An Occupied Grave

  An Occupied Grave

  A Brock & Poole Mystery

  A.G. Barnett

  Copyright © 2018 by A.G. Barnett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  For Sonya, Livvy and Indy

  Contents

  The Mystery Club

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  The Mystery Club

  Books by A.G. Barnett

  The Mystery Club

  Visit agbarnett.com and join A.G.Barnett’s Mystery Club to get new release alerts and special offers.

  Chapter One

  The small group of mourners filed out of the arched doorway from the church and along the small path behind the vicar. It was a grey, damp day that seemed to have covered the world in a veil for the occasion.

  A crow circled above the group, fighting against the light rain. It released a low, sorrowful call as it swooped to the safety of the trees at the back of the graveyard.

  The mood had shifted amongst the small congregation. They had gone from the sense of duty of paying their respects, to wanting to get the whole thing over and done with.

  The drizzle from above seemed to fill the air. It attacked the group at a right angle, sneaking under the assorted black umbrellas as they shuffled along the path to the graveside. There wasn't enough of them to circle the grave completely, so they bunched together on one side. Opposite, the simple coffin was laid on the wet grass, ready to be lowered into the large hole which had been dug from the sodden earth.

  Kate Haversham watched the vicar wipe his glasses for the third time since leaving the safety of the church. She let her eye drift across the pathetic congregation. Was this all a life amounted to? Five or six people who didn't really know you gathered in the rain and hoping for a lump of cheese on a cocktail stick afterwards?

  Well there wasn't going to be any of that. There would be no wake for Edie Gaven. Not that it would have been worth it anyway with the terrible turnout. She turned her head, looking around the sloped graveyard. There were still no signs of the one person who should have been here and wasn't. She sighed and looked down into the gaping hole of the grave.

  Poor Edie. The village she had lived in all her life had abandoned her. So apparently, had her grandson.

  Something caught her eye in the black gloom. A small piece of soil had shifted in the downpour revealing the pale white skin of an elbow.

  Something gave way in her chest, she tried to scream but nothing came out.

  She turned to her husband Paul and grasped his arm.

  "It's ok love," he said, squeezing her arm in sympathy.

  "No, you bloody idiot!" Kate screamed, her husband’s incompetence being the only thing that guaranteed to snap her out of her horror.

  "There's a bloody body in there!"

  "No dear," Paul said, smiling sweetly and patting the back of her hand. "They haven't put her in yet."

  "That's what I'm saying, you bloody cretin! There's a body already in there!"

  The mourners leaned in as one towards the hole. A man on her right shouted and pointed towards the arm. They all saw it now. Frozen in terror they all turned to the vicar, waiting for him to lead them in a response to this horrific news.

  They watched him bend to his knees, his hands grasping the edge of the hole as he peered down into the gloom.

  "I think," he said, leaning further in, "that someone should call the police."

  The earth gave way under his hands and he slipped forward, tumbling into the darkness towards the pale arm.

  Detective Sergeant Guy Poole stared at the building in front of him. It wasn't much to look at. The side of the building was cold, grey concrete. The lack of effort to beautify the building was telling. This was a functional place, built for a purpose. The mirrored windows added to this feel, hiding the interior of the building from the outside world.

  The sign above the entrance which Poole guessed had meant to read Bexford Police Station had had the ‘P’ and ‘O’ removed. He stared at it, wondering whether this was just a happy coincidence or if the youth of Bexford had a sense of humour.

  A small reception area was visible through the plate glass automatic doors; a desk at the back wall and a few plastic seats on the right. More functionality over design. The station at Oxford hadn't been much to write home about either, but it had at least been grander and more impressive than this.

  He took a deep breath and tried to shake off the nerves he was feeling. He had nothing to feel nervous about, he knew that. Yes, this was a new station in a new town in a new county, but this was still police work. This was what he had trained for, this was what he wanted. Bexford, Addervale would be no different to Oxford, Oxfordshire; other than his past wouldn’t be quite so present here.

  This was his chance for a real fresh start and he had worked hard for it. Forgoing the usual activities of people in their early twenties in order to study, to learn, to push himself. It had worked, and now here he was. A newly qualified detective sergeant, at the age of just 25.

  Although it felt like he had been waiting all his life for this moment, in reality, it had been just ten years, from the moment his life had been changed forever. From one of innocence of the world around him, to one of hard reality.

  This wasn’t the time to relive old wounds, but it was becoming hard when in a few days there was a chance it would begin to catch up with him again.

  Would all of that follow him here?

  He shook his head to clear the thoughts from his mind, turned back out towards the carpark and looked at his watch again. Nine fifty. He felt uncomfortable about starting late, but that's what his instructions had been. Inspector Brock, his new superior, had wanted him to pick up the car he had been assigned first.

  For someone who had walked from his new rented flat to the station for the last two mornings just to look at the place, the wait was frustrating.

  This morning he had picked up the car (a blue Ford Mondeo that seemed to enjoy leaping between gears without warning) at nine as he had been instructed. He had then driven straight to the station and spent the last half an hour milling around the surrounding streets waiting for his allotted time.

  He took another deep breath, turned back towards the steps and clattered into a blur in blue.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” Poole said before he had even finished staggering backwards. His natural instinct to apologise was so strong that he often even found himself apologising to himself under his breath.

  “No problem, I was miles away,” said a light voice in a thick Yorkshire accent.

  Poole looked up into an angular but beautiful face of golden coloured skin, smiling back at him with straight, white teeth. With a sudden panic, he realised that she was dressed in a police officer’s uniform, her hat tucked under her arm.

  “Yes, well what’s your name, Constable?” he asked, trying to sound as authoritative as possible.

  “Sanders, Sir,” she answered, standing up a little straighter and the smile fading from her lips. “Sanita Sanders.”

  “I don’t need to know your first name, Co
nstable, and you should consider looking where you’re going in future.”

  “Yes sir,” she answered, her jaw tensing.

  “Ok, well… carry on,” Poole said putting his hands behind his back and lifting his chin slightly.

  The young woman gave a curt nod and set off up the steps towards the station.

  Poole exhaled and closed his eyes. His guts squirmed with guilt at his treatment of the constable, but he clenched his fists and pushed it down inside. This is how it was going to have to be. He had never had the respect of his colleagues in Oxford for reasons relating to his past. Here though, things were going to be different. Here he had a chance to make a new name for himself. Great, he thought, his new name was going to be pompous twit if he carried this on.

  He finally climbed the steps to the station itself, pausing for a moment to check his reflection in the window to the side of the doorway. He adjusted his tie for what must have been the hundredth time that morning and stepped through the automatic doors and into a small waiting area. He walked across the cheap blue carpet and up to the front desk which sat, curved in one corner. There was no one behind it, but a door in the back wall led to an office from which voices drifted through.

  He rang the small brass bell which sat on top of the counter and waited. After a few moments, a large, pasty looking man squeezed through the doorway and came to the counter.

  “What can I do for you?” the man said, leaning on the counter heavily. Poole took a small step backwards in case it gave way.

  “I’ve been transferred here from Oxford. I’m Detective Sergeant Poole.”

  The man’s face broke into a broad grin. “Oh, nice to meet you sir. So you’ll be working with Detective Inspector Brock then will you?”

  “That’s right,” Poole said.

  “I’ve got your building pass here sir, just hold it against the sensors by the doors.” He rifled through some unseen papers behind the desk and lifted up a small grey key fob.

  “Thanks,” Poole said taking it. “Where do I…”

  “Through that door on the right, straight to the end of the corridor, through the door at the end and then through the next office and through the door at the back. Then all the offices have names on them so you should find Inspector Brock’s ok.” His grin widened.

  “Right,” Poole nodded, and turned to go, but then stopped. There was something about this man’s inane grin that was bothering him. “What’s your name, Constable?”

  “Roland Hale sir,” the man said, the smile sliding from his face.

  “Is there something funny about my arrival here, Constable Hale?”

  The large man swallowed causing his chins to wobble. “Um, no sir, sorry sir.” He cleared his throat and busied himself with the hidden paperwork again.

  Poole turned, swiped his fob and stepped through the door. He made his way along the corridor and into and office that was full of desks lined up in rows. He felt the eyes of the dozen or so constables who were dotted around follow him across the room.

  The new guy.

  He had been expecting this. Moving to a new place was always going to have its difficult period, and he had steeled himself for it.

  He noted Constable Sanders looking at him. She caught his eye and quickly turned back to the paperwork which sat in front of her on the desk.

  Poole had almost reached the door at the far end, when it opened revealing a man with a chiselled jaw, blonde hair and blue eyes. He was roughly the same six foot two that Poole reached, but the way they filled that height could not have been more different. Poole’s frame was made up of long, pointy limbs which seemed to jut out of his thin body. This man on the other hand was muscular and toned. The tight white shirt he wore, straining over his chest.

  The man paused in the entrance and looked Poole up and down. “You the new chap then?” he said in a loud, sneering voice that Poole was sure was intended to carry across the whole office.

  Poole held his hand out. “Detective Sergeant Poole,” he said smoothly, having practised many times over the last few weeks.

  The broad shouldered man grasped his hand like a vice, his eyes narrowing under his cropped blonde hair. “Detective Sergeant Anderson,” the man said, more quietly now, his fingers squeezing down on Poole’s hand like a boa constrictor.

  “Nice to meet you,” Poole said in as level a voice as he could manage bearing in mind the pain that was shooting through his hand.

  The man snorted with laughter as a wide grin spread across his handsome face. “Hold on, you’re Brock’s aren’t you?”

  “If you mean am I his new sergeant? Then the answer is yes,” Poole replied pulling his hand away and trying to stand as straight as he could.

  Poole prided himself on always seeing the best in people, but this Anderson was grating on him already.

  “Well good luck with that.” Anderson laughed. He turned to the officer that Poole had met outside who was sitting at her desk.

  “Sanita, grab me and Inspector Sharp a couple of coffees, will you? There’s a love.” He winked at her and turned back towards the door. Poole glanced back as Sanders stood up looking embarrassed.

  “No,” Poole said quietly, but loud enough so both would hear. Sanders stopped and frowned at him. Anderson paused with his hand on the door and turned back towards the room.

  “What?” he said, his voice a mixture of annoyance and surprise.

  “It’s not a constable’s job to make tea for a sergeant,” Poole continued. “They might do it if they like you, but although I’ve only met you briefly, that scenario seems unlikely.”

  Blood screamed in Poole's ears, what the hell was he doing?!

  “Wha…” Anderson managed, his bright blue eyes swivelling around the room which had become strangely quiet. Eventually his expression settled on blind fury and he advanced on Poole like an angry mountain. “And who the hell are you to be telling me what I can and can’t do?!” he screamed, his chest puffing out so far it almost touched Poole’s.

  “I’m not telling you what to do, I’m telling Constable Sanders here what she doesn’t have to do. It’s a subtle difference, but an important one. Now why don’t you stop making a scene and go and get your own coffee?”

  Anderson’s breathing became heavier, faster. His eyes bulged and his face glowed crimson. His fists clenched and his mouth opened as a click from behind broke the deathly silence of the office. The door opened behind to reveal a man that on first glance appeared to be a giant. He wore trousers that finished a couple of inches from his shoes, a white shirt that had noticeable wet patches around his armpits and a tie pulled so loose it hung like a necklace.

  “Everything alright out here is it, Anderson?” the man said as he moved round, standing between the two men.

  “Yes sir,” Anderson replied between gritted teeth.

  “Well that’s good,” the man replied, his grey eyes switching between the two of them. “And you must be Poole, eh?” he said looking him up and down.

  “Yes sir,” Poole said, panic rising in his throat. This was not the first impression he wanted to give. Please don’t let this be him, please don’t let this be him.

  “Well it’s good to meet you, Poole.”

  He held out his hand and Poole took it. It was like shaking leather baseball glove.

  I’m Inspector Brock, so I think it’s me you are looking for. Shall we go and get all of us a coffee?” he said looking between Poole and Anderson again. “Would Inspector Sharp like one too, Anderson?”

  “Um,” Anderson appeared to have calmed down now, and if anything looked slightly sheepish. “No need sir, I’ll get our coffee.”

  “Ah, splendid. Well mine’s milk and two sugars, Poole?” he said turning to him.

  Anderson opened his mouth to say that that wasn’t what he meant, then closed it again.

  Poole smiled. “Milk, no sugar please.”

  Anderson’s mouth squirmed before opening. “Yes sir,” he said to Brock before trudging off with a
murderous look in his eye.

  “Come along then Poole, let’s show you your desk, eh?”

  “Yes sir,” Poole said, trying to subdue his grin. He turned back to see Sanita who had returned to her seat smiling at him. He gave her a small wave and followed the inspector through the door.

  The corridor beyond was short, with three doors on either side and one at the far end. The first door they passed situated on the left had a metal plaque attached to its surface that read:

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR SHARP

  They moved on to the next door, situated on the right, which read:

  DETECTIVE INSPECTOR BROCK

  Brock opened the door and held it for Poole who stepped into the small space and looked around. The office was a cramped mess of paperwork and cheap furniture. A desk sat in the middle of the small room and was covered in files and sprawling sheets of paper. A filling cabinet which looked like it had taken its fair share of abuse sat in the corner looking forlorn. A lamp stood in the opposite one, its lampshade torn on one side.

  “This is your desk," Brock said gesturing towards a small, cheap looking desk that was also covered in paperwork. "You'll need to chuck that stuff on the floor."

  Poole made his way to the small desk and hovered by it awkwardly.

  Away from the pleasing warmth of Constable Sanders’s smile, Poole was now feeling the familiar rise of nerves deep in his gut. He had been in his new job roughly ten minutes and so far had embarrassed himself in front of Constable Sanders and then in trying to overcompensate he had made an enemy in fellow Sergeant Anderson. Now he was sat in an office that was too small for two, even more so when one of those was the size of an international rugby player.