The Unquiet Grave (18 page)

‘You certainly pushed his buttons.’

‘It’s a gift,’ said Brook modestly.

‘I wouldn’t worry about that bum,’ said Copeland. ‘Hendrickson’s not fit to be on the force and wasn’t even when I was still around.’

Brook nodded. Copeland was going up in his estimation. He picked up his tea and headed for the door.

‘How are you
really
getting on, Brook?’

Brook pulled a face. ‘I’ve been rooting around the Stanforth case. You reviewed it three times, so I’m not holding out much hope.’

‘Was it three?’ Copeland was lost in the memory for a moment. ‘I’d be interested in your thoughts when you get a chance. If you solve that stinker you’ll be straight to the top of my Christmas list. Old Sam Bannon and Walter Laird were two of the best detectives around but they got nowhere with it. Wally’s still about.’

‘I know,’ replied Brook. ‘He’s on my radar for a visit.’

‘Is he?’ said Copeland. ‘Go easy on him. I’ve known him since I was a nipper.’

‘Really?’

‘He used to be a neighbour when I lived in Mackworth and he’s always been a good friend. He helped me a lot when. . . well.’ Copeland became hesitant, almost unable to speak, and Brook realised he must be thinking of his sister’s murder. It would have been the same era as Billy Stanforth’s death so maybe Bannon and Laird had picked up her case as well. And perhaps a
good friend
like Laird had gone further and signed off on Copeland’s clandestine reviews into her death.

Brook turned to leave but was halted by Copeland coming out of his reverie. ‘I hope you don’t mind but as a courtesy I told Walter you might be looking into the Stanforth case.’

Brook paused. He did mind. Witnesses were always best interviewed cold. He decided the damage was done, but he could at least make a point. ‘No problem, Clive. An officer should
always
be informed if one of his cases is being reviewed.’ Brook held Copeland’s gaze but the retired detective looked away, declining the invitation to reveal that he was reviewing two of Brook’s old cases.

Instead Copeland changed the subject. ‘Re-interviewed anyone yet?’

‘A nice old lady called Edna Spencer,’ said Brook.

‘I remember her. Edna Hibbert, as was. Her husband Eric died when she was quite young. Just the one child, thankfully.’

‘Thankfully?’

Copeland’s smile was sad. ‘Sorry. You have a daughter.’ He glanced towards the framed picture on his desk and Brook followed his eyes to the attractive young girl smiling happily, her arm round her gap-toothed little brother. ‘I don’t know if you know, my sister Matilda. . .’

‘I heard,’ said Brook gently to spare Copeland the difficult words. Nearly fifty years hadn’t healed the scar. He was impressed. ‘I’m sorry.’

Copeland nodded. ‘I never married because of it. In case a wife might want a family. I envy you, Brook. Feeling able to bring a child into this ugly world. . .’

During the gap left by Copeland for an endorsement of parenthood, Brook kept his counsel, deciding not to elaborate on the traumas he’d endured as father to a daughter subsequently abused by her stepfather.

‘I’ll leave you to get on, Clive.’

When Brook had left, Copeland was statue-still for several minutes, staring at a spot on the wall that wouldn’t distract him from his past. Filling his lungs finally, he took a bulging file from a drawer, caressing it like a lover. With a deep sigh he looked at the picture of his smiling sister on his desk. ‘I’ve done my best, Tilly.’ He closed his eyes to remembered pain. He placed the file on the desk with great ceremony. ‘Don’t worry, love. You’ll be in good hands.’ Copeland broke away from his sister’s doomed gaze and stared at the door after Brook.

Thirteen

Sunday, 29 August 1965 – Mackworth Estate, Derby

‘Come on, Ebony. Come on, boy,’ called Detective Sergeant Walter Laird, a tall, angular man in his late twenties, moving to lean on the picket fence. His hand reached into his jacket and pulled out a dog biscuit and held it just out of reach of the black Labrador, teasing it to stretch out its black paws on to the top of the fence.

‘Uncle Walter,’ shouted young Clive Copeland, jumping up, as excited as the dog, leaping over a cluster of multicoloured marbles to join him.

‘Wotcha, Clive,’ replied Laird, keeping the biscuit away from the slavering dog. ‘Your dad in?’

‘Dad!’ screamed Clive, running towards the open front door. ‘Walter’s here.’ He raced back to the fence as Laird finally caved in and held the dog biscuit on his palm for Ebony to gobble up then ruffled his floppy ears.

‘Good dog.’ Laird grinned at the eager boy, looking him up and down, as he tossed the dog’s ears around. ‘Cor blimey, you’re shooting up, Clive. You’ll be taller than me in a year.’

Clive smiled happily, looking at the policeman’s hands then expectantly at his face.

‘Sorry, lad. Nothing for you, Barney’s was closed when I swung past.’ When Clive’s face fell, Laird whipped out a paper-wrapped lollipop on a stick. ‘Lucky I keep these for special occasions.’

Clive let out a delighted yelp and tore the lolly out of the officer’s hand and set about the wrapping with frenzy.

‘What do you say, lad?’ said Clive’s father, walking up the path towards Laird for a handshake.

‘Thank you, Walter,’ said Clive, finally able to plunge the orb of hard orange sugar into his mouth.

‘Evening, George,’ said Laird. With a rueful expression he handed over a sturdy door key. ‘Well, that’s the last of it shifted. Thanks for this, neighbour.’

‘What are friends for?’ smiled George Copeland.

‘It’s just for emergencies,’ said Laird. ‘There shouldn’t be any problem but an empty house can invite bother. The new owners have got the other keys and should be moving in next weekend. Just give them the spares when they get settled, will you?’

‘Will do. What are they like?’

‘They’re a nice young couple, George. Just got married.’

‘Fellas never learn, do they?’ chuckled Copeland, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He saw Laird eyeing them. ‘Want one?’

‘Go on then. I left mine in—’

‘Your other coat,’ smiled the older man, striking a match. ‘You all set then?’

‘Aye,’ said Laird, looking back down the road to the house with the SOLD sign outside. ‘I’ll certainly miss the place.’

‘Pastures new, though.’

‘Aye. Off to the new house now, do a bit of painting so it’s nice for her majesty.’ He gestured to the car, a metallic-grey Jaguar Mark X, and the blonde lady attending to her nails in the passenger seat.

‘Nice,’ said Copeland, impressed.

‘The car or Linda?’ asked Laird, chuckling.

‘Both,’ grinned Copeland. ‘Though the motor’s probably got a better engine.’ The two men laughed long and loud.

‘Whoa,’ shouted Clive, removing the lollipop to gawp at the car a few doors away. ‘A Jag,’ he exclaimed then vaulted over the fence for a closer look.

‘Don’t put your grubby hands on it, Clive,’ Copeland shouted after his son.

‘He’s all right,’ said Laird.

‘A Jag though – that promotion’s moved you up in the world, Walter.’

Laird grinned. ‘Not yet, George. It’s not mine – borrowed it off the boss while my old banger’s still in the garage.’

‘Your DI not need a car then?’ asked Copeland.

Laird’s face strained, trying to find a delicate answer. ‘He’s not well, George, been off work for a week or so.’

Copeland raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘Again?’

‘He lost his wife, George.’

‘Aye, two years ago. You can’t keep covering for him, Wally.’

Laird’s expression hardened. ‘I can and I will, if he needs me to. It’s called loyalty.’

Copeland shook his head. ‘It’s your funeral, lad.’ His smile reappeared. ‘Speaking of funerals, when’s your wedding?’

‘Steady on,’ laughed Laird. ‘We’ve only just got engaged.’

‘Who’s just got engaged?’ asked Clive, barely audible through the lolly.

‘Young Walter here,’ said Copeland. ‘He’s getting married.’

‘Is that good?’ asked Clive innocently.

Matilda Copeland, a striking sixteen-year-old, emerged from the house. She wore a tight sleeveless blouse and shorts and held a bare arm up against the waning sun. ‘Uncle Walter’s getting married?’ she said.

‘Aye,’ confirmed Laird, beaming at her. ‘That’s me off the market.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Matilda.

‘Thanks, pet,’ said Laird. ‘And how you enjoying life as a Barney’s shop assistant?’

‘Loving it,’ she said. ‘Be even nicer if I got to keep some of my wages,’ she added for her father’s benefit.

‘Be nice if you helped your mother round the house a bit more, an’ all,’ said Copeland, winking at the grinning Laird. ‘Bit of luck, you’ll meet a nice young man like Walter here and start giving your mother some grandkids.’

‘Mmm, sounds exciting,’ retorted Matilda drily.

‘Have you seen the car Walter’s driving?’ said her father. ‘That’s what hard work brings you, young lady.’

‘Not his hard work, though,’ said Matilda.

‘Eh?’ said Copeland.

‘It’s borrowed,’ she explained. ‘I heard him say.’

‘Doesn’t miss a trick, this one,’ laughed Laird. ‘She’ll go far.’

‘Aye, too far one day,’ observed Copeland. ‘Thought you had a headache, madam.’

‘I’m feeling a lot better, Dad.’ She knew what was coming and smiled to disarm her father.

‘Just not well enough to go to church this morning, is that it?’

A sassy comeback played around her pretty mouth for a moment but she settled for, ‘Thought I’d take the dog out. Get some air. You know how much I like to help out.’ She stroked her curmudgeonly father’s thinning hair. ‘You should wear a hat in this sun, Dad.’

The two men laughed. ‘Cheeky beggar,’ said her father.

‘What’s funny about that?’ said Clive, to cause more merriment. Confused, he looked from face to face.

Matilda called the dog to her and she set out along Radbourne Lane towards Station Road.

‘Can I go with her, Dad?’ pleaded Clive.

‘No. Get them marbles cleared up and get ready for bed.’

The boy blew out his cheeks in dismay. ‘O-kay.’

‘And don’t you be long, young lady, it’s already half past eight,’ Copeland shouted after Matilda. ‘Just round the estate.’ She raised an arm in acknowledgement without looking back. Copeland rolled his eyes at Laird. ‘Kids today.’

‘You don’t need to tell me, George.’ Laird straightened, preparing to leave. ‘Half eight, you say. Didn’t realise it was so late.’ He looked at Copeland’s wrist for confirmation but saw no watch.

Copeland noticed him looking and nodded towards an untidy figure, shambling along the pavement in the same direction as his daughter, a trail of cigarette smoke billowing behind him. ‘Don’t need a watch, Wally, when not-so-clever Trevor’s on his way to the Northern for his four pints. Half eight on the dot. Every night without fail.’ He laughed. ‘And I’d be going with him if I lived on me tod.’

‘You’d make a good detective, George.’ Laird hesitated. ‘Everything OK with Matilda?’ he ventured, nodding at the retreating figure of Copeland’s daughter.

‘Don’t worry, Walter,’ said Copeland, his face suddenly severe. ‘I keep more than a weather eye on that one, thanks to you.’

‘A weather eye on what one?’ asked Clive, the lolly stick hanging out of the side of his mouth, a box of marbles nestling under his arm.

‘Never you mind,’ replied his father. ‘Ready for bed.’

‘But I want a ride in Walter’s car,’ whined Clive.

‘And what does wanting get you?’ demanded Copeland. ‘Bed.’

‘Yes, Dad,’ mumbled the boy, his shoulders slumping dramatically. ‘See you Walter.’

‘Night, Clive. Another time for that ride,’ consoled Laird, giving him a pat on the head as he trudged away. With the boy inside, Laird and Copeland shook hands. ‘Thanks for everything, George.’

‘You’ll be missed, Walter.’

‘I’ll pop back from time to time,’ said Laird. ‘And I hope you and the lovely wife will be coming to the wedding in five years.’

‘Five years? You’ll not get away with it that long, lad.’ The two men’s laughter was interrupted by the impatient honking of the Jaguar’s horn. They laughed again.

Two minutes later Laird and his fiancée drove along Radbourne Lane, past the athletic, languid frame of Matilda Copeland as she guided Ebony off the main road and back into the estate. Laird sounded the horn as they passed and she raised an acknowledging hand, without turning to look. He watched her disappear in the rear-view mirror, the unkempt figure of Trevor Taylor shuffling along behind, his hooded eyes glued to Matilda’s backside. Laird returned his eyes to the road ahead, a strange sense of foreboding washing through him.

Fourteen

Brook turned on his laptop and wearily pulled the Stanforth file back towards him for another read-through. As the screen came to life and cast its light over the manila folder, Brook’s eye was drawn to a series of indentations on the cover that he hadn’t noticed before. He held the folder to the light and moved it around to decipher the marks. Something had been written on the folder and, later, vigorously erased, leaving a slightly lighter blue colour on the card.

A trace remained so Brook took a pencil and used the flattened point to rub lightly over the affected area. A couple of minutes later he was able to make out the faint outline of what had been removed.

Pied Piper

63 WS 1st?

22/12/73 JW 2nd or 3rd? Wrong MO

Dec 78? 3rd or 4th?

Others?

No 68. Why? FS?

‘The Pied Piper,’ mumbled Brook. A fairytale figure who played a magic pipe to entice rats away from a small German town.

He copied the note into his pad then removed all the documents from the Stanforth folder to search for any mention of a Pied Piper, missed first time round. He couldn’t find a single reference. However, by comparing several handwritten reports against the mysterious message, Brook found a match against a report signed by DCI Samuel Bannon, SIO of the Stanforth inquiry.

The Pied Piper didn’t just lure away rats, thought Brook, rubbing his chin. When the townspeople refused to pay, he lured the town’s children away from their homes as well. According to legend they never returned.