The Unquiet Grave (54 page)

‘Thanks for my drink,’ said the solicitor sarcastically. ‘What’s with the candles?’

‘Mood lighting,’ Brook explained. He glanced at Mullen for the first time and slid the coffee towards him but then said nothing further for several minutes, choosing just to gaze at Mullen. The old man wouldn’t reciprocate; he sat, arms folded, staring at the wall, his coffee untouched and unacknowledged.

After fifteen minutes, the duty solicitor became agitated, mouthing at Brook to speak or draw the interview to a close.

‘I’ve been asked to have a word, see if I could. . . move things along,’ said Brook eventually. No reaction. ‘And I brought you something,’ he added, as though just remembering. ‘From the house.’ He pulled a plastic bag from his jacket and took out the travel chess set Mullen had given Billy Stanforth nearly fifty years ago.

Mullen’s eyes moved briefly to the set then back to the wall.

Brook opened the case and took out the tiny board. ‘Everything’s ready for a game.’ He swivelled the board between the two of them. ‘In light of recent events, I think I should be white.’ He picked up the king’s pawn and moved it two spaces, looking at Mullen for a reaction. Again, gimlet-eyed Mullen flashed a glance at Brook’s opening gambit.

‘DI Ford thinks you’re insane,’ said Brook. ‘Sergeant Noble’s not so sure but he says he’ll go along with it.’ He looked up at Mullen. ‘But I said no. Edward Mullen is not crazy.’

Brook waited.

‘I said Edward Mullen has a gift that the world has failed to understand or appreciate.’ Wait and watch. ‘I said Edward Mullen has fought his entire life for control of that gift and to throw in the towel and accept a plea of insanity would mean betraying it. To do that would hand ammunition to all those people who have poured scorn on who he is.’ Wait and watch. Sip of cold coffee. ‘Finally, I said that everyone who dislikes and fears gifted people like Edward Mullen would be delighted to dismiss his talents as the ravings of a delusional—’

‘Pawn to king four,’ said Mullen, looking up at Brook but making no attempt to move his piece. Brook reached over and moved Mullen’s black pawn to block his white pawn. He responded by moving his queen’s pawn alongside his king’s.

‘My pawn takes your queen’s pawn,’ said Mullen.

Brook removed his pawn and responded by moving out a knight to threaten Mullen’s advanced pawn.

‘I know what you’re doing, Brook.’ Mullen’s cold eyes finally alighted on Brook. ‘You think I’m going to tie my forces in knots defending that pawn while you bring out the heavy artillery.’

Brook smiled as Mullen reached for his cold coffee and took a sip. After putting the beaker down, Mullen scanned the room, an odd smile playing around his lips. Brook resisted the urge to look for Mullen’s ghosts.

‘It’s crowded in here,’ said Mullen. He turned to the solicitor. ‘You can leave now.’

‘I don’t advise that,’ replied the solicitor.

‘You’re fired,’ said Mullen. ‘Get out.’

The solicitor glanced at Brook, happy to register no further objections. He scraped his chair back and made a haughty exit which Brook recorded for the tape.

‘OK, Brook. What do you want?’ asked Mullen.

‘I want you to take responsibility for your actions,’ said Brook.

‘Like you did,’ said Mullen, arching an eyebrow. Brook answered with a cryptic smile, dropping a pen on to a blank interview pad, expecting a repetition of earlier accusations. Instead Mullen became thoughtful. ‘You played the game well, Brook.’ He was silent for several minutes. Then, ‘I have three conditions.’

‘I only anticipated one,’ said Brook.

‘You’re slipping,’ Mullen mocked. ‘You should understand a brother-in-arms better than that.’

‘It’s been that sort of case, pitting my wits against a clever opponent,’ replied Brook.

Mullen smiled faintly. ‘What’s my first condition?’

‘Easy,’ replied Brook. ‘You want to serve your sentence in solitary confinement.’ Mullen raised an eyebrow, waiting. ‘With limited access to the internet.’

‘Agreeable?’

‘I think so,’ said Brook.

‘What else do you think I want?’ said Mullen. ‘No pressure.’

Brook considered the slight old man, thinking through their shared history and Mullen’s limited needs. ‘A bottle of port at Christmas.’

Mullen nodded. ‘Agreeable?’

Brook shrugged. ‘Tricky. We might manage a half bottle.’

Mullen dipped his head in acceptance. ‘And the third?’

Brook had to admit defeat. ‘The third? You’ve got me there.’

Mullen looked at the table. ‘I want to play chess.’

‘I think that’s what we’re doing,’ said Brook.

‘I don’t just mean today,’ said Mullen.

‘There’ll be no problem taking a chess set to prison, Edward,’ said Brook, smiling. ‘I’m sure board games are encouraged.’

‘You’ve misunderstood,’ replied Mullen, fixing Brook with a mocking stare. ‘I’ll be in solitary, remember.’

It took Brook a second to understand. ‘I don’t think that will be possible.’

‘I’ll only need an email address,’ said Mullen. ‘If I accept a life sentence with good grace, it’s only right that you do the same.’

‘Forget it. I don’t want you in my head.’

‘Then, I’m sorry. . .’

Brook’s mind was racing. He wanted this settled. ‘What about a post office box?’ he said quickly. ‘I can accept that.’

Mullen considered. ‘It’ll slow the games down.’

‘But that favours you,’ said Brook, ‘being the inferior player.’

Mullen managed a smile. ‘Then I suppose that will have to do.’ The old man picked up the pen, ready to make a statement. ‘A life sentence together. And maybe this time I can win.’

‘I have a couple of conditions of my own,’ said Brook.

‘Go on.’

‘We’ve arrested Walter Laird for four murders and he’s given us a full confession. He’s admitted how he, and he alone, steered investigators away from you, believing you had knowledge of his crimes.’ Brook stared hard at Mullen, making sure his message was received. ‘So please restrict your statement to your activities as the Pied Piper. Start with why you took Scott.’

Mullen stared back, a half-smile playing around his lips. ‘Very well,’ he replied softly. ‘Then you don’t want to know about Sam Bannon’s killing spree,’ asked Mullen, raising a mocking eyebrow.

Brook’s smile tightened. ‘OK, Sam was no killer. You were right. I was wrong.’

‘What a shame I can’t have a recording of that,’ said Mullen. ‘Never mind. I heard it and I’ll treasure the sound. You have a second condition?’

‘We need to know what you did with the body of Callum Clarke.’

‘What happened?’ said Noble, two minutes later. ‘Everything was going so well.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Brook. ‘Play that bit back.’

Noble clicked the mouse and both detectives watched the end of the interview intently.

‘We need to know what you did with the body of Callum Clarke.’

Mullen smiled and replaced the pen on the table. ‘That, I can’t tell you.’

‘Not good enough,’ said Brook. ‘We need to know everything about all the boys you took and why.’

‘They were killers,’ said Mullen.

‘Were they?’ said Brook, rustling for a document. ‘We’ve done some research. Every boy you murdered, or attempted to murder, had lost a brother, a sister or a close friend. Every boy except the last one, Callum Clarke in nineteen eighty-eight. The last one before you stopped.’ Brook let the silence build for a while.

Mullen’s cruel smirk was constant. ‘You have a question.’

‘Simple. Why Callum?’ said Brook. ‘He wasn’t a killer. Were you desperate? Is that why you
harvested
him on Billy’s birthday? Couldn’t find anybody to fit your specifications?’ Mullen’s gaze didn’t waver. ‘I want full cooperation or the deal’s off.’

‘I am cooperating,’ said Mullen.

‘So tell me. Why change your MO for Callum Clarke?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘No answer means no deal,’ said Brook. ‘No solitary. No port. No chess.’

Mullen shook his head. ‘You’re an intelligent man, Brook. Let me spell it out for you.’ He spoke slowly for emphasis.
‘I can’t tell you.’

Noble clicked the mouse to close the screen. ‘What’s he playing at?’

‘I’m not sure, John,’ said Brook. ‘I thought we had him. Sorry.’

‘Don’t be,’ said Noble. ‘You got him talking at least. We’ll just have to pick it up after Christmas.’

‘It’ll be easier when you’ve identified the bodies in the allotment,’ said Brook. ‘The families have waited a long time; they can wait a few more days.’

Thirty

Christmas Eve 2012

The next afternoon Brook took the goose out of the freezer, more in hope than expectation, and drove to Derby with his most expensive bottle of wine in the passenger seat. He pulled up outside Rosie Shah’s house forty minutes later and jogged up the steps.

‘Damen,’ shouted Rosie, opening the door. ‘You made it. Come in, come in.’ She spotted the car keys in his hand. ‘You’re driving?’

Brook had his get-out clause handy. ‘I’m expecting my daughter over from Manchester. I can only stay an hour or two.’

‘Never mind, you’re here.’ She beamed, a little less brilliantly.

She took him through to the kitchen and introduced him to the handful of friends and neighbours standing around with wine glasses in their hands, chewing on the finger buffet of sandwiches and crisps.

‘Everyone, this is my hero, Detective Inspector Damen Brook,’ announced Rosie.

The conversation dried as all contemplated Brook. He poured himself a soft drink and nodded awkwardly to all the faces, listening to their names go in one ear and fly out of the other.

Fortunately attention shifted when the kitchen door opened and Ollie came in with a friend, the two teenagers dressed in almost identical fashion, the same clothes and the same hair jutting out in every direction under the influence of the same gel.

‘Can we have another beer, Mum?’ asked Ollie, at his most charming.

‘You’re under age, Ollie.’ Rosie glared at her son with big eyes, glancing slyly across at Brook. ‘Remember?’

‘Yeah, OC,’ giggled his friend. ‘You’re under age. Best not be smoking no blow neither,’ he added, wagging a censorious finger at him. The pair fell about and Rosie tried to usher them out.

‘We’re seventeen, Mum,’ complained Ollie. ‘And it’s Christmas.’

‘There’s a policeman here,’ she said, tight-lipped, gesturing Ollie to leave.

‘Don’t mind me,’ said Brook. ‘They can rob a bank for all I care. I’m off duty.’

‘Is that work duty or parental,’ tittered a middle-aged woman with red hair and too much make-up. Brook had forgotten her name already.

‘Both,’ said Brook, smiling politely.

‘See?’ protested Ollie. ‘Just one more.’ He held up a single digit. ‘Please.’

Rosie opened two small bottles of lager and shooed the pair away.

‘OC?’ inquired the red-haired woman.

‘Ollie’s initials,’ explained Rosie, blushing across at Brook for some reason.

‘It’s also some crappy Yank programme our kids watch,’ said one of the men. ‘They purposely put on rubbish so we’re forced to buy the kids a telly for their bedrooms. Bloody conspiracy, it is.’

Everyone laughed and Brook stood there, a half-smile glued to his face, watching the clock tick round, calculating a polite time to withdraw.

Fortunately, as the other guests got a little drunker, the tension eased and Brook didn’t feel quite so self-conscious tacking on to a group and saying nothing, occasionally catching Rosie’s attentive eye.

‘Toilet,’ he mouthed at her and she nodded towards the stairs.

‘Ollie.’ Brook nodded at Rosie’s son on the stairs.

‘Do you see a lot of dead bodies?’ quizzed the young man, without embarrassment.

Brook never ceased to be amazed at the guilelessness of youth. ‘Some.’

‘I’ll bet,’ he nodded. ‘My mum likes you.’

‘I like her,’ said Brook, smiling awkwardly, looking beyond Ollie for the toilet.

‘Are you going to marry her?’

Brook shouldn’t have been surprised by such a question but he was. ‘Ollie, I just met her.’

‘She’s lonely,’ announced Ollie.

‘I’m not sure she’d like you telling people that,’ said Brook, beginning to move round the olive-skinned boy but he wouldn’t be denied.

‘Do you fancy her?’

‘You seriously want me to answer that?’ asked Brook.

‘Why not?’

‘You think I’m unsuitable,’ smiled Brook, ‘because I’m a policeman.’

‘No. Grandad was too,’ said Ollie. ‘I just wanna know. Mum says you’ve got a lot in common.’

‘Does she?’

‘Yeah.’ Ollie laughed. ‘You both like hanging in that creepy shed for one thing.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘That place is dread, man. You won’t get me in there with all those stiffs on the wall. Place gives me the shits.’ Without further ado Ollie sprinted back into his room, the throbbing music invading the landing for the few seconds his door opened.

Brook found the toilet, a bemused expression on his face. Kids.

When he made his excuses, an hour later, Rosie walked him to the car.

‘I was hoping you’d stay longer, Damen,’ she said, grabbing his arm. ‘You could’ve slept over.’

‘I think I’ve seen enough of that shed,’ said Brook, smiling.

‘Maybe not the shed then,’ she replied, tilting her head coquettishly to one side.

‘My daughter. . .’ began Brook as she moved in for a kiss.

Brook was too polite to break away so he implied a joint venture and withdrew at the earliest opportunity, looking affectionately into her eyes. ‘Thank you for inviting me.’

‘When will I see you?’ she purred.

‘Soon,’ he said, turning towards his car.

Back on the A52 to Hartington, Brook’s mobile began to vibrate. He pulled over to answer.

‘I took another crack at Mullen this morning,’ said Noble. ‘No joy, I’m afraid. He won’t tell me anything, won’t even talk to me.’

‘What about DNA on the. . .’ Brook’s head lifted in shock. ‘What did you say?’

‘I had another crack. . .’

‘After that.’

‘No joy. . .’

‘He
won’t
tell you anything,’ said Brook.

‘That’s what I said.’