by Ann Cleeves
He rubbed his hair and looked like a five-year-old just out of the bath.
‘I’ll make some tea,’ she said, realizing she was staring. ‘Warm you up.’
‘It’s OK, really.’ He folded up the towel and handed it to her, pulled his sodden sleeves away from his wrists.
‘Everything been all right?’
‘I’m glad you’re back. The guy they sent didn’t know the ropes. And he didn’t want to be told.’
‘No bother then?’
He shook his head.
‘The lad that kicked off before I went on leave wasn’t in?’
‘Don’t worry. He’ll not be back.’
‘You’ve not done anything stupid?’ She was thinking threats if not actual violence.
‘Nah. Too much to lose. He’s out soon. Doing his pre-release course now. He’s lucky you didn’t say anything and that Dave’s a good sleeper.’
Hannah made the tea, handed a mug to Marty.
‘I could get used to this,’ he said.
‘Don’t tell anyone. You don’t want to spoil my reputation.’ Which was, she knew, as a tough bitch, a bad-tempered cow who was OK at sorting out books, would move heaven and earth to track down a requested title, but who wouldn’t listen to excuses about lost or damaged copies, would have you up on report for a bit of chewing-gum stuck to a page.
He smiled. The rain hammered on the flat roof, streamed down the windows so it was impossible to see outside. The perimeter wall had vanished. They could have been in a rain-soaked library anywhere.
‘Do you mind if I ask what you’re in for?’ she asked. Suddenly she felt she had the right to know. Perhaps it was that being the subject of a police investigation gave her some fellow feeling. It made her position in the prison more ambiguous.
‘Don’t you know?’
‘I suppose it was in your file. If I ever did know I’ve forgotten. Look, it doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business.’
‘Manslaughter.’
She thought that was all he was going to say. She didn’t blame him for not wanting to go into any detail. She shouldn’t have asked. He’d been kind to her and she’d been rude. But he continued.
‘It was a fight in a pub. Stupid. I was pissed and I can hardly remember now what started it off. The court accepted it was self-defence. To be honest I think I was bloody lucky. I had a good brief.’ He drank the tea. Hannah didn’t know what to say. ‘The lad I killed had a wife and a baby. Sometimes I think, well he shouldn’t have been in the pub then should he? Getting tanked up and gobby, spoiling for a fight. He had responsibilities. He should have been at home. But that’s bollocks, isn’t it? I can’t blame him. You can’t blame the victim.’
Hannah thought of Michael Grey. ‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I sound as if I’ve been on one of those courses. Victim awareness.’
‘And have you?’
‘Not here. But I’ve been through it all. I can talk the jargon standing on my head.’
‘Where then?’
He didn’t answer directly. ‘I’ve done supervision, care, probation, community service. Spent more time in prison than I’ve been out. Long enough to know the right thing to say when you’re after parole.’
But he’d meant it, she thought. That thing about not blaming the victim. He’d meant that.
‘Have you got a release date?’
He shook his head. ‘First board comes up next month.’
‘Then what?’
‘Then I’m going to stay out of trouble. Of course.’ He gave a twisted grin. ‘That’s what all the cons say, isn’t it? I bet you’ve heard it before. “I’m serious, miss. You won’t see me in here again.” Then a couple of months later, there they are at your reception talk.’
‘And you?’ she asked. ‘Will you be back?’
‘No. Not this time.’
‘What’s different this time?’
‘I’ve grown up, I suppose. About time.’
‘And?’
He smiled. ‘You’re in the wrong business. You should be a cop. You’ve got a better interview technique than most of them. And there’s a girl.’ He corrected himself. ‘A woman. She’s an actress. Younger than me but not that much. Dunno what she sees in me. Crazy.’ He shook his head in wonder. ‘She said she’d wait. This time. No second chances. We got together when I was on bail. My solicitor wangled me a hostel place. She was running a literacy course. A volunteer.’
‘Does she visit?’
‘Yeah. Regular as clockwork. With a list of books I should be reading.’
‘So. A happy ending.’
‘For me, yeah. One last chance. Up to me not to blow it. Not so lucky for the guy in the pub.’
Or for Michael Grey, she thought.
‘You said you’d been in trouble when you were a kid . . .’
‘Oh yes.’ Now he’d started talking about himself it seemed he couldn’t stop. ‘We were the classic dysfunctional family.’ She could hear the quotation marks in the self-mockery. ‘My dad beat up my mum. My mum left him and took me with her. She couldn’t cope so I was in and out of care. Where I met real little thugs. I was brighter than them so I didn’t get caught so often. But often enough to go right through the system. I never did drugs but I drank too much, even when I was a kid. It clouds your judgement. If I hadn’t been a boozer I’d probably have been a brilliant criminal. But I needed the drink.’
‘Did you ever do youth custody in West Yorkshire?’ This is ridiculous, she thought. A waste of time. Leave it to the police. But she held her breath while she waited for an answer.
‘Why?’
‘I’m just after some information.’ She wasn’t quite daft enough to trust him with the truth. He might keep it to himself, but if it got round the prison that she was involved in a murder inquiry her position would be impossible. ‘A long shot. Something came up at the school reunion. Someone we’re trying to trace. There’s a place at Holmedale isn’t there?’
‘Yeah. I was there for a few months. It was all right. There was a farm. Pigs. Some of the instructors were OK.’
‘When would that have been?’
‘Early seventies.’ He was older than he looked. ‘I’d have been fourteen.’
‘The timing would be about right. Like I say, it’s a long shot but do you remember a lad called Michael Grey? Very blond hair. He’d be a few years older than you.’
He paused and she thought for a minute he’d remembered the name from the news reports. But he must have sorted the daily papers without reading them. Certainly he hadn’t seemed to have made the connection.
He shook his head. ‘It’s a long time ago. And I knocked around with so many lads over the years.’
‘He might have been using a different name. You’d have noticed him. Posh voice, well educated, bright.’
He used almost the same phrase Stout had done. ‘You didn’t get many like that in borstal. Nice boys in trouble got probation or were sent off to see a shrink. I think I’d have remembered a lad like that.’
She could tell there was no point pushing it. ‘Thanks anyway.’
There was a jangling of keys. Dave the prison officer came in, snug in his uniform waterproof. He raised an eyebrow at them drinking tea and the papers not sorted. Hannah could tell he would have liked a cup himself but was too idle to make it. He took off the coat, shook the water all over the floor and went into the office for his kip.
When Hannah went to find Arthur at lunchtime he was still running a class. He’d got them to pull the tables together and they sat round as if they were at a board meeting. The prisoner who’d pushed over the library shelf was standing at the front, writing on a flip chart with a fat felt-tip pen. This must be the prerelease course. Hannah knew it was feeble but she didn’t want to meet him again so she waited in Arthur’s office until they all streamed out. There was a list of the men attending the course on his desk, with their dates of birth and release dates. By a process of elimin
ation she identified her troublemaker as Hunter. The next day he’d be gone.
Despite the rain Arthur took her out of the prison for lunch. It was her choice. The food in the officers’ mess was cheap but she hated the noise in there, the banter, the unspoken implication that anyone not in uniform was an outsider. They went to a pub in the nearest village. Often that was full of prison staff too, but today it was empty. They sat in the bay window but low cloud hid the view. Arthur went to the bar for drinks and to order food. As soon as he returned he said, ‘I’m sitting comfortably. Let’s hear the story.’
She didn’t know where to start. She would have liked to go back to the beginning, to her first meeting with Michael and the bonfire on the beach. She would have liked Arthur’s opinion. He was an expert. But the friendship hadn’t developed to the stage of discussing ex-lovers. And besides, they only had three quarters of an hour for lunch.
‘Did you meet up with your friends?’
‘Yes, and I’ll go back. It’s broken the ice.’
‘But something happened?’
‘Yes.’ She sounded abrupt and ungrateful – Rosie on a bad day. She’d found it easier to talk to Marty. Arthur was a professional. The reassuring voice, the laid-back manner, these were techniques he’d perfected. He listened to people’s confidences for a living. She felt resentful. She didn’t want to be one of his clients. Anyway, wouldn’t he resent her spilling out all her fears in his lunch break? It was like asking a mechanic to check your brakes in his dinner hour. Still, she couldn’t stop now and she stumbled on. ‘Did you hear on the news that a body was found in the lake?’
‘Exposed after the drought. Yes.’
‘I knew him. When I was at school he was my boyfriend.’
There was a minute of silence. It was obviously the last thing he’d been expecting. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The response seemed genuine. But so, she supposed, would his Monday-to-Friday compassion with the inmates.
‘The police think he was murdered.’
‘Can they tell after all this time?’
‘There’s evidence of a knife wound. Apparently.’
‘You went to the hills to escape all the crime and punishment thing here, then you ended up with that.’
‘I know.’ She forced out a laugh. ‘As Rosie says, it’s shitty.’
‘How is Rosie? Is she giving you grief?’
‘No. She’s being a sweetie.’
There was a slightly awkward pause. ‘She seems a nice kid. Protective.’
‘She is. Usually. I’m sorry she was so prickly when you met the other night.’
He shrugged. ‘Understandable, isn’t it?’
A middle-aged waitress approached with the food. She had flat feet and they could hear her as soon as she left the bar. Arthur waited for her to put down the plates and retreat.
‘Just because it happened thirty years ago doesn’t mean you won’t go through the normal stages of bereavement. You’re bound to feel anger, guilt, all the usual junk.’
Of course he was right. Hannah supposed she should be grateful. No one else had given her the right to mourn. But it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. It wasn’t any of his business. She didn’t need a psychologist.
‘It was all a long time ago,’ she said briskly.
‘But you’ll have memories. Intense at that age.’
‘No danger of forgetting,’ she said. ‘The police are coming tonight to interview me.’
‘Whatever for?’
She was about to make a flippant remark. Something like – Perhaps they think I killed him. But that was too close to the truth. That was what really frightened her. She didn’t want to tempt fate by saying it, even as a joke.
‘After all this time they can’t find out much about him. They haven’t even traced his family. They think I can help.’
‘Ah.’ That satisfied him. He hesitated. ‘Would you like me to be there with you? Not to interfere. Just for support.’
It was tempting. If she hadn’t dismissed his earlier kindness she would probably have accepted. But she’d decided the body in the lake was none of his business. She couldn’t have it both ways.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Really. It’s just a few questions.’
She looked at her watch. It was time to go back inside.
Chapter Sixteen
When Hannah got in from work Rosie was in the kitchen and there was a smell of cooking. A wooden spoon hung over the edge of the bench and dripped tomato sauce on to the floor. Pans were piled on the draining board. Hannah moved the spoon. ‘This is a surprise.’ A nice surprise. Since the end of exams, Rosie had seldom been there to share a meal with her.
‘I’m supposed to be at work at seven but if you want me to stay while the police are here I can phone in sick.’
‘Don’t be silly. You can’t do that.’
Usually they ate in the kitchen but Rosie had laid the table in the dining-room with the white linen cloth Hannah saved for Christmas and special events. It was a monster to iron but she didn’t suggest changing it. Rosie proudly carried dishes from the kitchen – a tomato and aubergine casserole with a yoghurt topping, a green salad. She’d bought a bottle of wine.
‘You should cook more often,’ Hannah said.
Rosie smiled.
Afterwards there was the usual scrabble for uniform and she ran off to work. Hannah watched her through the window. Rosie wore a thin hooded jacket which hardly kept out the rain and every so often she looked at her watch and put on a spurt of speed. She ran like a toddler, legs flailing out from the knees. Then she disappeared round a corner and the house seemed very quiet. Hannah was finishing the washing-up when the doorbell rang. There was wine left in her glass and she drank it guiltily before going to the door. Porteous and Stout stood outside. They wore almost identical waterproof jackets. The sight of them – one tall and lanky, one short and squat – reminded her of a music-hall double act.
‘Come in.’ She had made sure the living-room was tidy before starting on the dishes. The gloom outside had made it seem almost dark and she turned on a table lamp.
‘On your own?’ asked Stout. He took off his jacket and waited for Hannah to take it.
‘There’s only my daughter and I. She’s at work.’ Usually she hated that explanation, but tonight it made her rather proud.
She offered them tea and was surprised when they accepted. She thought it wasn’t a good sign. They expected to be here for a long time. On the way to the kitchen she hung the coats in the cupboard under the stairs. Stout’s smelled of tobacco and reminded her of the night in The Old Rectory when she’d learned that Michael had been stabbed.
When she returned from the kitchen with a tray the men were perched side by side on the sofa. They sat with their cups and saucers on their knees, looking all prim. Hannah thought they could have been a committee of volunteers, perhaps organizing a charity jumble sale. She had sat on many such committees. It would have been more appropriate for them to interview her in the prison. That was the natural home for what Arthur had called the ‘crime and punishment thing’.
‘I’m afraid we’re no further forward,’ Stout said. ‘We checked out your idea that Michael might have been in trouble when he was young. I know you thought he might have done time in Yorkshire. But no joy. There is a youth-custody institution near Leeds . . .’
‘Holmedale,’ she said.
‘Holmedale, yes. It was a borstal in those days. But no one called Michael Grey was there in the years in question.’
‘I thought you said he must have changed his name.’
‘We’ve tracked down a couple of staff. There’s an officer who’s since retired and a senior probation officer who was a young welfare officer there at the time. No one recognizes the lad you describe.’
‘It was a long time ago and they’d have worked with a lot of boys.’ She wondered what made her push it. Marty hadn’t known Michael either. Why was she so sure he’d been inside?
‘Not many posh ones,’ Stout
said. ‘Not many who go on to take A levels.’
‘We’ve been looking at boarding schools in Yorkshire too.’ Porteous gave a polite little smile as if to say – You see, we did listen to you, we did take your ideas seriously. ‘Just in case Michael was telling the truth when he said he’d gone to school there. We started with boarding schools. If his father were a diplomat as you thought, that would be his most likely education. Don’t you agree? We’ve been asking for a list of boys with the same date of birth as Michael gave to the dentist. We’ve tracked down every individual. They’re all accounted for. No one’s gone missing. Of course, it’s an incomplete picture. Places close, records are destroyed. The team is working through the state schools now.’
‘I see.’ She didn’t know what to say. Did he want a pat on the back for his thoroughness?
‘We haven’t found the mother’s grave yet,’ Stout said. ‘But that’s hardly surprising when we don’t have a name, a date or a place.’
That would have been the time to tell them about the cemetery by the lighthouse. It would be possible to explain it away as a stray memory which had returned. But the tone of Stout’s voice frightened her. He made it clear he hadn’t believed her, that the story of the funeral was a fantasy she’d made up for her own ends. How would he accept she’d forgotten a detail of such significance, something which might finally pin an identity on Michael Grey? The moment passed without her speaking.
‘So we thought we’d look at things in a different way,’ Porteous said. ‘From the other end, as it were. Not looking into Michael’s origins but into where he was going. Or where you thought he was going. Because you didn’t report him missing either, Mrs Morton, and that does seem rather odd. You had been his girlfriend for a year. We’ve been speaking to your friends, to teachers at the school, and everyone says you were very close.’ He gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Deeply, madly in love, someone said. I don’t think you’d simply accept his disappearance. So he must have given you an explanation. Perhaps he told you the same story as he’d told the Brices.’