‘I need to know Tilly’s in good hands, Brook.’ Copeland waited, breath held. ‘I won’t be around forever.’
‘Too much time has passed, Clive. I’m not a miracle worker.’
‘Please tell me you’ll try,’ said Copeland. ‘I’m begging you.’
Brook exhaled, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He hated conversations in which people needed careful handling. This was the point he normally stepped away and gestured for Noble to take over. His detective sergeant always knew how to manage the emotionally challenged. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he replied, an approximation of a sympathetic smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. ‘First things first.’
Placated, Copeland continued. ‘Sam’s wife had died in childbirth a few months before the Stanforth fire and he hadn’t got over it. Walter told me Sam would put in appearances and try to do his job but he just wasn’t up to it. He was still grieving. Also he had a newborn baby to look after.’
‘The baby survived?’ said Brook.
‘She did,’ smiled Copeland. ‘Little Rosie was a battler. And with no mother and a broken-hearted father, she needed to be.’
‘Rosie,’ repeated Brook slowly. The notebook in his pocket jammed against his thigh, goading him to check a detail.
‘Rose Emily Bannon.’
Brook was silent for a moment. ‘And that’s when Laird began to cover for Bannon’s absences.’
‘That’s right,’ said Copeland. ‘Walter loved that man. He would have done anything for him. And it wasn’t hard. Walter may have been just a DC but he was a damn good detective. I saw that at first hand when I signed up. He made DS in no time – DI too.’ Copeland shook his head. ‘The sad thing is, despite Walter’s help, Bannon never really recovered and it became harder to shield him from scrutiny, especially if cases were in the public eye.’
‘Like Tilly’s murder two years later.’
‘Exactly,’ nodded Copeland. ‘By the time Tilly was killed, Bannon was becoming erratic. Fortunately Walter was a DS, he could cope. He had to. Bannon was little help.’
‘But Bannon’s name is on all the reports,’ argued Brook.
‘Because Walter protected him, made sure he kept a profile, made him sign all the paperwork to make it look right. But Bannon was taking more and more time off, sitting at home alone, dwelling on things, drinking. You, of all people, must know what happens when you take it home with you.’ Copeland glanced up at Brook. ‘With that thing you had.’
‘Mental breakdown,’ said Brook softly. ‘Call it what it is.’
‘Right,’ said Copeland. ‘You managed to recover. Sam didn’t. His mind started to go and, eventually, Brass started to notice. I never saw Bannon in his prime, only the remnants of the man. Tragic to see. The drinking took over and he began to unravel. I mean we all like a drink,’ Copeland lifted his flask. ‘Hell, sometimes we need more than one but control is everything, right? We have our loved ones to consider – wives, daughters. I only have Tilly and she’s dead but that’s still enough for me to keep a lid on it.’
‘But Bannon had a daughter to see to,’ reasoned Brook.
‘It made no difference,’ replied Copeland. ‘He couldn’t get back to what he was after his wife died. Tragic.’ Copeland stood to stretch his legs. ‘You asked me about the Pied Piper.’
Brook was taken aback. ‘Yes.’
‘That was a product of Bannon’s decline.’ He looked hard at Brook to ensure the clarity of his message. ‘When he began to be overlooked for big cases he started brooding about his unsolveds and even incidents he knew nothing about. By the early seventies, he was drinking a lot. I was still a raw DC but I saw it with my own eyes. He’d retired but sometimes he’d wander into the station, smelling of drink, and try to take files away with him.’
‘You didn’t give them to him.’
‘Walter did,’ admitted Copeland. ‘At first. He thought Sam might do some good, see something they’d missed.’
‘Like the Stanforth murder?’
‘Exactly,’ said Copeland. ‘Sam had the file for a couple of years after he retired. I mean he’d been a DCI. . .’
‘Was Jeff Ward one of the files he wanted?’ asked Brook.
‘The file on my desk.’ Copeland nodded. ‘He wanted it but Sam had retired by the time the Ward boy was killed and Walter kept him at arm’s length. It didn’t stop him asking for it. By that time he was obsessed.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t know if I should tell you this but somehow Sam managed to turn up at the crime scene the same morning the body was found, only a few minutes after Walter.’
‘Really? How did Bannon even know there’d been a murder if he was a civilian?’
‘Sam said he was monitoring police chatter on the radio,’ said Copeland. ‘He said he was
expecting
a kill on December the twenty-second, waiting for it, like he knew it would happen.’
‘Because it was the tenth anniversary of Billy Stanforth’s death,’ said Brook.
‘Correct.’
‘He was right,’ said Brook.
‘He was insane,’ snapped Copeland.
‘So what happened that morning?’
Copeland shook his head. ‘It broke Walter’s heart to see him. Sam was drunk and he looked like a tramp. And by now even Walter had had enough and he had Sam escorted away. I mean, there was snow on the ground, footprints to be preserved.’ He shook his head. ‘It made no difference. And because he’d somehow predicted Ward’s murder, Bannon’s mania got worse. He latched on to the Ward killing, looking into it on his own time. He wouldn’t stop.’
‘And so he came up with the theory of a serial killer murdering teenage boys on Billy Stanforth’s birthday,’ said Brook.
‘He even came up with the name – the Pied Piper – because of the way Stanforth and Ward had been coaxed away from their homes.’
‘It’s pretty tenuous,’ said Brook.
‘You don’t need to tell me,’ said Copeland.
‘Did Bannon ever say why the Pied Piper killed these particular boys?’ asked Brook.
‘No,’ replied Copeland. ‘But that’s because he didn’t know, if you ask me. It was just a product of his ailing mind.’
‘Mind if I take a look at the Ward file?’
‘Be my guest.’ Copeland rummaged in his desk and slid a green folder across the table.
Brook opened the file then looked at Copeland. ‘Ten years is a long time between kills, Clive.’
‘Exactly what Walter told him,’ agreed Copeland. ‘Where’s the escalation, right? It’s absurd. Serials can’t control themselves for that long. They need to chase the high of that first kill. And another thing – you’d expect the MOs to be the same with a series like that but the two kills were completely different.’
‘Maybe there were others before Jeff Ward,’ suggested Brook.
‘That’s what Bannon thought,’ said Copeland. ‘Before he retired he began to look for other suspicious deaths of teenage boys – same date, different years.’ But Christ, this is Derby not Detroit and it didn’t take Sam long to find out there were no suspicious deaths for
any
teenage boys on that date in any of the intervening years. Not a single teenage boy murdered on December the twenty-second.’ He shrugged. ‘But he wouldn’t see reason. It was tragic to watch.’ Copeland fixed his eye on Brook. ‘You know how Bannon died?’
‘A shed fire,’ said Brook.
‘Just like Billy Stanforth,’ said Copeland, significantly. ‘Though it was more than a shed, more like a summer house, as I remember. Bannon used it as a study, kept all his papers there, all his notes, all his ravings about the Pied Piper pinned up on the walls. Worst of all he even had a camp bed and a small stove in there. I mean, he had a daughter and a big house twenty yards away but he
chose
to live in that shed, even had his meals there. He was completely fixated.’
‘It happens,’ said Brook, quietly. ‘And if he was drinking heavily, accidents can happen.’
Copeland grunted. ‘Is that what Walter told you?’
‘You’re saying it wasn’t an accident?’ snapped Brook. Copeland hesitated. ‘Clive, if you want me to look into Matilda’s death you have to be completely honest with me.’
Copeland paused. ‘This stays between you and me, Brook.’
Brook grimaced. ‘More secrets?’
Copeland’s face hardened. ‘This is ancient history, Brook. Trust me. I need your word this goes no further.’
Reluctantly Brook relented. ‘As long as no laws were broken.’
‘Bent maybe.’
‘Clive. . .’
‘Walter was protecting his friend.’
Brook sighed. ‘He seems to do a lot of that.’
‘That’s because he’s a good man and loyal.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
‘I know how it sounds but hear me out, you’ll understand.’ Copeland gathered his thoughts. ‘It was December the twentieth, nineteen seventy-eight, two days before Billy Stanforth’s birthday. Bannon was convinced the Pied Piper was about to strike.’
‘Changing from a ten-year cycle to five,’ pointed out Brook.
‘Ah, but by that time Bannon had convinced himself that Francesca Stanforth was part of the pattern, even though she died an adult and her death was officially squared away as an accident. But because she’d drowned in a bath on December the twenty-second, five years after Billy, Sam enrolled her into his profile.’
‘It’s been suggested to me that Francesca might have committed suicide,’ said Brook.
Copeland opened his arms. ‘Same difference. It’s still not murder.’
Brook rubbed his chin. ‘And there was no murder on Billy’s birthday in nineteen seventy-eight either.’
Copeland smiled in sudden admiration. ‘You already checked.’
‘I did,’ said Brook. ‘Bannon was wrong.’
‘Thank you,’ said Copeland. ‘But that didn’t stop him networking all his old contacts in the run-up, claiming his imaginary serial killer was about to kill again.’ Copeland shrugged. ‘Sadly he died before he could be proved wrong.’
‘What happened on the night Bannon died?’ asked Brook.
‘Sam phoned Walter.’ Copeland hesitated. ‘To tell him he’d worked it out.’
‘Worked what out?’
‘The name of the boy that was going to die.’
‘What? Two days before?’ exclaimed Brook. ‘Who?’
‘Sam said his name was Harry Pritchett.’
‘Harry Pritchett? How could he possibly. . . ?’ Brook stopped. ‘Did Harry Pritchett go missing?’
‘How did you know?’ said Copeland.
‘There were no suspicious deaths on the twenty-second that year,’ reasoned Brook. ‘But if a missing person died and the body was never found, it might still fit the profile. No body means no murder, at least not one you can put on the books.’
‘I’m impressed,’ conceded Copeland. ‘You’re right. The Pritchett boy had disappeared.’
‘When?’
‘The week before but, Brook, Sam was wrong. There was no body because there was no murder,’ insisted Copeland. ‘Harry Pritchett walked away from home on December the fifteenth, nineteen seventy-eight, and was never seen again. Not in Derby anyway.’
‘Then in theory he could have been abducted and murdered by the Pied Piper,’ argued Brook.
‘In theory,’ admitted Copeland. ‘But do I need to tell you how many kids go missing every year, especially from broken homes?’
‘And was Pritchett’s broken?’
‘It was. His father was Irish, mother from Derby. Sean Pritchett had moved back to North London and tried to get custody the year before Harry disappeared. That’s where Harry ended up, I reckon, although Sean Pritchett would never come clean. He travelled back up when his son went missing, went through the motions of being a concerned father for a while then eventually returned to Kilburn. My guess is he’d snatched Harry and stashed him with relatives down there until things blew over.’
‘What were his grounds for custody?’
‘He said the mother was unfit. They’d had another kid, a daughter who died when she ran under a car three months after father and mother had split up. Pritchett said she was negligent and he didn’t want his son living with her.’
‘But Bannon didn’t think it was a custody battle,’ said Brook.
‘Course not,’ scoffed Copeland. ‘According to Bannon, the Pied Piper had snatched Harry to be his next victim.’ Copeland was scornful of Brook’s serious expression. ‘He was raving. And drunk, according to Walter. Paranoid too.’
‘Paranoid?’
‘Bannon said his house was being watched and he was concerned for Rosie. He was gibbering like a madman that the Pied Piper was out to get him.’ Copeland made sure he had Brook’s full attention for his next utterance. ‘When Walter didn’t take him seriously, that’s when Bannon threatened to kill himself.’
Brook was sombre. He could tell where this was heading. ‘Go on.’
‘That last night Walter managed to calm him down, told him to make some coffee and he’d come round in the morning and listen to everything he had to say, if only he’d stop drinking and get some sleep.’ Copeland was sombre. ‘That was the last conversation they ever had. Walter rang me at four the next morning to tell me the news. He picked me up and we went to Bannon’s house. Another ex-colleague of Bannon’s was already there – DS Bell. He talked us through what happened. The fire investigator had told Bell the blaze had been deliberately started from
inside
the shed. There was an empty petrol can and a camping stove under the desk where he would’ve sat. The nozzle of the stove was jammed open as though someone had turned it on and lit it. That’s where the fire started.’
‘Sam Bannon killed himself.’
‘That’s what happened.’
‘Suicide note?’
‘Not that we found.’
‘Then why not murder?’ argued Brook. ‘Maybe he
was
being watched.’
‘It couldn’t have been murder, Brook. The door wasn’t locked or barred, inside or out. Sam wasn’t trapped. He could have got out at any time. He just chose not to.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘He’d become obsessed with the Pied Piper and chose to die like the Stanforth boy,’ insisted Copeland. ‘Even the way he died defined his obsession.’
‘That’s speculation.’
‘No it isn’t,’ shouted Copeland. ‘Listen. Bannon was face down when they found him.’
‘That’s not unusual,’ argued Brook. ‘The smoke often kills people first and they collapse—’
‘And burn later,’ finished Copeland. ‘Yes, I know. But when that happens and a victim is face down on the floor, that part of their body is partially protected from the flames.’