The Sleep of the Dead

by Tom Bradby

  After a few minutes, Mac came back out on to the balcony.

  He took out his notebook and looked at the names again, thinking of the way the ‘Mike H’ of Rouse’s diary had come across as a strong character. Was that Haydoch? Would he be worth going to see?

  He leant against the wall. What had Rigby been looking for here and in his own flat?

  Julia was in the attic. She had retreated to her refuge. She took a pace forward and looked out of the Velux window, her eyes straying to the dividing hedge and the gap in the middle of it, then to the shed and the wooden plank on the side that should be nailed up properly. She wondered why no one had done it.

  It was a good spot here. A vantage-point.

  Julia narrowed her eyes, knowing she could not delay indefinitely, then turned and walked to her father’s workbench at the end. All the tools were neatly on their hooks, waiting to be used. The screwdrivers were in a wooden rack and it took her a moment or two to accept that there was a gap in the middle of it. She took a step closer. The rack had holes all along it and the tools were pushed into them so that only the plastic handle was above the line, the metal shaft hanging below.

  It was not only for screwdrivers. At one end, there were chisels then spikes, but in the middle one of the implements was missing.

  Julia took the chisel from her pocket.

  It fitted perfectly into the hole her father had made for it.

  Julia stared at it. She took the chisel out again, then put it back to be sure the fit was as neat as she thought it was. Her father, who had been so precise in the way he did things, had made a hole exactly the right size.

  This meant that somebody had come in here and stolen the chisel. She wished that her mother didn’t so often leave the house open.

  She walked to the window, then back again.

  Thinking of the shed and the plank that had fallen from its place, she took the hammer down from its hook above the rack and turned it over in her hand. It was in as good condition as the day it had been bought. She opened a couple of the plastic drawers until she located one with the right size nails, then walked down through the empty house, stepped over Aristotle and went out to the garden and the shed in the corner. The bright sunshine made her squint.

  Julia looked at the broken plank, which had rotted, then opened the door of the shed and entered. There was a black tarpaulin on the floor, which she did not remember. The mower was in the way, so she moved it, catching it on her foot and nearly falling over. She had to take down the Strimmer, a rake, a spade and a hoe, all of which hung on hooks on the wall. She tried to put the plank into place, but it was difficult because of the way it had rotted. Finally, she hammered hard.

  It was impossible to get it in. She hit her thumb. The shed was too flimsy and really she needed someone to push it in on the other side. She tried again and eventually more or less got the nail in. It was a botch job, but it would do for now. Perhaps she would tell Alan and he would do it properly.

  Julia walked back into the house, up to the attic. She replaced the hammer, then ran her hand along the wooden surface top.

  She climbed down the steps and sat on her bed. After a few minutes, her mind returned to its earlier train of thought and she took her mother’s statement from the drawer and read through it again.

  As I walked down Woodpecker Lane, I glanced in through the window of Alan Ford’s house. I saw him crossing from one side of the kitchen to the other with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  I arrived home and saw my husband working in the garden. I went upstairs to change out of my church clothes. When I came down to the kitchen, he was digging the flower-bed by the hedge.

  Julia walked down to the kitchen. She looked out of the window, then went out of the back door, across the patio, over the lawn to the gravel drive. At the end of Woodpecker Lane, she stopped, turned and came back.

  She slowed as she passed Alan’s house, looking in to her left.

  Julia reached her own gate, then retraced her steps, walked into Alan’s drive and up to his kitchen window. She looked in, then, facing the window, she retreated slowly, her feet sinking into the thick gravel until she reached the road.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Julia turned, shocked at the introduction of a human voice into her thoughts. Professor Malcolm was smiling at her. ‘They’ll want to lock you up if you go on like that.’

  She exhaled. ‘I’ll probably want to lock me up.’

  ‘They’ve found Pascoe,’ Professor Malcolm said. ‘He’s made himself a makeshift camp up on the hill.’

  Julia followed him as he led the way back down Woodpecker Lane. ‘A couple of lads from East Welham told their mother they’d been frightened by a man in the woods.’

  ‘Did he do anything?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  They had reached the pathway up to the ridge and Professor Malcolm was already slowing down. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘In general.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Halfway up, he stopped, one leg forward against the hill, his hand on his knee as he tried to catch his breath. ‘You wouldn’t have expected it of Rouse.’

  She thought of the photographs. ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose someone like Sarah shouldn’t be allowed to come and live somewhere like this.’

  ‘No.’

  Julia walked ahead, waiting for Professor Malcolm at the top, looking down over East Welham and Michael Haydoch’s house, which dominated the foreground. She remembered that she’d said she would go round there tonight. A thin bank of cloud hung over the valley, a light drizzle carried on the breeze like confetti.

  Professor Malcolm climbed over the stile and walked down the path for a few yards, before crossing into the long grass and moving at right angles to the hill, into the wood.

  Julia saw and smelt the smoke of a fire before she saw the two uniformed policemen next to a tarpaulin erected under an oak tree. In front of the crude shelter, Pascoe squatted by the fire, warming his hands, though it wasn’t cold. He was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a dirty blue sweatshirt, its zip open to the middle of his hairless chest and the arms pulled up above the elbow. She could see that he had maintained his strength inside prison. He looked up at them, his eyes hollow and lifeless, as though he were on drugs. He ran his hand slowly over his shaven head.

  ‘Where’s Baker?’ Professor Malcolm asked the uniformed officers.

  They both shrugged. ‘She said she’d be back,’ one said.

  Professor Malcolm tried to squat down, but found it impossible, so he took a step back and sat on the ground. ‘Do you remember me?’

  Pascoe looked up. ‘I’ve never seen you before in my life.’ He turned towards Julia. ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘She’s assisting me.’

  ‘But I’ve killed her.’

  ‘No, this is …’

  ‘I don’t want to have to kill her twice …’

  Julia found herself smiling involuntarily. Pascoe’s expression turned instantly.

  ‘She’s laughing at me.’ He was on his feet, his body and face suffused with aggression. ‘Don’t you laugh at me, bitch, I could have had you … I … I could have let you live. It was my choice.’

  Neither Julia or Professor Malcolm had moved or reacted physically. ‘This is Mitchell Havilland’s daughter,’ the Professor said evenly.

  Julia felt her heart beating as she watched Pascoe sit back down.

  ‘I’ll fuck her. Spunk all over her face.’

  ‘Do you remember Mitchell Havilland, Pascoe?’

  He shook his head, sober again. ‘I don’t remember anyone.’

  ‘Do you remember some of your colleagues from the war? Richard Claverton? Clive Danes?’

  Pascoe shook his head.

  ‘Did you know that they had both been murdered, shot with their own Browning 9 mm pistols?’

  Julia looked at him, frowning, but he ignored her. />
  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’ Pascoe turned to Julia again. ‘Will you leave Sarah with me? I can look after her now.’

  ‘Pascoe, you wrote to Claverton and Danes from prison telling them it was “time for the truth”. The truth about what? About Sarah’s death, or about something else?’

  ‘I killed Sarah.’

  ‘You didn’t.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You didn’t and it’s convenient for someone else that you have spent all these years in prison …’

  ‘I wanted to do it.’

  ‘No you didn’t, Pascoe. She was just out of your reach. Don’t confuse that with a real instinct for murder.’

  Pascoe had his head down again now. He was staring into the fire and pushing the embers with a long, bent stick.

  ‘Pascoe, Claverton and Danes were murdered for a reason and I’m afraid you are at risk. When you told them it was “time for the truth”, what did you mean – the truth about what?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Pascoe …’

  ‘I like her.’

  ‘This is not Sarah.’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Who do you think might have killed Claverton and Danes? Was there …’

  ‘I like her.’

  ‘Pascoe, this is not Sarah.’

  ‘It is. She’s beautiful.’

  Professor Malcolm exhaled noisily, staring down at the leaves beneath his feet for a moment, before standing. ‘Be careful, Pascoe,’ he said.

  ‘What do you want us to do with him?’ one of the uniformed officers asked – a tall man, with a narrow face.

  ‘Nothing. You can leave him.’

  ‘Leave him?’

  ‘He’s committed no crime. Leave him.’

  Julia followed Professor Malcolm out of the wood, noticing that he moved faster when he was angry. ‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Danes. Claverton. “Time for the truth”?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said grumpily. ‘I don’t know.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THAT NIGHT THE weather changed: dark clouds, heavy with rain, racing in from the west. Julia stood in front of her mother at the kitchen table and listened to the thunder.

  ‘You’ll need an umbrella,’ Caroline said.

  ‘No, I’ll be okay.’ Julia hesitated. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’

  ‘I’ll leave something on the side, just in case you’re back.’

  ‘I will be back. And I said, I’ll make something myself.’

  Caroline tried to smile. Neither of them could forget her previous attempts to dissuade Julia from seeing Michael Haydoch and, since Julia had not explained why she was going to visit him tonight, this particular aspect of the past, like so many others, now hung between them. Caroline had always claimed that it was the age gap, but Julia thought her mother was wary of Michael for reasons she could not comprehend.

  Since her mother had got home tonight, Julia had stayed up in her bedroom, trying to read a John le Carré novel, without success. Her mother had played ‘Song For Guy’ on the piano, followed by a series of hymns such as ‘I Vow To Thee My Country’ and ‘Jerusalem’. Each had been a curious and deliberate choice.

  Julia wondered if her mother was trying to exercise a spell over her – the spell of seductive, secure childhood memories.

  ‘Did you have a productive day?’ Caroline asked, sitting at the table, but Julia had her coat on and didn’t want to stay and talk.

  ‘Sort of,’ she said. ‘Is Alan coming round?’

  ‘No, I think he’s trying to get everything finished this week before they go off.’

  ‘They go on Friday?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘What’s today, then?’

  ‘Tuesday, Julia.’

  ‘Right.’

  Caroline crossed her legs. She was wearing a thin V-neck sweater, but the sleeves were rolled up, and she was resting one long, thin forearm on the edge of the kitchen table. ‘How long will you be home for?’

  ‘Er … I don’t know.’

  ‘Has the army … I mean, you said you were in trouble. Alan – Alan says it may be quite serious. I wondered …’

  ‘They’ll get in touch when they’re ready.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you get a lawyer? Is it that serious?’

  ‘I don’t want a lawyer.’

  Caroline was frowning at her now. ‘Julia, are you all right? You seem—’

  ‘I’m fine, Mum.’ She straightened. ‘I’m fine,’ she said, more forcefully. ‘I guess I’d better …’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’ve been as welcoming as perhaps I might have been to your Professor. If you want to bring him home for lunch or dinner before he goes …’

  Julia did not find her mother’s attempt to appear resigned to Professor Malcolm, and the process they were engaged in, convincing, but she smiled at the way she had made Professor Malcolm sound like a boyfriend. ‘I think he’s okay, Mum. He doesn’t want to upset anyone. It’s just a job.’

  Caroline looked down. She was picking some dirt from the garden off her jeans with her fingernails. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I should have been more hospitable, but it’s just that …’

  ‘He understands. He’s been doing it all his life.’

  Caroline was rubbing her neck. ‘I suppose that’s what’s so unnerving about him.’

  ‘He’s all right.’ Julia moved to the door. ‘He’s a good man. I’ll …’ She stopped and turned back, leaning against the wall. ‘Does anyone ever help around the house?’

  Caroline did not understand.

  ‘I mean with maintenance.’

  Caroline tilted her head to one side. ‘That’s another odd question.’

  ‘Well, Alan obviously helps.’

  ‘Lots of people do from time to time. I’m sorry, perhaps I should be more self-sufficient, but …’

  ‘No, that’s not the point. I mean, it’s nice the way people help each other here, isn’t it? A real community.’

  Caroline looked at her. ‘Are you all right, Julia? You’re behaving very strangely.’

  ‘I’m fine. I just want to know who else helps around the house.’

  ‘Alan, Adrian sometimes. Jasper, even. Leslie helped paint the spare room. Henrietta helps with the garden from time to time, just as I help with hers.’

  Tension had crept into both their voices.

  ‘All of them have helped in the last month?’

  ‘Probably. Adrian fixed the radiator just before you came back. I still don’t understand—’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum, it’s nothing.’ Julia turned away. ‘I won’t be long.’

  She let herself out and began walking down Woodpecker Lane. Alan’s car was not in his drive, the house in darkness.

  The heavens opened as Julia walked up the ridge and it rained with the force of a tropical storm. At the top, she stopped and looked up, letting the rain hammer down upon her for a second.

  The black clouds were rolling across the valley, smothering the last of the daylight, which was now just a pencil-thin line across the top of the common.

  There were lights on in the Rose and Crown, but she could not see one in Professor Malcolm’s window, or in Pascoe’s house.

  She climbed on to the stile. This was the symbolic boundary between East and West Welham; her father had once told her that the villages had been on opposing sides during the English Civil War.

  She stepped over and hurried down the zigzagging path, the wood to her right dark in the dying light as the square Georgian house rose up before her. She was looking at the edge of the wood out of the corner of her eye, but she could discern no light or smoke, or movement.

  The path came right to the back of the house and there were two gates in the wall ahead. She passed through the right-hand one then walked across a wet lawn, watching the smoke drifting out of one of the chimneys.

  A powerful spotligh
t came on as she crossed the thick gravel. Everything about the house already reeked of comfort and ease. Of wealth.

  The front door was big and looked newly painted. She pressed the bell. The door swung open.

  He tilted his head to one side. ‘You’re soaking wet.’

  It was true. Her jeans were clinging to her. He took her jacket and walked down the hall, ushering her towards a room on the left. The house’s interior was as magnificent as its fine external proportions promised. She stood on a rich dark Afghan or Pakistani rug, over a flagstone floor, beneath a giant gilt-edged mirror above a mahogany dresser. At the bottom of the stairs there was a life-size sculpture of a naked woman in white stone.

  He returned with an armful of towels and she took one to dry her hair. He held up a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a sweatshirt. ‘Not exactly glamorous.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you’re soaking wet and therefore not fine.’

  ‘No, my jacket was soaking.’

  ‘So are your trousers.’

  ‘They’ll dry.’

  He put the clothes on the dresser. ‘I’ll leave them on the side here. Go into the study – I lit a fire just now. Let me get you a drink. What would you like?’

  ‘Wine.’

  The study looked like where he lived. Behind the door was a fine roll-top desk, open and piled high with paper. To the right of it, the bookshelves were filled from floor to ceiling, and his computer was pressed up to the wall. The room was too well decorated to have been planned by him, since she had not yet met the male army officer who cared about décor. Julia turned round, crossing in front of the fire, which was roaring unseasonably on the hearth. There were more bookshelves on the other side of the room, too, though some were filled with CDs stacked in a neat, home-made rack. She remembered this from the terraced cottage.

  ‘Pick one,’ he said, holding up some different clothes.

  ‘You can’t expect me to wear any of those.’

  ‘Well, if you think it more appropriate, I’ve a double-breasted suit.’

  ‘You must have some women’s clothes here.’

  He looked offended.

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said.