An Occupied Grave: A Brock & Poole Mystery Read online

  Uniform soon arrived in the form of Davies and Sanders.

  “Davies,” Poole said approaching them as they stepped for their car, "I’d like you to make sure all members of the public stay away from the car. The crime scene guys will need the space to get this car out of here and check the area.”

  “Yes sir!” Davies said. He turned sharply away and just caught his hat as it slid off to one side.

  “Sanders, could you take a statement from Marjory Paget?”

  “Yes Sir,” Sanita replied. She looked across at the woman who was shakily holding the Thermos and staring intently at the car.

  “She’s quite upset,” Poole said, feeling as though he should say something to warn her. She nodded and moved off.

  For some reason, he found himself thinking of his mother.

  If she had been able to see him sending the female officer to console the woman while the male one took charge of crowd control, she’d have almost certainly called him part of the fascist state of man, or some such nonsense. The truth was, he had chosen Davies to keep the bystanders back because he thought it was safer than risking him putting his foot in it with Mrs Paget who looked on the edge as it was.

  “Crime scene are here,” Brock said heading towards him. Poole looked over his shoulder and saw Sheila and her van in the distance giving orders to a couple of white suited techs. “Let’s get going."

  "When Stan Troon wasn't here yesterday, it was possible he'd gone off somewhere, hunting maybe. I mean, a guy who lives in the woods isn't going to be held to routine is he?" Brock said as they stepped out of the car in the small lay-by that led into the woods.

  "And now, Sir?" Poole asked they padded along the woodland floor.

  "Well now we have someone else potentially involved in this case missing. More coincidences. I don't like it."

  They walked on in silence for a while. The only sound was the crunching underfoot of the carpet of leaves, twigs and needles that made up the floor of the path.

  Brock had already told Poole that he wanted to approach quietly. In case Stan Troon decided he didn't want to see them for whatever reason and vanished into the trees. The plan seemed to have worked, as they entered the clearing where the familiar caravan was parked in one corner. Stan Troon looked up at them from its far side, his eyes wide in shock.

  "I just found it, I don't..." He turned away from them and back to the object in his hands.

  Poole moved quickly, edging towards him and to one side to make sure he could see what he was holding before he got too close.

  “Poole!” the inspector hissed from behind him, but Poole ignored it. He had seen what was in Stan’s hands.

  "Stan, just put the bar down," he said as soon as he recognised the object. It was a crowbar. About three feet in length, bent at one end into a fork and most notably, covered in blood.

  "I just found it here!" Stan shouted, spinning around to them wildly causing the advance of Brock and Poole to stop with a jolt. "I don't know how it…" He half turned away from them again, looking towards the hedge which ran along the back of his caravan. As though answers were going to jump out at him from there.

  "Mr Troon, you need to put the crowbar down," Brock said. Poole glanced at him. His voice sounded calm, but the slightly higher tone left Poole in no doubt that he was stressed.

  Stan spun back towards them and seemed to see them properly for the first time. His gaze snapping back and forth between them as though he was centre court at Wimbledon. He was breathing heavily, his eyes wild. Poole tensed himself, ready for Stan Troon to fly at him with the crowbar. He didn't. Instead, he bent slowly, lowering it to the ground and placed it gently on the grass.

  Poole moved forward and took his wiry arms, moving them behind his back and cuffing him. As he did so, he felt the tension pour out of him. Brock called across from where he had slumped on the small step which stood in front of the caravan door. "Get crime scene here, they'll need to do a sweep of all this," he waved at the general area. Poole watched him fish a beaten cigarette packet from his jacket pocket as he dialled the station. His heart finally calming its previous thundering.

  He walked Stan Troon to the small bench they had sat on when they had last seen him and rested him on it. “Don’t do anything silly like run for it,” he said, feeling slightly foolish as he did so. Stan Troon didn’t look in any state to be running anywhere. His eyes stared down at the floor in utter confusion.

  Poole turned back towards the inspector who suddenly jumped up from the step and grabbed the front of Poole’s jacket in one giant fist.

  “Don’t you ever take the lead when facing someone who’s armed again,” he snarled. Smoke billowed from his mouth around Poole’s face whose eyes watered at its impact.

  “Yes, Sir,” he answered, his mouth gaping at this sudden burst of anger.

  The inspector breathed heavily, and for a moment Poole thought he might pull back one of those giant fists and strike him. Instead, he pushed Poole away with a growl of frustration and stalked back towards the rear of the caravan.

  Poole breathed deeply, his heart pounding now from a new rush of adrenaline. He turned and walked back to Stan Troon, slumped down next to him on the bench and pulled his phone from his pocket.

  The inspector hadn't spoken since they had left Stan Troon's clearing. He had smoked his cigarette and stared resolutely into the hedgerow until backup had arrived. Poole had then handled the handover and instructions to crime scene before they had both climbed back into the car and headed for the station.

  Poole eased the car into a space at the station and switched the engine off.

  “I’m sorry I snapped,” Brock said when the engine had died out, his voice, low and even. “But I stand by what I said; you never approach a suspect like that. I’m your superior and I lead on situations like that.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Poole answered, his hand still frozen on the door handle.

  Brock grunted and opened his door, releasing Poole too.

  They walked back towards the station separately, Poole following a few yards behind the inspector. He continued to follow him through the reception where he ignored Roland’s greeting from behind the desk, and marched straight through to the canteen.

  Poole joined him, unsure of what he was supposed to do next. They made coffee silently next to each other in front of the machine until Brock broke the silence.

  “You've looked at a proper picture of Henry Gaven? Like the one in Stan Troon's caravan?”

  Poole looked up, confused. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Anything strike you about it?” Brock turned to him with his grey eyes burning.

  Poole blinked. “In what way sir?”

  “Right at the start of this when I looked at it. I couldn’t help noticing there was a resemblance to someone. I couldn’t place it for a while but earlier… seeing Stan Troon that upset at finding the crowbar…”

  Poole frowned.

  “Come on,” Brock said turning away, “I’ll show you.”

  They headed back out to their office where Brock picked up the file that lay on his desk. He flicked it open and turned two photographs that were laid side by side around for Poole to see. He placed his hands on the desk and leaned over them.

  “Oh,” he said quietly.

  “Oh indeed,” Brock said. “Bit of a similarity there, isn’t there? I was thinking about what Stan had said, that he knew Henry Gaven, but had come to the village four years ago. What if the reason he came to the village was because he had just found out who Henry Gaven was?”

  “Found out? You mean because of the accident?”

  “Let’s go and see shall we?” Brock said grinning.

  Poole was so relieved to see him in a good mood again he simply nodded and followed him from the room.

  The interrogation room was a perfect square. With a cracked panelled ceiling, sickly yellow strip lights and a small table in the middle of the room, it was suitably grim.

  Constable Davies stood in one cor
ner and Stan Troon sat at the table, his thin pale hands wrapped around the cup in front of him as he stared at it. He seemed unaware they had even entered the room until Brock spoke.

  “Mr Troon, was Henry Gaven your son?”

  Stan’s head shot up with a sharp intake of breath as though someone had jabbed him in the ribs. He nodded slowly as his eyes fell back to the cup.

  “I didn’t know though, didn’t know he even existed.”

  “How did you find out?” Brock continued.

  “Someone got in touch with me about the accident. I think it was a mistake, someone who thought I was next of kin or something. They said I was on his birth certificate. By the time I got here he’d already gone away.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “I worked on a fairground, we moved around a lot but we were based in Oxfordshire, not Addervale.”

  “So you came here looking for Henry,” Brock said flatly.

  He nodded again.

  “And did you try and see Henry in prison?”

  “Yeah, I tried. He said he didn’t want to see me. I decided to wait until he’d come out and try then.”

  “And you arranged to stay in the woods until then?”

  “Yeah, the vicar’s been very kind to me. Even put in a good word for me with Edie.”

  “And did it work?”

  “Sort of.” He shrugged. “I used to go over to her’s pretty regular. She’d show me pictures of Henry when he was growing up and things.” His voice became choked with tears and Davies stepped forward and handed him a pack of tissues from his jacket pocket.

  “And what happened when Henry was released from prison?”

  “Nothing,” he said before blowing his nose loudly. “Edie told me that Henry had sent her a postcard the week before and that he wasn’t going to come back. I think that’s what made her ill to be honest.”

  “And you never saw your son afterwards?”

  “No,” Stan said, looking up with shimmering eyes. “I never saw him. The vicar said he’d come back eventually, but then Edie got ill and went into hospital and he still never came back. Then I thought he might turn up at the funeral, but he didn’t.”

  “And did you? I don’t remember seeing you there?”

  “I don’t go in for all that church stuff,” he said wiping his eyes. “I paid my respects to Edie in my own way and then waited on the green. When I saw Henry hadn’t turned up, I came back here before it all started. Then you two came over. I didn’t know that Henry was the one dead then, I just thought you were trying to pin something else on him.”

  “Something else?” Brock said, his voice suddenly keen. “You think the accident was pinned on him somehow?”

  “I don’t know, Edie always said he never did it though. She said there must have been some mistake.”

  “Henry confessed,” Brock said firmly.

  Stan shrugged. “I only know what Edie told me. She said he was a good lad and that he never would have drunk and then drove.” He looked up at the ceiling. “He never let her visit him in jail either, said it was no place for her to go.”

  “The crowbar, Mr Troon,” Brock said leaning his large arms on the table top. “Was it yours?”

  “I, I don’t think so.” He held his head in his hands as though it was likely to fall off.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I lost mine a couple of months ago, went to do a job over in Champton and couldn’t find it in my stuff but, the blood.” He looked up, his eyes wide and wet. “I didn’t kill Henry,” he said, his voice choked with emotion. “I don’t know how it got blood on it, but it’s not his, it can’t be.” His voice was pleading, desperate.

  “Do you know the whereabouts of Malcolm Paget?” Brock threw the question at him as though they had been merely talking about the weather. Poole risked glancing sideways at him, his face was like a wall of granite. Set and determined.

  “Malcolm? I don’t know, why?” Stan’s expression moved from one of confusion, thrown by the question, to one of fear. “Has something happened to him?”

  “He’s currently missing, maybe it’s his blood on the crowbar?

  Stan’s eyes darted around the table top as though he was following a particularly erratic fly.

  “Let me put a little theory to you,” Brock said, leaning back and folding his arms. “Henry did come back to the village; he stayed at Edie’s.”

  Stan looked up at him.

  “You went there and tried to reconcile with him but he wasn’t having it. A fight broke out and you whacked him over the head. You stuck him in a wheelbarrow and pushed him along the footpath to the church. You’d dug the grave the day before, you knew you could dig it a little deeper and then hide the body at the bottom, nobody would ever know. Maybe you thought that was some compensation? Burying him with his gran?”

  “No!” Stan shouted, slamming his hands into the table top. “I didn’t see Henry! I never saw him!”

  “And then Malcolm Paget,” Brock continued as though he hadn’t heard him. “Malcolm told his wife he was going to London, but maybe he came and saw you? Maybe he’d realised who you were and what you’d done?”

  “No! No!” Stan cried. He stood now, his fists balled in rage and his eyes bulging. “Henry was my son! I wanted him in my life not…” He slumped down again in his chair.

  To Poole’s surprise, Brock stood up. “Interview terminated at five thirty p.m.,” he muttered before leaving the room. Poole followed him.

  “What do you think, Sir?” he asked as they headed back to their office.

  “I think I just pushed a man about the death of his son and I feel like crap about it, that’s what I think.” Brock marched past the doorway towards their office and headed for the canteen.

  “You don’t think he killed him?” Poole asked, slightly surprised.

  “Do you?” the inspector asked. He took a paper cup form beside the coffee machine and offered Poole one.

  Poole thought back to Stan Troon’s pained face as they had talked about the death of his son. “He seemed genuine,” he said shrugging. “But the fact he didn’t tell us about his relationship with the victim, and now the crowbar.”

  “Excuse me, Sir,”

  Poole turned round to see Constable Davies standing, his cheeks flushed.

  “Yes, Davies?”

  “They’ve found Malcolm Paget in the woods near Stan Troon’s caravan, Sir. He’s dead.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Poole crunched through the overgrown forest floor with Brock following close behind. He was worried about disturbing evidence, but they didn’t have much choice if they wanted to get to the body.

  “Another one, eh?” Ronald Smith called to them as they arrived at a small hollow at the bottom of which lay Malcolm Paget.

  Brock grunted at him and moved down to the body. Malcolm Paget lay on his side facing away from the side Brock and Poole had descended from and towards Ronald Smith, who crouched on the far side in a white crime scene suit.

  “Bashed on the head?” Brock said to Ronald, peering closely at the body.

  “Yes. And before you ask me, yes, it could have been a crowbar.”

  Brock sighed, stood up and turned away.

  “You seem disappointed?” Ronald said smiling. “Not fitting with your theory then eh, Sam? Isn’t it annoying when that happens?” He turned to Poole, smirking.

  “How long ago do you think he died?” Poole asked, ensuring his face was blank.

  The smirk faltered on Ronald’s face and he looked back to the body. “Died last night I’d say,” he said. “There’s some bruising around his wrists and arms, could be from an altercation before death. I can’t tell you much more until we get him back on the table.”

  Brock grunted and turned away, heading towards where Sheila Hopkins was stood next to a trestle table on which evidence bags were piled.

  “Thanks,” Poole said to Ronald. He hadn’t wanted to, but he couldn’t bring himself not to say thank you t
o someone who had just given him information.

  “Anything, Sheila?” Brock asked as he approached the stout figure in white.

  “Not much. We’ve found the path through the woods where the body was dragged. Came straight from Stan Troon’s place.”

  Brock sighed and ran his hand through his hair as he looked up at the tree tops.

  “Malcolm Paget wasn’t a big man but it still must have taken some effort to move him,” Sheila continued.

  Brock’s attention snapped back to her. “Two people?”

  “I would think so. It’s rough ground here. Roots, sticks and god knows what in the way. Getting a body through this would have been a right pain in the arse.”

  “Thanks Sheila,” Brock said moving back towards the main path and their car.

  “I’m going home, Poole. Laura’s getting back and I need time to think.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Poole said dutifully. Inwardly, he was conflicted. When they were back in the car he began airing his thoughts.

  “Sir, who do you think Stan Troon could have got to help him move a body? I mean, I can’t think of anyone. He seems like your classic loner to me.”

  “That’s crossed my mind too,” Brock said. “The man lives out in the woods on his own, the only person he had any attachment to was Edie Gaven and she’s dead. He’s done odd jobs for the vicar I guess, but it’s a big ask to move from helping with the church guttering or whatever and then asking a man of the cloth to help him get away with murder. No, Stan Troon is not our man, I’m sure of it. Not that that will do much good.”

  “Sir?” Poole said, glancing at him. The inspector seemed smaller somehow, as though his gigantic frame had shrunk in on itself. He slumped in the passenger seat looking weary.

  “How do you think a jury is going to react when some prosecution lawyer lays out that Stan Troon was an eccentric loner living in the woods who was stalking his son and her grandmother. That he was the one who dug the grave where the body was buried, that it was his crowbar that murdered at least one of the victims, maybe both. Add to all that, we don’t have anyone else even on our radar other than David Lake and his henchman. That’s where we need to go next. We need to talk to this Hands chap, but tomorrow.”