An Occupied Grave_A Brock & Poole Mystery Read online

Poole turned to the inspector who popped a sweet into his mouth and resolutely refused to offer one again. Poole was starting to think that this was moving beyond just be impolite and becoming a bit insulting. He wasn't particularly a fan of boiled sweets, but it was the principle of the thing.

  A rustle of leaves from his left made him turn to see a lean, rangy man with white hair and a beard step out from the tree line.

  “Want a cup of tea?” the man said as he approached them.

  “That’d be lovely,” Brock answered grinning from ear to ear.

  “Sit over there then,” the man said, waving a finger towards the wooden bench that was set alongside a fire pit.

  Brock made his way over and sat down, still grinning as he rolled the boiled sweet around his mouth.

  Poole decided to remain standing and moved to the opposite side of the fire pit, which he could now see was the rusted metal of a car wheel turned on its side.

  “I always liked camping,” the inspector said, picking up a stick and poking at the blackened remains within. “Getting outside under the open sky.”

  “This isn’t camping though is it, Sir?” Poole answered bitterly. For some reason this place was getting under his skin.

  The great outdoors with its bugs, thorns and flea-ridden animals had never had much appeal to him. He felt like he needed a shower already. “Do you think he has a permit to live here? Or it’s his own land?”

  “No I don’t and no it ain’t," the sharp voice of Stan Troon came from Poole’s right. He turned to see him approaching with three mugs of tea, which he placed on an upturned barrel at the end of the bench Brock sat on. “This land comes with Rose cottage, where Edie Gaven lived, and that's owned by the church. The vicar gave me permission to live here.”

  Poole looked at the man as he sat on the bench next to Brock. Despite the white hair, the man wasn't old. Poole guessed mid-fifties, though it was hard to tell due to the leathery, tanned skin of a man who lived outdoors. He wore a silver hooped earring in his left ear and wooden beads hung around his neck. Poole couldn't believe he wasn't wearing a coat in the current weather, but Stan Troon appeared to have gone for many thin layers instead. His face was angular, and vaguely familiar to Poole, though he had no idea where from.

  "Thanks,” he said, taking one of the mugs that Stan now offered to him. He looked down at the mug in front of him and tried not to show repulsion at the scum which drifted around on its dark brown surface. It looked like it had been scooped from a puddle.

  “I imagine you do alright out here in these woods?” Brock said. “Nice little veg patch, bit of hunting no doubt.”

  “I got permission,” Troon said sharply.

  “I’m sure you have,” Brock continued. “How long have you lived out here then?”

  “Four years, more or less.”

  Brock nodded and took a sip of his tea. "This grave you dug for Edie Gaven, anything strange about it?"

  Poole saw a flash of emotion cross Stan’s face, but was unsure whether it was sadness, fear or pain.

  “Nothing strange about it,” Stan said. “ I dug a hole, told the vicar. He paid me. Same as always.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone you didn’t recognise around the graveyard?” Poole asked.

  Stan looked up at him with eyes that to Poole, seemed older than the rest of him. “No one I didn’t recognise, no.”

  Poole opened the file he was holding and took the photo of Henry Gaven from it. He glanced at Brock who nodded at him to continue.

  “Do you recognise this man?”

  Again Poole saw a reaction on Stan's face, but again it vanished before he could get a read on it.

  “I recognise him,” Stan said, leaning forward and poking the smouldering fire in front of him. “It’s Henry Gaven.”

  There was something in the way he spoke that made Poole wonder what he knew of the young man.

  "You know that he was Edie Gaven’s grandson?”

  “Course I do! Look, there are plenty around here who know more about that boy than I do, why don’t you go and ask them some questions and leave me in peace?” He stood up and moved across to his vegetable patch and turned his attention to the weeds.

  Poole looked at the inspector who was draining the last of his tea. Poole took the opportunity of pouring his into a small bush behind him.

  “Tell us who these people are that we should talk to and we’ll leave you alone,” the inspector said. He placed his mug on the arm of the wooden bench and stood.

  Stan Troon stopped digging with the small trowel he held and looked back over his shoulder.

  “There are some people round here who lost everything the day that boy lost control of that car. If I was you, I’d start with them."

  They walked in silence back along the forest path until they reached the car. The foliage around them somehow making the quiet deeper.

  "Was it just me sir," Poole asked once they had climbed inside. "Or did he seem pretty upset when we mentioned Henry Gaven?"

  "He did," Brock said. "the question is, why?"

  The song Kung Fu Fighting blasted suddenly from the inspector’s pocket making Poole jump. He rolled his eyes and tried to fish it out in the tight space. “My wife’s idea of a joke, I don’t know how to change the bloody thing,” he explained as he put the mobile to his ear. “Hello?” There was a pause before he grunted an acknowledgement and said “We’ll get there now.” Then he paused again, frowning. “Is Ron there?” He sighed. “Ok, see you in a minute.” He turned to Poole. “Back to the church, they’ve got the body out.”

  “Is this the Ronald Smith you mentioned earlier?” Poole asked as he started up the car.

  “Ronald bloody Smith,” Brock said bitterly. “He’s the pathologist and a total and utter…”

  The end of the sentence was muttered and lost as he turned away to the window. Poole used his imagination to fill in the blanks.

  They pulled up again outside the church, to find there had been a fair amount of activity. A black Mercedes had taken the place of one of the squad cars on the road, and a van marked coroner had replaced the ambulance. Up on the sloped graveyard, a small white tent had been erected to the side of the grave where white suited figures moved silently in the damp air. They climbed out and headed up towards it. Brock nodded to the uniformed officer who stood a short distance from the entrance and marched past, stepping through the one flap.

  “Ah Sam! Glad to see you made it,” A small man said with a grin running from ear to ear. He was stood on the other side of a table that contained the body from the grave, a white sheet laid over it. The man himself was bald apart from small tufts of white hair which sprouted from above large and protruding ears. He reminded Poole of a garden gnome.

  “I was interviewing a suspect,” Brock said gruffly. What are we looking at?”

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new protege first, Sam?” the man said, turning the full beam of his grin towards Poole. Now that he saw him straight on, he realised that there was no warmth to it. He imagined it would be the sort of smile that you saw on a crocodile just before it ate you.

  “This is Poole,” Brock said waving a hand towards him and moving towards the body.

  “Now, now, Sam, you know that I believe patience to be a virtue,” Ron said.

  Brock stopped short of the table and looked up to the heavens, muttering under his breath.

  “My name is Ronald Smith,” the man said, extending a latex gloved hand towards Poole. He hesitated and looked down. Had that hand just been prodding and poking at a dead body?

  “Bloody hell, Ron, he doesn’t want to touch your corpse hand!” Brock said exasperated.

  Ronald turned his head on one side and said, “Quite, how rude of me.”

  “It’s nice to meet you sir,” Poole said, nodding instead. A wave of relief swept over him as the man turned his attention back to the body.

  “Well as you know Sam, I don’t like to guess at these things. I prefer to take a
more meticulous approach back at the lab.”

  “Yes, yes,” Brock said irritably. “Sandra’s already told me you’ve got something so just let me have it.”

  “Sandra should be more careful in her assumptions,” Ronald said in a level voice. He looked down at the clipboard in his hand. “We have been rather fortunate though. It appears our young man here was already in the system and his fingerprints were quite easy to take.”

  “Henry Gaven,” Brock said, staring at the white sheet as though he could see straight through it to the corpse beneath.

  Ronald’s small round head jerked up towards him, the smile gone from his lips. “It does appear that way yes,” he said, the wind clearly taken from his sails. “As I say, I will need to do a thorough investigation once…”

  “Yes, yes,” Brock said, moving to the blanket and lifting the sheet from the head of Henry Gaven.

  Poole stared down at the pale face. Henry Gaven was a year younger than Poole, and he felt the sudden immediacy of death as he looked down on him. Ten years ago it could very easily have been him laid on a table like this. His eye closed, his mouth silent forever.

  “Poole?”

  He looked up and realised that Brock had been talking to him.

  “Come on,” the inspector continued, a quizzical look on his face. “Let’s go and talk to the next of kin.”

  Poole nodded and turned to follow him out of the tent.

  “Don’t worry,” Ronald’s whiney voice came from behind. Poole turned to see the grin firmly back on his face. “Many people struggle when looking at a murder victim.”

  Poole’s face flushed red and he turned and left without replying.

  Chapter Four

  The Bell was the only pub in Lower Gladdock and looked as though it had been there for hundreds of years. It was located away from the main green, down a side street which led to a small playing field that had an old and rather decrepit looking village hall built in one corner.

  Poole parked the car outside the village hall and they walked the short distance back to the uneven white walls of The Bell.

  Stepping inside, Brock had to stoop to avoid the low beams which crisscrossed the ceiling. Poole had to stifle a laugh as he watched him. He looked like an adult entering a Wendy house.

  They spotted Kate Haversham sat at a table in one corner with her frail, birdlike mother perched opposite. She was staring at her phone and sipping at a gin and tonic while her mother gazed out of the window with a mineral water in front of her.

  “Have you sorted out what’s going to happen to my poor aunt?” she said as soon as she saw them.

  “Not yet,” Brock said, standing awkwardly next to their table with his head at an angle. Can I ask exactly how you’re related to Edie Gaven?” He glanced at the older woman on his left and Poole realised he was worried about how this news might upset her.

  “Edie was my dad’s sister,” Kate answered. “Why?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he looked again at the mother.

  “Oh, don’t worry about mother, she’s away with the fairies,” Kate said flatly. She narrowed her eyes at the inspector. “What’s the bad news then? I mean, she’s already dead, isn’t she?”

  “I’m afraid it’s Henry…”

  Her mouth slowly formed a perfect ‘O’. “You mean that was Henry in the grave?!” she squawked, her voice breaking through the soft chatter of the few men who sat at the bar. Poole could feel their eyes on the back of his neck.

  “I’m afraid so,” Brock answered. “Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Henry?”

  She looked at him curiously and then leaned back in her chair, looking past him to towards the bar. “Well every one around here hated him, I know that much.” She frowned. “I called Edie though and she told me that he wouldn’t be coming back once he got out of prison. She was all upset about it.”

  “When did she tell you this?”

  “This was only a couple of weeks ago, just before she got ill. Then she went in to hospital, I visited her once and then she died.” She shrugged and then looked thoughtful. “I wonder if she left Henry anything? I mean, I’d get it now wouldn’t I?”

  Poole noticed Brock’s jaw tense. “I wouldn’t know, but it sounds like it would give you a motive for murder.”

  She recoiled in shock, her eyes seeming to revolve in her head. “But, I… You can’t think, I?!”

  “We’re going to need you to stay at The Bell a little longer please, just for a day or two while we determine what happened to your cousin.”

  She nodded dumbly and they left her sitting with her mouth slightly open.

  “What do you think Poole?” Brock asked as they headed back to the car.

  “I guess she found out her aunt had died she could have decided to kill her cousin in the hope that she would get everything, but it seems a bit of a stretch. We already know that Edie Gaven didn’t own her own place, she rented it for the church. And if she’s been ill for a while I can’t see her having much to pass on.”

  “Me neither,” the inspector said looking pleased at Poole’s answer. “We’ll go and have a snoop round old Edie’s house I think, but first I want to talk to the people affected by that car crash.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow though, eh?”

  “Yes sir,” Poole answered, and realised with surprise that he was disappointed his first day had come to an end.

  Poole stepped out of the car into the cool night air. As he opened the main door of his block of flats he pulled his phone from his pocket. A further four missed calls since the one this morning. He sighed and called his mother back.

  “Hi mum,” he said when she answered.

  “Guy! Where have you been?!”

  “At work, remember? New job, new place etc?”

  “Are you really telling me you haven’t had five minutes to call me and tell me you’re ok all day?”

  “Actually, yes.” Guy said as he trudged up the stairs to the second floor. “There was a murder.”

  The silence on the other end of the line made him instantly regret filling her in on his day.

  “A murder?!” she screeched dramatically down the phone. “Where are you right now? I’m going to come over and bring my apothecary kit. Have you put out the crystals I gave you for your new home?”

  Poole glanced at the pile of boxes that were still shoved to one end of the open plan space. “Not yet mum, I haven’t had a chance.”

  “Well no wonder there’s been a murder!” she exclaimed.

  Poole pulled a carton of chicken fried rice he had had from the Chinese down the road the night before from the fridge. He had no idea how the five crystals his mother had given him could have prevented Henry Gaven’s death, particularly the one that was supposed to sit on the toilet, but he also wasn’t interested.

  “Look mum, I’m pretty tired. First day and all that.”

  “Tired? Have you been drinking the energy elixir I made you?”

  Poole glanced at the jar of green sludge which sat on his kitchen worktop untouched. “Yes mum, it’s delicious.”

  “You bloody liar! It’s awful and you know it, but it will give you energy!”

  “Ok, fine, I’ll drink it mum.”

  “Good.”

  “Now can I get some sleep? I’ve almost certainly got a big day tomorrow.”

  “Yes, of course love.” There was a pause and Poole could guess what was coming. “Have you heard anything?”

  He stopped, forkful of rice halfway to his mouth. “No mum.”

  “OK. You’d tell me if you did, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course I would.”

  “I’ll be over tomorrow about lunch time. Do you think you could come back and we could have lunch together?”

  “Mum, it will be my second day and I’m on a murder enquiry. What do you think?”

  “Well just because someone’s been murdered it doesn’t mean you can’t have a social life.”

  Poole wondered in what w
orld having lunch with your mum was considered a social life, but couldn’t bring himself to argue. “Look, I can’t make lunch, but we’ll have dinner together ok? I’ll buy us in something nice.”

  “Ok love. Look after yourself. Love you.”

  “Love you too mum.”

  He put the phone down and sighed. He wasn’t sure how he felt about his mum coming to stay. He definitely didn’t want her on her own at the moment, not with his dad being released in two days. But there was something about her coming here that felt like she was dragging their past along with her. This was his fresh start, this was his new life. Yet the fear and guilt that had stalked him for a decade was still on his trail.

  Brock flicked the light in his hallway and picked up the post. He smiled as he saw a postcard from South Africa amongst the bills and leaflets asking him to donate to charity. Laura had already messaged him to say she wouldn’t be able to call tonight, but a postcard was almost as good.

  On the front was a picture of two elephants with their trunks entwined under the orange writing which read ‘South Africa’. He turned it over and read the familiar looped writing of his wife.

  * * *

  ‘Sam,

  Saw this card as I passed a small shop. As they are the only elephants I’ve seen since I’ve been here, I thought you might as well see them too!

  Can’t wait to get back,

  love Laura.”

  * * *

  He smiled again, feeling a wave of longing rush through his gut, and walked through to the kitchen.

  Perhaps it was because of the postcard, but the house felt suddenly empty and hollow. He knew that Laura would say that it needed the laughter of children to make it come alive. He still wasn’t sure of that.

  He slumped onto a stool which sat against the breakfast bar and stared at the postcard. It had been two years now since they had started trying for a family. After six months Laura had insisted that they were both tested. ‘No pressure, no blame,’ she had said, it was, ‘just best to know where we stood’.

  He had known. They had told him that he had slow swimmers and that his chances of ever fathering a child were slim to none. He had told Laura that everything was fine and had been wracked with guilt ever since.