The Unquiet Grave (44 page)

Twenty-Five

Thursday, 20 December 2012

Scott gently opened his eyes to blackness and blinked rapidly to be sure they were open at all. Now, instead of waking with a start, Scott had adjusted, had gradually come to accept his situation, even in his sleep. No longer did he move to sit bolt upright when semi-conscious, no longer did he loose off a shout of despair. His life had changed, his environment had been reduced to an underground box with no way out and he had trained himself to ignore the screaming in his aching limbs and chafing skin, to keep perfect stillness as his default position.

It helped that he was growing weaker by the hour. Now it was easier to preserve the integrity of his tiny cell, to prevent the roof collapsing and the soil engulfing him forever. The urge to move, to stand and to turn was ebbing away as his breathing shortened. It would soon be over. He was almost glad. He moved a hand to rustle blindly in the plastic bag, fumbling for the final packet of biscuits and counting them out with his thumb like an abacus. Seven biscuits. And not even chocolate. He managed a bitter smile but the tears followed soon after, the salty liquid almost a welcome tide, carrying grit and other irritants away from his eyeballs.

He had only one thought now. Trapped, barely able to breathe or move, he could concentrate on only one thing: do whatever it took to survive in one form or another. He’d seen the light. Friendly faces beckoning him to the other side. Even Josh, the friend he’d betrayed.

Scott thumbed the scar on his palm at the thought of his dead friend.
Omerta. Blood brothers. We’ll be brothers in death at least
.

No, he would survive. Those miners on the other side of the world had survived for months and they got out fine. Better than fine. They were celebrities. On the telly every night, everyone wanting to speak to them, everyone thinking they were great. Ladies and gentlemen, the heroes of the hour. Loud screaming. Girls in the audience. Be like winning the lottery. . .

‘Scott!’

Scott snapped his neck to stare up to the top of the pipe. A face. A voice. Their eyes met and hope surged through him.

‘I’m here. Get me out, please. Hurry. Get me out. I want my mum. I want to go home.’ The flimsy barriers of stoicism inside the boy were washed away like a sandcastle at high tide and Scott sobbed uncontrollably, his limbs quivering, almost salivating with the prospect of movement. ‘Please, please, hurry.’ Blinking away the bitter tears, Scott glimpsed the man’s eyes at the other end of the pipe. His black eyes were creased in merriment, nodding faintly with satisfaction.

‘You’re hanging on,’ he said. ‘That’s good. You’ve been down there a long time.’

‘Get me out of here,’ shouted Scott.

‘Not long now, Scoot,’ said the man’s voice, his face creasing at Scott’s reaction.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Scott. ‘Why have you done this to me?’

‘Don’t you know, Scoot?’

‘Get me out of here now or my dad will kill you.’

‘Brrr,’ said the voice, breaking into a long low chuckle. ‘You’re scary.’

‘Please. Get me out,’ screamed Scott, happy to beg.

‘You’ll be out in a day or two,’ said the voice.

‘Mr Stapleton?’ shouted Scott in shock. ‘Is that you?’

‘What if it is?’ said the voice.

Scott couldn’t look at him. ‘I. . . I’m sorry about Josh. It wasn’t my fault.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ The chuckle broke out again. ‘I saw what you did to him.’

The aggression returned to Scott, adrenalin summoned from somewhere. ‘I didn’t do nothing.’

‘That’s a double negative.’

‘Let me out, you bastard. You can’t do this to me. . .’

The face grinned one last time before disappearing and Scott could see only a pair of hands either side of the pipe.

‘No, don’t leave me,’ screamed Scott. He was hoarse and his throat felt as if it was on fire. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he begged as the tears began again.

‘I’m not leaving you,’ said the voice, sounding more distant. ‘I’m getting you out of there.’

Scott’s face deformed in horror when he saw the hands stretch something over the end of the pipe. The breeze disappeared and although he could still see the sky and the hands working, his vision was distorted. Then he realised what it was. That stuff his mum used to keep food fresh. ‘No. Don’t. Please. Don’t. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.’

‘Course you can,’ said the man. ‘For a couple of days at least.’ When the man had finished wrapping the clingfilm over the end of the air pipe, he waved a hand across the boy’s disfigured vision in ostentatious farewell, ignoring the muffled pleas and screaming that dwindled to silence the further he walked away.

At five the next morning after a restless night of familiar dreams, Brook left his cottage wearing his walking gear, carrying shoes and a torch. He dropped them into the boot and drove out of Hartington through the dark and dank village streets.

A little over half an hour later, he pulled into the grounds of St Agatha’s Care Home, this time happy to park the car as far from the ivy-covered building as possible. Gently closing the driver’s door, Brook flicked on the torch and strode out of the car park to cross the deserted main road.

On the far side, he clambered on to a convenient stile and, balancing on top, surveyed the boggy field with his torch. Locating what appeared to be firmer ground, he jumped and landed with a slither before picking his way carefully to higher, drier pastures then set about climbing up and over the shoulder of land.

Half a mile of sustained walking later, Brook reached the crest of the hill and scoured the hillside in the pale light. He tramped around several fields without success before his eyes alighted on a ruined outhouse in the distance.

Five minutes later, Brook approached the outhouse and, when he was almost upon it, caught sight of a caravan beyond, nestling in the lea of a crumbling wall. Beyond that an old Land Rover sat hard by the other side of a second crumbling wall. He turned off the torch and, at reduced speed, crept noiselessly towards the settlement, taking care where he placed his feet as he drew near.

A wisp of wood smoke rose from the dying embers of a brazier fire, confirming habitation. A blackened cooking pot sat on the ground nearby. Apart from the faint glow of coals at the bottom of the rusting, punctured oil drum, the only other light came from the moon peeping occasionally between the clouds.

Almost at the caravan, Brook’s attention was attracted to the highest wall of the ruined outhouse. Four dead rabbits had been hung by their feet on a length of twine. Their bloodied heads were draining into plastic bags, intermittent black drips trickling through holes and down the stone on to the manure-rich ground.

In the shadow of the caravan, Brook took a breath and placed a gloved hand on the door. Too late he heard movement over his shoulder and before he could turn, a gun barrel was jammed into the back of his head.

‘Don’t turn round, copper,’ said a deeply gravelled voice.

Brook’s breath steamed hard in the cold air. ‘Take it easy, Brendan.’

The gun barrel tapped Brook sharply on the back of the head. ‘Shut it. And put your hands up.’

‘Where’s Amelia?’

This time the butt of a rifle caught Brook squarely on the side of his head and he staggered forward against the caravan. The man then grabbed Brook’s coat collar to fling him on to the cold wet ground.

‘I said shut it,’ he spat with real venom.

Brook scrambled on to his knees, turning to face Brendan McCleary, rubbing his ear. The old man’s face was in shadow under an Australian bushman’s hat but the rifle at his waist was impossible to miss. ‘Hands up, I said.’

Brook clambered to his feet. ‘Put that down, Brendan. I can’t help you if you threaten a police officer.’

McCleary took off the hat and threw it to the ground. His unkempt grey hair stuck out from his balding head. His crooked, blackened teeth appeared in a grin that split his whiskered jowls. He raised the gun to take aim.

‘You mean like telling everyone I’m a nonce. That your idea of help?’

‘That
wasn’t
my idea,’ said Brook.

‘Bollocks. You were there. I saw you. You and that young copper planting that filth in my place,’ McCleary snarled, shaking his head. ‘Kids. Little boys.’ He struck a fist into his chest, animated in his sudden rush of anger. ‘Now everyone thinks I’m a beast.’

‘We didn’t put it there, we just found it. And you’re right, we knew it was suspicious but DI Ford wouldn’t listen.’

‘Ford,’ said McCleary, his lip curling. ‘One of Laird’s lackeys. He did the press conference.’ The rifle lowered slightly.

‘That’s right,’ said Brook, trying to soothe. ‘It’s his case but Noble, the other officer you saw, is trying to put him straight.’

‘I don’t know nowt about that missing lad,’ said McCleary, lifting the rifle again.

‘I know,’ said Brook, his hands now in front of his chest, pacifying. He stared at the rifle, wishing he’d paid more attention in weapons seminars. ‘Now put the gun down so I can help you.’

McCleary looked at the weapon and back at Brook. ‘Help me? I don’t think so, copper. See this. I shouldn’t have guns. It says on my licence. But the beaks don’t understand. I need ’em for rabbits. I don’t have much money, see.’

‘What is it?’ asked Brook. ‘An air rifle?’

McCleary’s expression was contemptuous. ‘Do I look like a ten-year-old? It’s a twenty-two semi-auto, same as the one you got from my flat. It’ll do you plenty of damage, no messin’.’

‘How many rifles have you got?’ asked Brook.

‘Two,’ growled McCleary. ‘For rabbits.’

‘We didn’t find the other one, Brendan,’ said Brook, lowering his hands slightly. ‘It wasn’t in your flat. Someone must have taken it. Someone who planted those pictures.’

‘Someone took it?’ McCleary was confused. ‘Who?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Brook.

‘Then how did you know I was armed?’ said McCleary, becoming agitated. ‘It said in the papers.’

‘We found an empty box of cartridges.’

‘It don’t mean I’m going to shoot people,’ said McCleary.

‘I know,’ agreed Brook. ‘But they won’t take any chances. . .’ Brook left out the rest of the sentence.
With a convicted killer
.

‘With my sort, you mean,’ seethed McCleary. ‘You never let us forget, do you? Whatever happened to second chances? In the papers—’

‘Forget the papers,’ said Brook. ‘They don’t know you. And, if you give me that gun, I can speak to them – tell them you’re not dangerous.’

‘Give you the gun?’ repeated McCleary, incredulous. ‘I look like an idiot to you?’

‘Can I put my hands down at least?’

McCleary studied Brook. ‘No. Get on your knees.’

‘Brendan. . .’

‘Do it,’ shouted McCleary, tightening his grip on the rifle.

Brook knelt slowly. ‘You have to listen. Whoever planted those pictures took your rifle. They used it to shoot at my house.’

‘Shoot at your house? What are you on about? I don’t even know where you live.’

‘I know,’ said Brook. ‘It was somebody else, someone lining you up to take the blame for Scott Wheeler. If you don’t give me the gun, they’re going to kill you and then you’ll always be a beast. I can help if you trust me.’

McCleary managed a warped smile. ‘Trust a copper? No chance.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Brook. I’ve never killed a man before. Not sober, at least. It’s nothing personal.’ He lifted the rifle to take aim.

‘Why start now?’ asked Brook.

‘I’ve got guns, haven’t I? With my sheet it won’t be a fine, even when that kid does turn up safe.’

‘The guns are fixable, Brendan.’

‘Don’t talk me down, copper,’ shouted McCleary. ‘I blew my dad’s head off and sure as shit I’ll do the same to you.’

‘You’re making a serious mistake, Brendan.’

‘It’s serious for you, Brook, because I’m not going back in the box. Not even for a year on a gun charge.’

‘It needn’t come to that.’ Brook clambered back to his feet.

‘What are you doing?’ shouted McCleary. ‘Get back on your knees.’

Brook stood upright, his arms to his side. ‘You’re not a cold-blooded killer, Brendan.’

‘You know different, copper.’

Brook shrugged. ‘Well, if I’m wrong, at least I die on my feet.’

Both men stood completely frozen, McCleary with his hand on the trigger, Brook staring at the barrel. The wind picked up and buffeted both men but still neither moved.

Eventually Brook took a step closer. ‘You need to give me that rifle, Brendan.’

‘Stay back.’

Brook took another step. ‘Give me the rifle or shoot.’ He watched McCleary’s finger snake around the trigger and tighten.

‘Brendan!’

McCleary lowered the rifle and both men turned. Amelia Stanforth stood in the doorway of the caravan, a look of horror on her face.

‘That’s enough.’ Amelia marched across to Brendan, her face stern. She looked incongruous in hoodie and tracksuit. ‘Give him the rifle.’

‘Amelia. . .’

‘Don’t argue, Bren. Give it to him.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘We finally get a chance at a life together. . .’

‘Amelia, I—’

‘You boys and your silly guns.’

Shamefaced, McCleary handed Brook the rifle. Not sure how to make it safe, Brook simply pointed it at the ground.

Amelia handed Brook and McCleary cups of tea and sat with them on the banquette in the caravan’s small dining area. Rain began to hammer against the fibreglass roof but at least the sun was up. Somewhere.

‘How did you find us?’ asked Amelia.

Brook nodded at McCleary. ‘There was a letter from the Caravan Club in Brendan’s flat. And on my first visit to the care home, I remembered the wood smoke and the gunshots.’

McCleary looked sheepish under Amelia’s fleeting look. ‘I got a free twelve-month membership when I got the caravan, love. They don’t bloody leave you alone.’

‘Didn’t you see I had a ticket to London?’ Amelia asked Brook.

‘That was neat,’ said Brook. ‘But you should have bought two. I couldn’t see you making a break on your own. That’s when I realised Brendan was the prowler.’

‘That Jessica,’ said Amelia, shaking her head. ‘If she didn’t eat so much cheese, she’d be able to sleep at night. Well, this is a pretty pickle. What do we do now, Inspector?’