An Occupied Grave Read online

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brock could hear the screaming before he’d even reached the thick wooden door which stood open at the front of the church. It echoed out from the entrance hall, reverberating around the ancient stone and defying even the weather to drown it out. He ran through the short stone porch and inside.

  Nathaniel Hooke and Sandra were behind the alter which stood on a small raised platform at the far end of the church. Poole stood in front of the vicar, the light from the large candle which burnt at the centre of the alter glinted off a large knife that was held at his throat.

  Brock’s stomach lurched as the words ‘The Cursed Detective’ burnt in his brain. It was happening again. He was going to lose another partner, and this one after only a few days.

  Sandra’s screams died out, the echoes of them fading as she leaned across the ornate tablecloth which draped over the alter and sobbed.

  Nathaniel Hooke’s eyes were wide, dancing around the church, glinting in the candlelight.

  “Nathaniel,” Brock said, moving slowly up the aisle. “I know you were trying to protect your daughter,” his voice boomed around the space. He paused and leaned against a wooden pew. His brain was working furiously despite the head wound. He’d had it all wrong. Yes this was related to the accident all those years ago, but it wasn’t about revenge, it was about a cover-up.

  “Was it you driving the car the night Charlie was killed, Sandra?”

  The young woman looked up suddenly, her face taught and pale.

  “She was so young,” the vicar said quietly. He reached his hand down and stroked the back of his daughter’s head. Brock noticed she flinched slightly at his touch.

  The inspector inched along the aisle towards them.

  “She was driving that night four years ago wasn’t she?” he said, directing his question at the vicar again. “It was her who was over the limit and who knocked Charlie Lake down.”

  The vicar nodded, tears rolling down his pale, drawn face.

  “Only it wasn’t just an accident, was it? You found out that she’d arranged to meet Charlie there somehow, called him maybe? That’s why he didn’t have the Lake’s family dog with him, that’s why he was out at three in the morning on the village green.”

  Brock took another step closer.

  “You knew how to protect her though didn’t you? All you had to do was to get Henry to say he’d been driving. He was in the car a well, it was easy.

  The church already owned Edie Gaven’s cottage and she was ill. You promised to look after Edie for Henry didn’t you? Promised you would pay for her to get the care she needed at home and that they would both be looked after once he was released. You even worked on his behalf to get him released early.”

  He took another small step as a crack of thunder rumbled overhead.

  “That was part of the plan though, wasn’t it? You wanted Henry to confess so that there was no suspicion on Sandra, but you knew you still needed to clean house didn’t you?” Brock edged closer to the platform.

  “The Pagets came to you as they were worried about their daughter, you kindly offered to go down to London and see if you could help. You got her into a drug rehabilitation program there which you conveniently began to volunteer at.”

  The inspector was winging it now, his mouth working before his brain could keep up with it. He had to keep talking, keep distracting until he could get close enough.

  “Charlotte seemed to be doing well. Was that when she started talking about confessing that she was in the car that night too? Was that when you decided she had to go as well? I’m not sure how you managed to get your hands on the drugs, but I imagine you left it at her bedsit to tempt her. Maybe after making her go over the accident to ensure she would be at a low ebb? Either way, I think you then went back and gave her a second dose, right after the first. The pathologist said there had been no new needle tracks for months, then suddenly two at once.”

  Brock moved forward again and the vicar’s head jerked up towards him from his daughter. He froze and continued talking.

  “And then Henry Gaven was due to be released. And now you had to deal with the real problem. You knew that once he got out he’d start putting two and two together about Charlotte’s death, and then what? He’d be into you for more money that’s what.”

  Brock shuffled his feet a little further forward, almost imperceptibly.

  “I think Henry was on to you straight away. I think he even suspected you of doing away with poor Edie. I mean, the timing was very convenient wasn’t it? Her getting ill just before he was going to be released and then dying before he could even see her? Then I guess he’d had a drink, probably upset about his gran, and went to the Paget’s. Did he tell them that there was something suspicious about the death of Charlotte? That they should look into it? He obviously didn’t tell them about you did he? Maybe he was still planning to extort you for one last pay off first? But you didn’t know that at the time did you? Not until later. Henry met Sandra on the way back to Edie’s house. I guess that she came home and told you she had seen him. You went straight to Edie’s house and smashed him over the head. I’m not sure how you lured him into the shed? Maybe he was already there, getting logs for the fire or something? Of course, the really clever part was how you had set up Stan Troon to take the fall.

  Do you know it was bothering me how perfect a fall guy Stan was. I mean, how could someone have arranged for him to be there when another prime suspect was needed?

  I bet you couldn’t believe your luck when he showed up four years ago. A ready-made patsy to take the fall whenever you were ready. You had let him stay in the woods which the church also owned, and you’d taken his crowbar as soon as you’d known when Henry would be released. It was clever you telling us that Stan was supposed to be doing work for you that day we went looking for him. It made us suspect him straight away.”

  The vicar’s attention had turned back to Sandra who had raised her head. She was staring at Brock now, her eyes wide. The tears had gone and had been replaced by an intense gaze that looked to Brock like blind fury.

  “Malcolm Paget found out something about his daughter’s death in London. I don’t know what, we probably never will. Maybe he spoke to people in her rehab group and they all told him the same thing, that she was well on the road to recovery and they had never seen it coming. You’d told him a different story though hadn’t you? That you had visited her not long before and she had seemed very down and that you were worried? Is that what he came to ask you about? Why those two stories didn’t match? Luckily for you, you still had Stan’s crowbar hidden.”

  Brock’s eyes looked into Sandra’s.

  “Did he make you help him move Malcolm’s body into the woods, Sandra?” Brock said looking at her.

  The small frame of Sandra Hooke started to rock slightly as she took faster breaths.

  “Leaving the crowbar at Stan’s was easy enough, he would take the fall for everything. And most importantly of all, Sandra would be safe.

  “Sandra is unwell!” Nathaniel screamed desperately. The sudden noise above the dull roar of the storm made Poole jump.

  “Sandra,” Brock said. He began walking forward, his eyes fixed on hers now. “What happened when you drove back from Bexford that night? Was it a joke gone wrong? You told us that Charlie had killed himself. What was it? A game? Were you playing chicken and he didn’t move?”

  Sandra looked wildly at her father and then back to Brock.

  “I think after your mother died, your dad couldn’t bear the thought of losing you as well. So he covered your tracks. But what’s he been doing to you, Sandra? He’s been virtually keeping you prisoner.”

  She turned and stared at her father again.

  Sandra screamed. A blood curdling, primal noise of bitter anguish. She grabbed the large candlestick from the alter, pushed past her father and ran towards a side door in the church. Nathaniel Hooke tore after her, dragging Poole with him. Brock broke into a run, bu
t slowed as his head throbbed and his vision swayed. He staggered on through the small passage which led out into the graveyard.

  As he stepped out into the thunderous night a flash of lightning lit up the sky and illuminated the three figures which stood to his left.

  Nathaniel Hooke stood with his left arm still around Poole’s neck, his right still held the knife to his throat. Sandra stood next to him, her eyes glazed over, staring into the rain with the candlestick hanging limply at her side.

  Brock moved closer until he was just a few feet away, his hands raised in front of him.

  “It’s all over now, Nathaniel. We can look after Sandra, get her the help that she needs.”

  An explosion of thunder rolled above their heads.

  “I won’t let her go!” screamed the vicar, his eyes bulging. “I won’t,” he said in a wail. He shook his head vigorously making the rain fly off his limp hair in all directions, as though he was trying to free something from his head. Sandra was still motionless, like a robot that had been switched off.

  “Let Sandra and the sergeant come to me and we can look after her, we can make her better,” Brock shouted above the roar of the rain.

  There was another flash and a deafening crack sounded from the tower of the church as the bolt struck the corner of the old stone which exploded above their heads.

  Brock dived to his right, landing in the wet grass and rolling as the sound of stone crashing on the path behind him rang in his ears. He opened his eyes as thunder rolled across the sky above him. He turned towards where the others had been. Only Sandra still stood.

  He climbed to his feet and ran towards Poole who was slowly getting to his feet.

  “You ok, Poole?” he shouted as he came alongside the rising figure.

  “Yes,” Poole said, his voice small. Brock followed his gaze down to the vicar who lay awkwardly, his head on one side, eyes staring sightlessly. A pool of blood spread around his head like a halo.

  Brock bent down and felt the man’s wrist, looked up at Poole and shook his head.

  There was a clatter as Sandra dropped the candlestick on the stone path.

  The inspector leaned across and picked it up before taking the knife which lay next to the vicar’s lifeless hand.

  He stood and looked at Sandra Hooke. Her eyes were vacant again, staring out into the rain as though she didn’t even notice it. He looked at Poole who stood, staring at the vicar’s body as the sound of sirens approaching rose louder through the storm.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Pretty impressive back there in the church,” Poole said to Brock who was sat on the edge of a hospital bed with a thunderous look in his eye.

  “I was trying to get him to confess,” Brock said with a grunt. “I knew we didn’t have anything on him, not really. I needed him to admit it and hope that Sandra would be able to back it up, though lord knows what state she’s going to be in after all that.” His face hardened. “Remember what I kept saying about this case, Poole? Too many coincidences. I realised it when I walked into that church. There were too many things linking the vicar to all the victims. Not Sandra mind you, the vicar.”

  Poole nodded. “Apparently the doctor who’s checked over Sandra says she’s definitely been drugged, they’re running tests on her now.”

  Brock shook his head. “I’d wondered about how much the accident had affected Sandra, and Charlotte for that matter. Losing a friend would be traumatic, awful, but young people are resilient. I wondered if there was something else going on there and there was, guilt. They had all been in the car that night, all except Charlie Lake that is.” He shook his head again sorrowfully. “Such a bloody waste. All those young lives lost or wasted. And now Sandra Hooke is going to do time for helping her father.”

  “She still drove that car four years ago, she still killed Charlie Lake,” Poole reminded him.

  “I think so, yes, but we don’t have any proof she did. Do you remember what she said the first time we talked to her at the vicarage?”

  Poole shrugged and shook his head.

  “She’d said how it was just a joke,” Brock continued. “That she was just having fun. That’s why I asked her if it had been a game that had gone wrong. I think they were drunk and messing around that night and decided to play a joke on Charlie and it went wrong. I think she was still stuck in that night four years ago.”

  He paused and looked up at Poole. “And you’re sure Davies is alright?”

  “Yes sir, I made him go home and rest.” Poole said grinning. Brock had already asked twice if Constable Davies was okay, and said that he shouldn’t have left him back at the vicarage three times. Poole had explained that Davies had been completely fine, with just a minor bump on the head to show for his nights work.

  The door of the room opened and Laura Brock rushed in, her eyes full with tears.

  “Oh my god, Sam, are you ok?!” she said, throwing her arms around the inspector’s huge frame.

  “I’m fine, it’s just a scratch. They just wanted to check me out before they let me go.” He made eyes at Poole over her shoulder which suggested he should not mention the doctor’s recommendation that he should stay in overnight.

  “Are you ok?” ,he said, turning to Poole.

  “Yes thank you, Mrs Brock.”

  “Oh please, Laura,” she said laughing. “Saying Mrs Brock reminds me of my mother-in-law and believe me that’s not a good thing.

  Brock laughed loudly and stood up from the bed. The change in the inspector was instantaneous. As soon as his wife had entered the room he had brightened. Somehow the pain from his head wound and the stress of the last few hours melting away into a smile.

  “Well Sam’s a bloody nightmare on detail so you’re going to have to help fill me in on what on earth happened tonight.”

  Poole turned to Brock who smiled, hunched his shoulders and turned his palms upwards. “Hey, the lady gets what the lady wants,” he said laughing.

  Poole explained the confrontation with Nathaniel Hooke, watching Laura Brock’s face contort through concern and surprise as he did so. He paused as he reached the part where lightning had struck the church.

  “So did Sandra hit her father with the candlestick? Or was it falling masonry?” Her eyes darted between them as they in turn looked at each other.

  “We don’t know yet,” Brock answered. “Neither of us saw, but forensics will soon know.”

  “That poor woman,” Laura said sadly. She moved back to the inspector and squeezed him around the shoulders. “What will happen to her now?”

  “She might get away with self-defence in the case of her father, but we need to find out the real story with the accident that killed Charlie Lake. She’s not innocent in this Laura,” Brock said.

  “I know, but if she was on drugs? She might not have known what she was doing.”

  The inspector frowned, his gaze turning towards the ceiling. “Poole,” he said suddenly returning his eye to him. “Do you remember the vicar mentioned making Sandra some sort of special herbal tea to help her relax?”

  “Yes,” Poole said gravely, realising what the inspector was getting at.

  Brock nodded. “I think it would be a good idea to see what was in that tea.”

  The door opened and the doctor arrived. Poole watched with amusement as Brock took turns in trying to bat away the concerns of both his doctor and his wife. Eventually he seemed to win, and the doctor agreed that he could be discharged under the supervision of Laura.

  They stepped out into night air which still had the crackle of electricity in it despite the passing of the storm.

  “Can we give you a lift anywhere, Guy?” Laura offered. She clung to Brock as though he might fly away in the light breeze, her arms wrapped around his waist.

  “Yes we can,” Brock jumped in before he could answer. “I had a uniformed officer take Poole’s mum back to his flat earlier, but I’ll get them to meet us at The Mop and Bucket for a stiff drink.”

  “Oh, Sam,
come on, you might have concussion!”

  “A couple of pints isn’t going to make much difference is it?” he said, back to the gruff manner Poole had come to expect. “And anyway, it’s tradition. We’ve closed a case, we go to the pub.”

  Laura stepped away and raised her eyebrows at him, arms folded.

  “We’ll get back to the whole ovulation chart mumbo-jumbo from tomorrow,” the inspector said irritably.

  Laura punched him on the arm playfully and took Poole’s arm instead.

  “Come on then Guy, you can tell me about yourself while this idiot destroys his brain cells and his sperm count in one fell swoop.”

  Poole laughed and then stopped himself as he caught the inspector’s expression.

  “So come on then, how are you finding Bexford?” Laura asked as they headed down the street lit pavement.

  “I like it,” Poole replied. “The inspector took me to Sal’s and The Mop and Bucket and they were both amazing.”

  Laura stopped and turned to her husband.

  “Thanks a lot Poole, soul of bloody discretion you are,” Brock said rolling his eyes.

  “Sorry sir, I…” Poole stopped, his eyes drifting beyond the inspector to the figure that was walking towards them.

  It was a man, his coat collar lifted up on his long coat. A crop of short white hair on his head and a cigar hanging from one corner of his mouth.

  “Poole?” Brock said, noting his expression and turning to the man.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Guy?” the man said grinning. He turned to him, looking him up and down. “It’s good to see you, son.”

  Poole felt a blow that was almost physical at the sight of his father. It had been ten years since he had last seen him. Ten years of wondering what he would do the next time they stood in front of each other. Now here he was.

  “What do you want?” he said, his voice sounding as alien to his own ears as it had done in the café.

  “I wanted to see you,” Jack Poole said, spreading his arms wide. He began to move towards Poole, his smile wide.