’s very nice to meet you Poole! But I can’t call you that, only first names for us, what’s yours?”

  “Um, Guy.”

  “Guy! A wonderful name!” She hugged him again before returning to the other side of the counter. “I have something special made up for the both of you on your first day as a new team, all ready to go! Let me fetch it.”

  She vanished through an arch into the recesses of the shop and Poole turned to the inspector with a questioning look on his face.

  Brock shrugged. “She’s friendly.”

  “And here we are!” Sal said returning and handing them each a torpedo shaped package in wax paper.

  “Thanks Sal, put it on my tab will you, we need to get off.”

  “Of course! Nice to meet you guy!” she shouted as they turned to leave.

  “Yes, you too,” Poole replied somewhat timidly before darting out onto the street.

  “We’ll eat at the village,” Brock said as they walked to the car. “It’s more picturesque."

  They climbed in and Poole fired up the engine. “So who do you want to talk to first, Sir?”

  “This chap, Troon,” Brock replied looking through the paperwork on his lap. “Where does he live? There’s no known address here.”

  “Stan Troon, the grave digger? Lives in the woods just outside the village Sir, in a caravan”.

  “To the woods it is then,” the inspector said, popping another boiled sweet into his mouth without offering one to Poole.

  They drove on in silence until they reached the line of trees which ran on the left of the road that led towards the village. Poole slowed as a small lay-by appeared with a footpath leading in through the tall trunks.

  "Here you go," the inspector said, handing Poole one of the wax paper packages. He unravelled it to reveal a seeded roll that was bursting with filling. He began to lift the top half to see what was inside, but the inspector stopped him with a raise of his hand and a noise like a bark.

  "Never look inside Poole, it would spoil the magic."

  Poole looked at him as though he was mad, but turned back to the sandwich and bit into it.

  It was incredible.

  The juices of meat (pulled pork if Poole was to guess), pickles and cheeses mixed together in a glorious explosion.

  "Wow," Poole said when he had cleared his mouth of the first bite.

  "I know," sighed the inspector. "If only I could eat just one of these a day, I'd die a happy man. Unfortunately my wife knows how bad they are for you and has me restricted to one a week.”

  Brock thought about Laura now. He had no idea where she was exactly, travelling around South Africa somewhere with the museum. Normally when work took her away he found himself counting down the days until she returned. Lately though, it had been different. An endless array of diets, fitness regimes, ovulation charts and a schedule of love making that would have had Casanova considering abstinence, had given him reason to enjoy the break. Particularly as the secret he was keeping from her had started to gnaw away at him more insistently over the last few months.

  Anyway, she would be back in a few days, so he was damn well going to have a sandwich from Sal's every day. Even if it meant taking the new guy.

  The new guy.

  Brock turned and watched the young man as he devoured his sandwich. This really was all he needed. For years he’d got away without having a sergeant attached to him, but now he didn’t have any choice. He took another bite and turned back out of the window. He needed to just forget about it all, treat this young sergeant as though everything was normal. Damn it, it was normal!

  He finished and screwed up the wrapper. Stuffed it into the recess which sat between their two seats. Poole followed suit and they both stepped out, making their way to the narrow path which led through the trees.

  Poole watched the large frame of Brock stride ahead. He was still slightly mesmerised by the man’s size. It was as though someone had zoomed in on him. Each part of him proportionally to the next was perfectly normal, just… bigger. If he hadn’t have joined the police force, Poole was fairly sure the inspector could have played rugby for England. Even if he knew nothing about the game, he could have just walked through the opposition.

  His mind returned to the case.

  “Would Henry Gaven really have come back to the village if he had so many enemies here, Sir?” he asked as they walked along the narrow, dirt path.

  “His gran was here Poole. People don’t make the obvious choices where family are concerned.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Poole answered, his jaw tensing as the image of his father came to mind. His mobile buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was his mum. Alarmed by the coincidence of the timing, he rejected it, slipped it to silent and pushed it back into his pocket. She of course would have said that she had 'sensed his unease about his father across the void'. This was exactly the kind of nonsense he didn't have time for right now. She was always a pain, but the impending release of his dad had sent her craziness into overdrive.

  When he had told her yesterday that he still hadn't unpacked at his new flat, she had launched into a speech about how he was always making the wrong choices simply by making too many choices. She had explained that what he really needed was to ‘surrender to the void’ whatever the hell that meant. She always told him that he was too straight laced, too focussed on fitting in with the way he thought the world needed him to be. Poole could see some truth in this diagnosis, but now he had made it to detective sergeant? Well, he had to feel slightly vindicated didn’t he?

  “I read his file sir,” Poole said hoping to impress. “It looks like his parents had him very young and couldn’t deal with it so he went to live with the mother’s mum, Edie Gaven. His real mum died a few years later, cancer. His dad seems to have vanished off the radar.”

  Brock smiled as he strode through the dappled light which pass
ed through the overhead trees. “I read the file too Poole.”

  “Oh, yes,” Poole said feeling foolish. “Of course.”

  A glint of light made him look up through the trees.

  “Over there, Sir.”

  Brock followed the line of his finger until he saw the reflection. It shone off a small window set into a grubby caravan. A few yards further, a path lead off the main one and headed towards the small clearing where the caravan stood.

  Someone clearly lived here. The clearing had been turned into a neat garden. A large vegetable patch took up most of the space, but there was also a small patch of grass on which a fire pit stood with a grill over the top. The caravan itself, was parked at one end.

  It had once been white, but its time in the woods had meant that a light green film now seemed to cover it completely. As though it had been dipped into a scummy pond.

  They entered the clearing and Brock gestured for Poole to knock on the narrow door of the caravan. He stepped onto the metal step beneath and rapped twice. There was no answer from inside, no movement. The only sound came from the gentle tinkling of wooden wind chimes which hung from a line outside the caravan. They looked hand made, carved from sticks of all shape and size presumably from the forest floor around the clearing.

  The inspector turned around and began scanning the woods around them.

  “Looks like he's out, Sir,” Poole said, watching him.

  “Maybe,” Brock said. “But a man living out here on his own probably has enough sense to know when someone’s coming before they get to his front door. Shout into the woods," he said, still scanning the tree-line. "Say who we are and why we’re here.”

  Poole looked from the inspector, out into the trees, and back again.

  Brock leaned against the caravan and his pack of boiled sweets out again. Poole wasn't offered one, so he cupped his hands around his mouth and turned back to the woods.

  “Stan Troon?" he shouted. "We’re from the police, we need to talk to you about a body that was discovered in the grave of Edie Gaven.”