The Unquiet Grave (22 page)

Amelia thought for a moment then shook her head.

‘He was a large man with a round red face and breathing difficulties. He would have mopped his face quite a lot. Maybe you’ve forgotten.’

‘I didn’t see him, I tell you. Anyway, what’s the point? My brother Billy died. . .’ Amelia hesitated over information no longer as clear as it once was.

‘Forty-nine years ago,’ said Brook.

Amelia tried to hide her surprise. ‘Is it really?’ she exclaimed, narrowing her eyes to do the calculation. ‘My little brother would’ve been sixty-two years old in a week.’ She looked up at Brook and smiled suddenly. ‘You have a nice face. That other officer who used to call. . .’ she clicked a finger in frustration before it came to her. ‘Inspector Coppell.’ She beamed triumphantly.

‘DCI Copeland,’ suggested Brook.

‘Copeland.’ She nodded sombrely, her victory over Father Time somewhat diminished by Brook’s assistance. ‘Yes, that’s the one. He had a nice face too.’ Her mood darkened suddenly. ‘He had a sister, though. She died.’

‘That’s right,’ said Brook, surprised at this tangent. ‘Her death was in all the papers. She died two years after your brother.’

‘I read about it. What was her name again?’ asked Amelia.

‘Matilda,’ Brook recalled.

‘Matilda,’ she repeated, nodding in recognition. ‘I remember. Murdered, she was. Worm’s meat at sixteen.’

Worm’s meat
. Brook knew the phrase. Shakespeare. ‘A cold way of referring to the death of a young girl,’ he observed.

‘It’s from
Romeo and Juliet
,’ answered Amelia, missing Brook’s barb. ‘I studied it at school.’

Brook never ceased to be amazed at how the elderly could lodge things in the memory for many years and recall them with crystal clarity, yet often not know what day of the week it was.

‘A plague on both our houses,’ said Amelia, another tear forming in her eye. ‘A dead child from each. First Billy then Tilly Copeland.’

‘Tilly? Was that Matilda’s nickname?’ asked Brook.

‘That’s what he called her.’

‘So DCI Copeland spoke to you about his sister.’

For the first time in a while she looked at Brook. ‘Poor man. He carried a lot of pain. And his sister was so young. When he first came to talk to me in. . .’ she waved her hand in exasperation.

Brook raided his memory banks. ‘Nineteen seventy-eight was the first time DCI Copeland reviewed your brother’s case. He’d have been a DS back then.’

Amelia shook her head in wonder. ‘Nineteen seventy-eight. Where does the time go? Yes. DS Copeland. He still seemed to be in shock about his sister when he came to visit. And he asked his questions but there was nothing I could say to help him. I wasn’t there.’

Brook was confused. ‘You weren’t where?’

‘Sorry, dear?’

‘You said you couldn’t help Copeland because you weren’t there. Where do you mean?’

Amelia stopped to gaze at Brook. She seemed puzzled at first then smiled sweetly. ‘Sergeant Copeland had a nice face,’ she said finally. He couldn’t be sure but for the first time Brook got the distinct impression she was trading on her age to appear befuddled to avoid the question.

‘He wasn’t a bit like that Sergeant Laird.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Nasty man – always insinuating things.’

‘Murder isn’t pleasant,’ observed Brook, remembering how, as a DC and DS, he’d had to make the running, ask all the hard questions until promotion allowed him to delegate. ‘I’m sure he was just doing his job.’

‘And now Mr Copeland is worm’s meat himself, isn’t he?’ Amelia said.

‘Actually, no,’ answered Brook. ‘He retired as well.’

‘Course he is,’ she confirmed, not hearing. ‘That’s all we have to look forward to at our age – death amongst strangers. And I’m next. There’s no one left. The whole family gone and the Stanforth name with it.’ She looked up at him. ‘I never married, never had children, you see. And Billy and Fran. . .’ she shrugged and lapsed into silence.

Brook could see what Copeland meant about re-interviewing witnesses long after the fact. Resolution potential? Forget it.
Amelia Stanforth’s memory seemed clear one minute, foggy the next, leaving Brook unable to work out which utterance to trust. He glanced up at the cobalt sky. At least he was getting his fix of daylight.

He looked around to plot his escape then realised that he had nothing better to do, nowhere to go but back to his airless, artificially lit cell. For the next few minutes, he listened to her, nodding in that patronising way he’d always abhorred and sworn to avoid. He hoped no one behaved the same way when he became less able to see to his own needs and had to rely on the kindness of strangers.

A while later Amelia tired of Brook’s undemanding demeanour. ‘Did they tell you not to get me excited?’

Brook was sheepish. ‘Actually they did. Something to do with your pills.’

‘I thought so. I used to like a dance. Now look at me. Stuck in here. No family. No friends.’ She chuckled and stuck her tongue out at Brook. He was taken aback until the old woman lifted it and picked out a blue tablet.

‘They give me these to keep me calm.’ She flicked it gleefully into the thickest clump of rose bushes and giggled at Brook. ‘I’m sixty-four years old with a dodgy ticker and if I can’t get excited now, I might as well step under a bus. Not that there are any out here in the middle of nowhere.’

Brook sighed. This was pointless. Perhaps Greatorix had taken the right approach. Just find out who’s still alive, fill in the forms and move on to something useful. Brook put his notebook away and pulled his flimsy coat tighter.

‘Aren’t you taking any more notes?’

‘I have everything I need.’

Amelia shrugged. ‘You won’t get another chance, young man. Though what would be the point – nothing will bring back my Billy, right?’ She smiled. ‘He could be a little shit, always getting into fights about something or other, coming home with skinned knuckles and shiners.’ She smiled at the memory. ‘Billy gave as good as he got, mind.’ She looked into the distance again. ‘Sixty-two this year – hard to believe.’

‘Do you remember what happened that day?’ said Brook, half-heartedly taking the opportunity to prompt.

‘Hard to believe,’ she repeated.

Brook’s answering smile was thin. This was the coldest case on the books and dropping it into his lap was a waste of his time and skills.

‘You’ve got a nice face, Inspector.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re not married, are you?’

Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘How can you tell?’

‘When you’ve got a loved one at home, a part of you is always there with them. You can see that in someone’s face. You could see it in my face when. . .’ she hesitated.

‘When you were with Brendan McCleary?’ ventured Brook.

She said nothing for a while and her expression told Brook she was annoyed that she’d introduced the subject. ‘We used to walk out together,’ she acknowledged finally. ‘My father told me Brendan was no good. I took no notice. Well, you don’t at that age, do you? We were good together and I dare say we might have wed.’

‘What happened?’

‘Brendan didn’t want me, is what happened. He wanted someone else instead.’ She looked sadly into the distance. ‘Or thought he did.’

‘Who?’

Amelia roused herself to shake her head and dab a crooked hand at the corner of an eye. ‘It’s not relevant now.’

‘This is hard for you. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. It’s not your fault. And Brendan knows he wronged me. That’s some comfort.’

‘He told you that.’

She hesitated. ‘I could tell it from his face.’

‘When did you last see him?’

She glanced slyly at him. ‘Not for years. He went to prison.’

‘But do you know where he is now?’ asked Brook. ‘We want to ask him some questions.’

‘He knows he hurt me,’ she said, apparently deaf to Brook’s question. Her jaw tightened. ‘Brendan didn’t kill my Billy, if that’s what you’re implying. That’s not how he hurt me. Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that.’

‘I didn’t. You already told me. He betrayed you with another girl.’

Amelia looked at the sky with her pale eyes. ‘Another girl,’ she repeated as though trying to deduce the meaning. She turned her face to his and covered his fist with her frail papyrus hand. ‘I used to have nightmares about Billy, seeing him like that. There was nothing left. The shed burned down to ashes and Billy with it. What a blaze. Even in the cold and damp.’

‘That’s because there was an accelerant.’

‘What’s that, dear?’

‘An accelerant – a chemical used to start fires and keep them burning.’

She nodded. ‘You mean the paint thinners. I remember. Petrol too.’

‘What about Brendan?’ asked Brook, persevering. ‘Did you see him that afternoon?’

She sighed. ‘What a blaze.’

Brook produced a piece of paper to try another angle. ‘This is a list of all those at the party. Most were Billy’s friends – twenty of them, plus you, your parents and Francesca.’

She reached for the paper, scanning the list of names, in turn smiling and frowning. ‘Charlotte Dilkes,’ she said at one point. ‘She was sweet on Billy. Always following him around, trying to get him to kiss her. What does D mean? Dopey?’ she giggled. ‘Charlotte was certainly that.’

‘Amelia, Brendan’s not on the list of guests but was he there? Did you see him?’

‘You sound like that nasty man, Laird.’

‘Do I?’ said Brook. ‘Then tell me. Did Brendan see Billy that day? Did you see Brendan?’

‘Brendan. I remember he hurt me. I didn’t deserve it.’

Brook sighed in frustration but decided he just had to go with the flow. ‘What did he do?’ he asked.

‘Threw me over for some little trollop.’

‘Your sister Francesca said she saw you crying. Is that why you cried? Because Brendan had another girl?’

Amelia glanced warily at him and Brook sensed she’d realised that her tears that day were a matter of dispute. ‘Younger than me, she were,’ she said, ignoring Brook’s prompting. ‘I would’ve given him the world but he wanted some child over me. Me!’ she insisted, tapping a frail fist against her breast.

‘Can you remember her name?’

‘I told you, it’s not relevant.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘Not relevant, he said. Forget about her, he said.’

‘Who said forget about her? Brendan?’

‘He hurt me.’ She held the paper to her bosom and her eyes closed. Tears were squeezed on to her cheeks. ‘Deceased. It means deceased. Charlotte’s dead. She drowned. I remember. That nasty man thought we’d done it.’

‘DS Laird? Why would DS Laird think you and Brendan killed Charlotte? And where is Brendan now?’

‘He was my boyfriend. I loved him. He loved me.’ She glanced up at Brook then looked furtively around. The sky was darkening and a cold breeze stirring. Most of the other patients had gone in. ‘Do you have a cigarette? I’m not allowed.’

‘I don’t smoke,’ replied Brook.

‘Brendan always had cigarettes.’ She smiled wistfully.

‘Amelia, I need you to try and remember. What was Brendan’s other girlfriend called?’

‘I don’t know where he got them. The newsagent wouldn’t sell him any. Bit of a rogue, my Bren.’

Brook gave up. Even if Amelia could reply, her evidence just wasn’t reliable. He fell into line with her topic of conversation. ‘Did Brendan give Billy cigarettes?’

‘Miss Stanforth, time to get you indoors into the warm,’ said the young orderly in whites, walking towards them. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia if you stay out here much longer.’

‘I’ll be there in a minute, Craig.’

‘See that you are.’ He grinned. ‘You’ll miss out on the Bingo if you dilly-dally.’

Amelia smiled for Craig’s benefit.

Brook tried again. ‘The files said Billy was a smoker, according to the statement from his friend.’

Amelia returned her gaze to the piece of paper. ‘Teddy,’ she nodded after alighting on the correct name, ‘little Teddy Mullen. There’s no D next to his name. He’s still alive, you said?’

‘As far as I know,’ said Brook.

‘And they say the good die young.’ She scanned the names again. ‘He was a sensitive little thing. Didn’t like losing at bobbing apples. Said I cheated him. Threw a right strop.’

‘Edward Mullen?’

Amelia nodded. ‘Nothing to him. A good breeze would have blown him over.’ She laughed. ‘The way he used to follow our Billy round. Like a lapdog. Worshipped the ground he walked on, did Teddy. Best mates forever.’

‘Can you remember when you last saw Mullen?’

‘Let me see. He was at the funerals at St Michael’s – that’s the local church. First Billy’s, of course. Then he came to see Fran into the ground. Nice of him. It must have been quite a journey by then because he’d moved away to Derby. That would be in nineteen sixty-eight. No, Fran died on Billy’s birthday in sixty-eight. The funeral was nineteen sixty-nine. Yes, January sixty-nine.

‘Poor Francesca. Eighteen. What age is that to go and sit beside the Lord when I’m gone sixty? I wish Mum and Dad hadn’t been alive to see Fran under the earth. Billy nearly did for the pair of them. But burying
two
of your children, well, it’s not natural. Mum and Dad were never the same after Billy. They often used to say they died in that fire. Fran said the same.’

Amelia struggled to her feet and Brook went to help her. ‘Fran got along as best she could after the fire but she was dead inside. They were twins, you see. They had a connection. All that love. But rivals at the same time. It must be difficult sharing everything. Mum’s womb, birthdays, the same bedroom, new clothes – always having to share the attention, the love. When Billy passed, she couldn’t cope. Barely spoke and left school early, and as soon as she was old enough to earn she started to drink. Gin and brandy, I think, and plenty of it. Drugs, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Little by little she lost the will to live and killed herself. . .’

‘Officially her death was an accident.’

‘Well, there’s accidents and there’s accidents,’ retorted Amelia. ‘She drowned her sorrows with a bottle of gin. Afterwards she drowned herself in the bath. Isn’t that a form of suicide? Getting drunk and putting yourself in harm’s way.’

‘I suppose. What about Edward Mullen? Was your sister’s funeral the last time you saw him?’