The Unquiet Grave (43 page)

‘There were others. Davie Whatmore in nineteen eighty-three. Callum Clarke in eighty-eight. And now Scott Wheeler. They all disappeared on or just before Billy Stanforth’s birthday.’

Laird laughed again. ‘Scott Wheeler? What’s this now? The twenty-odd-year itch. Listen to yourself, Brook. Scott Wheeler’s dead. Brendan McCleary took him, raped him, killed him and buried him somewhere. When you find that scumbag, you’ll find Scott Wheeler.’

‘Sam Bannon knew who the Pied Piper was, didn’t he?’

‘Give it a rest, Brook. It’s time you went.’

‘He worked it out.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘He worked it out and he knew he was in danger,’ said Brook. ‘He knew someone was watching the house.’

‘Sam was paranoid, I’ll give you that,’ said Laird. ‘The poor man had lost the plot.’

‘He told you he was being watched?’

‘Yes, he told me,’ retorted Laird. ‘Said the Piper was after him and Rosie. He wanted me to look after her if anything happened.’

‘Something did happen,’ said Brook. ‘Bannon died.’

‘Think I don’t know?’ shouted Laird. ‘My best friend finally flipped out and killed himself, leaving his daughter to fend for herself. But still I helped him out, and her,
because
he was my friend.’

Brook was silent for a few moments before making his concession. ‘OK, let’s say I accept that Bannon was unbalanced.’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘Just the same, he must have told you about the Pied Piper.’

‘Told me what?’

‘Told you who he was.’

‘He was unbalanced, you said yourself.’

‘That doesn’t mean he couldn’t give you a name, no matter how insane you thought he was.’

‘There is no Pied Piper,’ Laird croaked. ‘He told me nothing. And if he had, I wouldn’t have listened. I’d had enough and put the phone down on him.’ He ran a shaky, liver-spotted hand through his thinning white hair. A tear followed the irregular contours of Laird’s cheek as it rolled unevenly down his face. ‘Are you happy now? I let him down. I wasn’t there for him when he needed me. Now I’ve answered more than my share of questions and I think you should leave.’ He jammed a thumb and finger up to his eyes, panting with emotion.

Brook sat motionless for a moment but then stood. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

Laird looked up to plead with Brook. ‘Don’t come back until you’ve found Brendan McCleary and put him back behind bars.’

It was already dark when Brook parked in the overflow car park of St Agatha’s and hurried through the light rain to reception. Sharmayne, the girl on duty from his last visit, was at the desk but instead of a look of polite inquiry, her face betrayed alarm and relief.

‘Inspector Brook. Thank God. You got the messages then?’

‘Messages?’

‘We’ve been ringing you all morning but your phone was off. Amelia Stanforth’s gone.’

Brook hung his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘No, I don’t mean dead, I mean she’s disappeared.’

‘What? When?’

‘We’re not sure. When the nurse went to wake her this morning her room was empty. The staff are searching the grounds but there’s no sign yet.’

‘Maybe she made a bolt for the village?’ suggested Brook. ‘You said that happens sometimes.’

‘Not during the night,’ replied Sharmayne. ‘And there’s something else. One of our residents reported a prowler a while back and she says she saw him again last night.’

‘If there was a break-in you should’ve called nine nine nine.’

‘There wasn’t a break-in,’ said Sharmayne. ‘The French window in Amelia’s room was unlocked from the inside as though she let someone in. Also some of her clothes and a bag are gone. There’s another thing.’ Sharmayne cast around the surface of her desk, picking up an opened envelope and handing it to Brook. ‘We found this on her bedside table.’

Brook pulled out the paper. It was a confirmation slip for a coach ticket from Derby to London at six o’clock that morning. ‘Arriving in London at nine twenty,’ he read out.

‘If that’s where she’s gone, she’ll already be there,’ said Sharmayne. ‘What should we do?’

‘You didn’t call the police?’

‘She’s not a prisoner,’ said Sharmayne. ‘She’s a free agent. They all are.’

Brook closed his eyes to think while Sharmayne prattled on.

‘She’s here by choice and if she wants to leave—’

‘Is she on medication?’ interrupted Brook.

‘Of course. She has a bad heart and takes tablets for blood pressure. They’re gone too.’

‘OK. Finish searching the grounds,’ said Brook. ‘But if there was a prowler, you can’t be sure she left voluntarily so if you don’t find her, report her missing.’

Back in his car, Brook sat and thought it through.
First Edna, now Amelia
. . . Instead of finishing the list, he turned the ignition.

‘Mr Mullen,’ shouted Brook, pounding on the front door, the smell of dog excrement assaulting his nostrils. He heard the stairlift apparatus clunking into life and stopped knocking. It seemed to take an age to descend so Brook stepped along the crumbling path to his right to gaze at the rear of the house for something to do. In the dark, he spied a decaying old shed barely standing in the far corner of the back garden, almost engulfed in the branches of an overgrown tree. There was a rusted padlock on the door. The path to the shed was nearly undetectable under the assault of uncontrolled mosses, grass and weeds. Brook could only imagine what the rest of the garden was like. For the first time he understood the logic of Walter Laird’s maintenance-free yard.

The whine of machinery ceased and Brook returned to face Edward Mullen at the front door. The old man stared back sullenly.

‘Inspector.’

‘Mr Mullen. Sorry to disturb you again. I thought you ought to know, Edna Spencer was found dead yesterday.’

‘Dead?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Mullen shook his head. ‘Poor Edna. I should say I’m sorry but she was in a lot of pain. And after her husband passed—’

‘She was murdered,’ announced Brook.

Mullen’s bony hand shot to his mouth. ‘What? Are you sure?’

‘There’s no doubt.’

Mullen blew out his cheeks. ‘This is a shock.’ He stared at the ground, regaining his breath. He made to close the door. ‘Thank you for telling me, Inspector.’

‘That’s not the main reason I’m here,’ said Brook.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Mullen.

‘I need to ask a quick question.’

Mullen blinked and nodded. ‘Very well.’

‘You remember DCI Bannon? He was the senior investigating—’

‘I remember him,’ inserted Mullen. He smiled suddenly. ‘Was that the question?’

‘No,’ was Brook’s abrupt reply. ‘Bannon was at Francesca Stanforth’s funeral.’

Mullen was surprised. ‘Francesca?’

‘That’s right,’ echoed Brook. ‘Amelia told me you were there too.’

Mullen stepped back from the door. ‘You’d better come in.’

‘I don’t—’

‘It’s cold,’ interrupted Mullen.

Brook dutifully walked into the dark lounge. Mullen closed the door and hastily lit a couple of candles. The wood burner was glowing faintly. Brook sat at Mullen’s request.

‘What about her funeral?’ said the old man, levering himself down opposite Brook.

‘At some point during or after the service, DCI Bannon spoke to Billy’s mother.’

‘Mrs Stanforth?’

‘That’s right. It would have been quite an animated conversation, maybe even an argument, because Mrs Stanforth complained about Bannon’s behaviour in writing and he received a reprimand.’

Mullen steepled his hands under his nose. ‘Yes. I remember the incident. There was some shouting.’

‘Can you remember what it was about and what Bannon said?’ asked Brook.

Mullen narrowed his eyes. ‘It’s a long time ago. Did you ask Amelia?’

Brook hesitated. ‘I can’t. She’s missing.’

Mullen’s jaw dropped in shock. ‘Missing? What do you mean?’

‘She wasn’t in her room this morning,’ said Brook. ‘She may have gone on a trip.’

‘A trip?’ said Mullen. ‘On her own?’

‘We’re not sure.’

‘That doesn’t sound right, Inspector.’

‘No,’ agreed Brook. ‘We’re looking into it.’

‘I see. Well, I hope—’

‘Mr Mullen,’ said Brook sharply. ‘DCI Bannon.’

Mullen stared at Brook before rocking himself upright to go to the cupboard where he extracted the half-full bottle of port. He poured himself a small glass and gestured towards Brook who declined with a shake of the head. ‘The Chief Inspector asked Mrs Stanforth if she’d seen Brendan McCleary the night Billy died. In fact he seemed most insistent that she had. He badgered her until he was asked to leave.’

‘I see,’ said Brook, nodding. ‘And Mrs Stanforth denied it?’

‘When she’d stopped crying, yes. Does that help?’

Brook smiled minutely and got to his feet. ‘That’s a big help. Thank you.’

‘I don’t see how,’ said Mullen.

Brook hesitated. ‘I now know that Francesca Stanforth was murdered.’

‘Murdered?’ exclaimed Mullen. ‘But her death was supposed to be an accident.’

‘Accidents can be faked,’ said Brook. ‘Especially with heavy drinkers.’

‘Can you prove it?’

‘I can certainly try.’

‘Who?’ inquired Mullen. ‘Brendan?’

‘Who else?’ Brook moved towards the door. ‘Thank you. I won’t trouble you further.’

‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Mullen. ‘I don’t want to rake all this over again. Billy’s birthday is near.’

‘I understand,’ replied Brook.

‘Inspector, wait.’ Mullen stared at Brook. He took a sharp breath and held a hand to shield his eyes as though in pain. ‘I think I ought to warn you. There’s somebody with you.’

Brook was puzzled. ‘No, I’m quite alone.’

‘I don’t mean in the car. I mean with you now, a spirit shadowing you.’ Mullen closed his eyes and gripped his throat.

Brook’s eyes glazed over. ‘This is all very entertaining,’ he said drily.

Mullen opened his eyes wide. ‘Your companion. . .’

‘In case you weren’t aware, I’m not impressed by this mumbo-jumbo.’

Mullen ignored Brook. ‘He’s trying to speak but it’s difficult.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Brook.

‘He wants to know what happened to him,’ explained Mullen.

‘Don’t we all,’ said Brook. ‘I’ll see myself out.’ He marched to the front door. ‘Give my love to Marilyn Monroe,’ he added over his shoulder.

‘Do you know anyone called Floyd?’ said Mullen urgently at Brook’s retreating frame.

Brook halted halfway across the threshold. He turned slowly back. ‘Floyd?’

‘Floyd.’ Mullen smiled beatifically at Brook. ‘Tall, black male, well-built. He’d have been about thirty-five years old when he died. Did you know someone by that name?’

Brook’s eyes burned into Mullen’s. ‘Yes, I knew somebody by that name. Many years ago. In London.’

‘And he died a violent death?’

‘You’ve done some research into my past,’ said Brook sourly. ‘Congratulations.’

‘Research?’ said Mullen. ‘No, I merely report what I see.’

‘For a fee,’ snapped Brook. ‘And I’m not buying.’

‘I told you, I can’t turn it on and off.’

‘You should make more effort.’

‘Don’t you want to know how he died?’ smiled Mullen.

‘I know how he died,’ said Brook.

‘There’s blood on his teeth, in his mouth,’ Mullen offered.

‘There would be,’ said Brook. ‘Floyd Wrigley had his throat cut. He was the victim of a serial killer called the Reaper in nineteen ninety-one. And those facts are a matter of public record.’

‘Then why does he cling to you for answers, Inspector?’ said Mullen.

‘Maybe because I found the body.’

‘That must be it,’ nodded Mullen. ‘I’ll say goodbye then. I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you again.’

Brook turned to march towards his car, his mind replaying their conversation. He could feel the old man’s eyes following his every step. Light rain was beginning to fall.

‘Inspector!’ shouted Mullen from the doorway. Brook turned to listen, his car keys in his hand. ‘You must meet a lot of bad people,’ said the old man. ‘And I’m not one to judge.’

Brook held his eyes for a moment before climbing into the driver’s seat.

Mullen watched him drive away before closing the door on the world. Shivering, he returned to the warm lounge and took another sip of his drink, looking across the long oak table towards the chessboard, now shorn of combatants as the endgame approached.

Brook was sombre when he pulled up at the cottage an hour later. After lighting the wood burner, he sat down with a larger than usual malt and plucked a book from a dusty bottom shelf.
In Search of the Reaper
was Brian Burton’s woefully inaccurate volume that attempted to make sense of the murder of a family in Derby several years previously. Three members of the Wallis family had been slaughtered in their own home by the Reaper, a serial killer who had been active since his first strikes in London in 1990 and 1991.

Brook had tried and failed to bring the Reaper to justice as a DS in the Met. Then, when the Reaper had apparently followed Brook to his new posting in Derby many years later, he’d tried to catch him again as a detective inspector. All files remained open and, officially, the serial killer was still at large.

After burning his throat with a large swallow of whisky, Brook flicked through the index to find the name Floyd Wrigley. Wrigley, a drug addict and dealer, had died in ’91 in his poky flat in Brixton. His wife and daughter had died with him, their throats cut by the Reaper.

Brook had been first on the scene and, according to Burton’s third-hand account, had found the family dead in their home.

‘A matter of public record,’ said Brook, journeying back to that unhappy time and remembering the girl Wrigley had violated and butchered, so long dead.
Laura Maples
. The sight of her decaying, rat-infested corpse had invaded his dreams for years.

He drained his glass and fetched a pen, underlined the name Floyd Wrigley in Burton’s book then bent down the page. He slipped out to the car and threw the book into the boot and brought back the three pieces of junk mail taken from McCleary’s flat, binning the first two. The third held his attention for a moment. He tore open the envelope and examined the contents before consigning them to the refuse with the others.