Free The Unquiet Grave by Steven Dunne

quickly to the lifts.
    Sergeant Harry Hendrickson, on duty at the front desk, caught a glimpse of Brook’s retreating frame and smiled malevolently. ‘Snuck past me, did you, mental boy?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Not to worry. I’m not going anywhere.’ He turned to a uniformed colleague sipping coffee at the back of the office and grinned. ‘Guess what the cat just dragged in.’ Taking out his mobile, Hendrickson scrolled down to the name Brian Burton and began thumbing out a text: ‘Christmas has come early.’ He sniggered, face creased like a leather accordion.
    Brook eased back behind a potted palm and watched Noble, Morton and DC Cooper emerging from a door that led from the detention area, heading up the stairs towards CID. The two civilians and the five uniformed officers were nowhere to be seen.
    When he was alone, Brook descended to the refurbished custody suite. Opposite the entrance, he slipped into an adjoining toilet. It was deserted so he dumped his laptop and flask in the furthest empty cubicle, hoping no one would need to use it.
    Two minutes later, Brook pushed through the shiny new door of the custody suite and stopped cold, his face a mixture of admiration and dismay. As a consequence of his suspension, he hadn’t yet seen the results of the recent modernisation. The suite was now light and airy, where once it was forbidding, the decor soothing when once it was austere. No more cold tiles, narrow corridors or doors with security grilles in these enlightened times. The ambience suggested he was in a supermarket rather than a place of confinement. It was profoundly worrying.
    Instead of discouraging those who might be teetering on the brink of a life of crime, today’s wrongdoers, brought to this place for interview, were to be treated like customers rather than potential offenders. Someone in authority, who had never been on the receiving end of the vitriol and violence that was de rigueur in any detention area, had decided it was important that an arrested felon’s experience of arrest and custody be user-friendly.
    ‘Help you, sir?’ inquired the young PC behind a monitor at the elevated booking-in desk.
    Trying not to stare, Brook approached the counter, hoping to identify the officer. He failed but for once felt confident the young man was unknown to him.
    ‘DI Brook,’ said Brook, flashing his warrant card. ‘Yes, Constable, I—’ he began before giving in to interruption. He fished out his antiquated mobile from a jacket pocket, not even checking to see if it was turned on, and put it to his ear.
    ‘Chief Superintendent? Yes, I’m there now.’ He covered the inert speaker with his free hand and locked eyes with the young officer. ‘Is DS Noble in with the happy couple?’
    ‘Sir?’
    ‘DS Noble.’ Brook sighed with impatience. ‘I know it was all of five minutes ago, Constable, but it can’t be that hard to remember a man and woman being processed at this hour of the day.’
    ‘You mean the Stapletons, sir. Yes, I mean no, sir. DS Noble’s not in with them yet. Back in five, he said. Might I ask who you are?’
    ‘The Stapletons.’ Brook nodded, ignoring the constable’s query. ‘Right. Letting them sweat, I expect. Has anybody taken a drinks order?’
    ‘Er. . .’
    ‘Never mind. I’ll do it myself. Where are they?’
    ‘Interview Two, sir.’
    Brook walked into the interview room and, though they’d never met, he recognised Mr and Mrs Stapleton from press conferences the year before, appealing to be left alone to grieve for their murdered son, Joshua. They were visibly on edge, with their hands interlocked, their knuckles white with tension.
    ‘About time,’ said Mr Stapleton, a tall balding man who dwarfed his tiny bird-like wife. He pushed his chair back with his calves as he stood.
    ‘Sit down please, sir,’ said Brook.
    ‘Why have we been brought here?’
    Brook indicated the chair. ‘Please.’
    ‘I want to know why we’re here,’ insisted