The Unquiet Grave (17 page)

‘You missed your question mark,’ mumbled Brook, tapping out his scrupulous reply. ‘It’s still pension day. He may go there first.’
He finished with ‘Nothing better to do’
but deleted it.

‘Want back-up?’
replied Noble
.

‘No,’ Brook sounded as he texted.

Twelve

Thursday, 13 December 2012

The next day Brook drove straight to McCleary’s local post office on Normanton Road, glad of the chance to avoid the station and all those, including Charlton, who might feel inclined to comment on his unflattering appearance in the local paper.

There was a café nestled between all the Asian stores and Brook settled into a window seat with a tea, propping a printout of an old picture of McCleary against the salt cellar. Immediately his nostrils were assaulted by the smell of frying bacon and he realised how hungry he was. He’d eaten nothing but boiled rice smeared with Laughing Cow cheese the last few days and knew he had to take on board some proper fuel or risk falling victim to the winter weather.

Thirty minutes later Brook finished his all-day breakfast as though it was his death row meal, savouring every salty mouthful and chasing the last of the egg yolk round the plate with a triangle of white toast. After the hot meal, Brook became sleepy so he switched to drinking bitter powdered coffee while his gaze alternated between his notebook and the doors of the post office.

After a fruitless morning, Brook paid his bill and drifted out on to the street.

Having scanned the perimeter fence for photographers, Brook trudged wearily towards the station through the rain, only a full belly and a bag of Indian groceries in his boot to show for his morning’s work. He might have hurried had he not been aware that he was saying goodbye to natural light for another day.

To dampen his mood further, Hendrickson was leaning on both elbows at reception, reading Brian Burton’s puffed-up story on the counter. When the desk sergeant lifted his head, the grin began to form immediately.

‘The Chief Super was looking for you,’ he said. ‘Sir.’

Brook nodded and quickened his step.

‘You also had calls from
East Midlands Today
and Radio Derby wanting a word,’ called Hendrickson to Brook’s retreating frame. ‘I told them you were on a tea break.’

Brook kept walking.

Barely able to keep the laughter at bay, Hendrickson added under his breath, ‘That’s right, mental boy. Run away.’

Brook, nearly at the double doors, stopped dead. After a few seconds he turned slowly to face his grinning tormentor. ‘What did you say?’

Hendrickson’s expression took on the innocence of the cornered schoolboy. ‘Sir?’

‘I asked you what you said,’ replied Brook evenly, slowly retracing his steps towards reception.

‘The Chief was looking for you,’ replied Hendrickson with an air of insouciance.

‘After that.’

‘
East Midlands Today
.’

‘After that.’

Hendrickson looked mystified. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Sir.’

Brook arrived back at the counter and rested his hands lightly on the polished wood. He looked coldly at the grey-haired sergeant and fancied he detected a sliver of doubt flash across his flabby face. ‘Yes, you do. You called me mental boy.’

They were quite alone so Hendrickson swivelled round, his arms wide, seeking corroboration from non-existent witnesses. ‘I think you must have imagined it.’ He smirked at Brook then inclined his head slightly back towards the empty office to imply a pressing need to work.

Brook grabbed Hendrickson’s uniform lapels, pulling the sergeant’s upper torso down towards the wooden counter so that his right cheek was pressed against the wood, heavy jowls spilling across the surface. At the same time his left hand twisted Hendrickson’s thin black tie round his throat so he could do no more than splutter in shock and try to breathe normally. Then Brook pushed his own face into close proximity, his nostrils flaring, his eyes bulging with restrained violence.

‘Doesn’t an out-of-condition bag of guts like you worry that one day mental boy could lose his grip and do you some harm?’ snarled Brook through gritted teeth. ‘Think about that before you ever speak to me again.’ Brook held the old man’s gaze a second longer then released his hand and stalked away, looking calmer than he felt.

Hendrickson righted himself, rubbing his throat, his face borscht-red. ‘You fucking nutter,’ he spluttered. ‘You can’t do that to me, I’ll have your fucking job for that.’

‘For what?’ asked Brook, turning back to Hendrickson, arms out, looking round for support from the same non-existent witnesses who’d backed up the sergeant a moment earlier. With a thin smile, Brook continued towards the stairwell.

Hidden from view at the top of the stairs, Brook pulled out Hendrickson’s mobile phone, filched from the breast pocket of his uniform. It was new and expensive and it took him some time to find the text Hendrickson had sent to Brian Burton on the morning of Brook’s return to work.

When he found it he read it, this time with genuine anger. He was about to put the phone back in his pocket when a thought occurred. He flicked to Burton’s acknowledging text and pressed REPLY before tapping out a message in his usual painstaking manner but this time remembering to lower the standard of his grammar.

A moment later he re-read the text before sending.

‘Brook flipped out. Taken to Stoke loony bin in straightjacket. Not sure which one. Under false name.’

Shortly after, the vibration of Burton’s reply shook Brook’s pocket.

‘Big ta H. On my way. Another mega drink innit 4 you. Lol. Got him.’

Brook nodded in satisfaction then deleted both recent messages so Hendrickson would be unaware of the new communication when he was in possession of his phone again. The thought of how to return the mobile without an ugly confrontation soured Brook’s sudden good mood and he continued down the stairs to the basement, deep in thought.

As he reached the bottom of the gloomy stairwell, he became aware of raised voices. He heard an angry, ‘And I say no,’ from a voice that sounded like Charlton’s.

Brook froze at the bottom of the stairs, just able to hear the pair in the corridor leading to his and Copeland’s CCU rooms.

‘Did you see the evening paper?’ the voice continued. It was definitely Charlton and the subject needed no explanation. ‘He’s already attracting negative publicity.’

‘That’s hardly his fault,’ was the reply. Copeland.

‘It’s always his fault,’ rejoined Charlton.

‘Brian Burton has been a wart on this city’s nose for longer than I care to remember,’ declared Copeland. ‘He’s a sewer rat and you mustn’t let someone like
him
decide how Derbyshire Constabulary is run.’

Charlton was as taken aback as Brook by Copeland’s forcefulness. ‘Mustn’t?’ inquired the Chief Super.

‘Shouldn’t, I mean,’ replied Copeland with a little more diplomacy.

‘That’s better,’ said a mollified Charlton. ‘Clive, you don’t know Brook like I do. He goes out of his way to rub people the wrong way. I’m sorry but you can’t let him anywhere near it.’

‘It’s too late,’ replied Copeland. ‘I’ve already. . .’

Brook had kept very still but the creak of his weight on the step caused the conversation to halt. Despite tiptoeing to a quieter step Brook’s movement caught Charlton’s eye and his surprise was picked up by Copeland, who turned to follow the Chief Superintendent’s gaze. Brook had no choice but to continue towards them and both men smiled tightly at him as he approached, Hendrickson’s phone still in his hand.

‘Brook. How are you settling in?’ Charlton asked stiffly.

‘Very well,’ said Brook, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘I like my new office. It’s cosy and the work is interesting,’ he added, avoiding Copeland’s sceptical expression.

‘Good, good.’ The disappointment in Charlton’s voice induced a small swell of triumph in Brook, though his unscheduled presence on the front page of the local paper would doubtless be the next topic of conversation.

Brook’s sweaty hand nestled against the stolen phone, ready to produce it in his defence and both he and Copeland watched Charlton’s mind ticking over as they waited for the inevitable. To Brook’s astonishment the subject wasn’t broached.

‘Well,’ said Charlton, turning away. ‘Don’t let me keep you from your valuable work.’

A commotion from the stairs drew their attention. ‘You fucker, Brook. Give me my fucking phone,’ screamed Hendrickson at the top of his voice. He jumped down the last two steps and came face to face with a dumbfounded Charlton and Copeland, Brook beaming politely behind them.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sergeant?’ shouted Charlton. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

‘Sir, I’m sorry—’

‘Sorry?’ shouted Charlton even louder. ‘Not as sorry as you’re going to be. What’s the meaning of this outrage? I want to know now.’

Hendrickson was panting, red-faced, looking from Charlton to Copeland to Brook, who was trying to maintain an inquiring expression. ‘Sir, Inspector Brook’s got my mobile.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ boomed Charlton.

‘I said—’

‘And you think that justifies shouting and swearing at a superior officer like that?’

‘Sir, I—’

‘You’re not fit to wear that uniform. Get to my office, now.’

Hendrickson didn’t move but eyed Brook instead. ‘Sir, I—’

‘Did you not hear me?’ Charlton was almost screaming in his apoplexy.

The sergeant began again. ‘Sir, I’m sorry but I must tell you—’

‘Sergeant Hendrickson, I do apologise,’ said Brook, theatrically examining his cupped hand. ‘You’re right. I must have picked up the wrong phone when we were chatting upstairs. Here.’ He extended his arm to Hendrickson.

The uniformed officer, his breath almost regained, took the phone on a reflex.

‘So, you’ve got your phone back, now get to my office, pronto,’ barked Charlton, no calmer.

Again Hendrickson hesitated, looking from face to face. He turned to Charlton, his mouth open to speak.

Brook chipped in, the model of contrition. ‘I should have seen from the names on your contact list that it wasn’t my phone, Sergeant. I’m very sorry.’

‘I don’t think it’s you who should be apologising, Inspector,’ put in Charlton.

‘Nevertheless, I owe the sergeant a
mega drink
for picking up the wrong phone.’ Brook’s eyes bored into Hendrickson’s as he repeated Burton’s phrase.

Hendrickson, crushed, lowered his eyes. He turned back to the stairwell and plodded slowly back up to the ground floor, shoulders hunched in defeat, as though dragging a bag of coal behind him.

Charlton looked at Brook. ‘I’m sorry about that, Inspector. I’ll see that you get a full apology, providing Hendrickson can convince me he still belongs in my division.’

‘If you think it will help, sir,’ said Brook. ‘You’ll excuse me.’ He stepped quickly past the pair and headed down the corridor, listening for the resumption of whatever argument Copeland and Charlton had been having. If it did continue, he didn’t hear it.

A few seconds later, Brook opened Copeland’s door and stepped smartly inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He flicked at the full kettle and glanced across at the desk. There were two files on the blotter. Brook hurried over to Copeland’s desk. The Wallis file was on top, the Ingham file underneath. Two Derby families brutally butchered in their own homes by a serial killer called the Reaper, the last crimes of a killer officially still at large after more than twenty years, since his first kill in London in 1990.

Brook hadn’t been the SIO when he’d hunted the Reaper during his time in the Met, he was only a DS, but the case had obsessed him and by the end of 1991, his sparkling reputation had been tarnished and his marriage irretrievably damaged. To complete the set, Brook’s failure to catch the serial killer in London had taken a toll on his mental health, culminating in a nervous breakdown and, eventually, a much-resented transfer to Derby CID – much-resented by local officers, that is, affronted that a burnout from the Metropolitan force could be dumped in their division and deemed fit for duty.

Brook hastily flicked through the two files, looking for any notes or addendums made by Copeland. He couldn’t see any. Perhaps any holes he had picked in Brook’s investigations were written separately. He returned the files to the desk, fighting the urge to rifle through the drawers and hastening back to the kettle just as Copeland walked in.

‘Brook,’ said Copeland, a little startled. His eye shot to his desk.

‘Clive,’ answered Brook. The kettle clicked at the right moment. ‘Tea?’

‘You found a mug then?’ asked Copeland suspiciously.

‘Left it next door,’ tutted Brook, nipping across the corridor to fetch it. On his return he glanced discreetly at Copeland’s desktop when his colleague’s back was turned. The files were gone.

Brook poured hot water into two mugs, itching to ask why Charlton and Copeland had been arguing but he knew he couldn’t introduce the subject without revealing he’d overheard their conversation. ‘I suppose you saw the evening paper.’

‘I saw it,’ confirmed Copeland. ‘What have you done to Brian Burton to deserve that?’

‘He’s a self-serving bloodsucker,’ said Brook.

‘And even knowing you so briefly, I’m guessing you couldn’t help but tell him,’ grinned Copeland.

Brook acknowledged with a lift of his eyes. Guilty as charged. He couldn’t thank Copeland for his support against Charlton either so he tried to be subtle. ‘I was expecting a harder time from the Chief Super,’ he said casually.

‘He’s not as bad as you think,’ said Copeland, looking at Brook.
If he did hear us, he’s not showing it
. ‘And I can’t believe you’re worried about his good opinions.’

‘Only if it impacts on my work,’ replied Brook.

‘Is that why you told him how much you’re enjoying your new role?’ asked Copeland, suppressing a smile. Sheepish, Brook didn’t answer. ‘I take it Sergeant Hendrickson’s another member of your fan club.’

‘He’s the secretary
and
treasurer.’