An Occupied Grave

by A. G. Barnett

  Poole noted this down, but he had no idea why. This was gibberish, the women was clearly unwell.

  “Did you kill Charlie Lake, Sandra?”

  Her gaze snapped back into the room and to Brock. “Didn’t you hear me?” she giggled. “Charlie killed himself.”

  “Sandra, don’t say another word!” A voice boomed from the doorway which led out into the hall. Nathaniel Hooke marched in and stood between the two men and his daughter. “You have no right, Inspector! No right to enter my home and start questioning my daughter and confusing her!”

  “I have every right,” Brock answered standing up. Despite the vicar’s tall frame, the inspector towered over him. “This is a murder enquiry and I believe your daughter has been withholding evidence.”

  “She’s not well!” the vicar cried in a whine, throwing his hands in the air. “Can’t you see?!”

  “Then she can come into the station and be seen by specialists who will make sure that any interview with her does not upset her.”

  “No!” cried the vicar again. “If that’s what you want, then must go through the proper channels and have a warrant for her arrest or whatever it is you need.”

  “Arrest?” Brock said quietly, leaning towards the vicar slightly. “Now why would you think we’d want to arrest her?”

  The vicar narrowed his eyes and breathed in slowly through his nose. “I would like you both to leave now,” he said, his voice quivering slightly.

  Brock nodded and headed out towards the hallway with Poole following. As he left, he glanced at Sandra who still sat on the sofa. The glazed smile she had worn since they had arrived was still there as her eyes caught his. He felt a chill run down the back of his spine, just as he had the first time he had seen her, leaning over the grave of Edie Gaven and peering down at her father.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Do you think he’s protecting her, Sir?” Poole said when they were back in the car heading towards Bexford station. Poole flicked on the wipers as the darkening sky finally gave way to rain.

  “Of course he is,” Brock answered. “What we don’t know is to what extent.”

  “Sir?”

  “Is he a man protecting his troubled daughter from further upset and trauma by shielding her from our questions and reliving what happened, or is he shielding her because he knows or at least suspects she might have been responsible?”

  Poole thought about Sandra Hooke, how small and frail she had seemed when he had first seen her. Then he pictured those eyes, dilated and wild.

  “I could see her doing it,” he said quietly.

  “Me too,” Brock replied. “Try and find out what doctor she’s seeing, see what kind of medication she’s on.”

  “We could bring her in.”

  “We could, but I don’t see what good it would do. We haven’t got any evidence linking her to the murder other than some criminal saying he saw her talk to the victim on the night he died. Any confession we might get out of her would be chalked up to whatever the hell is wrong with her and I don’t want to go down that road without hard evidence to back it up.”

  “So what now?” Poole asked.

  “Now? Now we have lunch with my wife.”

  “We, Sir?”

  “She wants to meet you.”

  “That’s nice Sir, but I’d like to check on my mum if that’s OK?”

  Brock turned to him. “Your father gets out today,” he said flatly. “Have you heard from him?”

  “No,” Poole said, trying to keep the tension out of his voice. “I’m not expecting to, I just want to make sure mum is OK.”

  “Of course. Well let’s pick her up and she can come with us, eh?”

  “Oh, right. Thank you, Sir.”

  Poole gave a weak smile to his superior who turned back to stare out of the window. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about introducing the inspector to his mother. The inspector’s gruff no-nonsense attitude to pretty much everything didn’t seem to align with his mother’s alternative views on things.

  A few minutes later they had pulled up outside the flat and Poole had jogged up the steps.

  “Mum?” he called out as he opened the door.

  “Guy? What are you doing back?” She emerged from the kitchen wearing an apron.

  Poole took a deep breath and leaned against the door frame. “Do you want to come for lunch and meet my new boss and his wife?”

  “Oh Guy! I’d love to! Let me just turn the oven off again. I was just baking you some of my flapjacks.”

  Poole winced. His mother’s flapjacks consisted of porridge oats being stuck together with mashed banana. They were healthy and disgusting.

  She took the apron off and walked across to him, placing a hand on each shoulder.

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “No,” he said. He stepped forward and hugged her. He knew why she was being more batty than usual; she was scared.

  “Come on,” he said releasing her. “Let’s go.”

  They headed down to the car, Brock climbing out as they approached.

  “Mrs Poole, very nice to meet you,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Oh no, the pleasure is all mine!” she answered, pushing his hand to one side and embracing him. “And please,” she said into his ear. “Call me Jenny.”

  “Er, right,” Brock answered, looking at Poole with an expression that was half confused and half pleading for help.

  “Come on then,” Poole said, putting his hand on his mother’s back until she got the hint and let go.

  “And what’s your name, Inspector?” Jenny continued when they got in the car.

  “Sam.”

  “Oh, lovely. A good strong name.”

  “Thank you,” Brock answered. Poole glanced across and noticed a smirk on his face.

  He directed Poole to a small car park which sat to one side of the main town square.

  “Oh Guy, it’s such a beautiful town,” Jenny said, spinning around.

  They headed across to a small, pretty café with Brock grumbling. “Small portions, big price. Bloody rip-off this place, but it’s in the town square so they just keep sucking them in.”

  “It’s corporate greed and nothing more,” Jenny chimed in.

  “Exactly!” Brock said nodding at her and opening the door.

  They found Laura Brock at a corner table, a latte in front of her.

  “Hello!” she said rising as they approached. Brock made the introductions before heading to the counter with Poole to order more drinks, leaving Jenny hugging Laura.

  “This case, Poole,” he said once they had ordered four cheese toasties and three more lattes. “It’s bothering me. All of this pointing towards Stan Troon. Someone’s done that deliberately. Someone’s set him up. Now I can’t help but think Sandra Hooke is something to do with it, but could she have planned to set someone up that meticulously? She doesn’t seem in the right mind to do something like that.”

  Poole’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the screen. He didn’t recognise the number.

  “Hello?” he said putting it to his ear.

  “Hello son.”

  Poole swayed backwards and reached out to the counter to steady himself. His chest felt as though it was going to explode.

  “Poole?” Brock said, turning to him.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello, then?” the voice on the phone said. It was familiar to Poole, but at the same time alien. Like a voice he’d remembered from a film he’d watched rather than that of his father.

  “What do you want?” he said, his voice sounding in his ears as though someone else had been talking.

  “Well, what do you think I want?” the voice replied laughing. “I want to catch up! See how you’re doing? Is the new place working out?”

  Poole reeled, he felt like he might be sick.

  Brock took the phone from his unresisting hand and hung up the call.

  “Was that him?” he said passing the phone b
ack.

  Poole nodded.

  “Come on,” he said in a no nonsense voice. He turned back towards the table and Poole followed in a daze.

  “I’m sorry Laura, but we’re getting this to go and heading back to the station.”

  “What’s happened?” she asked, her face paling as she stood.

  Brock turned to Jenny. “I’m afraid your husband has just called your son.”

  “Oh god!” Jenny said standing up so suddenly her chair went flying backwards, crashing loudly against the flagstones of the floor.

  Jenny picked it up as Brock marched back to the counter and asked for their food to be wrapped to go.

  “Go and get in the car,” he said to Poole who came up next to him with his arm around his mother. Poole nodded and headed out.

  “Are they in danger?” Laura said when they had gone.

  “I don’t know.” Brock answered, his large brow knotted in a frown. “But I’m going to keep them at the station until I can figure out where this guy is and what he wants.”

  The woman behind the counter handed over their food in a brown paper bag and they paid and moved to the door.

  “I’ll see you later,” Brock said, kissing his wife lightly on the cheek and turning away towards the car. She caught his arm and pulled him back towards her. She kissed him hard on the lips.

  “You’re going to make a great dad you know. Just be careful, will you?”

  Brock felt something inside him crumble.

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said, his eyes feeling out the floor. “The test I had, you know, to check everything was OK, well it wasn’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Apparently I have slow swimmers,” he said, looking up at her, his grey eyes glistening.

  “That was months ago,” she said, her voice sounding hollow. “You’ve known all this time?”

  He nodded, his heart wrenching.

  She sighed and grabbed the lapels of his coat. “Sam Brock, you are a bloody idiot.”

  “I know.” He reached a hand up and pushed a stray hair from her face back behind her ear.

  “I know you,” she continued. “And I know this will have been eating you up. You should have told me.”

  He nodded again.

  “But we’ll deal with this, we’ll work it out.” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the forehead. “Now go and sort this out.”

  He squeezed her hand, smiled and turned back to the car.

  They drove back to the station in silence. Poole’s face set in a grim expression as he drove the car in a slow and steady manner.

  When they’d parked and stepped out of the car, Brock pulled him aside.

  “Take your mum into the canteen and get her settled then get on to Sandra Hooke’s doctor. I’m going to go and bring her in. I don’t think it will work, but I’ve got to do something to stir the pot.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Poole said. He moved to turn away and then hesitated. “Thank you, Sir.”

  Brock grunted and gestured for them to get on with it. The three of them headed towards the station, Poole propping up his mother whose pale face stared blankly, unseeing, in front of her.

  Once Poole and his mother had safely been delivered into the canteen, Brock stepped back into the main office and looked around the largely empty desks.

  “Davies,” Brock called across the office once they were inside. “I want you to come with me.”

  “Yes sir!” Davies said, jumping up from his desk and spilling a cup of coffee across his desk. Brock closed his eyes and muttered under his breath as Davies mopped up the spillage with a serviette.

  Poole sat staring at the wall, his mother’s hand held in his.

  They had exchanged few words, there wasn’t much to say. Their worst fears were being realised. His father had been released from prison, and his first act had been to find them, to contact them.

  How on earth had he gotten Poole’s number? How had he known about the move to Bexford? Poole’s thoughts drifted to the consequences of this news. Would he have to move again? To leave the country?

  He looked up as movement caught his eye and saw Sanita Sanders entering the room. He realised suddenly what he needed; a distraction. He needed to focus on the case.

  “Mum, are you ok here for a bit?” He turned to look at her. She nodded, forcing a nervous smile. He squeezed her hand and left her, making his way to Sanita.

  “Hi,” he said as he reached her at the coffee machine.

  “Hey, how’re you?”

  “Fine, do you think you could give me a hand for a bit?”

  She smiled at him and despite the circumstances he felt his stomach flip.

  “Course, what are we doing?”

  “Trying to find a doctor,” he answered, smiling back at her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Brock and Davies arrived at Lower Gladdock in torrential rain.

  “Park on the green,” Brock said, pointing out into the gloom.

  “Yes, Sir,” Davies said. He gripped the steering wheel and steered it to the right.

  He was trying to play it cool, but he hadn’t had this much adrenaline coursing through him since he had managed to reverse park in front of some builders.

  Not only had the inspector asked him to take him to the village, he had asked him to drive as fast as he could. Davies had gone for it, showing off all of the new skills he had learned on his recent advanced driving course. He had nailed it. The perfect high speed bit of driving. Now his blood was pumping and he was ready for anything.

  The car hit the curb hard, jolting him out of his seat. The sound of the inspector’s head hitting the ceiling rang out above the rain. He turned to Davies, leaned across him and turned the engine off.

  “Thank you Davies,” he said in a flat tone. “Come on.” He climbed out of the car and ran towards the vicarage. Davies followed in a loping run, hitting most of the puddles that Brock seemed to avoid.

  By the time they arrived at the vicarage they were both soaked through. Brock pressed the bell as they both squared under the small overhang that stood above the door. The door opened to reveal Nathaniel Hooke. He stared down his long nose at them.

  “Yes, Inspector?”

  “I’m afraid Vicar, that we are here to take Sandra in for formal questioning.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not a good time,” the vicar replied. He stepped back and began to close the door but Brock shot out an enormous foot and jammed it open.

  “This isn’t optional,” Brock said, pushing forward hard at the door. The vicar stumbled backwards and began edging down the hall.

  Brock then heard Sandra’s voice from upstairs. She wailed with a noise like a wounded horse, insensible. He moved to the base of the staircase and stared upwards. He pulled his phone from his pocket and called Poole.

  Sanita slammed the phone down in frustration.

  “Still nothing?” Poole asked as he stood up.

  “No. Either Sandra Hooke goes to a doctor that’s absolutely miles away, maybe not even Addervale, or she doesn’t go to one.”

  Poole’s jaw tensed as he put his coat on. “My guess is on the latter. I’m going to get over to the village, see what Brock and Davies are up to. Thanks for your help.”

  She smiled and followed him out of the small office and back into the open plan section of the building.

  Poole’s phone buzzed in his pocket as he headed towards reception. He looked at the screen. Brock.

  “Sir?”

  “Get over here now, and bring…”

  There was a pause before a loud bang and the line went dead.

  He felt his stomach drop. He reached out one hand to the wall to steady himself and turned around.

  “Sanita! Get backup to Lower Gladdock now!” He heard a voice scream and as he turned and ran through reception towards his car he realised it had been his.

  Poole sped down the narrow country lanes at a speed he knew was reckless in this weather. The drivi
ng rain had turned the tarmac into sheets of glistening water which shone in his headlights as he tore along them.

  The inspector’s voice had been urgent and demanding and adrenaline had been pouring through Poole’s body since the line had gone dead and he’d fired up the car.

  He didn’t know what the inspector had uncovered or gotten into, but he knew that it would lead them to the killer of Henry Gaven and Malcolm Paget. He just hoped the inspector’s name wouldn’t be added to that list.

  He sped past the sign which welcomed him to Lower Gladdock and soon entered the road which swept round the edge of the village green. He screeched to a halt, realising with a jolt of panic that he had no idea where the inspector had gone. Poole stepped out of the car, the driving rain stinging against his cheeks and looked around wildly.

  An arm snaked around his neck suddenly from behind and a long, sharp kitchen knife danced in front of his vision.

  “Please, don’t move,” a voice said in his ear.

  Brock opened his eyes and saw blood. He knew it was his own because the throbbing at the back of his head was so intense it was blurring his vision.

  He pushed himself up to his knees slowly, breathing hard. There was a significant pool of blood on the floor in front of him. He tried to ignore it and stand. He swayed slightly and held onto the wall for support.

  There was a roll of thunder in the distance as he turned slowly around looking for signs of his attacker. There was no sign of anyone and Sandra’s moans from upstairs were now silent.

  He realised that Davies lay in front of him on his chest, his face turned away from him. He dropped to his knees heavily next to him and turned him over slowly. No blood, and he was breathing. He placed him in the recovery position and looked around for his phone, but couldn’t see it.

  Behind him the front door was open. He stumbled towards it, stepping out into the black, wet night. There was no one in the driveway. He made his way to the road and looked up and down. Nothing.

  Then he noticed the lights were on in the church and something clicked in his mind. The old building had been dark when he had arrived.