The Unquiet Grave (10 page)

‘Any division would be lucky to have you,’ said Brook, making an effort to be upbeat.

‘Thanks,’ mumbled Noble.

Brook decided against a further rallying call. Both men knew that positive discrimination, and his loyalty to Brook, might cost Noble a deserved promotion. ‘So, DCI Copeland. What can you tell me about him?’

‘I hardly knew him,’ said Noble. ‘I was just a lowly DC when he retired. Seemed OK, if a bit up himself.’

‘Up himself?’ repeated Brook, aware he was being mocked. ‘Could proud be the word you’re looking for? Or pompous? Or arrogant?’

‘Could be,’ replied Noble, laughing. ‘My vocabulary’s suffered while you’ve been away.’

‘At least you haven’t called me
guv
yet.’

‘Never happen,’ answered Noble. ‘And I’ve stopped swearing for ever, promise. I think you’ve finally beaten that out of me.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ smiled Brook.

The door opened and Chief Superintendent Charlton popped his head round. ‘Sergeant, I need the latest on Scott Wheeler. I’m briefing. . .’ He straightened when he saw Brook, trying to achieve more than minimum regulation height, then nodded a greeting to the two CID officers, both several inches taller. But instead of bridling with habitual discomfort at their differences in height, the Chief Superintendent was fighting the curl of his lip at the sight of Brook, barely able to keep the smugness in check. ‘Inspector Brook. Welcome back,’ he said without an ounce of sincerity.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘You’re early,’ Charlton observed.

‘Tardiness is one problem I’ve managed to avoid. Sir.’

‘Humility,’ exclaimed Charlton. ‘From you, Brook. Heartening – let’s hope it stands you in good stead for the future,’ he added coldly. ‘My office, five minutes.’ He turned briskly on his heel and left without another word.

‘He’s really got it in for you this time,’ said Noble.

‘As you say, it’ll blow over.’ Brook opened and closed a drawer. There were three unopened cartons of two hundred cigarettes each. He left them where they were. ‘Anything else on the books, John?’

‘Nothing major. Burglaries are up so we’ve got a small unit chasing around after housebreakers.’

‘Operation Why-Don’t-People-Get-Proper-Locks?’ observed Brook. ‘I won’t have to suffer that, at least.’ Looking around for his flask, he swung his laptop back over his shoulder and prepared to leave.

Noble looked quizzically at him. ‘You really are going to suck it up, aren’t you?’

Brook winced but didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I really am. Until one of us thinks I’ve suffered enough. Did you think I’d fall on my sword?’

‘It crossed my mind.’

‘Too
up myself
to take my punishment.’

Noble laughed. ‘No, but you and Charlton. . . he’s like a cat with a mouse. Besides. . .’ Noble hesitated then decided not to finish.

Brook raised a mocking eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

‘Well, you are the wrong side of fifty,’ Noble shrugged. ‘Not that you can’t still cut it but nobody would have blamed you for taking the easy way out.’

Brook pictured the resignation letter sitting on the printer at home. ‘Never entered my head, John.’

Brook marched into Charlton’s office on command and stood in silence, looking over the Chief Superintendent’s hunched frame towards the window. Outside, the pale sky was heavy with clouds.

Charlton didn’t look up but continued to feign deep interest in the document in front of him. Brook felt the tug of levity in the face of such cheap, psychological tricks but managed to maintain a serious expression.

After a suitable interlude, Charlton looked up with mild interest, as if just becoming aware of Brook’s presence. He sat back in his chair to consider him and Brook could see Charlton had been practising his posture and expression for weeks, preparing to revel in the full majesty of his office.

‘You look very well, Brook.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Inactivity seems to agree with you.’

‘I’m fit and well-rested, sir,’ replied Brook. ‘Ready to work.’

‘How’s the hand?’

‘Much better.’

‘That’s good,’ said Charlton. His expression tightened. ‘Looking forward to your new role?’ He gazed intently at Brook for any sign of discontent.

‘Can’t wait, sir.’

The Chief Super narrowed his eyes to detect any sarcasm. ‘Good.’

‘Unless you think I’d be more use in the Wheeler task force.’ Brook kept his eyes on the wall behind Charlton’s head. ‘I have had some experience—’

‘I don’t think so,’ interrupted Charlton. ‘And don’t take your new assignment lightly. This is important work. Very good for our PR. Shows the people that we never forget, never let unsolved cases drift.’

‘No, sir.’

‘We’ve cobbled together a couple of rooms for you and Clive Copeland to work from. I hope you’ll enjoy working with him. He may be retired but he was an ex-DCI and I’m sure he’ll be a big help to you. He has a lot of experience in this precinct, being a local man.’
Unlike you
remained unsaid.

‘No doubt.’

‘And I know I don’t need to remind you, you’re on very thin ice in this division, Inspector.’

Brook finally met Charlton’s eye. ‘I’m ready to redeem myself, sir.’

‘A viable prosecution was sabotaged by your unfathomable decision to pass off your daughter as a police officer, to conduct an illegal search of a suspect’s home—’

‘The
suspect
wasn’t a suspect at that time.’

‘Are you arguing with me, Brook?’ demanded Charlton.

Brook took a discreet pull of oxygen and returned his eyes to the wall, annoyed at getting drawn into a war of words that the Chief was clearly trying to provoke. Charlton had thrown the book at Brook when his misconduct had been discovered and he had been certain his career was in jeopardy. But, oddly, Charlton had made no effort to eject him from the service and Brook had finally figured out why. Charlton was keen to keep him around so he could gloat at how far and fast Brook’s star had fallen. At long last the Chief Super had seized the moral uplands, so often ceded in the past and, clearly, he was still enjoying the view. Further, he now had a hold over Brook’s career and he wasn’t about to relax it until he’d extracted maximum payback for all the perceived slights received during their shared history. On the upside, until such time as Charlton had sated his appetite, Brook assumed his job was safe.

‘No, sir.’

‘Good. Now your duties are strictly defined,’ said Charlton. ‘Clive has specialised in cold case work since his retirement and you’ll be guided by him.’

‘How long will I be working these cases, sir? I gather we’re stretched pretty thin until this boy is found.’ Brook regretted his question at once. This was his first day back from suspension and so far he’d only spoken to DS Noble. Charlton was certain to know from where Brook had received his information.

‘Don’t fret about staffing, Brook,’ said Charlton frostily. With a touch more aggression, he added, ‘Not that I need justify myself to you. And don’t forget, tomorrow there’ll be a new DI promoted from your own team, so I’m sure we can manage our current caseload without you for a while.’

Brook nodded impassively.

‘Now let me take you down to meet Clive.’

Brook sat in the stark windowless room across the corridor from Clive Copeland’s equally dismal office, trying to ignore the stench of stale tobacco and the merciless glare of the strip light. Despite the relative modernity of the building, the small magnolia-coloured suite of rooms that housed the newly created Cold Case Unit in the basement felt damp and chilly and the two rooms, being slightly below ground level, were appropriately dingy. At least Copeland had a glimpse of the outside world through the mottled glass of his tiny ceiling-high window, even if the most he could ever see were the legs of officers slipping away to the car park for a crafty cigarette. Even that meagre concession had been denied Brook.

He sighed and emptied the last of his tea from his flask and looked around at the bare surroundings from the discomfort of his metal chair. Like the chair, the metal table in front of him was cold to the touch. The only thing on it, apart from an old marmalade jar full of pens and pencils, was a bulky old computer fed by wires which emerged from a crude circular hole cut into the top of the table. And although Brook had logged on to the system five minutes earlier, a glance at the monitor showed his machine still trying to load the relevant software. He switched it off, pushed the keyboard away and picked his laptop case from the floor to unpack.

When he’d finally logged on, Brook cleared his Inbox of a further half-dozen internal emails without reading a single one then stood and paced around his cell to warm up. He paused at the metal filing cabinet and opened a drawer. It was empty. All the other drawers were empty too.

Brook slumped back down on his unforgiving chair. ‘Welcome to hell.’

‘Hell is a trifle warmer than our offices, I think.’

Brook looked to the door where Copeland’s jaundiced grin drew the eye. The former detective chief inspector wheeled a trolley into the room, still amused. He wasn’t a pleasant sight, even at second viewing. Apart from the yellowed teeth, Copeland was colourless. His eyes were grey, his clothes were chosen to match and there was a faint odour of decay about him. He had dust-coloured hair and skin like greaseproof paper and his current merriment looked like it might cause permanent scarring around the eyes.

‘You’ve been there, have you?’ said Brook.

Copeland’s smile froze around his mouth and a glimpse of humanity invaded his features. ‘Many times,’ he said, before resuming his journey towards Brook, pushing the trolley. It had a squeaking wheel.

The noise stopped and Brook glanced over at the half dozen bulging manila folders sitting snugly on the top rack. They had seen better days.

‘As I explained earlier, this is where we start. These are called files, Inspector.’ Copeland fixed Brook with a mocking stare. ‘They contain reports on
paper
, like coppers used to use before computers came along.’ Brook raised a weary eye to Copeland. ‘Paper reports not a problem for you, are they?’

Brook’s expression glazed. ‘No problem, Clive.’

Copeland bridled slightly at the use of his Christian name. ‘I used to outrank you, Brook. I was a DCI,’ he said, as though his meaning were obvious.

‘And now you’re a civilian,’ retorted Brook, ‘employed on a daily rate to supplement your pension and get you out of the house. You’re here to help me rake over old cases that no one can close and no one cares about. Neither of us needs to be called sir, but if you’d prefer I call you Mr Copeland, I’m happy to oblige. You can call me whatever you want as long as it’s not guv.’

Copeland was mute for a moment, working on his riposte. ‘Reminds you too much of your time in the Met, does it?’

Brook’s eyes narrowed, trying to read Copeland’s meaning. What did Copeland know about his problems in the Met?
Of course he knows. Hendrickson knows, which means everyone knows
.

Copeland realised he’d said the wrong thing. His expression softened as he came to a decision. ‘Clive’s fine, Brook,’ he said. ‘Want me to walk you through the process?’

‘I’m all ears,’ replied Brook, without enthusiasm.

Copeland was unfazed by Brook’s lack of zeal. ‘Good. As you said, what we’re about in the CCU is reassessing some of the oldest unsolved murders on the books. But we don’t have to solve them, Brook, just vet the files properly to reassess whether they’re worth transferring on to the computer.’

‘I thought we uploaded all cold cases on to HOLMES a few years back,’ said Brook.

‘We?’ inquired Copeland.

‘Someone,’ said Brook, leaving out the rank he deemed worthy of such menial work.

‘That’s what everyone thinks but it varies. You see, most divisions don’t have a dedicated Cold Case Unit, so normal procedure, as I’m sure you know, is to get full-time or retired officers to revisit cases every few years, when things are quiet or when a significant anniversary crops up. What people don’t realise is that even an old murder won’t be uploaded as a matter of routine because it all comes down to an individual officer’s judgement. Some cold cases get lost in the shuffle because they lack what we call “resolution potential”.’

‘Resolution potential?’ repeated Brook, fighting a smile. ‘You’re kidding.’

‘Far from it. All the cases we look at have limited potential for reinterpretation of the available evidence.’

‘You mean there’s no DNA to test,’ said Brook.

‘And no possibility of obtaining any, right. See, priority was often given to uploading those cases where advances in DNA techniques and fingerprint retrieval might yield results in the future.’

‘And so those cases that didn’t have potential for either may not have been entered on the database,’ concluded Brook.

‘Correct,’ confirmed Copeland. ‘Rightly or wrongly, they were deemed unlikely to yield results and downgraded. We’re then left with folders full of papers and reports and maybe some artefacts in a distant warehouse.’

‘Assuming they haven’t been routinely destroyed,’ suggested Brook.

‘They often have been, unless a special request for retention from the case officer is received.’

Brook nodded. ‘So where do I come in?’

‘You assess,’ said Copeland. ‘Go through the files and update them as appropriate. Find out which witnesses are still alive then update their details – address, occupation, that sort of thing. If deceased, enter a cause and date of death on the top sheet and move on. In the unlikely event you think the case has—’

‘Resolution potential,’ muttered Brook.

‘In that case, update the file to say you’ve assessed it positively, do the paperwork to say why and then pass it on to me for uploading on to the database.’

‘Sounds simple enough,’ said Brook.
If deadly dull
.

‘It is,’ replied Copeland. ‘But it’s deadly dull – usually.’

Brook looked up. ‘Usually?’

Copeland shrugged, unable to meet Brook’s eye for some reason. ‘Sometimes an old case grabs you and won’t let go because you see something that no one’s ever seen before. That can happen with a fresh pair of eyes and none of the baggage investigating officers carry into a case.’ He looked at Brook, managing a smile. ‘I won’t talk down to a man of your experience. You’ll soon pick it up. I always start with the oldest case and work my way forward chronologically. You can create your own method.’