The Unquiet Grave Read online

  Copyright © 2013 Steven Dunne

  The right of Steven Dunne to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  Published as an Ebook in 2013 by Headline Publishing Group

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Epub conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 8373 3

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  About the Book

  The Cold Case crime department of Derby Constabulary feels like a morgue to DI Damen Brook. As a maverick cop, his bosses think it’s the best place for him.

  But Brook isn’t going to go fown without a fight. Applying his instincts and razor sharp intelligence, he sees a pattern in a series of murders that seem to begin in 1963. How could a killer go undetected for so long? And why are his superiors so keen to drive him down blind alleys?

  Brook delves deep into the past of both suspects and colleagues unsure where the hunt will lead him. What he does know for sure is that a significant date is approaching fast and the killer is certain to strike again. . .

  About the Author

  Steven Dunne has written for fun since attending Kent University. After a brief and terrifying stint as a stand-up comic, he became a freelance journalist writing for The Times and the Independent. He is now a part-time teacher in Derby. He is the author of the highly acclaimed thrillers The Reaper, The Disciple and Deity.

  For Susan

  Love and thanks for all you do

  Acknowledgements

  Love and gratitude go to my wonderful wife Carmel for her continuing support and encouragement and to the far-flung McKenna tribe who spread the word about the DI Brook case files. The same goes to my lovely sister Susan Dunne to whom this book is dedicated. My two biggest fans.

  As well as providing regular practical support, Jeff Fountain supplies insightful editorial comment on the content and direction of my work. Thanks also to Patrick Raggett for his razor-sharp observations and instinctive understanding of what my novels are trying to achieve – two indispensable friends.

  I couldn’t reach such a wide audience without the work of all the quality people at Headline. Many thanks to Ali Hope, Sam Eades, Anna Hogarty and all the team for their efforts on my behalf. And I can’t let pass a final opportunity to say a big thank you to the departed Martin Fletcher for his help and guidance and for believing in the potential of my work.

  David Grossman, my agent, continues to provide his expert guidance through the choppy waters of publishing and his editorial input is always invaluable. Thank you.

  My gratitude also goes to fellow Weekenders’ cricketer Joseph McDonald for taking the time to produce thoughtful advice on police procedures and criminal practices as well as chipping in with valuable runs down the order.

  Finally a big hug of appreciation to all Waterstone’s branches up and down the country for putting up with me in-store, as I hawk my wares at book signings. The welcoming and knowledgeable staff, too numerous to mention, are an invaluable resource to all book buyers and readers and long may you continue.

  I can’t finish without a special mention of Sean Heavens and the team in Derby Waterstone’s and Glenys Cooper and the staff in the Burton-on-Trent branch. Without their longstanding support, I wouldn’t have been able to establish such a strong readership base in the East Midlands and, now, beyond.

  Steve Dunne

  T’is I, my love, sits on your grave,

  And will not let you sleep;

  For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,

  And that is all I seek.

  (Anon.)

  One

  Saturday, 22 December 1973 – Derby

  The boy looked up from sorting through his football cards to watch his mum light another cigarette. Her hands were tight and clumsy as she fumbled for her props but, eventually, the hiss of gas and a guttering flame signalled job done. Tossing her gold lighter on to the coffee table, she took a quivering draw, holding the blue-grey poison in her lungs for a beat before exhaling across the room.

  Jeff watched in silence as she tried to ease back and relax but she couldn’t manage it, at once pulling back her frame to the edge of the sofa, her legs bent double, her tension-wracked shoulders invisible under the uncombed hair. She played with her housework-reddened hands, sometimes picking at a jagged nail, sometimes swivelling the two rings round her wedding finger.

  ‘I’m hungry, Mum,’ said Jeff, in that way children have of asking for things without actually posing the question.

  Without looking over at him she answered, her voice hoarse and strained. ‘Dad’s home in an hour.’

  Jeff gazed unblinking, waiting for her to crack. It didn’t happen. ‘But I’m hungry now.’

  ‘You can have a sandwich when Dad gets home,’ she replied, trying to keep the rising emotion from her voice. She glanced his way to reassure but it didn’t take.

  ‘But—’

  ‘You’ll have to wait,’ she snapped, her face turned away again, longing to return to her reverie, a land of unblinking vacuity where she could hide from present pain and the prospect of more to come.

  ‘Well, can I have a slice of dripping and bread to put me on?’ His mum didn’t answer. Just stared at the bearskin rug as though her son wasn’t there and hadn’t spoken. But he was there and he wanted an answer, sensing one more push might do it. ‘Can I. . . ?’

  ‘Help yourself!’ she barked, twisting her rings like she was trying to unscrew her finger. ‘Help yourself,’ she repeated softly, eyes closed, a blind nod to tell herself she had control.

  Jeff stared impassively at her pale drawn face, trying in vain to make contact with her red-rimmed eyes. Eventually he laid down his cards in two piles – keepers and swaps – then dragged himself to the kitchen. OK. He’d have to get his own food. Not the best outcome but still a small victory, a chink of light and acknowledgement in the wall of silence his mum and dad had erected around him and what had happened.

  It was yonks ago, for God’s sake. You’ve still got me.

  He turned at the kitchen door, and gl
ued his eye to the crack, watching his mum who, after his departure, looked briefly up to the fireplace before resuming her inspection of the rug and pulling a balled handkerchief from her sleeve.

  Jeff had been expecting as much and mimicked her quick glance to the only photograph on the mantelpiece, the picture of his dead brother, little Donny. The clumsy black ribbon across one corner obscured an ear and part of his lopsided dopey grin, Donny’s grin, the grin that conquered all, that drew the lion’s share of parental love.

  Don’t deny it, Mum. Donny was your favourite. Always had been. Mum always took Donny’s word that Jeff should shoulder the blame and Jeff could almost hear Donny’s whining voice, accusing. Jeff did it. It was him.

  Jeff sighed. Yes, he had done it. He had sat on Donny until he could barely breathe, he had nicked Donny’s toy, he had spat in Donny’s food, poked him in the eye, pulled his pants down with his back turned – plus a million other things, some involving insects. But did that give Donny the right to tell tales?

  Jeff scowled from behind the door, watching as his mum opened the floodgates and sobbed silently into the tight, damp ball of cotton, her shoulders convulsing as if puking.

  Happy now, Don-kee? You made Mum cry, Don-kee. Happy?

  He glared at his dead brother’s picture with his grin and his quiff and his too-big Dennis the Menace jumper. Mum had kept the jumper, he knew. She’d hidden it under the stairs but one night, soon after the drowning, Jeff had snuck down and watched her bury her face in it, trying to catch a whiff of Don-kee’s stink, what was left of it after the river had washed away him and his stupid smell forever.

  He turned away, miserable. Three days to Christmas. This should be an exciting time. The decs were up, the tree was up (though not as carefully dressed as in years past, he’d noticed) and there was decent telly on all three channels, with good films on as soon as he jumped out of bed. Incredible.

  But instead of excitement, this – boredom and tears. No telly. No noise apart from the clock and his mum’s muffled sobs. At least Dad would be home soon, finished for the hols. At least he made an effort to be normal. He worked all day, plus Saturday mornings, not like Mum, and on top of that, he’d had to do all the decorations, the tree, even cook meals. And still he made time to get out in the yard and help his son make a snowman. That’s a proper parent.

  Jeff cheered up at the thought of his presents. Double bubble this year ’cos they’d already bought and wrapped Don-kee’s presents before he fell in the river reaching for his stupid balloon. Afterwards, Mum couldn’t face taking them back so I get the lot.

  Smiling now, Jeff reached for the dripping pot on the kitchen window sill and pulled a slice of Mighty White from the bread bin. He dug around in the dripping with the knife to get past the hard grey fat on top to the meaty brown sludge below. Yummy. He shook some salt on to the slice and took a large slimy bite, peering out at the harsh winter weather outside. It was beginning to snow again. Brilliant.

  His eye wandered round to the snowman as he jammed the rest of the bread into his mouth. The snowman had started to look tired and dirty but now it was snowing again maybe he could rebuild it with fresh snow when his dad got home. As he chewed, he noticed with dismay that its nose was gone. The carrot must’ve fallen off. He rushed back to the stifling lounge. ‘Going outside, Mum.’ Statement, not question, but his mum barely noticed.

  She straightened momentarily but didn’t turn round as she made a stab at parental responsibility. ‘Wrap up warm,’ she croaked.

  ‘I know,’ groaned Jeff, grabbing coat, hat and gloves from the rack in the hall and rushing outside, slamming the door behind him. His orange leather football was right outside the kitchen door. He flicked it up to head and nearly went flying but young supple limbs managed to keep him upright. Taking heed, he crunched more carefully round the side of the house over the frozen patio, catching the full hit of the sub-zero wind howling across the countryside, snow corkscrewing along in its grip.

  Jeff stood to contemplate the white wonderland before him, soft undulating layers of snow calling him to take their virginity. First things first. He scuffed over to the snowman to pick up the carrot only to discover that it wasn’t there. It wasn’t screwed into the face and it wasn’t on the ground below. He puzzled over this. Maybe a bird had taken it. Or an animal. But then, with a start, he saw the footprints that had walked up to the snowman then turned away, returning to the back gate from where they’d come.

  ‘Mmmmm.’ Jeff hovered a boot over the prints thinking they must be his. No, too small – he had big feet for his age. He put his weight down in the snow to confirm that his feet were two or three sizes bigger than the print and he knew his dad’s feet were bigger still.

  ‘Illogical, Captain,’ he reasoned, using a line from his all-time favourite TV programme. (Don-kee’s favourite was Magpie. What a loser.) Jeff followed the trail of footprints from the gate as they headed off into the woods and, beyond, the golf course.

  After a few yards he stopped to raise his head, allowing his sharp eyes to plot the course taken by the carrot thief out across the field of white to the horizon. The wind dropped for a moment and with it the swirls of snow that limited his vision. There, in the distance, a diminutive figure was standing on the edge of a small copse that bordered the golf course. Although some way away, the figure seemed to bridge the expanse of ground between them, reaching out to squeeze the heart with an invisible hand and Jeff found his pulse racing, his breath arriving in spurts.

  ‘No,’ Jeff panted. ‘Can’t be.’ He rubbed his eyes in time-honoured fashion and looked again but there was no mistake. The outline of a small boy stood statue-still against the elements and, worse, appeared to be staring straight back at him. The bright red and black hooped jumper seemed to dwarf the lightly framed form as though it was a mid-length skirt and not a woollen jumper.

  ‘Dennis the Menace,’ gasped Jeff, turning in confusion to the house where he knew the garment was hidden, squirrelled away in the shoe cupboard when it wasn’t covering his mum’s tear-streaked face.

  ‘Don-kee,’ he muttered under his breath, returning his stare to the distant form. He tried to see the face of the boy but snow stung his eyeballs so he shielded his eyes with a gloved hand. The figure hadn’t moved, standing motionless, one arm hanging by his side, one arm bent, hand in mitten, clutching a balloon that danced in the swirling wind.

  ‘Don-kee!’ he repeated, this time shouting across the fields at the apparition. No reaction. Jeff moved slowly, reluctantly, towards the image of his dead brother then hesitated before tracking back towards the snowman, dragging his feet through the alien footprints until all traces were gone – all the way back through the gate, all the way back to the snowman. No one else could know.

  Spinning back, Jeff’s mood turned to anger and his fist clenched. He thought of all his presents. He thought of having to share. He thought of the lopsided grin. A second later he began to jog towards the trees, stomping heavily across the scarred white ground. ‘Don’t you tell, Don-kee,’ he shouted when only a hundred yards away. ‘Don’t you tell.’

  At that moment, a gust of snow blew across Jeff’s face and he missed his footing, slipping clumsily on a tuft of grass. When he surfaced, the figure had gone. Jeff stood, brushing himself down, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks, like when you could see water on a hot road in the distance. But then he saw the balloon jogging up and down in the breeze, before its owner disappeared out of sight over the hill towards the ninth fairway.

  ‘Wait!’ screamed Jeff, quickening his pace. ‘I’m coming!’ He set off again, following the clear trail over the frozen ground, shouting to the darkening sky as he clambered after the sure-footed figure. ‘Don’t you tell, Don-kee. I’m coming.’

  DI Walter Laird crunched across the slippery white ground towards the hive of activity a hundred yards up the slope. Looking around at the snow-filled hollows and sparse brown trees lining his path, Laird realised he was on an actual fairway of
the Allestree Park Golf Course. And though he was no sportsman, he also surmised that the crime scene officers, working furiously on a raised plateau ringed by more trees, must be working on a putting green. Green in summer perhaps but, everywhere he gazed, the colours of deepest winter assaulted the eye; blinding white snow dominated, leavened only by the soothing washed-out brown and pale green of dormant shrubs and trees, dotted around the landscape to trap the unskilled and delineate the path of play.

  As Laird approached the throng of technicians that attended the aftermath of every violent death, a single bright colour stood out from the drabness. A shiny red and black balloon had snared in the branches of a bare tree, a few yards above the hastily erected crime scene tent. Its presence jarred and the detective was lost in private contemplation until a fresh-faced young man emerged from the tent.

  Detective Constable Clive Copeland’s face was as white as the ground around him, the victim’s fate seared on his eyeballs. Staring blankly at Laird and unable to speak, he acknowledged his DI with a tiny drop of the head.

  ‘Clive,’ said Laird, fighting off the unworthy smile curling at the edge of his mouth. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he added, for once omitting the usual quip about Copeland’s inexperience.

  The younger man’s saucer-eyed stare was broken, his head snapping towards Laird. He took a second to assess his superior’s words. ‘I hope not, guv,’ he replied.

  ‘Hold that thought,’ said Laird. ‘What have we got?’

  ‘A kid called Jeff Ward, guv. We’ve not done a formal ID yet but it’s him, all right. Went missing yesterday lunchtime. He’s been strangled.’ He paused, biting at a lip as though about to convey crucial information. ‘Twelve years old.’

  Laird shook his head. ‘Bastard. Any. . . ?’

  ‘Nothing sexual that we can see. Clothes seem intact.’

  ‘Thank God.’

  ‘I don’t think God’s involved here, guv. WPC Langley took the details from the parents. Seems the family was already in mourning. They buried their other kid a couple of months ago – younger son. He drowned.’