An Occupied Grave

by A. G. Barnett

  He had to tell her. He would as soon as she got back. He closed his eyes and pictured her disappointment, her anger, and worst of all, her sadness.

  He shook off these depressing thoughts and moved across to the fridge. Inside were a selection of salads which he was supposed to have taken for lunch, in the freezer there lurked healthy meals for him to microwave. Laura had chided him that he would be incapable of sticking to the healthy diet she had had them on for months now. He closed the fridge, pulled his phone from his pocket and dialled the local curry restaurant. Laura had been right.

  Once ordered, he slumped back down at the breakfast table with a large glass of merlot and stared at the wall. Now his thoughts turned to Poole. This was stupid. Why had he felt so bloody nervous all day? Why was he seeing the timing of this murder case as a bad omen? Was he really starting to believe all the rubbish they said about him? The ‘Cursed Detective’ nonsense?

  He rubbed his face in his hands and moved through to the front room where he sat down and flicked the tv on. The theme tune to Foul Murder blared out and he immediately changed the channel. “Bloody Ronald Smith,” he said to no one.

  Chapter Five

  “So who do you want to talk to first sir?” Poole turned the engine off and unclipped his seatbelt. They were back in the village of Lower Gladdock. Poole had parked against the small patch of grass which stood opposite the church.

  Despite the tower being a squat affair, it seemed to loom against the moody sky as though they were part of the same angry beast.

  The weather had moved from threatening cloud, to torrent of rain which bounced off the tarmac around the car so high that it looked like it was raining up as well as down.

  “Run through them again,” the inspector said, leaning his head back on the low headrest and staring up. In order to do this, he had had to slide further down his seat and his knees were now in danger of hitting the roof of the car.

  “The Lakes, parents of Charlie Lake who was killed in the accident, the Pagets whose daughter was a friend of his, and the vicar’s daughter Sandra, who was also his friend apparently."

  “Well let’s follow the order you’ve got them in, Charlie Lake’s parents first, then the Pagets and we’ll finish with the vicar’s daughter.”

  Poole nodded. “The Lakes run the village shop along the road there a bit. Lower Gladdock Stores.”

  “Let’s drive up, eh? I don’t fancy spending more time than I have to in this bloody weather.”

  Poole fired the car up again, turning it around the loop which ran alongside the green and down the main street of the village. Houses lined the road, set back behind a mixture of neat driveways and gardens. The shop was only a few hundred yards further down on the right. Poole swung the car across and parked right in front of its door. He looked through his window at the little shop front, its lights dim behind the rain soaked glass.

  “It doesn’t look like they’re open, Sir.”

  “Well you better get out there and get knocking,” Brock grumbled. "I’m guessing they live out the back, so you should be able to make them hear.”

  Poole stepped out of the car reluctantly. Despite the promotion, he couldn’t help feel that he was back on the bottom rung again. As he stepped out, the rain hit him like a slap in the face. He dashed across to the door and knocked on its glass hard.

  He pulled his collar up tight around him as he waited to shield himself from the stinging drops. He put his hands in his pockets and jigged from side to side as though he could dodge the onslaught. Just as he was about to give up and run back to the car, the light of the shop switched on. Through the streaks of water running down the doorway he could make out a figure moving towards him.

  The door opened to reveal a short man with an expressive, long face. This rubbery and changeable face was topped by what seemed to be a thousand lines across his forehead. They stretched back to his receding hairline which was slicked back, wet. There was something about the large nose and soulful eyes that seemed to command respect. This was somewhat undone in Poole’s eyes by the fact that he was wearing a beige dressing gown and bright pink fluffy slippers.

  "David Lake?"

  “Hello, can I help you?” he said with a cheery tone.

  “My name is Detective Sergeant Poole and we’d like to ask you a few questions regarding the discovery of a body in the churchyard yesterday.”

  "And you thought you'd come straight to me and fit me up for it did you?" the man said laughing.

  Poole blinked, confused by this response. “It's routine, we will need to speak to a number of people."

  "Of course you will," the man said, his blue eyes glinting. “But you just thought you'd start with the usual suspects, eh?" The man’s smile suggested he found all of this very amusing, but Poole had no idea why and so his face remained blank.

  "Shall we just skip all this and go inside?" Brock's voice came from behind him.

  Poole half turned but was nudged back as the inspector's large frame pushed past him and David Lake. To Poole's surprise, the man let out a small chuckle and followed him in.

  The shop was small, but well stocked. A counter stood to the right of the door they had come in through, and a noticeboard filled with various local information was pinned to the wall above it. As well as the walls being lined with shelves, there was a central row running down the middle of the rectangular space.

  David Lake sauntered along the left hand aisle and through a door at the back.

  Brock and Poole followed him into a small sitting room where a plump, attractive woman lay on a sofa. She also sported a bath robe.

  “It’s the police, Hayley.”

  The woman pursed her lips and nodded as she swung her legs off the sofa and sat upright. “Want a tea or anything?” she said. Her voice had the same thick London accent as her husband’s.

  “No thanks, we’ve just had one,” Brock replied.

  Poole cleared his throat. “Erm, actually I wouldn’t mind a tea?”

  “Of course love,” Hayley answered, "you look bloody soaked! Here, take your coat off and I’ll hang it in the kitchen to dry.”

  Poole smiled appreciatively and passed her his sodden jacket.

  “Might as well sit,” David Lake said, gesturing to the sofa his wife had vacated. “Sorry about the dressing gown, we’ve just gotten out of the bath.” He gave a leer at this which suggested they weren't solely getting clean. Poole felt his cheeks redden and began flicking through his notebook as a distraction.

  “Did you know that Henry Gaven was released from prison just over a week ago?” Brock said.

  “Yes, we did,” David answered, his tone even. "And no we weren't happy about it. Why, have you nicked him for something else?”

  There was something in the way he said this that seemed almost gleeful.

  "The little sod's got himself killed," the inspector replied flatly.

  A smile spread slowly across David Lake's face. "Ha!" He shouted, clapping his hands together so loudly that Poole practically leapt off the sofa.

  "Hayley? Sod the tea, open some bloody bubbly!"

  "What you on about?" Hayley said, coming back in from the kitchen with a kettle in her hand.

  “Gaven's only gone and bloody got killed hasn't he?!"

  Hayley's eyes widened as her mouth broke into a perfect white smile before she exploded into a loud cackle.

  "Oh my days!" she said as her husband stood to hug her. She disappeared back into the kitchen and emerged only moments later with four glasses and a large bottle of champagne. Poole didn't know anything about the stuff, but the bottle looked expensive. He turned to the inspector, who so far had said nothing regarding the extraordinary reaction of the Lakes. His face was impassive.

  "Don't mind if I do," Brock said, taking the flute that David Lake had filled in front of him. He tipped back, sending the golden liquid down his throat with an audible glugging sound. Poole left his on the table in front of him.

  Brock smacked his li
ps. “Not a bad drop at all that.”

  “It’s a Veuve Clicquot,” David replied beaming.

  “Very nice,” Brock said again, holding it up to the light before suddenly looking at David Lake with an intent stare. “Henry Gaven was murdered.”

  The smile froze for a moment on David’s lips. Hayley hastily put her glass to her lips and drank deeply.

  “Was he now?” David said. “Well life has a funny way of making sure you get what’s coming to you, don’t it?”

  “Sometimes,” Brock answered, “but sometimes people take justice into their own hands.”

  The silence in the room suddenly grew heavy and Poole felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise to attention. The smile that now played on David Lake’s lips felt different somehow. It was the smile of a predator. Cold, calculating and frankly, scary.

  “Well I’m not sure how much more I can help you with gentlemen?” David said, his voice even.

  “You’re probably right, for now,” Brock said rising. “But we’ll be wanting to speak to you further when the investigation is a little further along.”

  “I’m sure my wife and I can provide an alibi for any time you want.”

  “I’m sure you can too,” the inspector smiled. He turned and set off down the hallway. Poole stood and began to follow when he remembered his coat.

  “Erm, could I have my coat please?” he said to the couple who were now stood, shoulder to shoulder in their white robes, glaring at him.

  Hayley snorted and vanished through the kitchen door.

  David Lake turned to him and frowned, his impressive forehead breaking into row upon row of lines.

  “You should tell your boss that it’s polite to call before turning up and accusing someone of murder.”

  Poole swallowed. There was something about his tone. Something about the way those soft eyes hard hardened to become like circles of steel in the last few minutes that was more than troubling.

  “Here you go,” Hayley said, appearing through the door and thrusting his coat back into his hands.

  “Thank you.” He turned and walked as quickly as he could back through the shop where Brock was waiting for him by the door.

  “Having fun yet, Poole?” he said as he popped another boiled sweet into his mouth.

  “I’m not entirely sure sir,” he answered honestly.

  Brock chuckled as Poole unlocked the car. “Do you know, I think that’s pretty much how I feel about it all the time,” Brock said.

  They both dashed to the car and jumped inside quickly to escape the rain which hadn’t eased up.

  “So what do you think, Sir?” Poole asked. What he had really wanted to say was ‘What the hell was all that about?’ But he thought that might not be appropriate.

  “Well I’d put good money on David Lake having a record that’s for sure,” he said leaning back in his seat and rolling the boiled sweet around his mouth.

  Poole recalled Lake’s tone when he had first knocked on the door and felt foolish for not realising before.

  “Well, yes Sir, I mean do you think they’re good suspects?”

  Brock turned to him with one raised eyebrow before shifting his gaze back to the rain streaked windscreen.

  “I think I’d like to know a little bit more about them that’s for sure. Come on then, let’s go and see these Pagets.”

  The Paget’s bungalow was set back from the road with a neat, red-bricked driveway leading to it. On either side sat well-tended raised beds and a small smart car stood outside the property that looked as though it had a weekly clean and polish. The overall air was one of neatness and Poole approved of its simple domesticity.

  He pressed the doorbell which chimed a melodic tone that made Brock shake his head. The door was answered by a grey haired couple wearing matching green and orange cardigans. Poole guessed had to be homemade as it would surely be illegal to sell something that clashed that badly in an actual shop.

  “Can we help you?” the man said with a pleasant smile.

  “We’d like to talk to you about the body that was discovered in the church this morning,” Brock said.

  “Oh!” the woman said, raising her hands to her face and turning pale.

  “Now now, Marjory, be strong,” the man said, pushing his pigeon chest out and putting his arm around her in a comforting manner. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see why you would need to speak to us?”

  “We have identified the victim as Henry Gaven,” Brock continued.

  There was another wail from Marjory, this time she buried her head into her husband’s chest.

  Poole removed his notebook and studied it, uncomfortable with the woman’s reaction.

  “Could we maybe go inside?” Brock said.

  “Yes, yes of course,” the man said, sounding slightly dazed. He steered his wife back into the house.

  The bungalow was kitted out with beige walls, beige furniture and dim yellow lampshades that gave Poole the impression he was inside a giant sponge cake.

  They were led through to the kitchen and again offered tea. Poole refused this time, but Brock requested a coffee. He perched on one of the chairs which were set around the small table and Poole sat next to him. He imagined that the inspector would only ever ‘perch’ on furniture unless it was maybe a king sized bed.

  Once Mrs Paget had managed to calm herself, they introduced themselves as Malcolm and Marjory. They sat across from Brock and Poole, holding each other’s hands which rested on the table top.

  Poole looked at the inspector, but he smiled at him, waving a hand at him to take this one as he sipped his coffee. Poole cleared his throat unnecessarily and began, “Mr Paget, could you tell us about your daughter’s relationship with Charlie Lake and Henry Gaven?”

  Out the corner of his eye, Poole detected the corner of Brock's mouth rise slightly, clearly approving of this opening question.

  Malcolm closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose slowly making the nostrils on his narrow nose flare. “My daughter was friends with Henry Gaven, him and the others in their little gang.”

  Poole sensed something in his tone. “And you weren’t happy with that?”

  “No, we weren’t,” Malcolm said sharply. “Henry Gaven was a nasty piece of work and I didn’t want him anywhere near my daughter.”

  Poole noted the past tense. Malcolm Paget had accepted his death very easily. The man was clearly angry; his thin pipsqueak voice shook with emotion. Poole glanced at his wife. She trembled softly beside him, gripping his hand as though she might fall off her chair at any moment.

  “And Charlie Lake? Sandra Hook?”

  Malcolm swallowed. “Charlie was a nice boy. It broke Charlotte’s heart when he died, she never recovered, much like Sandra. Moved away and fell in with a bad crowd in London.” He raised his chin and brought his other hand up to the table and his wife’s hand. "She died two years ago from an overdose.”

  Marjory began sobbing heavily. Malcolm turned to her glassy eyed and embraced her. The summing up of his daughter’s life was short, to the point. Poole got the impression it was a rehearsed line. Maybe the only way he could get through telling it to a stranger.

  “And you knew Henry Gaven had been released from prison?”

  “We did,” Malcolm said, his voice wavering. “Disgusting, only four years for killing a young man, causing all this wreckage.” He shook his head and looked down at the table.

  “And you know his body was found in the churchyard this morning?”

  “Yes,” he said looking up, his eyes burning.

  “Good bloody riddance!’ Marjory shouted suddenly, her words spitting across the table towards them. She fell back into tears and Poole looked at Brock for guidance.

  The inspector sat slowly stroking his chin, staring at the couple opposite as though he was deciding something. He nodded, apparently to himself, and stood up. “Come along Poole, I think we’ve bothered these people enough.”

  Poole looked between the couple and the inspe
ctor, slightly surprised, then rose himself.

  They said their goodbyes and stepped outside into the early evening air. The rain storm that had covered the village for most of the day had given way to a white sheet of cloud giving the air a quiet, stifled feel. As though someone had covered the world in cotton wool.

  “Well, Poole? Your turn,” Brock asked as they stood by the car, “thoughts?”

  “I think a lot of people were hurt by the accident, like Stan Troon said, then Henry Gaven was killed within a week of being released. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  Brock grimaced. “I don’t like this Poole. This accident has been hanging over this village for four years. It’s been festering like an untreated wound and that only ends badly. We need to find out who did this soon. If we don’t, I think more people might get hurt before this is all over.

  Chapter Six

  Poole coasted around the wall of the church cemetery until they came to a large house set back to the left of the road that faced the bell tower.

  Gravel crunched under the wheels of the car as Poole pulled into the driveway and passed a sign which read ‘The Vicarage’ on faded wood.

  “We might need to go easy on the vicar’s daughter sir,” Poole said, remembering those frightened eyes by the grave side. “She’s a bit of a troubled soul by the looks of it.”

  “Aren’t we all Poole?” Brock said, heaving himself out of the passenger seat.

  The door of the vicarage was a deep blue and set into an open porch which was covered by two rose plants, their wiry thorns bare and foreboding in winter. The door was answered only a few moments after Poole had pressed the brass, Victorian doorbell.

  “Good afternoon officers,” the vicar said beaming at them. “How can I help you?”

  “We’d like a word with your daughter,” Brock said.

  The smile fell from the vicar’s face instantly. “Sandra? But why?”

  “We heard that she was close with Henry Gaven before the accident four years ago, we thought it would be wise to speak to her,” the inspector continued.