The Sleep of the Dead

by Tom Bradby

  ‘I’m conducting a review of the case. Julia is helping.’

  Mac frowned again.

  ‘In her own way,’ Professor Malcolm added.

  ‘Who are the photographs of?’ he said. ‘And why are they in a circle?’

  Professor Malcolm pointed. ‘Ford, the husband, the Havillands, de la Rues, Rouses, Pascoe and Haydoch. Those closest to her here in the Welhams. Mostly concentrating on geographical proximity at the moment.’

  Mac leant over to get a closer look. He saw immediately that they had been shot by a police or army surveillance unit or by someone with similar equipment.

  Mac looked at a photograph of a tall and strikingly good-looking man.

  ‘Which one is this?’

  ‘Michael Haydoch. A friend of Sarah’s. Also from the same regiment.’ Professor Malcolm was looking at the picture. ‘As you probably know, because of the proximity of the base, this is effectively a dormitory village for the regiment, principally for its officer class, though Pascoe and his mother lived in the cheaper housing beside the pub.’

  Mac straightened. Because of the size of the two of them, the room seemed small and the atmosphere intimate. Perhaps it was the relative darkness.

  ‘Mitchell Havilland was the commander,’ Professor Malcolm went on, ‘Rouse, Ford and Haydoch all junior officers.’

  Mac watched Professor Malcolm’s face as he talked. His hair was grey and thin, his face lined and worn with age, but what was most noticeable about him was his big, broken, bony nose. Mac wondered how much to confide in him.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Professor Malcolm said. ‘As a matter of fact, I’d fallen asleep waiting to hear from the police who are trying to locate Pascoe. He seems to have disappeared, which is worrying.’

  ‘I thought there were too many coincidental overlaps. It made me …’

  ‘Quite.’

  Mac looked at the photographs again. ‘I don’t understand why Julia is helping.’

  Professor Malcolm didn’t answer immediately. Eventually he said, ‘I think it better if Julia tells you that, Mac.’ He looked up. ‘I know the two of you are close. But it really is a private matter for her.’

  Mac took a piece of paper from his pocket, opened it out and handed it to Professor Malcolm.

  ‘“Havilland, Lieutenant Colonel Mitchell,” ’ Professor Malcolm read. ‘ “Investigation into death. No discrepancies found, save for informant. No further action due to his psychiatric condition. Current battalion CO informed official complaint made and investigated. No action to be taken.”’

  Mac took out his notebook, turned it to the correct page and handed it to him. ‘I think Pascoe must be the informant referred to there and this is a list of the people who were present at Mitchell Havilland’s death. Both Danes and Claverton apparently shot themselves within three days of each other in August last year. I haven’t yet spoken to Mrs Danes, but Claverton’s wife said he would never have committed suicide.’

  ‘Wives always say that.’

  Mac put his hands in his pockets and leant back against the door. ‘Claverton began receiving letters from Winchester Prison, where Pascoe was, warning him that it was time to “tell the truth”. There were then unexplained “visitors” to his house, and after each of the letters and the visits Claverton went into a steep decline. The only person he confided in was his friend Danes.’

  Professor Malcolm was looking at the list of names in front of him. ‘Of those still alive, Pascoe and Wilkes are from the ranks, the others officers? Is that why the two columns?’

  Mac thought this was a highly intelligent observation. ‘I can’t say for certain Wilkes is from the ranks, but I assume he is. I copied the columns from a fishing journal that Claverton wrote. The symbol I’ve written above – the H with a circle around it and a cross through – is what he drew above it.’

  Professor Malcolm was frowning again. ‘Forgive me if I’m being stupid, Mac, but I’m not certain I follow this.’

  ‘Neither do I. I put Julia’s name into our computer to see if there were any prior charges or investigations, which is an entirely routine procedure for any investigation. I expected nothing to come up and nothing did for her, but there was this under her father’s name.’ Mac pointed to the piece of paper in Professor Malcolm’s hand. ‘Since then, every official avenue I have pursued has proved a dead end. The main file on the computer is locked. The hard copy is absent from the registry, signed out a year ago and not returned. The basic personnel files of the men involved have been removed from the regiment where they belong by my superiors in the Military Police.’

  Mac turned once more to the photographs. ‘I’m telling you because the overlap in the names seems too much of a coincidence to me.’

  ‘Discrepancies in accounts of Havilland’s death. What are the discrepancies?’

  ‘I have no idea. If I said anything … well, it would be speculative and …’

  ‘Speculate.’

  ‘It could be anything.’ Mac shrugged. ‘But what I think you have to ask yourself is, why is there official nervousness and secrecy? Richard Claverton told his wife in an unguarded remark years ago that Havilland would not have been seen as a hero if he’d come back from the war. She took that to mean that something would have come to light about him upon his return. Of course, Havilland’s death is public property for the army in many ways. If he didn’t die heroically …’

  ‘Or wasn’t killed by the enemy at all.’

  Mac looked at Professor Malcolm, who was staring at the floor, deep in thought. He couldn’t tell whether this was an informed guess or just an idle thought. ‘It would suggest,’ Professor Malcolm went on, ‘either that his death itself did not transpire in the way commonly supposed, or that there was some other information that would have been made known had he lived long enough to come home.’

  ‘He would have returned to face an ongoing investigation,’ Mac said.

  ‘Correct, but jumping to conclusions. It is more likely, surely, that Mr Claverton was referring to the circumstances surrounding Havilland’s death?’

  Mac did not answer.

  Professor Malcolm stood and walked to the window, then turned round and leant on the desk. ‘Claverton and Danes were eliminated because of a piece of knowledge they possessed.’

  ‘Claverton and Danes were tough men, terminated clinically, possibly with their own weapons.’

  ‘Pascoe is now out, of course …’

  Mac nodded. ‘Yes. But anyone who has or is pursuing the information is also at risk.’

  ‘All the officers seem to be all right. None of them has been targeted.’

  ‘Not yet. Not that we know of.’

  ‘Whatever you do,’ Professor Malcolm said, ‘don’t tell Julia.’

  ‘I can’t agree with that.’

  Professor Malcolm shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You agreed it was possible that Claverton was referring to something that predated the war, but would have come to light had Havilland returned from it. Anyone working in this area is at risk and I won’t …’

  ‘You’re jumping to conclusions.’ Professor Malcolm shook his head again. ‘You will increase the risk by pushing her to explore an area she has no reason to venture into.’

  Mac got the sense that the Professor wanted time to think. He turned towards the door.

  ‘Mac …’

  He turned back.

  ‘I know how … I know how it is between you, but please don’t tell Julia. Apart from anything else, I think the simple heroism of her father’s death is something she needs to cling to for the time being.’

  It was still bright outside as Mac walked down Woodpecker Lane, putting his sunglasses on once more. He realized he was sweating and that it had been hot up there in that little room. A fair-haired child in a bright yellow dress walked past him clutching helium-filled balloons with one hand and her mother with the other.

  Mac paid his entry fee to the fête and walked forward i
nto the milling throng. There were two large lawns, separated by a flower-bed, the one he was standing on as flat as a bowling green, with trestle tables assembled around its edges and a tent at the end, temporarily obscuring the view of the common. He scanned the crowd for a sight of Julia’s wavy dark hair.

  Beyond the flower-bed there was a larger area and Mac could see a group of ponies being led in a line and the top of a tennis-court fence in the distance. He passed the tombola, then caught sight of a coconut shy on the far lawn, next to the ponies, and made his way to it through the crowd. He paid a pound for five small wooden balls and threw them hard and straight, knocking off four coconuts. He was offered a prize but, since the choice seemed mostly to consist of teddy bears, declined.

  Mac caught sight of and approached Adrian Rouse, who was standing by the sign advertising pony rides. He did not see Mac until he was standing right next to him, and there was a moment’s hesitation as he struggled to put a name to the face.

  ‘Mac.’

  There was still a hesitation. ‘Yes. Of course.’

  Rouse proffered his hand, then almost immediately turned away to talk to the children who were waiting in line for their turn on the ponies. Mac took half a pace back and watched the little girl in the yellow dress hurrying across the lawn towards them. He could see no sign of the mother for a moment, until she, too, rounded the flower-bed at a run, catching her daughter with fury in her face.

  ‘I’ve told you not to run off.’

  The child looked at her mother then burst into tears. The woman hugged her. ‘You promised to hold my hand.’

  Smarting at Rouse’s unfriendliness, Mac turned away and retraced his steps. As he rounded the flower-bed, he ran into Alan Ford.

  ‘Mac.’

  ‘Hello, Colonel, how—’

  ‘Mac, please – it’s Alan.’

  They shook hands. The most memorable thing about Alan Ford, Mac thought, was his smile, and he found himself thinking what an easy man he must be to serve under. He wore a red rugby shirt and a pair of washed-out blue cotton trousers and was sweating.

  ‘Sorry not to be able to help the other day.’

  ‘Oh. No, I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  ‘My hands are tied.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Looking for Julia?’

  Mac hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s at home. Got a headache.’

  This might have been a joke, Mac wasn’t sure. Alan was obviously helping Adrian Rouse with the pony rides and suddenly he felt like an intruder. He walked on round the flower-bed towards the exit to the road and, as he went, passed Caroline Havilland standing behind a stall loaded with cakes. ‘Hello, Mac,’ she said, her smile as welcoming as Alan’s.

  ‘Hi.’ He thought it uncanny how much Caroline looked like Julia, or the other way round.

  ‘Looking for Julia or wanting to buy cakes?’

  ‘Er …’ Mac smiled.

  ‘She’s at home. You’ll find her there.’

  Seeing that Caroline was busy – an old lady had just chosen and handed her three large cakes – Mac raised his hand in thanks and turned away.

  ‘Good luck,’ Caroline said.

  Mac turned back. He smiled, not sure what she had meant.

  Julia was not at home. Mac tried the doorbell twice, but there was no answer. He waited a long time and it was only when he got back to the car that he acknowledged his disappointment. He wound down the window and took out his mobile. The top end of the car-park was higher than Woodpecker Lane and he could make out the corner of her roof over the line of the hedge.

  The call was switched to an answering-machine.

  ‘Hello, Julia, it’s Mac …’ He did not know what to say. ‘Just calling to see how you are. Give me a ring later or … I’ll try again this evening to see if I can catch you.’

  Mac started the car, turned into the lane and put his foot flat on the accelerator, causing the Fiesta to backfire loudly.

  At the neck of the valley, curiosity overcame him and he stopped. He flicked through the notebook until he found the number of the regimental base and dialled it, getting out of the car and climbing the bank as he waited for the connection. Below, the band had started up again.

  ‘Duty officer, please.’

  Mac waited.

  ‘Lieutenant Benson here.’

  ‘Benson. Major Rigby. Thanks for your help the other day. Got one more problem that can’t wait until Monday.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Another name for you. Wilkes. Same again. Up-to-date address and telephone number.’ As he was talking, Mac was turning the pages to get to where he’d written down Claverton’s address last night.

  ‘Yes, sir. I’m afraid I’ll have to call the Colonel.’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about that, Benson. It’s only a routine matter and it’s a Saturday. I don’t want to be responsible for interrupting his weekend.’

  There was a pause. ‘Well, sir, the thing is this. After your last call, the Colonel telephoned Major Rigby at SIB Woolwich and he denied that he’d ever called here.’

  Mac took his mobile phone from his ear and pressed end.

  ‘Shit,’ he said.

  The doorbell awoke Julia and, for a moment, she was disorientated. Her room was bathed in evening sunlight and her watch told her it was eight thirty.

  She stood up and tried to shake the sleep from her head. In the mirror, she saw that her hair was awry and her face creased from the pillow. She could not even remember lying down.

  Aristotle was in the hall and rolled over as she approached. Julia stepped over him, rubbing his tummy briefly with her foot and wondering who could be calling at this time of night.

  Professor Malcolm was standing in the doorway. His hair was still wet and had been combed back neatly across his scalp. A few tufts of grey chest hair poked out of the front of a clean but crumpled white shirt. He wore a smarter pair of green cords, the same brown brogues on his feet and was carrying a Sainsbury’s shopping bag.

  ‘I’m sorry. Am I too early?’

  She looked at him and put a hand to her ear. He frowned in confusion. ‘Shaving foam,’ she said, ‘in your ear.’ He stuck in a bony finger and cleared it out.

  Julia led him through to the kitchen and he put the bag on the side. Aristotle followed them and set himself uncomfortably across the step.

  ‘I should have cooked,’ Julia said, as he unpacked the contents of the bag, but he didn’t respond. He got out a frying-pan, a chopping-board and a long thin knife from the rack above the Aga. ‘Have you got a wooden spoon?’ he asked, before noticing that the wooden implements were in a pot in the corner.

  He took an onion from the bag.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m chopping onions.’

  ‘No, I mean, what are you cooking?’

  ‘Professor Malcolm’s risotto master-class, step one: chop onions.’

  Julia watched him sweep the onions into the frying-pan, with some butter, then lift up the top of the Aga and switch the pan across.

  ‘Did you have a good day?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, pleasant enough. I puffed my way up to the top of the ridge and read my book in the sunshine.’

  ‘Looking down upon the village fête.’

  ‘Yes.’ He stirred the onions gently. ‘I wasn’t sure my presence was likely to be welcomed. But I did go to the village shop …’

  ‘To get some jelly babies?’

  He turned to her and smiled. ‘The woman there recognized me.’

  ‘Which one?’

  He faced the Aga again and continued stirring. ‘I cannot recall her name. Thick black glasses, dark, very curly hair …’

  ‘Ruth.’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. There are two of them, aren’t there? Sisters. Or say they are.’

  Julia frowned, heavily. As a child growing up in a village, you would, of course, be unlikely to take something like that at anything other than face value
.

  ‘Ruth seemed keen to talk, so I said I would return with my assistant on Monday.’

  Julia sat down on the kitchen table, wanting to think and talk about something unrelated to the murders, but finding herself instead trying to work out if her mother had deliberately lied to protect her father in her statement to the police. She didn’t have enough confidence in her own memories to be certain that her mother was lying.

  Had Adrian Rouse’s statement implicating Pascoe also been a lie? Was he trying to protect her father, too?

  Mitchell had never liked the Rouses. Adrian, in particular, had often fallen victim, in words at least, to his darker moods – ‘boring as all hell,’ was a description she recalled.

  ‘You should learn to cook,’ Professor Malcolm said.

  ‘Yes. There hasn’t been time.’

  He was pouring in some rice now. ‘Arborio?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s different from normal rice?’

  ‘Short grain, but fat. Creamy texture when cooked right. Restaurants sometimes try to get round the laborious cooking process by sticking in a lot of cream, which doesn’t work.’

  ‘Right.’

  Professor Malcolm had brought a bottle of white wine and he now found a corkscrew in the drawer, opened it and poured some into the pan. He turned to Julia. ‘Would you like a glass?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, galvanized into action. ‘We have masses in the fridge.’

  ‘This is open.’

  She got two glasses and he filled them. He took a big gulp.

  ‘The only thing I don’t have is ground ginger. Your mother is bound to have …’ He saw the look on her face and smiled. ‘Okay. You try the larder, I’ll have a look in the cupboards here.’ Julia had just gone into the larder when he said, ‘Got it.’

  ‘Ginger?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Ginger risotto. Don’t frown. You’ll not be disappointed.’

  ‘Who taught you to cook?’

  ‘Books.’

  Julia sat down at the table again. ‘I bet you read a lot as a child.’

  He hesitated. ‘Yes. Yes, I did.’

  The risotto was creamy and filling. Julia admired Professor Malcolm’s capacity to drink and it was not long before they were on to one of the bottles in the fridge.