The Unquiet Grave (53 page)

‘But you overcome it,’ said Brook.

‘Usually.’

Brook was pleased with the answer. ‘What would you have said to Clive if he hadn’t been dying?’

‘I can’t discuss what Clive—’

‘Hypothetically then,’ said Brook. ‘A man tells you he’s killed another man. What do you say to him?’

‘Did the man deserve to die?’

‘Clive thought Taylor killed his sister.’

‘I’m not talking about Clive,’ said the priest, his eyes burning into Brook’s. ‘We’re speaking hypothetically, remember.’

Brook’s gaze dropped. After a moment, ‘Yes, he deserved it.’

‘Very well,’ said Father Christopher. ‘I would tell that person to be ready to make reparation before God—’

Brook got to his feet. ‘I should be going.’

‘But I would also tell him that, in asking the question, he had already shown God he could be saved.’

‘Anything else?’ asked Brook.

‘I would ask if he performed good works to make amends for what he’d done.’

‘He tries to,’ said Brook.

‘Then he must continue. And when he is ready to save his soul, God will be waiting for him.’

Brook walked away but turned at the exit. ‘Where will he be waiting?’

‘God is everywhere,’ smiled Father Christopher. ‘But I’ll be at St Alban’s Church on Roe Farm Lane.’

‘What denomination is that?’

Father Christopher held Brook’s gaze. ‘Does it matter?’

Twenty-Nine

23 December 2012

‘What a mess,’ said Charlton, looking through Walter Laird’s statement. He glanced up at Brook. ‘And there’s no doubt?’

‘None.’

‘All those years Clive worked with Laird. He thought he was a god. . .’

‘Hero worship is never healthy,’ said Brook. ‘Especially for the worshipper.’

‘And with that kind of blind devotion, Laird would have no trouble skewing plenty of inquiries, I suppose.’ Charlton threw the statement on his desk and went to look out of the window. ‘Why confess to McCleary’s father?’

‘Sir?’

‘Aunt Tilly, Sam Bannon and that gamekeeper. Good clearances. But Malcolm McCleary – it’s water under the bridge. Brendan did the time without complaint. Who needs to know?’

Brook decided his response was better left unsaid.

‘Brendan served twenty years for a crime he didn’t commit,’ explained Charlton, thinking Brook hadn’t understood. ‘That will draw a big pay-off and it’ll be open season for all the lefties in the media.’

‘I’m sure Brendan would prefer the time back,’ said Brook drily.

‘Mmmm.’ Charlton narrowed his eyes at Brook. ‘How did you get all this out of the old sod?’ he asked, picking up the statement again and waving it at Brook. ‘I mean there’s not a lot to back all this up. If he’d taken the Fifth, we’d have had a tough sell to the DPP.’

Taken the Fifth?
Are you American?
Brook stared beyond Charlton’s head to avoid voicing the question. ‘He was keen to make a clean breast of things,’ Brook lied.

‘Without inducement?’ countered Charlton suspiciously.

Brook hesitated. ‘We decided there was scope for lesser charges against his son in return for Walter’s full and frank cooperation.’

‘Lesser charges?’

‘It was suggested to his brief that we wouldn’t oppose a plea of voluntary manslaughter with a recommendation for leniency.’

‘Voluntary manslaughter?’ said Charlton, aghast. ‘He shot and killed a former police officer.’

‘And he will go to prison,’ argued Brook. ‘But when Darren arrived at the scene he acted out of protective instinct towards a parent.’

‘Even so. . .’

‘Sir,’ snapped Brook. ‘Clive had a gun. He was armed and prepared to kill Darren’s father. And maybe even me, if I’d got in the way.’

‘Ah, yes, the gun.’ Charlton’s acceptance was grudging. ‘I suppose it’s better that Clive’s little aberration doesn’t come out – as we’re playing ball.’

‘It may yet come out but if we’re not contesting the plea, their barrister may not need to bring it up.’

‘I still don’t like it,’ said Charlton.

‘Justice is blind, sir.’

‘What does that mean?’

Brook tried to pick his words with care. ‘Your uncle and Walter Laird were very tight in the seventies and eighties.’

‘And?’

Brook sighed. ‘I got to know Clive over the last two weeks. He had his secrets and they caused him pain. More than his sister’s death could account for.’

‘Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?’ said Charlton, ready to take offence.

‘“He couldn’t even drive”,’ said Brook.

‘What? Who couldn’t drive?’

Brook reached into a pocket and pulled out a dog-eared sheet. He unfolded it and dropped it on Charlton’s desk. ‘Trevor Taylor couldn’t drive.’

‘Clive’s neighbour?’ said Charlton. Puzzled, he read the report. ‘This is an interview with Taylor’s mother.’ Brook nodded. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘Hidden in Walter Laird’s papers,’ answered Brook. ‘Trevor Taylor couldn’t possibly have abducted Matilda and driven her to Osmaston Park Lake. He didn’t know how. But by removing this from Matilda’s file, Walter kept Taylor in Clive’s sights. Then, in nineteen seventy-seven, Walter wound Clive up like a clockwork toy and let him loose on Matilda’s case. He withheld that document and filled Clive’s head with tales about Trevor Taylor’s deviancy and how he escaped justice.’

‘Do I want to hear any more?’ said Charlton, tight-lipped.

‘There is no more,’ said Brook. ‘Trevor Taylor fell to his death from a bridge that winter and Clive finally got to speak to Taylor’s mother.’

‘And she told him what was in this document,’ mumbled Charlton, shaking his head. ‘Why did Laird do it?’

‘To have something on Clive, sidetrack him, make him spend time covering his own tracks instead of looking for Matilda’s killer. Take your pick.’

‘An insurance policy.’ Charlton nodded. ‘Poor Clive.’ He picked up the dog-eared document. ‘So what am I going to do with this report?’

Brook stared hard into Charlton’s eyes for longer than was comfortable. ‘What report?’

Eventually Charlton’s eyes lowered. He folded the document into his breast pocket and returned his attention to Walter Laird’s statement.

‘You’re right, Brook,’ said Charlton in his most businesslike voice. ‘Without an accommodation, this bad apple could say anything about events surrounding the Pied Piper, or anything else for that matter.’ He paused to look up at Brook. ‘Walter won’t survive his sentence and this concession is a fair price to close the book on that period.’

Charlton’s demeanour changed when his eye fell on the front page of that afternoon’s
Derby
Telegraph
, celebrating the safe return of Scott Wheeler to his parents. The lead picture showed Charlton addressing the media. He looked authoritative and commanding.
And no hint of smugness
, he thought smugly, nodding solemnly.

‘Yes. We must accentuate the positive. We’ve done a lot of good here.’ Charlton looked across at Brook, who didn’t seem to be accentuating as positively as himself. ‘And don’t think I’ll forget your role in all this,’ he said. ‘You’re finally due that promotion. Clive was right about you.’

Brook hadn’t realised that being in Charlton’s good books was just as uncomfortable as being in the bad. ‘Sir. . .’ he began.

‘No, don’t be modest. Your skills deserve wider recognition.’

‘DS Noble deserves all the plaudits, sir.’

‘Very generous of you, I’m sure,’ replied Charlton. ‘Which reminds me. How are he and Ford getting on with Mullen?’

‘Not one word since his arrest,’ said Noble. ‘I think he’s working up to an insanity plea.’

‘It might even be true,’ said Brook.

‘But if I’m to move against Scott, I need Mullen to make a statement about Josh Stapleton’s death,’ said Noble. Brook detected something in his voice and glanced across. Noble smiled. ‘Well, you know him best.’

‘But it’s your case, John,’ said Brook.

‘Are you worried he might start making wild allegations again?’

‘No. But he thinks I planted evidence in his house.’

‘But you didn’t,’ said Noble softly. ‘So there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’

Brook didn’t answer.

‘All right, if you could just watch the monitor,’ said Noble. ‘Give us some pointers. We’d like to wrap it before Christmas – for the sake of the families.’ Noble waited, a plaintive expression on his face. ‘Christmas is a terrible time. . .’

‘When?’

‘We’re taking another punt now,’ smiled Noble.

‘I don’t know why you need me,’ said Brook. ‘You’ve got the bodies. Just charge him and move him on.’

‘We would,’ said Noble. ‘But we’re missing one.’

‘Missing one?’

‘We’ve only got two bodies,’ explained Noble. ‘Three underground chambers – two with bodies and one for Scott. But if the Pied Piper material is right, there should be another victim, right?’

‘Harry Pritchett, Davie Whatmore and Callum Clarke.’

‘We’re still digging up the allotment and the back garden. So far only the two and there’s nothing on infrared,’ said Noble.

‘Any ID on the two you have got?’ asked Brook.

‘Waiting on DNA,’ said Noble.

Brook trained his eyes firmly on Mullen as the interview began. He hadn’t seen him since that highly charged night at his house and he’d changed. Now the old man’s expression was completely blank, almost catatonic, staring absently off into space, even when his solicitor tried to speak in his ear.
Maybe he has lost his mind
.

Ford strutted around making the introductions for the tape, while Noble sat down sifting through the documents and evidence Ford would use against the suspect.

But after fifteen minutes, Ford’s hectoring had produced barely a blink from Mullen, The DI sat down and looked across at Noble, tagging him into play.

‘Mr Mullen, I want you to look at these pictures,’ began Noble, his voice soft and sympathetic, respectful – a contrast to Ford’s old-school bluster. He pulled a series of dated glossy portrait photographs from an envelope. ‘This is twelve-year-old Harry Pritchett who went missing on December the fifteenth, nineteen seventy-eight. He was last seen walking home after a game of football. He lived in Stimpson Road which is no more than a mile from your home. He hasn’t been seen to this day.’

Mullen didn’t react or move a muscle.

Noble peeled another photograph from the stack. ‘This is thirteen-year-old Davie Whatmore. He was last seen on December the twelfth, nineteen eighty-three, walking across Markeaton Park, near the pond. He lived on Old Road, again just a mile from your house.’ Pause. No reaction.

Brook wondered why Mullen’s solicitor hadn’t tried to call a halt, maybe even ask for a doctor to examine Mullen.
He must be receiving instruction. There’s nothing wrong with Mullen
.

‘This is thirteen-year-old Callum Clarke,’ continued Noble. Mullen’s eyes darted briefly to the photograph then away.

Brook craned closer to the monitor. ‘What was that?’ He watched intently as the old man reassembled his mask of impassivity.

‘Callum was last seen walking home in Littleover on December the twenty-second, nineteen eighty-eight,’ continued Noble. ‘He lived less than half a mile from your home.’

Again, Mullen’s eyes shifted to the photograph and back, too quick for Noble to see it.

‘Callum Clarke,’ murmured Brook, thinking it through. ‘He must be special. He must be the missing body, John.’

‘Mr Mullen, the only thing the families want from you at this moment is to know what’s happened to their sons. If they’re dead, they want to grieve; they want to take their children home and lay them to rest so that they can mourn them properly and get on with their lives—’

‘After you wrecked them, you sick bastard,’ inserted Ford.

Noble looked across at his senior officer and the solicitor muttered something. Ford put up his hands in apology. Brook kept his eyes on Mullen, torn between the monitor and going next door to help.

‘You’re going to be confined for the rest of your life, Mr Mullen,’ Noble continued. ‘Nothing will alter that and nothing will bring these boys back. But if you have any shred of decency left in you, give these families the peace they deserve.’

No response. Noble looked up in despair at the camera but after a pause carried on. ‘Sir, would you at least tell us which boys were buried in your
allotment? We’ll find out eventually so it can’t hurt to tell us that.’ Pause. No reaction. ‘Would you at least tell us where the third boy is buried?’

Again, quick as a fox, Mullen’s eye flashed across to the picture of Callum Clarke but, again, he did not reply. But this time Noble noticed the involuntary glance and picked up Callum Clarke’s photograph.

‘That’s it, John,’ mumbled Brook.

‘Callum is the third boy, right?’ said Noble. ‘Is he buried somewhere else? Where, Edward? Where did you bury Callum?’

Brook’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not where, John, but
why
did he bury him somewhere else?’ Brook scraped back the chair when it hit him. ‘It’s the twenty-second, John. He changed his MO. He killed Callum on Billy’s birthday and buried him where he harvested him.’

Noble was beginning to lose patience. He pulled out a picture of Jeff Ward. ‘You strangled Jeff Ward to death on December the twenty-second, nineteen seventy-three, but left the body. After that, you changed your method. You abducted the boys and started burying them alive, letting them die slowly until the twenty-second, your friend’s birthday. I’ve seen the banner and the cards and the cake. These boys are birthday presents to your friend Billy, aren’t they?’ Noble stood behind Mullen, silently blowing out his cheeks in exasperation.

‘Why did you take Callum Clarke so late?’ persevered Noble.

‘Very good, John,’ murmured Brook. ‘Stay on that.’

‘Was it a last-minute kill?’ continued Noble. ‘Bit of a panic? Is that it? Is that why you buried him somewhere else?’ No response. Noble looked over to the camera in frustration. ‘Interview suspended.’

Brook placed the two thin beakers of coffee on the table. Without looking at Mullen or his solicitor, he pulled out two fat candles from his pocket and, after lighting them, put them on the table on a sheet of A4 to catch the wax. He then snapped off the overhead light and turned on the tape to list those present.