The Sleep of the Dead

by Tom Bradby

  The report began with pictures of some police tape at the main entrance to the common. There were two cars by it, and Julia realized that these pictures had been shot tonight. A policeman stood behind the tape.

  The door opened and Caroline and Alan came in. Julia could see their reflection in the window. Slowly, they sat on the sofa behind her.

  The report used the grainy pictures taken of the common at the time, which she had seen often before, then the photographs of Sarah and Alice.

  There was an interview with Lionel Weston. He denied that the case was being reopened, saying the police just wanted to be sure they had left no stone unturned.

  Julia watched the faces in the window. She thought that both Alan and her mother looked pale and peculiarly small, like children. She did not know what to do, so did not move. Once the report was over, they both got up and went out again. The door banged lightly against its latch, until Julia got up and closed it.

  Then, she switched off the television and went up to her room, where she sat down on the bed. She wanted to give Alan a hug and tell him it would be all right, but she was worried that, for all his attempts to appear unruffled and co-operative, she was hurting him deeply.

  What if they found Alice’s body?

  How would he feel then?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A LOUD BANG woke her.

  Julia got out of bed, pulled out of a dream in which she had once again seen her father charging out from the rock in the direction of the machine-gun nest, Pascoe’s pathetic wails carried on the wind to the place where she was sheltering.

  It had sounded like a door banging and she could see from the trees in the de la Rue garden that a strong wind had got up. She reached for her old blue cotton dressing-gown on the back of the door and looked at her watch. It was eight thirty.

  Aristotle staggered to his feet when she reached the kitchen and waved his tail. She let him out of the back door and put on the kettle, pleased to have the house to herself and assuming her mother must have already gone to work.

  She made herself a big cafetière of coffee and turned on the radio. It was tuned to the Radio Four Today programme, but she wasn’t listening. She was thinking about Alice and the prospect of a renewed search.

  Julia had a picture in her mind of Alice’s face sticking out of that pile of leaves. She imagined a silver cross nestling on the bare bones of a skeleton.

  Eventually, she got up and went back to her room to change into her running kit.

  *

  As she passed Julia noticed Alan’s car in his drive.

  She came to the T-junction opposite the Rose and Crown and stopped opposite two large satellite vans in the car-park, one white, one blue. Both satellites were packed flat, not yet pointing at the sky, but the door to the white van was open and a young man in a blue outdoor jacket was drinking coffee or tea from a white polystyrene cup.

  He stared at her, then raised his hand. Julia smiled, before breaking into a run again, turning into the lane before the Rouses’ house and pushing herself hard up the hill. She stopped at the top of the ridge, looking down over the corner of the village green and the entrance to the common where two policemen stood in front of the white tape, a small crowd ahead of them. There were three large white vans parked along the far side of the green, next to the village shop.

  A single dark cloud covered the sun and filled the air with a light drizzle, the wind driving it into her face. As she began running again, Julia caught sight of a figure bobbing towards her along the ridge. To begin with, it seemed almost inanimate, rising and falling like the float at the end of a fishing-line, caught by the currents, the face hidden beneath a hood, but as its owner flicked off the hood, she saw that it was Michael Haydoch.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said, as he came up to her. ‘Look what the cat dragged in.’

  The wind tugged at his hair. She noticed how lined and weatherbeaten his face looked, the rain dribbling down across it, hanging from the end of his nose and resting at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘You’re escaping from the search?’ he asked.

  Julia glared at him. ‘Thanks for the other day.’

  ‘That’s my pleasure.’

  ‘Why do you do it?’

  ‘I saw no harm in getting you to explain yourself.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We all know why you’re doing it, Julia, but it’s not going to help anyone.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  He frowned. ‘Do you need a hearing-aid?’

  ‘What do you mean, “We all know why you’re doing it”?’

  He took a step closer to her. ‘I mean that we all know why you’re doing it, and most of us probably have some sympathy, but no one, except perhaps you, sees any merit in turning it over again or in doing anything to help the absurd fat man.’

  Julia looked towards the Rose and Crown. She could not tell if the curtains were still drawn over Professor Malcolm’s window at the back. ‘I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘The feeling’s not mutual.’

  ‘You were her friend. I saw you walking together.’

  ‘That’s not a crime.’

  ‘No, but it’s a reason why you might be able to help. I can’t talk … you know, with some of the others, it’s difficult …’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Too personal. Come on, you can see …’

  ‘I’ll be no help.’

  ‘Could you stop being an arse-hole.’

  ‘You are in danger of looking like you’re losing your sense of humour.’

  ‘You’re in danger of getting a smack in the mouth.’ Julia found herself smiling.

  ‘You can come over,’ he said. ‘We can talk about what you got up to in China.’

  ‘And we can talk about your work too. That’s going to be a riveting conversation.’

  ‘I told you I left the Service. I’m a businessman now.’

  ‘Really?’

  Michael was looking down over the valley, one foot pushed slightly forward. He had on a tracksuit, but it was tight and she could see his wiry, muscular legs. She watched as he wiped the drizzle from his face.

  A car emerged at the end of the valley beneath them, moved slowly along and then turned into the Rose and Crown car-park. Two men got out and cut across the road to the entrance to Alan’s drive.

  ‘Tabloid reporters, that lot,’ he said. ‘They came to my house, looking for an angle. I told them I’d break their necks if they didn’t piss off.’

  ‘That was helpful of you. What did they want?’

  ‘They wanted “community living in fear”. I don’t know. That sort of crap.’

  ‘Michael, could you stop being like this?’

  ‘Like what?’

  Julia looked at him. ‘If Sarah and Alice were alive, what do you think they would be doing now?’

  ‘That’s below the belt.’

  ‘Pascoe didn’t do it and you know he didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  ‘Professor Malcolm will solve this.’

  ‘He couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag.’

  ‘That’s not true and your recollections could help …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  He hesitated. ‘I hate the way I’m susceptible to you.’ He looked at her. ‘I bet everyone is susceptible to you.’

  ‘Can I come over today?’

  ‘I won’t be there. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night. And if I don’t like what you say, I’ll throw you out.’

  When Julia ran back down the main road, she saw that a crowd had gathered on the village green. She slowed to a walk by the Rose and Crown, but kept going. There were three satellite trucks now, all with their doors open and their dishes pointing towards the sky. At the first one she passed the same man was sitting on the step with another cup of coffee or tea. He nodded at Julia again.

  The search had begun.

  The trucks, vans and cars blocked of
f two sides of the green. One had its rear door open and she could see two people inside sitting in front of two monitors. In the middle of the green, Cynthia Walker was giving an interview to one of the reporters. As she passed, Julia heard her saying, ‘If Pascoe is innocent, if the person responsible for this crime is still living in this community, then we have even greater reason to fear for the safety of our children …’

  Most of the cameras were waiting at the entrance to the path. There were five or six on tripods, their operators standing near by. Several were smoking and there was a low hum of conversation. No one took much notice of Julia as she approached then ducked under the white tape, but the two policemen, who had been looking equally at ease, approached her.

  ‘I’ve come to see Professor Malcolm and DCI Weston,’ she said. ‘Are they down here?’ The men let her through, pointing to indicate an affirmative answer.

  Julia found that it was cooler as she entered the common. Despite the wind, the run had made her sweaty.

  Around the first bend, she found three men talking together. One wore a denim jacket, the other two raincoats.

  ‘Looking for Weston,’ she said.

  ‘Up ahead,’ the man in the denim jacket replied, looking at her curiously. She was glad she had chosen to wear a tracksuit and not shorts.

  She continued. The wind was stronger, shaking the boughs above and moving the dappled pools of light ahead.

  DCI Weston stood in the middle of a group of men on the exact spot of the murder. Professor Malcolm towered above him, but had his back to her so he didn’t witness her approach.

  Weston nodded at her. ‘Nothing yet.’

  The circle around Weston widened to include her. Julia could see two men with metal detectors: one on the bank above them, another on the slope leading up to the clearing at the centre of the common. Both had the instruments strapped over their shoulders and were moving slowly, swinging them in even semi-circles.

  ‘All right!’ The one on the slope raised his hand. Two men whom Julia had not yet taken in climbed up from the path towards them. Both had shovels and they waited as the man pointed to the spot, then hesitated a moment more before beginning to dig. Julia could hear the spades striking the earth. They dug rhythmically, dumping the dirt to their left after each swing down.

  ‘Okay,’ one said.

  There was a hush. Perhaps it was her imagination but she thought that, despite himself, Weston was leaning forward in anticipation. The two men were on their hands and knees, scraping away the last of the dirt.

  One sat back on his haunches. The other followed, holding something above his head. ‘Another tin,’ he said.

  Weston breathed out. Professor Malcolm did not look concerned.

  ‘Brilliant idea,’ Weston said.

  ‘Are you using radar?’ Professor Malcolm asked.

  ‘Yes, but don’t expect anything from that. I don’t suppose he buried her in a lead coffin.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind,’ Weston said.

  ‘Come on,’ Professor Malcolm said, taking Julia’s arm and pulling her gently aside. ‘I need a break and I said we’d go and see the sisters in the shop this morning.’

  The three men by the fork in the path were laughing as they rounded the corner but fell silent as they passed. A gust of wind tugged at her hair and a strand of his fell into his face. Julia waited for him to say something, but he was deep in thought.

  As Julia and Professor Malcolm ducked under the white tape and moved forward, a woman in a blue jacket tapped her male colleague on the shoulder and he reached for his camera. They approached with intent.

  ‘Are you a resident?’ the woman asked, and Julia saw immediately that she was pretty, her neat oval face shaped by auburn hair.

  Julia didn’t answer. She didn’t know why she had been chosen – perhaps they had all spoken to Cynthia Walker already. Another crew joined in and suddenly there were many. They blocked her way.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  ‘Do you live in the village?’ the first reporter asked.

  ‘What do you think of the new inquiry?’

  ‘What new inquiry?’ Julia shot back. This was a mistake. It encouraged them.

  ‘The search. Are people here angry?’

  ‘Do you want the case reopened?’ the first reporter asked.

  Professor Malcolm shoved himself ahead of Julia and punched his way through the middle of the throng, like a rugby forward. She was surprised by his aggression but grateful.

  The crowd did not follow.

  He crossed the green ahead of her, in the direction of the post office. The entrance to the shop was low, forcing them to duck. A small bell tinkled, but for a moment they stood alone in the gloom.

  Julia looked around. More than anything in the village, the shop was a time warp. The post-office counter was to the right, but otherwise the place sold little, just sweets, mostly, which were laid out in their boxes and jars across the counters and tables around them. There were cola bottles and sugar snakes, and Wagon Wheels and jelly babies. Beside them were some small white paper bags. The younger of the two sisters, Ruth, had come through so quietly that neither of them had noticed her.

  ‘Hello, Ruth,’ Julia said.

  ‘Julia.’ Ruth smiled thinly. She did not seem to have aged. Her hair was still black and cut short. She wore metal-rimmed square glasses. ‘It’s good to see you home,’ she went on, without enthusiasm, then ushered them through the gap in the counter. She hesitated, as if deciding whether or not to lock the front door, before leading them through to the back.

  ‘Have they found her?’ Ruth asked.

  Professor Malcolm shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Edna’s not well,’ Ruth explained, raising her eyes to the ceiling to indicate that her sister was in bed upstairs. She rounded the corner to the kitchen. They could hear her preparing something and exchanged glances. Julia had expected to continue this morning with the address book and the telephone, and this interview felt less academic and more personal.

  Julia was surprised by the cramped, dated conditions in the house. The living room was small, the furniture dark. The curtains were half drawn, with additional net curtains pulled tight behind them, so that the sunlight barely penetrated. There was a glass cabinet full of pictures next to a table pushed up against the wall and covered with a white lace cloth. There were children in some of the photographs, perhaps nephews or nieces, and Julia couldn’t imagine them enjoying a visit here. She wondered if these two women were really sisters: a lesbian couple moving in together in a small English village in the 1950s or thereabouts must have found it easier to say that they were.

  Professor Malcolm raised his eyebrows and smiled at her. They both sat in uncomfortable, saggy chairs, with wooden arm-rests. ‘Same talent for interior design as my aunt,’ he whispered, as Ruth returned with a tray. He smiled at her and Julia hoped she hadn’t heard. The two sisters always sat next to each other in the choir stalls at the church – two quiet, respectable members of the community.

  ‘Edna’s not well,’ Ruth said again, placing the tray on the table beside Julia. She poured the tea and went to the chair next to the window, which looked the most comfortable and was directly opposite the television.

  ‘You’ve lived here long?’ Professor Malcolm asked.

  ‘Almost forty years.’

  ‘As I mentioned on Saturday, we’re conducting a review.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s only a formality.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  Professor Malcolm inclined his head. Julia got the sense that he was about to lead her like a witness.

  ‘Did you know Sarah Ford well?’ he asked.

  ‘She sang in the choir sometimes.’

  Julia was surprised to learn of Sarah doing anything as community-minded as singing in the choir. She didn’t remember this.

  ‘Originally,’ Ruth went on, ‘they all came.’

  ‘All of them?’ Pro
fessor Malcolm asked.

  ‘Yes. The woman. The husband. And the girl.’ She nodded between each one, as if ticking them off in her mind.

  ‘Alan and Alice?’

  ‘Yes. To begin with, they even came to choir practice on Tuesday nights.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The husband stopped coming, then the girl, and eventually none of them came.’

  Julia wondered why Sarah had been the last to stop coming.

  ‘Did Sarah have a good voice?’ Professor Malcolm asked.

  ‘Yes. But I think vanity brought her to us. She didn’t value it properly.’

  ‘Did you like them, Ruth?’

  Professor Malcolm shifted forward in his seat.

  Ruth sighed. ‘Sarah Ford was a flighty woman. Vain and arrogant.’

  ‘And the little girl? Did you get to know her?’

  ‘She was sweet.’ Ruth almost smiled. ‘She was.’

  ‘Which other men sang in the choir?’

  Ruth nodded, acknowledging she was going to have to answer this question. ‘Mitchell … Julia’s father. Adrian Rouse. Alan Ford, of course.’

  ‘Was there any man you saw with Sarah often? Outside church and the choir, I mean.’ Professor Malcolm’s voice was soft. ‘I’m sure you’re not a gossip, Ruth, but the work you do … you must hear talk.’

  Ruth nodded. ‘I’m not a gossip.’

  ‘Of course. Of course.’

  ‘Edna likes walking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She used to walk on the common every day.’

  ‘Before the murders.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did she see Sarah?’

  ‘Sometimes.’ Ruth breathed in deeply. ‘It was just that she always seemed to be with …’ Ruth looked at Julia and stopped.

  ‘With Mitchell?’ Professor Malcolm asked.

  Julia had sensed already where this choreographed interview was leading and shame had been enveloping her like a cloak.

  ‘Yes,’ Ruth went on. ‘They always seemed to be together, that was all.’

  Professor Malcolm was now thinking. ‘Were they on their own?’ he asked eventually. ‘When you or Edna saw them, were they typically alone?’