An Occupied Grave: A Brock & Poole Mystery

by A. G. Barnett

  His voice was whiney and nasal, his thin and awkward frame constantly moving as he grabbed the sodden napkins and threw them into the bin.

  Poole placed a cup under the nozzle and pressed the button. Nothing happened, but he waited and eventually the nozzle began to squirt the dark brown liquid into the plastic cup.

  “Erm, Sir?” Davies said. Poole realised he was hovering, as though he wanted to say something to him but wasn’t sure if he should.

  “Everything ok, Davies?”

  “Erm, yes Sir, it’s just…” he looked around the canteen, his eyes lingering on the door for a moment. “Sergeant Anderson’s running a book on how long you’ll last under Inspector Brock,” he blurted out, the words falling out of his mouth almost quicker than Poole could take them in.

  Poole smiled, chuckled, and then laughed so hard, tears formed in his eyes. The stress of his first few days and the investigation pouring out of him in a moment.

  “For what it’s worth sir, I think it’s a load of nonsense,” Davies said with a lopsided grin on his face.

  “Thanks Davies,” Poole said, recovering himself and wiping his eyes. “I tell you what, why don’t you put a bet on me sticking around. I’ll stump up twenty quid as well, but don’t tell Anderson it’s my money.”

  Davies’ grin widened even further. “Nice one, Sir! I will!”

  Poole watched him bound out of the canteen in his loping gait and chuckled again to himself. This day had not been what he’d expected.

  Inspector Brock was… well, he wasn't sure what he was. He had a gruff, irritable manner but it seemed to be only a veneer. Below the surface, frequently visible, was a kind and friendly side. Then there was the general populace of the station, and the less than warm welcome from Anderson in particular. But if they thought that any of that was going to get him to quit then they must be out of their minds.

  He was on a path, and he was going to follow it to the end.

  “Erm, Sir?”

  The voice made him look up from the coffee he realised he had been stirring for at least two minutes. Constable Sanders was stood a little way away, her hat under her arm, her mouth curved into what looked like an apologetic smile.

  “Oh, Constable Sanders, how are you?” he said, trying to come across as less frosty than he had earlier.

  “Fine, Sir, um, I think you better go outside.”

  “Outside?” He lowered the coffee cup from his lips, “What’s happened?”

  “It’s your car Sir,” she turned and he followed her back through the office which was suddenly largely deserted and out through reception onto the front steps of the station.

  A group of people were gathered a few hundred yards away and laughter wafted across on the bitter night air. He realised with a sinking feeling that they were stood where his car was parked.

  He made his way down the steps and a shout went up, sending the group scattering to other cars where they drove off hurriedly. He recognised a few of them from earlier in the office, in particular he’d seen the large blonde head of Anderson bobbing away into the night.

  His car was covered in a mass of wet toilet paper.

  “I’m sorry,” Sanders said next to him. “They’re a bunch of idiots.”

  “Ah, it’s ok,” Poole said smiling. "The thing was a piece of crap so toilet roll actually makes sense.”

  Constable Sanders laughed next to him. A bright, musical laugh that made Poole feel slightly light-headed.

  “That’s a lot of toilet roll,” he continued, unsure of what else to say but wanting to keep the conversation going.

  “It’s probably a month’s supply for the whole office,”

  “Well, that probably depends on whether they’re serving stew at the canteen or not, right?”

  This time, Sanders burst into laughter with a little snort which she instantly became embarrassed of. She held her hand to her mouth and blinked excessively.

  Poole realised with a jolt of worry that he found this incredibly cute.

  “Do you know where I could get a broom?” he asked, tying to deflect.

  “Probably one in the cleaners’ cupboard, come on, I’ll help you."

  After finding the small cupboard next to the toilets, they armed themselves with brooms and buckets and headed back outside.

  "Are you sure you don't just want to get off home?" he asked as they stepped back out into the cold night.

  "Consider it a welcome to Bexford present," she said smiling.

  "Have you lived here long?"

  "A couple of years," she replied. "I'm from Sheffield originally, but my family were moving the business down here so I decided to follow."

  "And what's the family business?"

  "We've got a restaurant, Balti Towers?"

  He stopped in his tracks. "Balti Towers? I've had takeaways from their twice already!"

  She laughed again, a sound that he was becoming fond of. "Well, I hope you enjoyed it?"

  "It was great," he smiled. They arrived at his car and began scraping the toilet roll into buckets.

  "So tell me about Inspector Brock," he asked as they set to work.

  She glanced at him, giving him the impression that she was uncomfortable with the question.

  "He's a lovely bloke," she answered, pulling a large lump of sodden tissue from the roof.

  Poole realised nothing else was forthcoming and so decided to switch the conversation again. "So, what's Bexford like then?"

  "Oh, it's alright," she said, sounding more relaxed again. "I mean, it’s not quite as jumping as Sheffield, but it has its moments." She turned to him and pointed down at her bucket. "Mine's full"

  They picked up their buckets and walked to the large bin at the edge of the carpark where they dumped their load and returned to the car.

  "There's a group of us from the station who get together for a drink every so often if you fancy coming?" Sanita said when they were back scraping at the car.

  "Oh, thanks. That would be great," Poole answered beaming.

  "The inspector even comes sometimes," she continued.

  Poole's smile froze slightly. He wasn't sure how he felt about going out drinking with his new boss. He decided to say nothing.

  "I think that's probably about as good as it's going to get," he said standing back a few moments later. "I can take it to a carwash in the morning to get rid of the bits."

  They plonked their brushes into the mop buckets and surveyed their handiwork for a moment, before heading back to the station and returning the brushes and buckets to the cleaning cupboard.

  "Can I give you a lift home or anything?" he said, realising he didn't want to leave her company just yet.

  "No it's fine thanks, I'm only walking round to the restaurant anyway. Mum and Dad don't seem to quite realise that I have a full-time job and still rope me in to help every so often."

  "Ok, well I'll see you tomorrow then," he said smiling.

  "See you tomorrow," she said in reply.

  He turned away and headed back towards his car. It was only when he pulled out of the carpark that he realised he was grinning from ear to ear.

  Chapter Seven

  Poole woke feeling guilty. This was something that happened a lot, but this time it felt different. Generally, his thoughts revolved around his previous day’s work. Had that report he’d handed in been good enough? Had he pressed that witness hard enough to ensure they had no more relevant information? Was he actually cut out for all of this or was he just wasting everyone’s time on some crazy personal crusade?

  Today though, his feelings of guilt were fixed on constable Sanita Sanders. She had helped scrape toilet roll off of his car for twenty minutes before they had both said an awkward goodbye and gone their separate ways. Yes, all they had been doing was brushing wet outlet paper off his car and shoving it into industrial sized bin bags, but he had enjoyed it. This was not good.

  He had spent the last ten years decidedly not getting close to anyone. Yes, he had had colleagu
es back in Oxford. He had even thought of them as friends. They had gone out for drinks occasionally and he had been a part of it all. He had never let anyone get close to him though, he couldn't. Not knowing that one day his father would be released and his life and anyone who was close to him, would be in danger.

  Now the time he had been dreading had come. In just a few days his dad would be released and now of all times he was in danger of letting someone get close to him, and bringing Sanita into the firing line.

  His mobile buzzed on the kitchen counter, pulling him from his thoughts and back into reality. “Hello?” he answered sleepily.

  “Guy!” his mother’s voice barked down the phone. “You were supposed to call me when you got in last night!”

  “Oh, sorry Mum. I was tired.”

  "And are you still in bed? The early bird catches the worm remember!"

  "And if I want to eat worms for breakfast I'll get right on that," he said sighing. "So you're still on this waking up early thing are you?"

  "Ricardo says that our rhythms have been disrupted by modern life. He thinks we should all be getting up much earlier and then going to bed earlier."

  "Right," Poole said, closing his eyes and placing his hand on his forehead. "Well he seems full of great ideas doesn't he."

  "Don't take that tone Guy, Ricardo is a very important person in my life and you being all sarcastic is only going to through off my peace circle."

  Guy decided to avoid asking what on earth a peace circle was and steer the conversation back to his new job. "Anyway, work is fine."

  “Fine?! Is that all I get? What were the people like? Have you solved this murder yet?”

  His mind instantly flashed to Sanita. There was no way he was going to tell his mum about her. “Well, there was a lot going on so I haven’t really had time to properly meet everyone yet. And no, we haven't solved the murder within twenty four hours, they tend to be a bit trickier than that."

  "Well, I told Ricardo all about it and he said he would be able to tell if someone had murdered someone because there would be a violent stain on their aura."

  "Well I'll be sure to inform the inspector that we have a stain spotter if one's required."

  "There's that tone again, Guy!" she said in an admonishing tone. “Anyway, I was phoning to say that I’m going to be a little bit earlier today.”

  “How early?” Guy said sitting up. He was starting to get a nasty feeling about this call.

  “Well according to the taxi driver I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. Oh, and my purse is at the bottom of my case, you couldn’t be a dear and bring some money down for him could you?”

  Poole held the bridge of his nose in his free hand. “Fine, I’ll see you in a minute.”

  He climbed out of bed and quickly brushed his teeth and threw on some clothes before jogging down the cold, echoing staircase towards the street.

  His mother was already there when he got there. Stepping out of a taxi wearing a long, floaty Indian style dress, her white blonde hair sporting a braid on one side.

  She was tanned, the local sunbeds of Oxford apparently in keeping with her otherwise natural existence.

  “Guy!” she exclaimed, her arms stretched wide in front of her.

  Poole walked straight past them and leaned in to pay the driver.

  “You should have told me you were coming this early,” he said turning to her and hugging her. She smelt of incense.

  “Well, that’s what the phone call was for dear,” she said, shaking her head as though he was being silly. “Now come on, show me this new place of yours.”

  He sighed and led her up to the flat. All the way listening to her comment on how the acoustics ‘Didn’t create a harmonious atmosphere’, and that the pale yellow on the walls ’Should have been a brighter shade to harness the life giving nature of the sun’.

  As they stepped inside, Poole ignored the sigh from behind him and headed to make breakfast.

  The small flat he had rented consisted of one bedroom and a lounge diner with a small kitchen off to one side. As it stood, the place was completely bare other than his toothbrush and the three brand new suits he had purchased for his new job. They hung on the curtain rail of his bedroom due to the lack of a wardrobe.

  The rest of his things were still in boxes. In truth, he didn’t have many possessions. The boxes were mostly full of things his mum had bought for his new place. Cutlery, crockery, and cleaning products.

  For the three nights he had been here he had so far managed to avoid using any of them as the local takeaways had been tested.

  His mother had also given him six crystals to promote good mental health. One of which, she had explained, was supposed to sit on the toilet. He couldn't for the life of him understand how a lump of crystal on the cistern was going to help his mental state, so they remained in one of the boxes.

  “Well!” his mother said, hands on hips. “I love what you’ve done with the place!”

  “Very funny,” Poole replied, pushing the last slice of bread into the toaster and flipping the kettle on. “I’ve got to get going. There’s toast in the toaster and the kettle’s on. Make yourself at home.”

  He was out of the door and in his car five minutes later. Weaving his way through the narrow streets of Bexford which were largely empty at this hour. He hadn’t quite got a handle on the place yet. It was technically a city, but was so small that most people would have only ever referred to it as a town. Like many towns in England, its streets seem to have been laid out by a toddler with a crayon. They looped and curved in all manner of directions that made no sense to any right thinking motorist. And although he was sure he now remembered the route to the station, he still had to rely on his sat nav to be sure.

  When he arrived at the station car park, he made a point of parking in the exact spot he had yesterday. It was left empty, despite being fairly close to the building. Presumably because the remains of the toilet tissue still littered the ground there. He though, wanted to make a point.

  “Morning,” he said to Roland Hunt, the large man who worked the reception desk. He was staring at his phone as Poole walked in, his flicking up only for a moment.

  “Morning Sir,” he said in a flat tone, before returning his eyes to the screen.

  He found Brock in the canteen where he was sat at a small table against the far wall with Constables Davies and Sanders.

  “Poole!” he bellowed as he saw him enter. “Grab yourself some breakfast.”

  “Morning sir, Constables,” he said, nodding at the inspector’s table guests. He spun away quickly towards the counter, not because he was overly hungry, but more because he was worried he might blush at seeing Sanita. He squeezed his fist in annoyance, he had to get a grip of himself. He was a sergeant now, not some hormone driven teenager with a school crush.

  He grabbed what he thought was the safest looking thing at the buffet, scrambled eggs and a slice of toast, before paying a woman in a hairnet at the far end who sat behind an ancient looking till and making his way back to the table.

  “I was just telling these two that my wife’s away so I’m taking full advantage of the canteen breakfasts until she’s back,” the inspector said, wiping up the remaining baked bean juice on his plate with a piece of bread. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Only meal that isn’t at risk of killing you in this place,” he whispered. Davies and Sanders laughed as Poole forced an awkward smile.

  Less than an hour ago he’d been in bed feeling guilty at having thoughts about a colleague. Now he was sat with the very object of these inappropriate thoughts as well as his boss.

  “You two best get off to the Gaven place,” the inspector said, looking at the two constables. "I saw Sheila heading off to her van to get sorted and I want our lot with her when she goes.”

  “Yes sir,” the two of them chorused, they stood and headed back towards the main office.

  “Pretty, isn’t she?” Brock said leaning back in his chair.

 
; Poole almost choked on a mouthful of eggs. “Um, sorry?”

  “Sanders,” Brock continued, a smile on his lips. “Nice woman, good officer.”

  “Oh, right. Good,” Poole said, unsure of what he was supposed to say to this. He could feel a prickly heat rising up his neck and tore into his toast and eggs with a new ferocity in order to distract himself.

  “They didn’t make me inspector for nothing,” Brock laughed. “I’m going to grab another coffee before we get to it, want one?”

  “Yes, thanks Sir.”

  Brock rose, chuckling to himself as Poole continued to shovel in eggs in embarrassment.

  “When you’ve finished them, I want you to call St Luke’s and ask them for a list of visitors Edie Gaven had before she died. Henry Gaven had been out for forty-eight hours before she died and I want to know if he went to see her.”

  Poole nodded, his mouth full of egg.

  Chapter Eight

  Forty minutes after eating the plate of eggs at break neck speed, Poole was on the move with Brock alongside him. They walked out of reception and headed across the station carpark towards a long grey building which stood across the street.

  “So, Henry Gaven didn’t visit Edie?”

  “No,” Poole answered. “No one else from the village either. Her only visitor was the vicar, but apparently he visits the hospital anyway as part of his duties.”

  “This Henry sounds like a right git,” Brock said gruffly. “Not visiting the woman who raised you even on her death bed.” He nodded at the building in front of them. “It’s handy having the council offices near, but I’m bloody glad it’s not in the same building. Ronald Smith is a sodding nightmare.”

  Poole thought back to his brief encounter with Ronald Smith at the crime scene. "Yes, I can see that," he said slowly.

  “He enjoys winding people up," Brock continued. Poole got the impression that what he really meant was that Ronald enjoyed winding the inspector up, but said nothing.

  "We could do this over the phone," the inspector continued. "but he always insists on people going over to his office.” He glanced at Poole. “He'll start on you soon enough. Just ignore all the nonsense and try and listen the bits that are actually relevant to the case.”