The Unquiet Grave (49 page)

‘How do you know this?’ asked Charlton, looking from Mullen to Brook, fighting his own nascent smile.

‘There
was
a Floyd Wrigley involved in the original Reaper inquiry in London, sir,’ said Noble. ‘I’ve read about it.’

‘The Reaper case! Yes,’ said Mullen, turning to look gleefully at Brook.

‘Is that true?’ Charlton asked Brook.

‘About Floyd Wrigley?’ said Brook. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Mullen’s correct. Wrigley did live in Brixton and his throat was cut. It’s public knowledge. He and his family were killed by the Reaper.’

‘Brian Burton wrote a book about the case after the Reaper struck in Derby,’ put in Noble.

‘Brian Burton, yes,’ nodded Charlton uncertainly. ‘I remember it.’

Mullen’s confidence turned to confusion when he saw the pity in the expressions of his audience. He turned to see DC Cooper behind him, holding aloft a book in his gloved hands. It was called
In Search of the Reaper
, by Brian Burton.

‘Is this the book?’ said Cooper.

‘That’s the one,’ confirmed Noble.

Mullen turned back to Brook, his face draining of blood. ‘Where did you get that?’

‘It was on your bookshelves, sir,’ said Cooper.

‘That’s a lie!’ said Mullen, trying again to stand but being pushed down again. ‘Brook brought that with him or else one of you planted it.’

‘How many allegations are you going to make tonight, sir?’ said Charlton.

‘I’ve never owned that book,’ said Mullen. To Brook he said, ‘You planted it. Admit it.’

‘You need help, Mr Mullen,’ said Brook.

‘Hang on, there’s a page marked,’ said Cooper. He opened the book and showed the page to Charlton who stared at the underlined name of Floyd Wrigley.

‘Mr Mullen,’ said Charlton quietly, taking the book and showing the page to the old man. ‘When you level false accusations against any of my officers, I guarantee I’ll come at you with everything the law allows.’

‘That’s not my book, I tell you,’ Mullen spluttered.

‘It was on your shelf, in your home.’ Mullen was silent. After a pause, Charlton continued. ‘So, we’ll forget the wild allegations, shall we, sir? Before you get into any more trouble.’

Mullen opened his mouth to speak but thought better of it. He glared at Brook. Brook held his gaze before glancing at the chessboard then back again. His meaning didn’t escape Mullen.
Game over
.

Mullen stared back at him.
OK, I’ve lost a battle but I’m winning the war
.
‘Very well. But I want you out of here,’ he insisted, dredging up a semblance of indignation. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

Charlton couldn’t argue. He looked round at Brook. ‘Is there anything more?’

‘There’s a shed at the back of the house,’ said Brook, glancing at Mullen. His slender hopes were dashed when a confident smile began to spread across the elderly man’s face.

‘And then will you leave?’ said Mullen.

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Charlton smoothly, already plotting a course back to being the helpful public servant rather than law enforcer.

Mullen got grudgingly to his feet and, feigning disability, hobbled to the rear of the house to pluck a bunch of keys from a hook.

The senior officers of the search party trooped through the back door after Mullen, Brook in tow, his heart heavy. As Brook had surmised on his previous visit, the garden at the rear was a jungle, with grass and weeds above waist height. The overgrown path had to be negotiated with care, torches trained on the ground to avoid animal excrement and slugs. At the ramshackle shed, Noble took the padlock key from Mullen, unlocked it and pulled open the flimsy door.

The blades of a helicopter roared overhead and a strong searchlight illuminated the scene. Brook glanced at Charlton.

‘Ours,’ said the Chief Superintendent.

Three lights shone into the shed and Noble squeezed himself inside, head stooped. He walked to the far end of the shed, knocking forlornly on walls, ceiling and floor with a knuckle. The structure was virtually empty and when Noble returned he had only a shiny new spade and garden fork to show for his search.

‘Gardening tools,’ said Mullen, trying to keep the smugness in check. ‘Satisfied?’

‘Well, that’s it,’ said Charlton, turning away. ‘I’m sorry you were inconvenienced, sir.’

‘Inconvenienced?’ cried Mullen above the roar of the helicopter. ‘I’ve been violated and you haven’t heard the last—’

‘Wait!’ said Brook. All heads turned.

‘What?’ said Charlton.

‘The spade.’

‘What of it?’ demanded Charlton.

‘It’s new,’ pointed out Brook.

‘And?’

‘Right. Why does he need a spade at all?’ said Noble. ‘He’s not using it in this garden.’

Charlton turned to Mullen. Brook was thrilled to see anxiety spread across the old man’s face. ‘Well, sir. Do you have an explanation?’

Before Mullen could answer, Noble spoke. ‘Sir, DI Brook asked me to look into Edna Spencer’s affairs.’

‘Edna Spencer?’ answered Charlton. ‘What has—?’

‘Years ago, she and her husband lived a few streets away in Overdale Road.’

‘So?’ said Charlton.

‘So, behind Overdale Road there are garden allotments and the Spencers had one that backed on to their house,’ continued Noble. ‘They even had a gate put in, I think.’

‘She moved to Mount Street years ago,’ said Brook.

‘But she kept the allotment,’ said Noble. ‘It’s still in her name and the annual subscription is renewed every year. It was in her financial records.’

‘That’s why Mullen killed her,’ said Brook, looking at the old man’s deathly white features for confirmation. ‘He’s got the allotment and that’s where the bodies are buried.’

‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ shouted Mullen. ‘But DI Brook did. And he’s not the only copper I know. . .’ Brook gestured Cooper to escort Mullen back to the house. ‘No, you’ve got to listen to me,’ shouted Mullen, before he was led out of earshot.

‘I thought the allotment was searched when Wheeler went missing,’ said Charlton.

‘It was,’ confirmed Noble. ‘Every shed. Every greenhouse.’

‘You don’t use a spade to hide people in a shed,’ said Brook.

Charlton nodded. ‘Does the warrant cover it?’

Noble nodded. ‘House and grounds.’

‘Get the dogs.’

Twenty-Seven

It was four in the morning
yet still Clive Copeland sat on in his dark conservatory, oblivious to the passage of time. When he did look up, his eyes found the treeline of Osmaston Park and beyond it the lake, in which his sister’s body had floated for four summer nights almost five decades ago.

He lifted his hand and with it the gun, examined it as though for the first time, almost in wonder. He caressed the stock, stroked the muzzle and ejected the clip, checking it for the hundredth time, before heaving it back up into the handle. Without looking at it, Copeland flicked the safety catch on and off with his thumb.

The phone rang somewhere in the house but aside from a brief dart of the eyes, Copeland didn’t react. It tripped over to answering machine.

‘Sir, this is DC Cooper. We’re in Normanton and we think we may have caught a break on the Scott Wheeler case. It ties into some of your old inquiries so DI Brook thought you might want to be here.’ Cooper gave directions to the allotment and hung up.

The machine cut out but Copeland remained motionless. He raised the gun with two hands and simulated taking a shot out into the night then stood to gather up his car keys from a table.

The owner of Edna Spencer’s old home on Overdale Road was already at the front door, alerted by the helicopter overhead. His curiosity turned to concern when a delegation of police officers opened his gate and marched up to his house.

‘Sir, we need access to your back garden.’ After Charlton had quickly explained the situation and been granted the permissions he needed, he gestured several uniformed officers towards the rear of the house, two of them with sniffer dogs. Brook, Noble and Cooper followed.

The bottom of the back garden allowed no admittance to the allotment but the constables set to work removing the old doors and planks which barred the way where once there’d been a gate.

‘Why isn’t Ford here?’ asked Brook.

‘Dave rang him but he wasn’t in,’ said Noble.

‘And Clive?’

‘Same.’

The obstructions were cleared and the dog handlers led the way into the dark allotment beyond. The helicopter moved overhead to illuminate the ground.

There were no sheds or greenhouses in this part of the allotment, just a cordon of overgrown fruit trees, making it difficult to see the ground from outside and above. Looking across the terrain, Brook was the first to spot the sawn-off drainpipe protruding a few feet from the soil. ‘Over here,’ he shouted, running over to it. The aperture at the top of the pipe had been covered with clingfilm, now damp with condensation. Brook tore it off and recoiled from the harsh stench of ammonia. He shone a torch down its length. He could see what looked like an arm. It was inert and covered in filth.

‘Scott!’ shouted Brook. No movement. He stepped back to examine the area around the pipe.

‘Is he there?’ pleaded Charlton.

Brook nodded. ‘He’s there.’

‘Alive?’

Brook didn’t answer. One of the search team readied a spade but Brook threw an arm across him. ‘Wait. The ground’s untouched. It could take ages to get through and if we dig on top we might bring the whole lot down on him.’ Brook took the spade from him and began probing around the plot. ‘There has to be an easier way.’

Like Brook, the officers with spades began probing around the site, their breath steaming in the sharp air. Meanwhile, Charlton leaned over to Cooper. ‘Get back to the house and take Mullen into custody.’ He looked back at Brook jabbing the spade gingerly into the soil around the pipe. ‘And get the paramedics in here, stat.’

Brook hit something metallic with the point of the spade. ‘Here.’

Charlton, Noble and Cooper watched Brook and the search team carefully but quickly lift dirt away from around the pipe. Brook glanced around at his surroundings as he worked. At the edge of the helicopter searchlight he saw two other plastic pipes standing proud from the ground. They were older and weathered. Still digging, he gestured across to Noble who nodded in grim comprehension.

A moment later, one of the search team fell to his knees, shouting. He uncovered a metal handle, brushing dirt away from it. Brook knelt down to help and the pair pulled it firmly upwards. A large heavy board began to move and the pair recoiled as one from the stench. Other bodies bent to hoist the board further skywards. At forty-five degrees, large sods of freezing wet soil began to slide off until the assembled officers were able to propel the board, its air pipe still attached, away from the hole.

Everyone blanched at the aroma of human waste emanating from the boy and each member of the search team shared a look of horror with a colleague. The boy was covered in dirt, crawling with insects and his blackened, motionless form was wasted and unrecognisable. What parts were visible showed his skin like parchment, cracked and infected.

‘Scott,’ shouted Noble, jumping down into the foul-smelling grave and brushing dirt away from the boy’s mouth and nose. A paramedic arrived beside him to check the boy’s airways. Noble placed a finger against Scott’s neck as more paramedics ran towards them.

‘I’ve got a pulse,’ shouted Noble, suddenly hoarse with the release of tension.

The paramedics eased Noble out of the way and jumped down to tend to the boy, forcing a mask over his uncovered mouth and nose. After massaging the boy’s chest and his extremities for thirty seconds or more, the rapt audience sighed with relief at a cough and a splutter. Scott’s lungs began to fill with oxygen and the paramedics prepared to heave Scott on to a gurney.

In the harsh light, Noble’s face began to quiver. He pushed the back of his hand across his mouth to staunch the flow before gazing across at Brook. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed before the tears began to fall.

Brook nodded, tight-lipped, his own sangfroid beginning to crumble. He felt Charlton’s gloved hand slap him on the shoulder and stay there as they watched the boy being hurried to the ambulance.

‘That goes for all of us.’ Charlton’s face was creased with happiness. ‘Damen.’

Back on the concrete of Overdale Road, Charlton and the CID officers were greeted by Brian Burton and a photographer now alerted to the drama taking place. Cameras flashed and Charlton basked in the limelight but wasn’t too self-satisfied to forget Brook. He turned to grab his arm and hold it aloft. ‘Here’s your hero, Brian. DI Brook saved Scott Wheeler’s life.’

Burton tried to smile as he recorded the quote in his notebook. Brook tried not to, as he watched the journalist making notes, his teeth grinding in frustration.

And your third-rate book saved mine, Brian
.

Half an hour later the adrenalin of the chase had evaporated and Brook, Charlton and the others began to feel the rigours of a long day and night. Edward Mullen had been taken to St Mary’s Wharf for processing and SOCO teams were commencing the grisly business of excavating Mullen’s allotment for further victims. Noble had left with the ambulance after ringing Scott’s mother with news of her son’s survival.

Fortunately the cold drizzle had kept most sightseers away but both local and national TV and press had joined Brian Burton at the newly erected crime scene perimeter where Charlton had made various statements to the media.

Before he left for the night he made sure of a parting word with Brook. ‘You’ve filled up the mortuary today, Brook,’ said Charlton, declining to mention the detrimental effect on budgets. ‘And you’ve taken a serial killer out of circulation. The citizens of Derby are grateful. Go home and get some rest.’

Brook nodded and shuffled away in apparent compliance, dragging his weary body back to his car outside Mullen’s house, refusing all requests for an interview.

As he slid into the driver’s seat, Brook glanced across at Mullen’s decomposing home, its appearance befitting the evil that had been hatched there. Blue-suited technicians were already beginning the process of taking Edward Mullen’s life apart, to bureaucratise and render banal the details of his sad and twisted life. Brook was glad to leave them to it and embark on his short journey.