by Ann Cleeves
‘This is hardly the same!’
‘I know.’ He paused, continued slowly, a dream confided. ‘I’ve always thought I’d make a good psychological profiler. At least in my work I meet real criminals and I’m not sure how many academics could say the same.’
‘You’re welcome to be here when the police talk to me.’
‘Right.’ He paused. ‘What about making a few enquiries on our own? While we’re waiting for the police to get in touch?’
‘This isn’t a game, Arthur. Not for me.’
‘I know.’
But she couldn’t bear to disappoint him. It was like when Rosie really wanted something. She always gave in. She thought, Being a mother is like trying to please the world.
‘What did you have in mind?’
‘We might find something which would divert attention away from you . . .’
‘That’s an excuse.’
‘What about having a shot at tracing the boy’s father? I don’t mean camping out on his doorstep. Just finding out where he is.’
‘How would you go about that?’
‘Through the records office, the archives of the local paper. There may have been a death notice when Maria died, an address. If the Brices said Michael was going to meet his father just before he died I’d say Crispin Randle makes an adequate suspect. If we hand him to Porteous on a plate it’ll give him someone else to harass.’
‘Why would he kill his own son?’
‘Why would he desert him? We’ll have to find out.’ He was like an overenthusiastic boy. Michael was a stranger to him. A puzzle to be untangled. He must have sensed her reservation, her distaste. ‘God,’ he said. ‘What an insensitive git. Look, I’ll clear out and leave it to the police.’
‘No,’ she said. He must have known she would give in eventually. ‘You play detective. If it makes you happy.’
Chapter Nineteen
Rosie spent the day looking for Mel in some of the places she could be lying low. There were days when Mel couldn’t face the Prom. Then she’d turn her back on her friends and Frank’s teasing and she’d go walkabout. Usually she wanted to be on her own but sometimes on the trawls around town she’d take Rosie with her. She didn’t speak much. She just waited for Rosie to follow her round the arcades, the sleazy snack bars, the tiny back-street pubs where a couple of pensioners sat all evening in silence. Everywhere people seemed to know her. Rosie stuck with her because in that mood Mel frightened her.
Rosie went first to the snack bar next to the bus station. A Formica shelf ran shoulder-high around the room and there were tall stools bolted to the floor. A water heater steamed behind a counter. The windows ran with condensation. There was a smell of frying bacon, which made her want to throw up.
A pimply youth was wiping tables with a grey cloth.
‘Hey, Robbie. Seen Mel?’
Robbie was one of Mel’s admirers. She had them everywhere, picked them up. Robbie was from Edinburgh, had run away from a loutish stepfather and lived now in a hostel run by a children’s charity. Rosie had never talked to him about any of this but Mel had told her. Robbie was passionately in love with Mel. You could tell by the way that he blushed whenever she spoke to him. Mel encouraged him. He was into Idlewild and they’d talk about album tracks, Mel strumming an imaginary guitar, the boy banging out a rhythm on a tabletop until the manager came out from the back to shout at him.
‘No.’ He squirted cleaner from a spray, turned his back to her. He could be lying. If Mel had asked him to, he’d lie.
‘Her parents are worried about her. They’re talking about getting in the police.’
He faced her. ‘Really. I haven’t seen her for ages.’ He seemed scared, but perhaps that was the talk of the police.
‘If you see her, tell her to get in touch. With me or Joe if she’s not up to going home.’
He nodded. His face was blank. Years of practice at not letting on what was going on in his head.
The amusement arcade was next to the funfair, old fashioned in the same sort of way. It was decorated in red and gilt and a cashier sat in a booth in the entrance. Mel said the booth reminded her of one of the windows in Amsterdam where a prostitute would sit. Carol, the cashier, wasn’t one of Mel’s admirers and the hostility was mutual. Mel went to the arcade to play the machines, not to chat. Carol was a middle-aged, once-upon-a-time blonde, a single mum. She was outraged by the money Mel lost; enough, she’d say, to feed her kids for a week. Mel didn’t taken kindly to the lectures. She played the machines as if nothing else mattered, completely focused on the patterns which spun before her. The money was irrelevant. Sometimes she left her winnings in the tray and had to be reminded to go back for them.
On rainy days the arcade was packed. Today there was a middle-aged couple playing on the penny scoop and a few teenage lads bunking off school. Carol waved to Rosie. She got bored out of her mind imprisoned in her booth and she wanted the company. She’d keep you talking all day given the chance.
‘Mad Mel not with you then?’
‘No. I was wondering if she’d been in.’
‘I’ve not seen her since she went away on holiday. Portugal, was it? Did she have a good time?’
‘She didn’t go in the end.’ Rosie inched her way towards the door. She couldn’t face explanations.
Carol seemed to realize she’d not get much more from the conversation and picked up a copy of Hello! magazine from a shelf under her desk. She began to flick over the pages. Her nails were sugar pink. She looked up once more to flutter the nails in Rosie’s direction to wave goodbye.
It was early afternoon. Joe would still be sleeping. Rosie tried a couple of pubs without much hope. There was one in a back street, near the health centre, run by an ex-jockey, a little wizened old man with no teeth. Another of Mel’s fans. The bar was full of men studying form in the racing pages. Rosie had never been able to understand why Mel went in the place. She had become a sort of mascot. She sat at the bar on a wooden stool and the punters asked her advice, though she admitted she knew nothing about horses or racing. Today her stool was empty.
‘She needs looking after,’ said the landlord sentimentally when Rosie explained that Mel had gone missing. ‘Proper loving care.’
Rosie thought secretly that Mel had been loved too much, spoilt rotten at least. But she kept that opinion to herself.
She walked down the steep hill from the health centre towards the sea front. Terraces of pastel-painted guest-houses ran away from the road. In the windows were signs saying ‘Vacancies’ and ‘Contractors welcome’. On the corner was the hostel where Robbie lived. A young woman was hanging sheets out on the washing line. Rosie thought Mel could hide herself away in this town for months if she wanted to. The Gillespies would make sure there was money in her bank account. Eleanor obviously wanted her found, but Rosie thought Richard wouldn’t pry too much as long as he knew she was safe and she didn’t cause a fuss which could be picked up by the press. At the sea front Rosie crossed the road and went down to the level of the beach. The traffic became a distant hum above her.
The Rainbow’s End was a café, two arches cut out of the bank of the promenade. It was run by middle-aged drop-outs selling organic food and herbal teas and it was one of Melanie’s favourite haunts. She said it was like a cave. She would sit near the counter, as far away as possible from the natural light, her back turned to the sea. She’d drink decaffeinated coffee and smoke roll-up after roll-up although there was a big sign saying NO SMOKING. Maura, who ran the place, turned a blind eye. Another example of one rule for Mel and another for the rest of the world. In the Rainbow’s End, Mel was drawn to the food. Sometimes she’d buy a slab of carrot cake. She’d sit and look at it, a paper napkin folded on her lap, but she’d never eat. In the end she’d push the plate across the table towards Rosie.
‘I don’t feel hungry. You have it.’
Rosie was always hungry but she didn’t know what to do for the best so the cake would sit there, the cream-cheese topping slowl
y melting, until they left.
Maura was a big woman, an earth mother in an Indian-print caftan and beads woven into her hair. She looked out for Mel. If the café was quiet – which it usually was – she’d sit with her and talk earnestly about the things which would ‘get her head straight’. Things like plant remedies, hypnosis, acupuncture. Mel would listen with a bored expression on her face. So far as Rosie knew she never followed up any of the suggestions.
Today two young women sat near the window. The tide was in, right up to the concrete walkway, and it felt like being in a boat. The women had children with them – a toddler apiece in pushchairs and a baby in a sling. Maura was going gooey-eyed over the baby, talking about the benefits of terry nappies and breast milk. The women agreed about the breast milk at least. They all seemed very smug.
Perhaps that was Mel’s problem, Rosie thought facetiously. She probably wasn’t breastfed.
She interrupted the baby talk and ordered a sandwich – mozzarella, tomatoes and basil on ciabatta.
‘Has Mel been in?’
Maura shook her head. ‘Not today.’
‘Yesterday?’ In the evenings the place had a licence. It sold veggie meals and organic wine in candlelight. So you couldn’t see what you were getting. Often there was live music.
‘Yes. Last night. First time in ages. She stopped for one beer and then she left.’
The Rainbow’s End only had a table licence but that had never bothered Mel.
‘Was anyone with her?’
Maura shook her head again. The beads and the braids swung and clacked. ‘I felt a bit mean actually.’ She had a surprisingly classy voice, very deep and well modulated. ‘She wanted to talk. But we were busy. We’d hired a student band and they’d brought all their friends. You know what it’s like.’
Rosie didn’t really. She didn’t go there in the evening. She thought the people and the music a bit pretentious. She liked something you could dance to.
‘How did she seem?’
‘Not brilliant. A bit jumpy. Sort of desperate actually. I let her have the drink and told her to wait. Adam was on his break. I thought when he came back I’d take her out for a walk, calm her down a bit. But when I looked again she’d gone. She didn’t even bother to say goodbye.’
When Rosie had finished the sandwich there didn’t seem much point in staying and she couldn’t think of anywhere else to look. She went home and snoozed on the sofa in front of a black and white movie. She didn’t want to talk to her mother – she couldn’t face the fuss of explanation – so she wrote her a note and at five o’clock she went round to Joe’s. Joe’s sister Grace let her in. She was a gawky thirteen-year-old with pointed elbows like the legs of a tree frog and a mouth full of metal brace. Grace yelled up the stairs. There was no answer. She shrugged.
‘He’s in. You’d better go up.’
Joe’s room was in the attic. It had a sloping roof with a big velux window and even more crap on the floor than Rosie’s. Divine Comedy was rolling away in the background.
‘I was just going out,’ he said, guilty because he’d been sleeping all day while Mel was missing.
‘I’ve been everywhere I can think of.’ She sat on the bed.
‘Anything?’
‘She went to the Rainbow’s End after the Prom. Maura said she was a bit jumpy, but nothing new there . . . It was a student gig. Maybe she met someone . . .’
There was a pause.
‘The police think she might have been kidnapped.’ He couldn’t keep a shiver of excitement from his voice. He was still worried but kidnapping was something out of the movies, glamorous even.
Rosie frowned. ‘The Gillespies went to the police?’
‘Eleanor did. I think she cracked. Richard didn’t sound very happy. I phoned just now and I could hear him in the background. He says everyone’s overreacting.’
So do I, Rosie thought. I think she picked up a bloke at the Rainbow’s End out of boredom or desperation or devilment. She’s hiding out in a hall of residence or a grotty bedsit, waiting for the maximum fuss before making her appearance. Rosie wouldn’t have told Joe but it wouldn’t be the first time Mel had gone home with someone she’d met on one of her walkabouts.
‘Why do they think she was kidnapped?’
‘Apparently it’s not much more than a theory. Eleanor and Richard are high-profile parents. And there was a case a couple of months ago. The kidnappers got away with a half a million. Since then there has been a spate of copycat attempts. Mostly amateurs, the police say. Mostly easy to deal with.’ He paused and sat beside her on the bed. His feet were bare. She could see every bone and joint under the skin. ‘Do you remember Frank saying someone was in the Prom looking for her? An older bloke.’
‘Yes. Do the police think he might have been the kidnapper?’
‘I told Eleanor anyway. It’s up to them. She thought they might want to talk to us sometime.’
‘Me too?’
‘Why not? You know her as well as anyone. You’re best mates.’
Suddenly she felt sick with guilt. She remembered the good times. The girlie sleepovers with bottles of wine and soppy videos, the gossip about lads, mega shopping sessions in the city. She imagined Mel being held somewhere and what they might be doing to her. And she’d been thinking it was all some attention-seeking stunt.
‘Let’s go and look,’ she said. ‘Just in case. I can’t sit here doing nothing.’
They spent the evening in the city, tramping through all the pubs, even those Mel had never set foot in so far as they knew. They asked in the arcade and the pizza places and the roller-skating rink. No one had seen her. They ended up with Maura in the Rainbow’s End, shouting their questions over a flamenco guitar. Had there been an older guy in the night before? Anyone taking a special interest in Mel? Maura tried to answer their questions but in the end she got fed up with them and sent them home.
Joe walked Rosie all the way to her door. On the step he held on to her in a desperate bear hug. She pushed him away in the end, feeling confused and guilty. As guilty as if she’d played some part in Mel’s disappearance.
Chapter Twenty
Hannah had been expecting Arthur to be waiting for her at the prison but she went through the gate to the library without seeing him. It was halfway through the morning when he bounced in.
‘Can you spare a minute?’
She turned to Marty. ‘Are you OK on your own? Dave’s in the office.’
Marty rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Is that supposed to be reassuring?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Go on. I’ll be fine.’
They sat in Arthur’s office drinking coffee. He was a different man: the super-cool Scouser had gone; he was bubbling, the words falling over themselves. She regretted her impulse of the night before to involve him. She could tell there would be no stopping him now.
‘I’ve been to the Central Library, tracked down the back copies of the local rag. It’s great that they’ve still got them.’
‘Aren’t they all on microfilm?’ She wanted to slow him down, rein back some of the enthusiasm. Stop, she wanted to say. You don’t know what you’re getting into.
‘Mm?’ The interruption only checked him for a moment. ‘It’s amazing what you can find in the births, marriages and deaths columns.’
‘You haven’t wasted any time.’
‘I started with Maria’s death. The notice said she died after “a brave struggle with illness”. Cancer isn’t mentioned but that’s the implication.’
‘That would fit in with Michael’s memories.’
‘Then I went back a few years and found the report of her marriage. A front-page spread. Obviously a big do. The wedding of the season. Crispin Randle seems to have been a member of the local gentry. He owned land not far from here. He was an MP. Tory of course. Master of the Hunt. You know the sort of bloke. He married Maria Grey in 1952. Two years later Theo’s birth was announced. He was named Theo Michael, so I don’t
think there’s any doubt we’re on the right track.’
She nodded, felt irrationally pleased that she could continue to think of her ghost as Michael.
‘I almost gave up the search then. I mean, I’d got enough for the police to be going on with. But I thought Randle was still a young man. What if he’d remarried . . .’
‘And had he?’ Just to show she was still listening.
‘Yeah. Three years later. That wedding was a much quieter event. The bride was Stella Midwood, who’d been working as his secretary. A year later they had a daughter, Emily.’
The names and dates washed over her. She thought she’d have to write it all down like a family tree to make sense of it.
‘Why didn’t they have Michael to live with them?’ she asked. ‘Why board him out with the Brices?’
‘Wait. There’s more drama to come. In 1964 when Theo Michael was ten, there was a fire in the family home. It was big news. The place was burned to a shell and Emily, the little girl, Michael’s stepsister, was killed. Crispin Randle sold the estate and some months later he resigned his seat in the Commons. Michael isn’t mentioned in the account of the fire or the resignation.’
‘Is that significant?’
‘Dunno. Perhaps it was too painful for Crispin to have him around. Perhaps Michael reminded him of the death of his first wife and his daughter. Perhaps Crispin had some sort of breakdown and couldn’t cope.’
‘Michael was only ten!’
‘Old enough to be shipped off to boarding school.’
‘Why did he come to Cranford then? And why the change of identity?’
Arthur shrugged. ‘Teenage rebellion? It’s possible he didn’t get on with his stepmother. Perhaps he resented the way his father dumped him.’
‘Perhaps.’ It’s all guesswork, she thought. Really, despite Arthur’s excitement we’re not much further forward. ‘Do we know where Stella and Crispin are living now?’
‘There’s no record. But the police will find out easily enough. We’ve done all the hard work for them.’ He hesitated. ‘Don’t you have an early finish today?’