The Unquiet Grave (32 page)

His bleary eyes came to rest on the small photo array of the Stanforth party gathered for a group shot, just hours before the fire that killed young Billy. He lingered on the two outdoor shots of Amelia and the younger children, posing in formation. Gazing blankly, he drank the details down into his semi-conscious mind. His eyes moved on but were drawn back. Then he stared harder.

A second later, he bounded from the chair and tore the formal shot of Billy and his grinning friends from its Blu-Tack fastenings. He also removed the tracing sheet that accompanied the group shot, identifying every partygoer where they stood. He counted the people in full view in both shots and compared them against the tracing paper and then against the guest list. ‘Twenty. Plus the Stanforth family.’ There was no mistake. All were accounted for.

Brook snatched the first attempted portrait from the board, the one ruined by the dog that had run across the shot. He peered at the willowy right arm reaching in from the edge of the frame to grab the black dog. There was a bracelet on the wrist.

‘So if everyone else is in position, who the devil are you?’ The question was answered before fully formed and his mouth fell open. He stared into space as he thought it through then scuttled over to the far wall to look at the large map of Derby. He found Kirk Langley then followed the single road south to Mackworth.

Radbourne Common was equidistant from both Kirk Langley and Mackworth. Brook tore across the corridor to Copeland’s empty office and grabbed the picture of Matilda Copeland on the desk. It was her. The dog, the bracelet. . .

‘What’s going on, Brook?’

Brook turned to face Copeland at the door but no words were necessary. As soon as the retired detective saw the picture of his sister in Brook’s hand, the Stanforth party photograph in the other, his eyes fell to the floor and he visibly sagged. After what seemed an age he shuffled, ashen-faced, to slump on to his chair.

‘I might ask you the same thing,’ said Brook, giving the old man little time to gather his thoughts. ‘Your sister and Billy Stanforth are in the same photograph on the day of his death.’

Copeland sighed and reached into the desk for a small flask. He poured what smelled like rum into the aluminium cap and drank it straight down. Brook sat opposite, refusing a drink with a swift shake of the head. After another shot of rum, the old man nodded. ‘This is a good thing. This is why I gave you the files. I was sure you’d make the connection.’

‘I’m flattered by your confidence,’ said a deadpan Brook. ‘But if you wanted me to review both murders, why didn’t you just tell me?’

‘I wanted you to—’

‘Never mind,’ snapped Brook. ‘I have a better question.’

‘What?’

‘When did
you
make the same connection, Clive?’

‘Have you read Tilly’s file?’ mumbled Copeland, ignoring Brook’s query.

‘I’ve read it.’

‘I want you to find her killer, Brook.’

‘Then answer my questions,’ demanded Brook. ‘Your sister died in nineteen sixty-five, two years after this photograph was taken.’

‘Yes.’

‘She was only fourteen in this picture.’

‘Yes.’

‘So she was at the Stanforth house on the day of the party.’

‘She was.’

‘Then I’ll ask again, when did
you
find out she was there?’

‘When I reviewed the Stanforth case for the first time in nineteen seventy-eight, I saw those pictures and I knew straight away it was Tilly.’

Brook’s brow creased. ‘You didn’t know until nineteen seventy-eight?’

Copeland took a deep breath. ‘You have to remember, I was just a boy when Tilly died. As a kid, all I thought about was football and cars. Tilly was sixteen, a young girl on the verge of womanhood, an adult in so many ways.’ He hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘Quite often she had to look after me when my parents were out, which she resented.’

‘Is this important?’ asked Brook.

Copeland nodded. ‘You see, it’s not that she didn’t love me, it’s just that I was holding her back when she. . .’ He choked on the words.

‘When she wanted to be with her boyfriend,’ finished Brook.

Copeland nodded again. He looked at the flask of rum but resisted. ‘Sometimes she’d say things, funny things, adult things, none of which made much sense to me at the time, they were just. . . odd.’

‘And that changed?’ asked Brook.

‘When I saw that picture in nineteen seventy-eight, I knew. And then those things she said, some of the sudden disappearances, made sense. You see, she was. . .’

When he couldn’t finish, Brook stepped in. ‘Matilda was Brendan McCleary’s other girlfriend.’

‘One of them,’ smiled Copeland bitterly. ‘Though Tilly didn’t realise she was just one of the chorus line until the day Billy Stanforth died, you must believe that.’

‘She wasn’t a virgin when she died,’ said Brook.

Copeland hung his head. ‘She’d been sexually active for at least a year before she died.’

‘How do you know?’

‘In nineteen seventy-eight, when I found that picture, I remembered some of the things Tilly had said. I went up to Leeds to see McCleary in prison. I asked him if he was having a sexual relationship with Tilly.’

‘And he told you?’

Copeland looked at the floor, shamefaced. ‘Not at first.’

‘But you persuaded him,’ concluded Brook, a grim smile on his face.

Copeland glanced briefly up at Brook’s eyes to check he’d not misread the tone. ‘Yes,’ he said softly, gaze firmly back on the floor. ‘It was easier back then.’

‘And McCleary told you he and your sister had been having sex.’

‘Yes.’

‘Must have been quite a shock.’

Copeland smiled weakly. ‘You have no idea.’

‘For your parents too. Or did they already know about McCleary?’

Copeland’s face was wreathed in pain. ‘Mum didn’t know that scumbag even existed, never mind the idea that Tilly was sexually active. But I think Dad must’ve known because I remember there’d been words between them a few months before she died.’

‘What about?’

‘About where she’d go all day. How late she’d stay out.’

‘She was still seeing McCleary.’

‘Yes. Anyway, by the time I found out, it was academic. Dad had already passed away and I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up in front of Mum. It would have killed her. I decided it was better she went to her grave. . .’ He couldn’t finish the sentence.

‘Believing her daughter had been raped and murdered rather than discover she was the willing sexual partner of a convicted killer.’

Copeland suddenly smiled at the bitter joke forming in his mind. ‘You make it sound so sordid.’ His merriment ceased instantly. ‘May I?’ He held out his hand and Brook handed back the picture frame which Copeland placed reverently back on the table facing his chair.

‘So you didn’t realise until nineteen seventy-eight that Tilly must have been running up towards Kirk Langley to meet McCleary the night she disappeared.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Pity you didn’t know the year before,’ observed Brook.

Copeland’s eyes widened in confusion. ‘How so?’

‘Nineteen seventy-seven was the first time you reviewed your sister’s murder, wasn’t it? As a CID officer.’

Copeland stared. ‘Walter Laird signed off on that review.’

‘But you did all the investigating,’ said Brook.

Copeland nodded. ‘Walter told you.’

‘Actually it’s common knowledge,’ replied Brook. ‘Laird just confirmed it.’

A lowering of eyes before Copeland nodded. ‘Yes, nineteen seventy-seven was the first year I was able to investigate my sister’s murder. As a DS.’

‘And if you’d known about McCleary and your sister it would have helped your review, no?’

Copeland smiled sadly. ‘It would. If only. . .’ He halted in mid-sentence.

‘What?’

‘If only I’d taken the dog out that night.’ Copeland’s eyes were back on the floor and Brook had the feeling he was finishing a different sentence. ‘It was my turn but Tilly said she wanted to do it. She must have had a date to meet McCleary. I never saw her again.’

Brook pointed at the arm grabbing the dog in the photo. ‘So why was Tilly at the Stanforth house that afternoon?’

‘She was meeting McCleary.’

‘Presumably she wasn’t invited to the party,’ said Brook.

‘Course not,’ replied Copeland. ‘From what we knew of McCleary, from what Walter Laird found out about that night, we think McCleary arranged to meet Tilly to spite Amelia for some reason, to show her up for some imagined slight. He was, still is, a nasty piece of work.’

‘When I interviewed Amelia, Tilly’s death came up,’ said Brook. ‘Now I know why. She must have been livid.’

‘I wasn’t there,’ said Copeland.

‘No, but you spoke to Amelia about Tilly in nineteen seventy-eight, when you were reviewing her brother’s case.’

‘Yes.’

‘What was her attitude then?’

‘What do you mean?’

Brook waved a hand in the air. ‘I only saw Amelia a few days ago but she hadn’t forgotten about Brendan and his other girlfriend. And with your sister turning up at Billy’s party, I can understand why.’

‘You’re right. She was still bitter in nineteen seventy-eight,’ conceded Copeland. ‘About Tilly, yes, but more about the way McCleary had treated her, I think.’ He looked up sharply. ‘You have to believe that Tilly wouldn’t have known about Amelia and she didn’t stay when she found out. She wasn’t there when Billy Stanforth was killed. She came back home that afternoon. Otherwise, Walter would never. . .’

‘Would never have been able to keep her name out of it,’ finished Brook.

‘No.’

‘And that’s why her name wasn’t
relevant
to the inquiry,
why he drummed it into all those children to forget Tilly was ever there, that they weren’t to mention her name.’

‘It was easy,’ said Copeland. ‘Kids did what policemen told them in those days.’

‘But why would Laird go to all that trouble to distort an inquiry like that?’ said Brook.

‘Because Walter Laird was, is, a friend of the family, long before I joined the force. He lived just a few doors away in the early sixties, knew Mum and Dad well. And he always dropped in presents at Christmas. Small things like liquorice for me and Tilly. Maybe chocolates for Mum and Dad.’

‘So in suppressing Tilly’s name from the investigation, Laird wasn’t protecting Sam Bannon, he was protecting your family.’

‘And Tilly’s good name. Don’t you see? She wasn’t involved,’ insisted Copeland. ‘Her being there
wasn’t
relevant. But to have her name linked with scum like McCleary. . . you’ve no idea what that could’ve done to her reputation in nineteen sixty-three.’

‘And at the time, you knew nothing about it,’ said Brook.

‘I was a child. I wasn’t told. I couldn’t have kept that quiet.’

‘But you say your father knew.’

‘Yes. I found out subsequently that Walter had told Dad, warned him so he could keep an eye on Tilly, try and keep her away from McCleary. It only made sense years later.’

‘I see.’ Brook shook his head in dismay. ‘So many secrets, Clive. This is what happens when you start down that road.’

‘I know. Walter regrets it but it didn’t seem a big deal at the time because Tilly wasn’t connected to the fire. . .’

‘She was connected to the statements witnesses wanted to make,’ said Brook emphatically.

‘He did it for Tilly’s sake, for her reputation. He went out on a limb for our family. He could have lost his job.’

‘And that’s why you’re in his debt.’

‘Yes.’

‘And why you told him I was investigating the Stanforth case,’ said Brook. ‘It wasn’t just professional courtesy.’

‘It was both.’ Brook grunted doubtfully before Copeland resumed. ‘You’ve got to understand, Brook. He was more than a friend to me, he was a hero, a great copper and I wanted to be like him, a big-time detective solving cases. He helped my career. I owe him a lot.’

‘So it would seem.’ Brook tapped a finger on his chin. ‘OK. Here’s what I can’t fathom. Walter Laird would have known you were reviewing your sister’s death in nineteen seventy-seven.’

‘Of course,’ said Copeland. ‘He signed off on it.’

‘Against all regulations.’

‘He did it out of—’

‘Loyalty and friendship,’ finished Brook, his voice clipped. ‘I heard you the first time. But tell me this. Why didn’t Laird tell
you
about your sister’s relationship with McCleary and her presence at the Stanforth party
before
you reviewed her case in nineteen seventy-seven? You were no longer a child, you were a colleague.’

Copeland hung his head, his voice becoming difficult to hear. He took another cap of rum. ‘God, I wish he had. But we’re talking twelve years after she died. Walter assumed I already knew. After Tilly’s death, Dad told Walter he was going to tell me about McCleary but he never did.’

‘I see,’ said Brook, shaking his head. ‘What a mess,’ he murmured eventually. Copeland didn’t deny it. ‘What about Sam Bannon?’

‘What about him?’

‘How does an experienced DCI like Bannon allow a detective constable to manipulate witnesses and an entire investigation like that?’

‘Because in nineteen sixty-three Bannon wasn’t around a lot of the time.’

‘But he was the SIO on a murder,’ insisted Brook. ‘He left the conduct of a murder inquiry to a detective constable? I don’t believe it.’ He thought of Noble. ‘A DS, maybe.’

Copeland sighed. ‘Sam Bannon was a great copper, Brook, but by December nineteen sixty-three he was a broken man.’

‘Because his wife had died,’ suggested Brook.

‘You know about that?’

‘I’m re-investigating the case, remember?’

Copeland smiled. ‘This is why I gave you Tilly’s file, Brook – your thoroughness. I checked your record on major cases and I don’t care what Charlton or any of the dickheads at this nick say. You’re streets ahead of them.’

‘That’s very gratifying,’ replied Brook.

‘You’re angry.’ Copeland’s expression hardened. ‘I suppose it’s understandable. Does that mean you won’t look into Tilly’s death?’

‘You were telling me about Bannon’s wife,’ insisted Brook.