The Sleeping and the Dead

by Ann Cleeves

  Hannah wondered which friends had been talking to him. The prose style sounded like Sally’s.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No story.’

  ‘Oh but there was.’ He sounded apologetic, as if he didn’t like to contradict her. ‘At least there was a story for the Brices. Unless they made it up.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘So it was a story they believed, even if it wasn’t told to them by Michael himself. Let me explain. You were all sitting A levels. Michael’s first exam was art. We know because we’ve spoken to the school. It hasn’t been easy but we’ve chased up some of his subject teachers. The art teacher is retired but still living in the area. Michael didn’t turn up for the exam. He was one of the few pupils in the class predicted to get a top grade. It was a subject he enjoyed, so it wasn’t a case of last-minute nerves. The teacher was frantic – perhaps Michael had made a mistake about dates. He phoned the number on the school record and got through to Stephen Brice, who was perfectly calm, who seemed bewildered by all the fuss. “Didn’t Michael tell you?” he said to the art teacher. “He’s gone back to his father.”

  ‘If there was any other information given during the conversation the teacher can’t remember it. He assumed it was a case of family illness or bereavement. It must have been something serious, he said, because Michael had been working hard for the exam and was determined to do well.’

  Oh yes, thought Hannah, remembering lunchtimes in the art room, watching Michael, smudged with paint, working on his display. He was certainly determined.

  Porteous set his teacup carefully on the coffee table. ‘You never heard that story?’

  She shook her head. ‘I didn’t see anyone much at that time. I went in for the exams and straight home. As soon as the A levels were finished I left the area. I’d found a summer job in a hotel in Devon. I didn’t even come back for the results. They were posted on to me.’

  ‘You must have noticed that Michael wasn’t around?’

  ‘Yes. I realized he’d gone. Back to his family, I thought. Dramatically. The way that he’d come.’

  ‘But you didn’t go to see the Brices, to ask what had happened, to get a forwarding address?’ Porteous was faintly incredulous.

  ‘No.’ She hesitated, unsure how much to say. ‘It was a bit embarrassing. We’d stopped going out with each other actually. I suppose I didn’t want them to think I was chasing him. Pride, you know.’

  ‘A row, was there?’ Stout asked. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’

  He said it casually enough, but then they both looked at her in a way that made her realize the answer was important to them. She sensed the danger just in time. Sally hadn’t just told them how much in love she’d been.

  Hannah matched her voice to his. Kept it light. Implying, You know what dizzy things teenage girls are. ‘I suppose so, but I’m blessed if I can remember what it was all about. Not wanting to face the details, even after all this time.’

  ‘Serious though, at that age.’

  ‘Not as serious as passing the exams. That was our priority at the time. That was probably why we fell out.’

  ‘You were jealous of the time he spent studying?’

  ‘I think it was more likely the other way round.’

  They looked at her. They were still sitting side by side on the sofa. It was leather. One of Jonathan’s affectations. It didn’t go in the room at all. Hannah thought of Michael’s audition for Macbeth – Jack Westcott and Spooky Spence sitting in judgement on the red plastic chairs at the front of the hall. Porteous and Stout were sitting in judgement too. They thought she was lying but they were trying to decide if it was because Michael had dumped her and she didn’t want to admit it, or because she had killed him. It was impossible to tell if they’d reached a conclusion.

  ‘Why don’t you take us through the last couple of days of his life?’ Porteous said.

  ‘Is that possible? Do you know when he died? Exactly?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he admitted. ‘But we know when he disappeared. If we can believe the Brices.’

  She was starting to panic. Incoherent thoughts pitched one after another into her brain. She forced out a reasonable voice. ‘It’s a long time ago. I’m not sure how much I’ll remember.’

  ‘We can help you.’ Porteous leaned forwards so his elbows were on his knees. He clasped his hands. More like a priest than a cop. Or a counsellor. Not very different in tone from Arthur. ‘There was a school play. Macbeth. I’ve seen an old programme. Mr Westcott has kept them all over the years. There was a photograph of Michael – we’ll call him Michael for now, shall we? It’s different from the one which was in the paper. It’s rather faded and grainy, but it gives an impression. He was a striking boy.’ He stopped, miming a man who’s had a sudden thought. ‘I don’t suppose you kept a photograph, did you?’

  She shook her head. She’d always regretted not having one.

  ‘No? Pity. Still . . .’ He seemed lost in a thought of his own, then ditched all the make-believe vagueness. ‘The final performance of Macbeth was on the Friday night. You were prompting and looking after the props?’

  She nodded, remembered like a slow-motion replay the Brices rising in their seats to cheer.

  ‘Did you talk to him that evening? In the interval perhaps, or afterwards?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Probably.’

  ‘So you were still going out with him on the Friday then. So far as you’re aware. The disagreement between you must have happened on the Saturday or the Sunday.’

  ‘The Saturday,’ she said. She felt she was being boxed in, tricked. She should have claimed not to remember. How could she be expected to have perfect recall of that sort of detail after so many years? But she did remember. She had played the scene over and over in her head ever since.

  ‘You’re absolutely certain about that?’

  She nodded. She wished suddenly that Arthur were there. So much for pride. They wouldn’t push so hard if another person were present. They’d be more circumspect. She wondered if she should refuse to answer their questions, demand to have a solicitor there. But she’d never been much good at demanding. Besides, then they’d assume that she was guilty, that she had something to hide.

  Porteous straightened his back and looked satisfied as if it were just as he had supposed. He was taking the lead in the questions. Stout had taken out a soft, thick pencil and was making notes on a shorthand pad. As Porteous had waited for her answer Hannah had heard the lead move over the paper.

  ‘We’ll come back to Saturday later,’ Porteous continued. ‘If you could cast your mind back to the Friday.’ He paused, gave her a look of reluctant admiration. ‘You do have a most remarkable memory, Mrs Morton. It was the same during our previous conversation. So tell us what happened in the interval. Did all the actors remain backstage?’

  ‘Yes.’ An easy question. ‘Mr Spence, the producer, was strict about that. There was to be no running around the hall. The PTA organized refreshments for the audience and took juice and biscuits for the actors and crew.’

  ‘But you were prompting, I understand, from the front of the audience. It wasn’t a traditional stage with wings.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Good God, she thought. He’s a magician. How can he know all this?

  He closed his eyes as if he were picturing the scene. ‘Did you go backstage in the interval or stay where you were?’

  ‘I stayed in my seat. Mr and Mrs Brice came to speak to me.’ That had been a relief. Her mother had been in the audience too, a gesture of support which she should have welcomed. Hannah wouldn’t have known what to say to her and the Brices kept her away. Hannah had seen Audrey from the corner of her eye, circling at a distance.

  ‘Did they mention that Michael might be leaving the area?’

  ‘Definitely not. They talked about the play.’

  ‘Of course. So either they didn’t know about his plans at that stage – if indeed there were any plans – or Michael had asked them to keep a
secret. Otherwise they would have discussed his leaving with you.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure they would.’

  ‘What did you do after the performance?’

  ‘We walked into town together and bought fish and chips.’ Again to avoid her mother. So she wouldn’t have to talk to Audrey on the way home. She saw he was astonished that she had remembered a detail like that and added, ‘At least I think that’s what we did. It could have been another time.’

  ‘What about the props?’ he asked. ‘Did you clear them up that night?’

  She thought, He knows about the knife. Felt the last of her control slipping. Held it together.

  ‘Some of them. While I was waiting for the others to change and take off their make up. A team of us came in on the Saturday afternoon to do the rest.’

  ‘What did you do with all the stuff?’

  ‘Packed it into boxes. I don’t know what happened to it then.’

  ‘Did any of the cast keep anything? A souvenir perhaps. Something to remind them of the play?’

  She shook her head. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘Was Michael there that afternoon?’

  ‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘He was the star. Too grand to muck about with props and costumes.’

  Porteous smiled. ‘Well that takes us nicely to Saturday evening.’

  ‘There was a party,’ she said. ‘For the cast and the crew and a few of the teachers who were involved in the production.’

  ‘Mr Spence?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Yes, perhaps he was there.’

  ‘Mr Westcott?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It was mostly the younger staff. I believe there was someone from the art department . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry. We can check the names if we need to.’

  ‘We weren’t allowed the party in school. Not the sort of party at least that we would have wanted. We hired a room on the caravan park. The DJ ran the disco for nothing.’ She paused. ‘Chris Johnson. He’s still around in the town. He’s got a record. You probably know him.’ She was going to add that he’d been married to Sally but decided that would be petty. They’d find out anyway if they asked around. She watched Stout scribble furiously on his notepad.

  ‘And you and Michael had a row?’

  ‘Not a row.’ She’d had enough. She could hear her voice raise a pitch. ‘We just decided it would be best if we didn’t see each other until after the exams.’

  She expected him to probe with more questions but he nodded understandingly.

  ‘Did you see Michael on the Sunday?’

  ‘No. I had an exam the next day. I didn’t go out at all. I was working.’ It wasn’t a lie.

  ‘And on the Monday the Brices told the art teacher that Michael had gone back to his father . . .’

  He sat for a moment as if he was musing the significance of the detail for the first time, but it was all show. He must have gone over that information dozens of times before visiting her. He stood up suddenly, seeming to take Stout by surprise. Hannah fetched their coats and showed them to the door. Stout was still stuffing his notebook and pencil into his pocket as he left. It had stopped raining so Stout was able to light his pipe on the way to the car, curling his hand around the match to nurture the flame.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Frank sent Rosie home early. Perhaps that’s what she’d been hoping for when she told him about the police and her mum. He was a good boss. It had been quiet in the pub anyway and she knew she’d been ratty. Raging PMT. Sometimes it got her so she wanted to roar with frustration. Like a huge lioness. She’d made a real effort with her mum earlier so she’d taken it out on Frank and the others at work. No wonder he’d wanted shot of her.

  When she got in Hannah was sitting in the living-room. She must have heard the door, but she didn’t get up or turn around. There wasn’t the usual inquisition about what had happened to Rosie at work. No television. The only light came from a small table lamp. Hannah was sitting in shadow. She’d opened another bottle of wine and nearly finished it. She hadn’t got drunk even on the night Jonathan had walked out, but tonight she was ratted. Rosie sat on the arm of the chair and put her arm around her. She took the glass from her hand.

  ‘You’d better let me have that. You’re not used to it and you’ve got work in the morning.’

  ‘I was used to it once. When I was your age.’

  Is that how I’ll get? Rosie thought. Pissed after a couple of glasses of wine.

  ‘I take it the police came,’ she said. ‘Was it dreadful?’

  ‘They were all right. Polite. Just doing their job.’ Hannah turned to her and Rosie saw lines on her face she’d never noticed before: on her neck and framing the bottom of her jaw. ‘But they think I killed him,’ Hannah said in the same flat voice. ‘They think we had a row and he dumped me and I stabbed him.’

  The next day Hannah must have got up in time to go to work but Rosie didn’t hear her. She never woke up much before lunchtime unless she was on an eleven o’clock shift. Today she had a day off. She hadn’t made any plans.

  She was jerked awake by the phone, which didn’t stop, even after the seven rings when the answerphone usually clicked in. Her mother must have forgotten to switch on the machine before leaving for work. Rosie got out of bed, saw it was only nine thirty, swore and took the call in Hannah’s bedroom. The bed was made, the few clothes left out were neatly folded on the chair. Even with a hangover her mother couldn’t bear to leave the house without tidying. Talk about anal.

  ‘Rosie? That is Rosie Morton?’ The caller had waited so long that he seemed surprised to get a response. She didn’t recognize the voice. It was a middle-aged male. Somewhere in the background a woman was talking very quickly.

  ‘This is Richard Gillespie.’ She was still fuddled with sleep and didn’t answer so he added with a trace of impatience, ‘Mel’s father.’

  ‘Oh yes. Hi!’ She’d never met Mel’s father. She’d seen him on the telly, but whenever she was at the house he was working. ‘How’s Mel?’

  There was a pause. ‘We’ve a bit of a problem here. I wonder if you’d mind coming round.’

  ‘Is Mel OK?’ Rosie wondered if it was Mel’s voice she could hear in the background. If so, she was almost hysterical.

  ‘I don’t really care to discuss it on the telephone. Look, if you like I’ll come and pick you up.’

  ‘I can walk thanks.’

  ‘As soon as possible then.’

  He hung up. She wished she’d put up more of a fight. She thought she knew what it was about. He wanted her to persuade Mel to go into hospital. Mel hated hospital, always had. She’d hinted darkly about past experiences. Rosie imagined scenes from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and wasn’t going to force her into something she didn’t want. Then she thought there must be something seriously wrong with Mel to keep Richard Gillespie away from his microchip empire. She dialled Joe’s number. He might know what was going on. The line was engaged. Was Mr Gillespie enlisting him to do his dirty work too?

  Outside, the rain had cleared the air. The sun was shining again but the day didn’t feel so humid or sticky. She paused in front of Joe’s house, considered calling in to find out if he had any news of Mel. But there was a car in the drive. Joe’s mum only worked part-time. Once she’d seen Rosie very drunk and ever since Rosie had sensed the disapproval. She couldn’t face it today. Besides, Richard Gillespie had made it clear he expected her immediately and even over the phone she’d found him intimidating.

  She loved Mel’s house. It was three storeys, set back from a quiet road. An old brick herring-bone wall separated it from its neighbours. At the back there were apple trees and blackcurrant bushes. There was nothing flash or showy about it. The Gillespies had money but didn’t feel the need to flaunt it. Even the Volvo parked in the drive was a couple of years old. She thought that showed real style. Jonathan insisted on a new car every year.

  Despite all that, Rosie wasn’t sure she’d want Ri
chard and Eleanor Gillespie as parents. Perhaps it was because style mattered to them too much. Image at least. Eleanor had made a career out of it. She was head of marketing for the big brewery which owned the Prom. According to Mel she’d been responsible for the huge posters which had recently appeared all over the city, featuring an elephant and a beer bottle and a slogan about gigantic thirst.

  Image mattered to Richard too. Rosie had seen him on television talking about his family. The picture he presented was of a close and supportive group. ‘Really, I couldn’t cope without them.’

  How did a nervy anorexic fit in with that? Mel said he had ambitions to go into politics. ‘Power. That’s what really turns him on.’ It must have bugged him that he couldn’t turn her into the daughter he wanted.

  Richard opened the door to her. She recognized him from the newspaper articles and television reports. He looked younger than Eleanor, hardly old enough to be Mel’s dad. She wondered if he dyed his hair.

  ‘Hello. You must be Rosie.’ A firm handshake and a smile. Charm on tap. A habit.

  He showed her through to the kitchen. It looked over the garden and she thought, as she always did, that you could fit the whole of her house inside it. The style here was farmhouse chic. There was an Aga, a rack of stainless-steel pans hanging from the ceiling, a huge dresser with shelves of glass jars full of beans and pulses. Rosie had never seen either of the parents cook but she imagined them having dinner parties here at the weekends. Of course, the guests would sit at the scrubbed pine kitchen table. Richard would probably do the cooking – Thai perhaps or Mexican. She could imagine him in an apron. Melanie wouldn’t be invited. She couldn’t be trusted around food.

  Mel’s mother was sitting in a wicker chair by the Aga. She was wearing leggings and a big sweatshirt – aerobics-class clothes. Rosie knew she belonged to a gym but had never seen her dressed casually before. Without the suit and the make-up she looked like a different woman. She sat with her feet on the edge of the chair, her knees near her chin, her arms clasped around her legs in a sort of foetal coma.

  ‘Where’s Mel?’ Rosie demanded, thinking from Eleanor’s desolation that an ambulance had already come to cart her away.