An Occupied Grave_A Brock & Poole Mystery Read online

  “So, take a seat,” Brock said, gesturing at the blue office chair that was positioned by his desk, its back scuffed and the arm that raised it up and down, broken off.

  He sat and turned to the inspector who had taken his place behind the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

  “I tend to let it build up a bit and then have big clear out, just dump it all in the file room for Gerald to sort out,” the inspector said, gesturing to the piles of paper.

  Poole decided not to ask who Gerald was in case it was something he should already know and he embarrassed himself even further.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Come in!” Brock barked, his face clouding as though a knock on his door was a personal insult.

  “Ah, Anderson, thank you,” he said, brightening as the blonde sergeant entered holding two mugs of coffee.

  “No problem sir,” he said placing them both on Brock’s desk.

  “One of them is Poole’s, I think?” the inspector said, his face a picture of innocence.

  “Yes sir,” Anderson said, lifting one of the mugs and placing it in front of Poole who was almost sure he could hear his teeth grinding. He backed out of the room glaring at Poole.

  “You’ve made an enemy there,” Brock said once the door had closed.

  “Sorry sir,” Poole said automatically.

  “Sorry? Best thing you could have done. The man’s an absolute arse. The fact that you’ve got on the wrong side of him already makes me think that you might be alright."

  The inspector surveyed the gangly figure in front of him.

  "You look like you're made out of golf clubs," he said frowning.

  "Um, thank you, Sir," Poole said, unsure of what else to say.

  "Well if you've finished alienating your new workforce, maybe we can get to business."

  Poole smiled. Despite the inspector’s gruff manner, there was something likeable about him. "I'm ready sir," he said, putting his coffee down and sitting up straight.

  “I’m sure you are, but let's finish our coffee first, eh?”

  “Of course sir,” Poole picked his coffee back up.

  The inspector eyed him for a moment. “I looked through your file,” he continued. “Very impressive.” His grey eyes seemed to be boring into the back of Poole’s skull, making him feel as though he was being cavity searched with his clothes on.

  "Thank you, Sir.”

  “And I see you’ve taken every course that’s been offered to you, aced them all.”

  Poole sipped at his coffee, desperate for a distraction. Although this was all true, something about the way the inspector was repeating it made him feel uncomfortable.

  "And how did you get on with your fellow colleagues?"

  The question threw Poole for a moment. This wasn’t a job interview, he was already here. With a sickening feeling, he realised his confrontation with Anderson might have raised doubts in the inspector’s mind.

  "I never had any issues with them sir," he said truthfully.

  "Mmm," Brock said, scratching the untidy stubble that circled his jaw. The back of Poole's neck began to prickle.

  The inspector stood suddenly and grabbed a coat that hung on a hat stand in the corner of the room.

  “You have a car assigned to you already I believe?”

  “Yes Sir,” Poole answered, rising from his own seat. “But it’s not the best I’m afraid.” What he really meant was that he had already had several murderous thoughts about the bucket of rust currently parked outside, even on just the short ride to the station this morning. The mechanic, who worked on all the local force’s cars, had told him with a chuckle that he had been given the runt of the litter.

  “Has it got an engine and can I fit in it?”

  Poole hesitated slightly, sizing up the inspector’s large frame. One, large eyebrow rose questioningly on Brock's face and Poole answered hurriedly.

  “Yes Sir,”

  “Then I think we’ll be ok."

  Chapter Two

  “A body?" Poole said slowly.

  "Yes," Brock answered

  "In the cemetery, Sir?”

  “That’s what I said Poole.”

  They were leaving Bexford and heading west towards the small village of Lower Gladdock.

  Addervale’s lush countryside streamed past their window; its high hedges and rolling fields patch working the land on all sides.

  The passenger seat of the car had obstinately refused to slide back and so Brock’s knees were pitched up by his chest. Poole swore that he could feel the entire car leaning to the left from the extra weight as he guided it along the small lanes.

  “I agree,” the inspector continued, “a cemetery is not the most surprising place to find a body, and neither is a funeral, which is what was happening there at the time. The difference in this case was apparently the extra body.”

  “Ah, I see," Poole said. The idea of pursuing a murderer on his first day was causing a mixture of fear and excitement that was making it hard to focus on the road ahead.

  "And where was it discovered?”

  “In the same grave as the woman whose funeral it was, though we’re not going to be able to get much of a look at it. From what I've been told by Constable Davies, there’s a vicar in there at the moment. Not that he's the most reliable source of information."

  Poole blinked.

  "The vicar's in the grave, Sir?"

  "Bloody hell Poole, yes! Is there a problem with your ears or something?"

  "No sir, sorry Sir."

  Brock grunted next him and pulled a bag of boiled sweets from his coat pocket. Poole waited patiently to be offered one, but the invitation never came.

  “Funny time of year this,” Brock said, staring out of the window. “Winter’s over, but spring hasn’t got going yet. The old life’s dead and gone, but the new life hasn’t come along.”

  Poole wasn’t sure what to make of this seasonal philosophy and didn’t fancy being told off again, so he kept quiet.

  The sat nav attached to the window announced that they should turn right and Poole did so.

  After another quarter of a mile, a battered sign half submerged by brambles confirmed that they were now entering Lower Gladdock. After another few minutes the lane gave way to a wider road that loop the bottom of a pretty village green.

  “The church,” Brock said, pointing at a small, squat tower of stone. It rose above a pretty cemetery that sloped gently down towards the green.

  Two police cars and an ambulance were parked in a semi-circle around the wooden gate which led into the cemetery and two or three sorry (and soggy) looking people were gathered in the middle of them.

  Poole pulled the car to the side of the road a few yards away along the church wall and stepped out into a deep puddle that came over the top of his black leather shoe, filling it with muddy rainwater. He leaned against the wall, pulled his shoe from his foot and began to shake it. Brock, who had reached the back of the car looked at him and shook his head before staring up at the church.

  Poole quickly rammed his shoe back on and joined him. He stood in silence for a moment, expecting instructions of some sort, but they didn’t seem to be forthcoming.

  “Shall we go and see what’s going on, Sir?” Poole said uncertainly.

  Brock nodded. “That would be a good idea, yes.”

  Poole turned and walked towards the small crowd, trying to compose his face into one of absolute professionalism despite the fact that his right foot was squelching as he walked.

  This was it. A body found in suspicious circumstances. A scene to be looked over. People to be interrogated. He could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body.

  The knot of people gathered in the middle of the space were all dressed in black. Clearly the funeral goers, thought Poole. No one was crying. They were talking animatedly with each other. Eyes wide as they stared across the churchyard to where white-suited crime scene figures stood in the distance.

  Brock and
Poole ignored the questioning eyes of the few onlookers and headed through the wooden gate. Brock nodding at the constable guarding it as he opened it for them.

  As they climbed the winding path through the graveyard, the scene around the grave appeared before them. A young constable was lowering a ladder down into the hole while the ambulance crew, a couple of crime scene people and a young woman watched.

  They moved to the edge of the grave and peered in. It was a sorry sight. The pale flesh of an elbow jutting from the earth at one end, and the small form of a very dishevel looking vicar curled up at the other. The young constable had just reached the bottom and was attempting to get his arm around the vicar in order to lift him up.

  “Oh bloody hell,” Brock muttered. “They’ve sent bloody Davies down!”

  Poole guessed this was a bad thing but wasn’t sure why. He looked to his right and saw the young woman who was knelt looking in.

  Her eyes were wet with tears under a mass of wild brown hair which hung around her defined cheek bones like curtains. He noticed that her hands were gripping the edge of the grave so tightly her fingers had sunk into the soft earth.

  “Excuse me, miss,” Poole ventured moving across to her, "I think you’d be better off moving back from the hole, we don’t want anyone else to fall in do we?”

  Her head snapped up to his, her eyes as black and wild as her hair. She jumped to her feet before turning and running towards the church.

  Poole turned back to Brock in confusion.

  “My daughter,” the vicar called up from over the shoulder of the young constable who was now climbing the ladder. Clearly having heard the exchange. “She’s very... sensitive I’m afraid. She’ll be ok once I’m out.”

  “Ok vicar, don’t worry,” Poole answered, staring after the figure of the girl. “She’s gone into the church.”

  “Oh good, good,” the vicar said, in a voice so soft they could barely hear him over the sound of the light rain hitting the earth.

  Eventually the constable stepped out onto the grass where he immediately slipped on the wet grass and landed on his back with the vicar on top of him.

  “Bloody hell,” Brock said, shaking his head at the scene.

  The ambulance crew rushed to them and held them both up.

  “Well done, Davies,” Brock said. “At least you didn’t drop him back into the grave, eh?”

  “Thank you, sSr,” the constable replied, picking his hat for the floor and ramming it on his head.

  “Poole,” Brock said turning to him, “follow the vicar to the ambulance and have a quick word with him before they take him away will you? Ask him when the grave was dug and who did it.”

  “Yes sir,” Poole said trying to contain his excitement. He was being given first interview of the case. A murder case. There was no other way a body accidentally ends up in a grave like this. He couldn’t imagine this small village generated enough bodies that a mistake could have been made. He followed the limping vicar back down the path with a determined look on his face.

  Poole stood at the back of the ambulance as the crew assessed the vicar’s injuries and made the necessary preparations to ready the van for leaving.

  “You’re taking him into hospital?” he asked as one of the crew stepped out from the doors and moved to close them.

  “Just to be on the safe side,” he said brusquely. “It looks like he’s just twisted his ankle, but with the swelling it’s best to get it checked.”

  “Can I talk to him first?”

  “If it’s important?” he shrugged.

  Poole resisted the urge to explain that uncovering a dead body that shouldn’t have been there was pretty important, and instead opted for what he hoped was a stern look as he stepped up through the back doors of the vehicle.

  The vicar lay on a cot to the left of the vehicle, the other ambulance worker sat on a fixed bench to the right.

  “Can I have a moment alone with the vicar please?” Poole said to him.

  The man grunted and squeezed past Poole and back out of the doors leaving Poole and the slightly soiled vicar alone. He had a crop of short white hair and a top lip that struggled to cover his sizeable teeth. His frame was thin but wiry and Poole guessed that he was actually younger than he appeared at first glance.

  “I just need to ask you a few questions vicar, it shouldn’t take too long.”

  “No no, quite alright,” the vicar said, giving him a weak smile. “Though there is not actually much to tell I’m afraid.”

  “You were presiding over a funeral today I understand?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Mrs Gaven. Not much of a turn out I’m afraid…”

  ‘She was from around here though?” Poole asked.

  “Oh yes, she had been in the village all her life.”

  The vicar looked up at the roof of the ambulance and sighed. Poole wondered if he had also hit his head as he’d fallen into the grave.

  “She was an older woman, was she?”

  “Oh yes,” the vicar replied, “and I'm afraid she’d been ill for some time.” The vicar paused and swallowed. “Multiple sclerosis," he said, softly.

  Poole nodded. “And do you know how she died?”

  “Pneumonia, I believe.”

  Poole nodded, scribbling furiously in his small black notebook.

  “And the body was spotted as the congregation gathered around the grave side is that correct?”

  “Yes,” the vicar said quietly, his eyes scanning the roof of the ambulance again. "The rain must have disturbed the soil and the body…um…”

  “Can I ask when the grave was dug?”

  “Two days ago I think. We have a man to take care of that sort of thing, Stan Troon his name is. He’ll be able to give you a more accurate time.”

  “And do you have an address for Mr Troon?"

  “Stan is a bit of an odd chap I’m afraid. Lives out in the woods in a caravan. Nice fellow though."

  Poole nodded and made more notes before pausing.

  The body he had seen in the grave hadn’t been an old corpse exposed by the digging of the new grave. His mind flashed back to the flash of milky white skin against the dark earth. No, that body had been put there recently. Almost certainly since the grave had been dug. He circled the name Stan Troon.

  “I’ll need your contact details as well of course,” Poole said. The vicar nodded.

  “Do you inspect the grave at all before the ceremony?”

  “Well, I always check everything is in order beforehand yes, and I looked at the grave yesterday as well, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Did you look in it?” Poole asked, watching the vicar’s expression turn to one of hurt professional pride.

  “I check the surrounding area is clean and presentable, I generally don’t have much call to look into the graves.”

  Some of the colour was returning to the vicar’s cheeks and he pulled himself up into a sitting position with a wince of pain from his ankle.

  “And do you know of anyone who might have gone missing from the village over the last few days?” Poole continued.

  The vicar stared at him. "Not missing exactly," he said.

  "And what do you mean by that?"

  The vicar sighed. "I was expecting Edie's grandson to come to her funeral."

  "Her grandson? And what's his name?"

  "Henry Gaven."

  Poole scribbled again in his notepad.

  "You suspect foul play?" the vicar asked.

  Poole looked up at him. “We’re not suggesting anything at this stage sir, just looking into all possibilities. How many people would have known about the grave being dug ready for today?”

  The vicar frowned. “Well, everyone in the village I suppose. Word gets around quickly and I’m sure that everyone knew Mrs Gaven had passed away.” He looked up as though he had said something inappropriate. “When am I going to be able to continue the service? The poor woman needs to be buried.”

  “I thi
nk it might be best if a new grave is dug, this one’s going to be tied up for some time. Thank you for your time, we’ll need to speak to you again at some point. I hope your ankle’s ok.”

  “Thank you.” The vicar smiled as Poole began made his way back out of the ambulance.

  He paused at the doorway. “Would you like me to go and fetch your daughter? I assume she’d want to go with you?”

  “Oh no, it would be too much for her I’m afraid. I won’t be long and she’ll wait in the church until I’m back.”

  Poole frowned, said his goodbyes and stepped out onto the road.

  He nodded too to the ambulance crew, showing that he was finished, and made his way to the gawky police officer who had carried the vicar out of the grave.

  “Constable?”

  “Yes Sir!” The young man said, spinning round so fast his helmet slipped to one side. He righted it with an automatic motion that suggested it happened a lot.

  “Can you begin taking statements from the congregation? Separate them off one at a time and just go over the discovery of the body and get contact details. I doubt anyone saw much, but check anyway. Then start asking them if they’ve noticed anything suspicious around the graveyard at all this week if they’re from here. Or anything strange in the village at all.” Poole paused in thought for a moment. “And ask them if anyone has gone missing recently.”

  “Will do sir!” the constable said, looking excited at being given this responsibility. He scurried off to his colleague who guarded the small wooden gate to the cemetery from the crowd, and began explaining his instructions.

  Poole raised his eyes towards the graves, but there was no sign of the inspector until a movement in the corner of his eye made him jerk his head to the right.

  There, on the far side of the green space was Inspector Brock. He was bending down and staring a crumbled part of the stone wall which surrounded the graveyard.

  Poole stepped through the gate and moved along the path a little as he watched the inspector make his way back.

  “Everything ok sir?” he asked as Brock joined him on the path.