An Occupied Grave: A Brock & Poole Mystery

by A. G. Barnett

  He pushed against a revolving door, just fitting into its space. Poole took the next one and stepped into a building that had the faint feel and smell of a hospital.

  “Are we going to see the Pagets again today after that note on the car sir?” Poole asked, trying to take his mind off the thought of the bodies that were probably in this place.

  “All in good time. I want to follow my own line of enquiries first, then we’ll start listening to random notes from strangers.”

  They followed a number of corridors that snaked around the building. Poole caught the odd glimpse of labs through open doors, all stainless steel and glass with the smell of bleach in the air. They passed through into an area that was clearly more administrative. Suited men and women scurried past occasionally, clutching paperwork.

  Eventually they reached an office door that bore the name ‘Ronald Smith’ with the title ‘Coroner’ underneath in block writing. Brock rapped on the wood with his enormous knuckles and waited. There was no sound from inside and Poole was about to ask if they should come back when he caught sight of the inspector’s expression. His eyes were rolled up towards the ceiling and he seemed to be muttering something under his breath.

  “Come in!” A voice shouted suddenly through the wood. Brock swung the door open with perhaps more force than was necessary and they both entered.

  It was a bland but functional looking office: white walls, small window to the right and a filing cabinet and bookshelf to the left. There was a strange, cheese-like smell in the room and Poole wondered, with a wrinkle of his nose, if it was Ronald himself. He sat behind the large desk, beaming at them with his lizard-like smile.

  “Inspector!” he said in his whining voice. "And I see you've brought young Pond with you."

  "It's Poole sir,"

  "Is it really?" Ronald replied, as though he didn't believe him. He laughed as they sat in the two chairs which sat in front of his desk.

  “Come on Ron, just give us the headlines so we can get out of here and get on with things.”

  “Always in a rush, Sam!” the man said. His perfectly round head shaking slightly above his squinting eyes. His nasal whine grated on Poole every time he opened his mouth. He got the impression that he was enjoying his moment with Brock as a captive audience.

  "Now, quite an interesting one you’ve got here, Sam. Buried in his grandmother's grave I heard?” He shook his head again, his eyes closed. “The things some people are driven to.”

  Poole heard the inspector exhale slowly next to him. He guessed that he could well be driven to 'something' by Ronald Smith.

  “Well he was killed from the blow to the back of his head, but other than that there's not much. The only thing crime scene picked up was contamination at the scene which we’ve already eliminated. All we know is, we’re looking for a long rounded object. Probably a pipe or something. And according to crime scene, it wasn’t down in that hole with him. Other than that, the man was in decent shape, probably worked out a lot in prison. Stomach content showed noodles, probably some home packet or something. So, Pond,” he said, switching his gaze from Brock, "have you by any chance seen the programme ‘Foul Murder?”

  The sudden change of topic took Poole by surprise. He opened his mouth but before he could speak, the inspector jumped in.

  “Oh give it a rest will you Ron,” Brock said standing up. “Come on Poole, let’s go.”

  “Oh Sam, I’m sure Pond is a fan of the show, millions are you know. I'm sure Pond would be more than interested to know that I am a consultant for them on a whole range of matters.” Ronald smiled like a lizard, thin lipped and cold.

  “I’m sorry Ron,” Poole said standing up, “I’ve never heard of it. I’m sure it’s a nice little hobby for you though.” He turned and walked past the inspector, noticing the wide eyed joy that was spreading across his face.

  “I’ll be in touch later for news on the victim’s grandmother,” Brock called as he slammed the door and followed Poole down the hall. “Perfect Poole, just perfect,” he said behind him softly. "And you even called him Ron! Just perfect."

  “There’s no record of him at all?”

  “No, the only person I can find under that name died ten years ago,” Poole answered. “I think it’s safe to say that Stan Troon isn’t who he says he is.”

  “And the only people we’ve talked to so far with a criminal record are Malcolm and Marjory Paget?” Brock said, the coffee cup halfway to his lips and a look of bewilderment on his face.

  “That’s right sir. Apparently they were arrested at some protest or other back in the eighties.”

  “Well,” Brock said shaking his head slightly. “You never know people from just looking at them do you? I mean, that fussy little house and matching cardigans? Turns out they were ‘fighting the man’ in their youth.”

  He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the desk and looking over at Poole’s screen.

  “Are you sure that David Lake hasn’t got a record?”

  “No record I can find,” Poole replied. “But I’ve got something on Charlotte Paget’s death.”

  “Oh?” Brock said, one magnificent eyebrow arching.

  “It’s not much, but apparently she had been clean for quite a while before she relapsed and died.”

  “The Pagets said they thought she was doing better.” The inspector nodded, scratching his stubble covered chin.

  “They did, and according to this rehab support group thing she was in, she was doing better. I spoke to a chap called Ian who was a leader of sorts in the group and he said he couldn’t believe it when she overdosed.”

  Brock leaned back again and put his hands on the back of his head. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “Sir?”

  “If she took the drugs herself.” He stood up and stretched. “You see if you can find out anything about her death, I’ve got a quick call to make. Then I want us to get back to Lower Gladdock.”

  “Yes sir,” Poole answered watching him go.

  He turned back to his desk and stared at the screen without really seeing it. If she took the drugs herself? Suggesting someone might have killed her too?

  He rubbed his face with both hands and got back to his task. It took a few calls, but he finally got through to the pathologist who had conducted the post mortem on Charlotte Paget.

  “Well there was no doubt she died from an overdose of heroin,” the woman said, her voice full of sighs and boredom. She had agreed to go over the case, but only after Poole had waited for her to pull up her notes on the case. Citing that she could barely remember all her cases this month let alone from two years ago.

  “And were there signs that she had been using for a while?” Poole asked.

  “Well, that’s just the thing. According to my paperwork there were only two needle marks that were fresh. There was some old scarring, but only two that were recent.”

  Poole frowned. “Two needle marks,” he said. More to himself than anything else.

  “Yes, that struck me as odd too. I mean, clean for what must have been at least six months and then you fall off the waggon. Nothing strange about that but dying on your second go? Seems odd to me.”

  “And you’re sure that the two were recent?” Poole asked.

  “Well according to my notes it looked like they were done in close proximity to each other both in location and time.”

  “Thank you doctor,” Poole said and placed the receiver down.

  The door of the small office opened and Brock bustled in, making it feel at least half the size it had done before his arrival.

  “I’ve just had a call with a friend of mine who works in London,” he said, moving round behind his desk and grabbing his coat from the stand in the corner. “I bloody knew it rang a bell! As soon as I mentioned David Lake he started laughing. Knows all about him apparently. Was suspected of being the ring leader in a couple of robberies that turned violent, but they could never get anything concrete on him.”

 
; He put his coat on, a half smile playing on one side of his mouth.

  “Let’s get to Edie Gaven’s house first, get the crime scene people in there, then we’ll go and see what we can stir up.”

  They turned off from Lower Gladdock's village green down a small lane. It curved gently down a slope, the sound of the grass which grew in the middle of the lane scraping on the bottom of the car.

  "If there's any damage," Brock said listening to it, "it's on your head."

  "Very generous of you sir," Poole replied smiling.

  They were heading towards Edie Gaven's cottage. Hoping to find signs that Henry had been there, which in turn could lead to clues regarding his death.

  “Pull over here a moment,” Brock said. He pointed to a small gap in the hedgerow which signalled the entrance to a footpath.

  Poole pulled the car in as close as he could and the inspector stepped out. Poole followed suit and watched him make his way over to the opening in the hedge. Brock climbed on top of a large rock that protruded from the ground like an egg and stared back in the direction of the village. He raised his hand and shielded his eyes from the first glints of sunlight that were peeking over the trees in the distance.

  “What is it, Sir?” Poole asked coming up alongside him and standing on tiptoes in order to try and replicate the view.

  “Crime scene team found some fibres that they’ve matched to Henry Gaven’s clothing on a bit of fallen down wall at the church. According to the map, the footpath runs from here and comes out alongside that wall, not far from the broken part.”

  Poole sank back down on to the balls of his feet and looked down, noticing some bike tracks in the mud.

  He looked up at the inspector as the image of the large man walking around the edge of the churchyard wall came back to him.

  “Is that what you were looking at when we arrived at the scene yesterday? And you told crime scene to look there?”

  “Yep. There’s only one gate into that churchyard because the back of it is a bit of waste ground covered in thick brambles. There was no way someone was going to risk bringing a body in through the front gate.”

  Poole thought about this as the inspector climbed down. “You mean because it’s too overlooked by houses from the village, Sir?”

  “That and the street lights,” Brock answered. “No street lights down the side where this footpath comes out, and the wall is low enough there that it wouldn’t be too difficult to get the body over. Plus, it had the convenience of being reached from this footpath which runs off this lane. I looked up a map of the village.”

  Brock climbed back in the car and Poole hurriedly climbed in the other side. "Why would that have been convenient, Sir? Wouldn’t it have been difficult getting the body down here and then dragging it all along the footpath?”

  “It's convenient if the murder occurred at Edie Gaven’s house. Otherwise you’d have to load it in a car and drive it out. There’s the chance that someone could have seen the vehicle and recognised it in the village. Even then you’ve got to dump the body somewhere. The open grave was a chance to get rid of the thing and this footpath would have given the killer access and cover.”

  Poole thought for a minute as he started the car and carried on down the narrow lane. "I’m guessing Henry Gaven didn’t have a car? I mean, his license was revoked and he’d been in prison for four years. So if he did come back to the village, how did he get here? His grandmother can’t have driven surely?”

  “I’ve been wondering about that too. No one from the village would have gone to pick him up that’s for sure, unless maybe the vicar… but he would have said. We should chase up local taxi companies around the prison and near to the village. The real question though, is, who was that jogger that the vicar had seen a couple of times using that footpath?”

  An expletive flew from Poole’s mouth as he made the connection.

  “Exactly,” Brock said smiling.

  They continued down the track for another few hundred yards before it turned right into a yard. To the left, stood a small white cottage surrounded by large bushes and trees on all sides. A squad car and a crime scene van were parked in the yard.

  Poole noticed Constable Davies stood outside the main doorway. As the young constable saw them, he grinned and waved, causing the inspector to chuckle to himself.

  “That Davies,” he said shaking his head. “It’s a wonder he manages to get his uniform on the right way round every morning.”

  Poole slowed the car to a stop. “Quite isolated, Sir,” Poole said looking around.

  “It is, all the better for someone to hide away, eh?” Brock answered.

  They stepped out of the car and made their way across the yard towards the house. As they reached the small path which led to the door through two large bushes, a woman in the familiar white suit of the crime scene team stepped out into the dawn light.

  “What have we got, Sheila?” Brock asked.

  “Nothing much. Fingerprints all over the place, the old lady’s and your victim’s. Loads of others too, we’re logging them all.”

  “No blood?” the inspector asked looking slightly disappointed.

  “Found a few specks on a chopping board in the kitchen, but it’s not much. Someone probably just cut their finger making dinner. I’ve sent if off to the lab anyway.”

  Brock grunted and headed off into the house.

  Poole introduced himself to the suited Sheila who slapped him on the arm good-naturedly and said ‘welcome aboard’, before heading off to her van.

  “Morning sir,” Davies said, blocking Poole as he tried to follow Brock into the house. “Lovely spot, isn’t it?!” Davies continued as he looked around the yard beaming.

  “Morning Davies, yes, lovely,” Poole said hurriedly as he passed through the door into the gloom of the cottage.

  Inside a couple more suited crime scene people were dusting and poking at things, but without much enthusiasm. Brock moved like a tiger, despite having to stoop through every low doorway and duck the various wooden beams that crossed the ceilings. He darted from one room to another, before eventually ascending the stairs and looking into the two bedrooms that were there.

  “He was here,” he said as they both reached the second of the two bedrooms.

  Poole looked around. It was clear someone had been staying in the room. The bed was unmade but used. Assorted cans of cheap lager lay dotted around the surfaces and there was a pile of dirty washing heaped in the corner. They had already seen Edie Gaven’s room across the hall; a sparse and neat space. This had clearly been her grandson’s bedroom.

  They checked the various drawers in the room and found nothing of note. After a few minutes they headed back downstairs and began rooting around the rest of the place more thoroughly.

  Something began to occur to Poole. Aids and adaptations that had been made to the house were everywhere. A stairlift, an expensive armchair in the front room which lifted its occupant out when they wanted to get up. Adaptations to the bathroom including a large shower unit you could sit in. He listed the features to the inspector.

  “Do you think she got all of that provided for her?”

  “I doubt it,” Brock said, “Maybe she had money put away? Let’s look into it.” He tailed off, distracted by something he’d off in the kitchen.

  "So, looks like we've found the postcard from Henry.”

  Guy moved to his side and took the small piece of card he offered to him. It was a scene of Bexford’s town square he’d seen a dozen times on postcards already since he had moved to the area. He turned it over to reveal a few lines written in chicken scratch hand writing.

  * * *

  Sorry Gran but I can’t face coming back to the village. I know you’ll be taken care of. I need a fresh start.

  * * *

  I’ll be in touch soon.

  * * *

  Henry

  * * *

  Poole looked up at the inspector whose eyebrows had arched into horseshoes. Po
ole checked the date of the post office stamp but it was smudged.

  “I don’t get it,” Poole said. “He sends his grandmother a postcard saying he’s not coming back, and then comes back? I mean, maybe it was because he'd heard she was ill, but then he didn't go and see her in hospital?”

  Brock said nothing, but exhaled. “Come on, let's go and see if Sheila's team have turned anything else up.

  They headed back out into the yard. Poole nodded to Constable Davies who was still soaking up the rays and smiling happily. They headed across to where the white crime scene van was parked when something caught his eye on the ground. Another bike track like the one he had seen at the footpath further up the lane. He tracked it right until it turned and headed down the track and became confused with the various vehicles that had come that way since. He followed it back and left until it reached the open archway of an old stone shed. He moved towards it and peered inside. He heard the inspector call from behind.

  “Poole? What is it?”

  He ignored him and pulled his phone from his pocket, clicking on the torch application. He passed its beam over the assorted canisters, rakes and scrap metal that was piled inside until it fell on a wheelbarrow.

  “Sheila?” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Yes?”

  He heard a voice from the direction of the van call back.

  “I think you need to bring a kit over here.”

  Sheila and the inspector arrived at the opening together. The crime scene investigator carried a small toolbox with her and placed it on the ground carefully.

  “I saw these tracks,” Poole pointed at the ground, “and noticed similar ones at the entrance to the footpath. I’m wondering if this is how the killer moved the body.”

  Brock stared at him with the expression of someone who has just discovered that their dog can talk. “Good thinking, Poole.”