The Unquiet Grave (50 page)

He pulled his car into Rosie Shah’s drive but instead of jogging up the steps and pounding on the door, he crept into the back garden and let himself into the shed. He flicked on the desk lamp and stared at the Pied Piper wall, its mass of papers still waving in the draught from his entrance. One newspaper strained enough to finally pull its drawing pin from the wood and clattered to the floor.

Brook stooped to pick it up. It was a 1978 edition. Harry Pritchett’s doomed grin stared back at him. It was a page he hadn’t seen before – a picture of Harry behind a chessboard, his black combatants scattered in the Sicilian Defence.

Brook shook his head. ‘Insane,’ he mumbled, pinning the yellowing print back in place.

‘Who’s insane?’ asked Rosie from the door of the small bedroom.

Brook was startled. ‘Rosie! I’m sorry. I thought you’d be asleep in the house.’

Rosie stepped into the main room. She was fully dressed. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was in the neighbourhood. . .’ he hesitated, ‘and I needed to get a couple of hours’ sleep.’

‘Don’t you have a bed at home?’ she teased.

Brook hesitated. ‘I also needed to speak to you before anyone else does.’

Her face registered the gravity of Brook’s tone. ‘What is it?’

‘There have been developments,’ he said softly. He plumped for the good news first. ‘We found Scott Wheeler.’

‘Alive?’

Brook nodded.

Rosie’s face creased with joy. ‘That’s marvellous. Is it something to do with that bloody helicopter keeping everyone up?’

Again Brook nodded, his face drawn.

‘And the Pied Piper?’

He sighed, picking his words. ‘I can’t discuss it but it looks promising.’

Her face erupted in tears and she ran towards him, throwing her arms round his neck. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she spluttered. ‘After all these years.’ Her hands stroked his neck, pulling and hugging him, the emotion shaking her body to its core. Finally she pulled away from his unyielding frame and stared into his ashen face.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘We found another body late yesterday – the skeleton of a young male in Osmaston Park Lake. We think it’s Colin Ealy.’

Rosie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my God. The gamekeeper.’

‘The gamekeeper,’ repeated Brook. ‘He didn’t run away. He never left Derbyshire.’

Rosie couldn’t mistake his tone and her face hardened. ‘And why did you feel an urgent need to tell me this?’

‘Because Colin Ealy knew something about Matilda Copeland’s murder and was killed for it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Whoever abducted and killed Matilda was seen by Ealy. He was scared. Maybe he tried to run but someone cracked open his skull when his back was turned.’ Brook stared at Rosie, his expression grim. ‘Then, alive or dead, he was placed inside an old crime scene body bag and weighed down with stones by someone who knew what he was doing. A professional,’ he added pointedly. ‘Then he was dropped into the deepest part of the lake, probably from one of the boats the gamekeepers used.’

To Brook’s surprise, Rosie suddenly smiled. ‘And you think my dad killed the gamekeeper because he recognised him from the night the girl’s body was dumped.’

‘Walter Laird confirmed your story about the day your father visited the lake. Reluctantly, I might add.’

Rosie laughed now, shaking her head for good measure. ‘You’re wrong.’

‘Rosie, I understand—’

‘No you don’t. Dad wasn’t at the lake that night—’

‘Rosie—’

‘Because he didn’t abduct Matilda Copeland.’

‘You don’t know that. Your dad was in turmoil, you said it yourself.’

‘But he couldn’t possibly have been at the lake.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because he was pissed out of his head in the Half Moon up the road.’

‘Rosie, you were only two years old.’

‘You remember I told you about Dad’s disciplinary record.’

‘Yes,’ said Brook doubtfully.

‘I told you he’d got a couple of written warnings about his behaviour. One was for harassing Ruth Stanforth at her daughter’s funeral; the other was for getting drunk and into a scuffle at his local on the night Matilda Copeland disappeared. That’s why Walter Laird had to take the call on his own. So, you see, Colin Ealy couldn’t have seen my dad at Osmaston Park Lake the night Matilda was dumped. He was drunk. He could barely walk, never mind abduct and kill a young girl.’

Brook’s mind was racing as parts of the jigsaw fought to rearrange themselves in his brain. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely certain. He was drinking in the local from opening time to last orders and beyond. After the fight, the landlord closed up and walked Dad home with a friend. He even helped my aunt put him to bed. I remember her saying it was well past midnight.’

Brook stood there unmoving so Rosie grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him to the desk. She opened a drawer and after a few moments’ rummaging, extracted a document and thrust it at Brook. It was another disciplinary letter. Sam Bannon had got falling-down drunk and into an altercation with another customer in the Half Moon public house in Littleover on 31 August 1965, the night Matilda Copeland had been abducted. He received a formal reprimand about his conduct.

Brook lowered his hand and stared at the disc of light on the desk. His eyes came to rest on the photograph of the young Walter Laird and Sam Bannon leaning on Bannon’s Jaguar. Brook’s eyes closed in realisation.

. . .
when his back was turned
. . .

‘Brook? Are you OK?’

He opened his eyes to look at Rosie. There were questions he wanted to ask her to confirm what now made sense but he knew he didn’t have the time. Instead he smiled. ‘I’m glad.’

‘I’m so glad you’re glad,’ said Rosie haughtily. ‘You’re going?’

‘I have to.’

‘But—’

‘The dead will keep a little longer, Rosie. I have to see to the living.’

Brook ran to his car, his fatigue forgotten. He pointed the car at the inner ring road and fifteen minutes later squealed to a halt outside Clive Copeland’s village home.

Unlike his previous visit, there was no sign of life and the house was dark. Brook hurried through light rain to bang on the door. A censored light came on but nothing else stirred. The drive was empty. Copeland’s car was gone.

Brook jogged back to his car, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket.

‘John. How’s the boy?’

‘Stable. Are you home yet?’

‘No, why?’

‘I meant to tell you, Terri rang me.’

‘When?’

‘A few days ago, after you were shot at. She wanted to know what was wrong when you brushed her off for Christmas so she rang me to get a straighter answer.’

‘What did you tell her?’

‘The truth,’ said Noble. ‘I said you were safe and I’d let her know when things were back to normal. I texted her five minutes ago, so expect a call.’

‘I suppose I should thank you,’ said Brook after a pause.

Noble laughed. ‘No, just don’t lie to her next time. She’s a grown woman.’

‘Right,’ said Brook feebly. He jumped behind the wheel and turned the ignition. ‘I can’t talk now. . .’

‘There’s something else, something bothering me.’

‘John, I’ve got to go.’

‘It’s about Josh Stapleton’s murder and the Pied Piper.’

Brook was turning the car round but stopped in mid-arc to listen to Noble. ‘I’m listening.’

Twenty minutes later, Brook screeched to a halt in the dark and mounted a kerb outside the house. Not bothering to lock his car, he ran through the rain towards Laird’s terraced cottage and came to a halt at the plastic door with its funeral-urn knocker. Panting, he knocked on the urn whilst looking for movement inside. A faint light was visible through the mottled glass so Brook opened the unlocked door and hurried inside.

The single-bar fire was on and Brook could see the gnarled hand of Walter Laird gripping the arm of his chair. ‘Walter.’ No response. ‘Laird. It’s me. Brook.’

Brook walked to the chair and pulled it round.

Laird’s head tilted back to stare glassily up at him. Blood shone above his left eyebrow. He struggled to speak. ‘Brook. Thank God. I thought it were our Darren.’

‘Darren?’

With a flick of his eyes, Laird pointed Brook in the direction of the kitchen from where a voice sounded, calm and resigned. ‘He’s worried his son might turn up and get himself killed trying to stop me.’

Brook turned to see Copeland step from the shadows. He carried a gun. ‘Clive. You worked it out.’

‘That’s right, Brook. I worked it out,’ said Copeland, a bitter smile twisting his face. ‘Only took me forty-seven years. And me a DCI. Pathetic.’

‘He was your hero, Clive,’ said Brook softly, trying not to stare at the gun. ‘We blind ourselves to their faults.’

‘Well, I’m not blind now,’ replied Copeland.

‘It was the car, wasn’t it?’ said Brook. ‘That’s what Colin Ealy recognised, not Sam.’

‘The Jaguar Mark X,’ confirmed Copeland.

‘Ealy hadn’t seen a man the night Matilda’s body was dumped, that’s why there was no report of a sighting. But he
had
seen a car, he just didn’t realise it until he saw Bannon pull up in the Jaguar. But Bannon wasn’t driving it the night your sister disappeared, am I right? He couldn’t have been. He was falling-down drunk in a pub.’

‘Was he?’ said Copeland. ‘I wouldn’t know about that.’ He gestured at Laird with his gun. The old man lowered his head. ‘I only know that Walter loved that car. He often borrowed it. He had it that week to help him move.’ Copeland’s breathing revealed a quiver of deep-seated tension. ‘He even turned up in it after we reported Tilly missing on the night. . . after he’d. . .’ Copeland bit down on his emotions but felt no need to complete the sentence.

‘And after Ealy recognised the car, who would he tell?’ continued Brook, edging closer to Copeland. ‘Not Sam Bannon, obviously, not the owner of the car, but another policeman, someone he could trust. . .’

‘Someone he
thought
he could trust,’ said Copeland, staring at Laird. ‘That’s why Walter killed him.’

‘He had no choice,’ said Brook. ‘If Ealy mentioned the car to someone else, it wouldn’t take long to piece together. Must have been quite a shock, Walter, having to work so fast.’ No response. Brook eased himself a few more inches towards Copeland. ‘What did you do, Walter? Arrange to meet Ealy at the lake that night? Tell him not to speak to a soul until a case could be built against Sam Bannon. Must have been difficult.’

‘I doubt that,’ sneered Copeland. ‘Walter’s got a silver tongue.’

‘Still, so much to organise,’ continued Brook. ‘Rustling up a body bag without arousing suspicion. Can’t have been easy. There was already a convenient boat at the lake for the gamekeepers’ use. That was useful. You’d need it to get the body to the deepest part of the lake. I’m guessing you arrived early to hide the body bag, making sure you weren’t seen. Then, when Ealy appeared and his back was turned, you let him have it.’

Laird grunted in derision. ‘You’re off your rockers, the pair of you.’

‘It wasn’t the most satisfactory outcome because there was no evidence that Ealy killed Matilda,’ said Brook. ‘That would have sealed it. And you still had her clothes.’

‘Why didn’t you use them to incriminate Ealy, Walter?’ barked Copeland.

‘Oh, he would have if he could,’ said Brook. ‘But the van and the workshop had already been searched, remember. It would look suspicious if an item of your sister’s clothing turned up after that. No, better that Ealy just disappeared. And when the time was right, Walter could fake a sighting in Scotland to keep the pot boiling.’

‘You bastard,’ said Copeland. ‘That boy trusted you, Walter. Tilly too. And you murdered them.’

Brook took another step towards Copeland. ‘And Ealy wouldn’t have turned his back on Sam Bannon, not after seeing him get out of the Jaguar. . .’

‘I like you,’ growled Copeland, turning to Brook. ‘But if you take another step towards me, don’t kid yourself I won’t use this. I’d try to wing you but I’m no marksman.’

‘Clive, this isn’t—’

‘Sit over there,’ ordered Copeland, gesturing at a wooden chair. ‘Palms on the table.’

Brook hesitated, assessing his options before retreating past Laird to the cramped dining table. He placed his hands flat. ‘You can’t do this, Clive. It doesn’t count unless the killer faces justice. Your words.’

‘He’ll get justice,’ said Copeland, touching a hand to his crucifix under his shirt. ‘An eye for an eye – his life for Tilly’s.’

‘But you won’t be taking his life, Clive,’ said Brook sadly, ‘because he’s already lived it. Don’t you see? If you kill him he gets away with it.’ Copeland turned to hear Brook. ‘He doesn’t have to face his shame. He doesn’t lose his dignity. The only thing Walter has left is his reputation and that’s what we have to take. That’s why we need a confession.’

‘And how admissible do you think a confession would be with a gun to my head,’ snorted Laird, resurrecting a little aggression. ‘Dream on, Brook. I confess to nothing and there’s no proof I killed anyone.’

‘Don’t speak, Walter,’ said Copeland, raising the gun and gripping it hard then glancing over at Brook. ‘Walter’s right. It’s been too long. There’s no proof. No corroboration. He has to die or he gets clean away with it.’

‘You’re wrong,’ said Brook. ‘We got the evidence earlier tonight – a confession.’

‘I told you. I’m confessing to nowt,’ croaked Laird.

‘You don’t have to,’ said Brook. ‘We’ve got a witness and enough for a charge.’

‘Don’t bother talking me down, Brook,’ said Copeland. ‘We both know there are no witnesses.’

‘Hear that, Brook?’ cackled Laird. ‘Clive doesn’t believe you.’

‘I told you to shut up, Walter.’ Copeland stepped across to put the barrel of the gun against Laird’s temple.

But instead of cowering, the old man cackled. ‘Go ahead. Shoot, if you’re man enough. But I want a final cigarette. Allow me that at least.’ His chest continued to heave with merriment and Copeland’s calm demeanour began to disintegrate.

‘You murdering bastard. . .’

Brook stood quickly, hands raised, and sidled to the fireplace. ‘He’s provoking you, Clive. He wants you to shoot him because he doesn’t want to go to prison.’