An Occupied Grave Read online

  The vicar’s lips turned in towards his teeth before he hobbled back into the hallway behind him. “Well, then I guess you better come in.”

  “How’s the ankle, Vicar?” Brock asked as they followed him into the rather grand hallway.

  “Oh much better thank you, just a sprain thank goodness. So silly of me, but I’m afraid discovering the poor soul like that gave me such a turn.“

  He led them into a sitting room where Poole took up position on a pale blue sofa as the vicar limped off to make them tea. The place smelt of furniture polish and reminded Poole of afternoons at his grandparents’ when they had been alive.

  Brock paced about the room, sniffing a bunch of bright blue flowers which sat in a vase on an oak sideboard. For some reason, this action surprised Poole. Brock didn't seem the flower smelling type.

  The inspector moved on, stopping at a collection of family photos arranged on the sill of the large bay window that looked out across the drive way. A woman appeared in most of them, alongside a much younger vicar and a smiling girl with a mass of brown curls.

  “Your wife, Vicar?” Brock asked as the vicar returned with a tray containing a china teapot, cups and biscuits. Poole noticed the inspector’s eyes following the tray across the room greedily.

  “Yes,” the vicar said, stopping suddenly. “That’s my wife Denise. She passed away a number of years ago.” His voice was hollow, sad. He took a sharp breath and turned back to the task in hand, moving across to the coffee table and placing the tray on it. He sat himself in an armchair and looked between them both. “I’m afraid my daughter is a very sensitive girl. She always had difficulties in that regard, but after the accident and losing two of her best friends... Well I’m afraid she rather separated from the world. She is happy enough though here and at the church. Where things are familiar and I am nearby."

  “And how did she feel about Henry Gaven?” Brock asked, moving across to the sofa and taking a biscuit.

  “Well,” the vicar said looking affronted at the question. "I don’t know to be honest, we never spoke of him and it’s been four years since he was in the village.”

  “Until this morning of course,” Brock said.

  “Well, quite,” the vicar said uncomfortably.

  Poole could see that he wasn’t quite over the ordeal of falling in the grave with the man.

  “Can you tell me about Edie Gaven?” Brock asked.

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Did you ever visit her? Did your daughter?”

  “Sandra?! No! Never. I of course went periodically. The village had ostracised her, but we are all God’s children. I performed my duties. Helped her with odd bits of shopping when she wasn’t feeling too well and the like.”

  “And you hadn’t seen Henry since his release?”

  “No, I’m afraid Mrs Gaven was convinced that he wouldn’t come back to the village after everything that happened. That’s what really sent her health down hill of course.”

  "Why was she so convinced?"

  "She'd received a postcard from Henry I believe."

  "A postcard?" Brock asked. "From prison?"

  "I imagine someone brought it to him," the vicar shrugged.

  "It seems like that accident hurt a lot of people…” Brock said. There was something about his tone that Poole found strange, he was quieter, more measured than his usual booming voice. He wondered if it was because he was in the presence of a vicar.

  “It tore the village apart,” the vicar nodded sadly.

  “We do need to speak to your daughter I’m afraid,” Brock said.

  The vicar nodded sadly. “Please,” he said standing up, "be considerate.” He left the room with a pained look on his face.

  Poole looked at the inspector, wondering if he was going to share some thoughts on what they had talked about so far, but Brock was silently eating at a second biscuit and staring at the door the vicar had left by.

  He returned after only a few minutes with the pale, wild and scared young woman Poole had seen by the graveside in tow.

  “Now Sandra, these men just want to ask you a few questions, but you can stop at any time.”

  She nodded and perched on the edge of the sofa like a small bird. Now that Poole could see her clearly, he saw how thin she was. Her red, long sleeved top hung from her limbs like a sheet on a washing line. Her sunken eyes darted around the room, but never landing on either Brock or Poole’s gaze.

  For some reason, Poole felt that the calm atmosphere that the house had had when they'd entered now felt stilted.

  “Sandra,” Brock began, his voice soft and low. “Can you tell me the last time you spoke to Henry Gaven?"

  Her eyes flashed up at him for a moment before returning to her hands.

  "Henry went to prison," she said in a flat tone.

  "Yes he did," Brock replied. "And was that the last time you saw him?"

  "He killed Charlie,” she said, her voice rising in volume. She looked up at the inspector, her face contorted in a mixture of confusion and rage.

  "Yes," Brock answered, “but we are trying to find out who killed Henry."

  She omitted a noise that could only be likened to a growl. Poole noticed that her hands were clenched at her side now.

  "What happened on the night of the accident, Sandra?" Brock continued.

  She began breathing hard, her chest heaving as she rocked slightly back and forth. ‘It was a sin,” she said, her voice a hollow rasp.

  “What was Sandra? The accident?” Brock asked, his voice more urgent now.

  “Yes!" she shouted back. "I... we... we are all God's creatures!” she cried out, her arms waving hopelessly in the air.

  Her father put his arm around her making her jump before she fell into his chest and sobbed.

  “I’m sorry inspector, but I think that is enough for now. Come one Sandra, I'll make you a cup of your special tea and you can relax.” He stood and led his daughter from the room. I expected Brock to protest, but he leaned back in his seat and took another biscuit.

  When the vicar returned a few moments later, he seemed more pale and older than when we had arrived.

  “I’m sorry, but she’s just not ready to talk about these things.”

  “We’ll have to talk to her again I’m afraid,” Brock said. “Can you fill us in on anything else?”

  The vicar stared at Brock for a moment with a hard look. As though he was going to throw the china teacup he had just picked straight at his head. Instead he sighed and nodded as he stared at the floor, deflated.

  “Sandra was friends with Henry Gaven, yes. And Charlie Lake and Charlotte Paget. The four of them grew up together, playing around the village from when they were only knee high.”

  “And what about the night of the crash?” Brock continued.

  “I never got much out of Sandra I’m afraid, but she came home in a terrible state that night, before the accident I mean. I think they’d all been at The Bell in the village together earlier and had some sort of falling out. I rather think there was some sort of love trouble going on I’m afraid. They were still just teenagers after all, but I couldn’t really tell you more than that.”

  “And the accident?”

  The vicar heaved in a sigh. “A terrible incident. Young Henry had gone off to Bexford after the argument apparently, become intoxicated and then driven back. He lost control and mounted up onto the green and hit poor Charlie Lake while he was walking the family dog."

  The inspector looked thoughtful for a moment as he chewed on the last piece of the biscuit he had been eating. "And Henry was on his own in Bexford? Sandra and Charlotte didn't go with him?"

  "No, after the argument everyone went home as far as I know, apart from Henry."

  Brock nodded. “Have you seen anyone suspicious around the village recently? Anyone you didn’t recognise?”

  The vicar finally looked up from the floor. “Actually, there was a man I’ve seen a couple of times in the last week or so, a wa
lker.”

  “And where was this man walking?”

  “Well, I saw him on the footpath by the church, the one that comes out in the lane down to Mrs Gaven’s. I thought it odd because we don’t get many walkers around here, but he seemed quite serious. He had all the gear on at any rate.”

  “Could you describe him?” Poole asked.

  “Well I think this is why I remembered him in particular, he was a very large gentleman. I'm afraid I rather cruelly thought that he didn't look like much of a walker. He was all wrapped up in a hat and scarf so I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you much more about his appearance."

  Brock stood up, taking the last biscuit as he did so. “I think that will be all for now, thank you very much vicar.”

  “Oh, oh right,” the vicar said standing up and leading them out. “I’m sorry about Sandra’s reaction, but I’m afraid she is what she is these days.”

  “Not a problem,” Brock said as they headed to the car. They climbed in as the door of the house shut.

  Brock looked at his watch. ‘Just time for one more stop today, Poole."

  Poole parked the car with two wheels on the grass verge and they both entered The Bell Inn for the second time. He was slightly relieved to see no sign of Kate Haversham and her mother. The only occupants of the pub being a few locals sat at the bar, talking in low grumbles. The inspector had ordered them two pints of real ale and they were now seated in the corner.

  Poole sipped at the dark, nutty liquid in front of him rather gingerly. He had never drunk on duty before and he hadn’t wanted to start now. The inspector however, had insisted. Even when Poole had pointed out that he was driving. “One won’t do you any harm. It clears the cobwebs, gets you thinking properly.”

  Poole had resigned to choosing the weakest ale he could see from the three pumps behind the mahogany bar, and sipping at it slowly.

  “So Poole, go over what we know about this accident.” Brock said before gulping a quarter of his pint in one.

  “Well, Henry Gaven had been on a night out in Bexford, drank enough to be a couple of times over the limit and then hopped in his car to drive home. At the same time, Charlie Lake was out walking the family dog on the green. Gaven hit him and he died instantly.”

  “And the dog?”

  Poole looked up from his beer which he had been staring at while he searched his memory. “The dog?”

  “You said he was walking a dog, what happened to it?”

  Poole frowned. “I don’t think it was mentioned anywhere in the report.”

  Brock shook his head. “People don’t care about animals when the crap hits the fan.”

  Poole frowned even more deeply. Not only was he not an animal lover, but this didn’t seem very relevant to the case.

  “The accident is clearly key,” Brock said. “There are too many coincidences for it not to be. But there are still a lot of questions. I can’t help but wonder about the timing of Edie Gaven’s death...”

  “You think she was murdered too?! But it was pneumonia wasn’t it?”

  Brock shrugged. “I want to order an autopsy before they eventually get her in the ground."

  "Kate Haversham won't like that," Poole remarked.

  "Relatives never do Poole, but we have to be thorough."

  There was a period of silence before the inspector spoke again.

  "They waited four years. To sit on that anger for that long and still be ready to take your revenge," he paused and shook his head. "you've got to be bloody angry. First thing tomorrow we need to start digging into the Lake's background."

  “Yes Sir," Poole answered.

  “Right,” the inspector said standing up, "let’s go talk to the barman.”

  He made his way over to the far side of the bar, away from the three men who were lined up around the corner on the right.

  “Same again?” the barman said, leaning two large arms on the bar in front of him. He was tall and broad, with a sweep of ginger hair across his forehead and freckles across his large nose. Poole guessed him to be mid fifties and thought he'd look more at home on a tractor than behind a bar.

  “What you can tell us about, Henry Gaven?”

  The man nodded slowly. “Police?”

  Poole pulled his badge out and held it in front of him. The man nodded again as the sound of bar stools made Poole look across to where the three men were leaving. They called out goodbyes and vanished through the low doorway.

  “What do you want to know about him?”

  “Big drinker was he?” Brock asked.

  “Not really, used to come in here on a Friday and Saturday night pretty regular.”

  "Were you here working at the time of the accident?"

  "I was," the man said.

  "And what can you remember about the night of the accident?”

  “Only what anyone round here would know. He went and had a skinful in Bexford and drove home.”

  “And had you known him to drink and drive before?”

  The man stood up and folded his arms. “Look, I only ever served the guy in here and he lived just down the road with his mum so he always walked back. I don’t know what he did any other time.”

  “Who were his friends? Who did he hang out with?”

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Poole got the impression that he was uncomfortable being asked all of this. He wondered if there was some unwritten code regarding barmen passing on information, like a priest or doctor.

  “Well Charlie Lake was his friend, that’s what made the whole thing so… Look,” his eyes darted around the pub even though the place was empty apart from the three of them. He leaned forward on the bar again, this time leaning his head further across the dark wood towards them. “There was Charlie, Henry, Sandra Hook and Charlotte Paget. The four of them were inseparable, always knocking about together. Anyway, the night of the accident, Henry and Charlie had a big bust-up in here."

  “What about?”

  “No idea, but they all stormed out of here like the world had ended.”

  Poole’s mind landed on the only surviving member of this group again. Sandra Hook and her haunted eyes.

  “And after the accident, did you see much of Charlotte and Sandra then?”

  The man stood up again, looking uncomfortable. “Neither of them ever came in here again that’s for sure. Charlotte moved to London and died a couple of years ago, drugs apparently. She always was a bit of a wild one was Charlotte."

  Poole thought of her parents with their matching cardigans.

  "And Sandra?" Brock pressed.

  "She still lives with the vicar here, but she was never the same after it all. Had a mental breakdown I think, barely leaves her dad’s side these days. Look, you’re really better off talking to someone who knew them all better.”

  “And who would that be?” Brock asked.

  The man shrugged. “Their parents I guess."

  Brock nodded and slapped his hand on the table. “Pay the man Poole,” he turned and headed for the door leaving Poole fishing for his wallet.

  By the time he had made it outside, the Inspector was sucking on another boiled sweet and was leaning on the bonnet of the car reading a sheet of paper.

  “Left on the windscreen,” he said as Poole approached, holding out the sheet of paper.

  Written in an untidy hand were the words:

  * * *

  If you want answers, ask the Pagets who they were arguing with on Friday.

  * * *

  Poole looked up and down the short street that the Bell resided on, but there was no sign of anyone.

  "Are we going to go back to the Pagets, Sir?"

  Brock rolled the sweet around his mouth for a moment and then shook his head. "Not today. I don't like the idea of being dictated to by random notes from anonymous people. We'll get back to them right enough, but I'd rather speak to the person who left this note first and ask them why they wrote it and left it in the first place.”

  “You can w
rite today up in the morning you know,” Brock said as they stood back in the station car park.

  “I’d rather stay on top of it, Sir,”

  “Fair enough,” he said raising his hands palms up, "just don’t stay too late, I need you on it tomorrow. Oh, and I’ll be having breakfast in the canteen if you want to join me, about eight?” The inspector leaned forward and slapped Poole on the shoulder, almost lifting him off his feet. “Good first couple of days Poole, see you bright and early tomorrow.”

  Poole watched him turn and walk away towards town, feeling a warm glow from this unexpected praise. He turned and jogged up the steps to the station.

  As he entered the main office, he was surprised to find it still had a number of people gathered there. A few were at their desks, some stood in pairs talking. The atmosphere felt different though, less work focused and more buzzy. People were chatting, laughing, winding down at the end of the day.

  He began to cut a path through the desks towards the office when the smell of coffee caressed his nostrils like a long lost lover. He changed direction and headed towards the canteen. If he was going to spend the next couple of hours writing everything up, he might well need the hit. He nodded at a couple of officers who passed him in the doorway, they nodded back and began whispering to each other as soon as they had passed. He wondered how long this new guy tag would last and moved through the door into the almost empty canteen. Almost, because the gawky young constable who Poole had spoken to that morning was at the coffee machine. He desperately mopped at the coffee that was overflowing from his cup and spreading across the surface of the table.

  Poole grabbed a stack of napkins and helped him.

  “Oh, thank you, Sir!”

  “No problem. Davies, was it?” Poole said, pleased that he had remembered the man’s name.

  “Yes sir,” the young man said hurriedly. He picked up his full-to-the-brim coffee and sipped at it. “Sorry about that sir, I pressed it and nothing happened so I pressed it again, but then I think it tried to do two cups.”

  His voice was whiney and nasal, his thin and awkward frame constantly moving as he grabbed the sodden napkins and threw them into the bin.