The Sleeping and the Dead

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Yes. The police said not to touch anything. I’ll show you.’

  The room was on the next floor, long and narrow, with two bay windows, each with a padded seat. The furniture was expensive, much of it custom built to fit the space, but the posters and cards on the walls, the candles and joss-sticks, the piles of clothes and papers turned it into any other student pit. On the desk there was a CD player and a rack of tapes. A door in the opposite wall led to a small bathroom.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ Gillespie said. ‘She wouldn’t let our cleaning lady in. Something else to fight over.’

  ‘You can leave it to us, sir. We’ll come down when we’ve finished.’

  Gillespie turned. They waited in silence until they heard his footsteps retreating down the polished wood stairs.

  ‘Well?’ Porteous asked. ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘He’s told us some of it.’ Eddie had already started on the dressing table. He pulled the top drawer right out and began feeling carefully through an octopus of tights. ‘Thrown us a few crumbs – like the fact that he’d paid the dad to go away. But he’s not told us everything. Not by a long chalk. Perhaps it’s not relevant. If he’s having an affair with his secretary, for instance. I don’t suppose that would have anything to do with the murder. But he’s keeping secrets and I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ It was unlike Eddie to get so heated. Lack of sleep, Porteous thought. He felt more sympathy for Gillespie. ‘Perhaps he just feels guilty because he sent the father away and screwed up the kid.’

  ‘No,’ Eddie snorted. ‘His sort don’t do guilt.’

  They sorted through the mess but they didn’t find a hiding place. No cache of love letters. No diary, which Porteous had been hoping for. He’d thought an introspective young woman like that would have kept a written record of her thoughts and feelings. No photo of her father, which he’d been looking for too. He’d have liked something to show the manager of the pub.

  In the bathroom there was still a dirty towel on the floor. There was a small wall cupboard empty except for a bottle of anti-depressants on a shelf inside. It was dated a month before but it was still full. Had she stopped taking her medication because she thought she could manage without? Or was she saving the pills for a grand suicidal gesture?

  Eddie was replacing the final drawer. ‘Nothing. Still, if Gillespie knew there was anything incriminating he’d have had plenty of time to get rid of it. There’s this . . . for what it’s worth . . .’

  It was the National Record of Achievement from her school. The academic reports were glowing. There was a number of unaccounted absences, but allowance had obviously been made. The teachers had written sympathetic comments about Mel’s courage in the face of her medical difficulties. Eddie snorted again.

  ‘You don’t think she had serious health problems?’ Porteous asked.

  ‘Well, it’s not like cancer, is it? Self-induced and self-indulgent. If you ask me she could have done with a bit of healthy neglect.’ He opened the door of one of the wardrobes. Porteous had already been through the clothes checking the pockets. ‘Look at all that stuff. She didn’t get that in C&A or New Look. My Ruthie would give her eye-teeth for one of those frocks.’

  ‘Not a justification for murder though, is it?’ Porteous said quietly. ‘Being spoiled by your parents.’

  Stout stopped, horrified, his arm still flung out in a gesture of righteous indignation.

  ‘You’re right. That was crass. I don’t know what came over me. It was that man. I let him get to me. One of the first rules, isn’t it? Don’t blame the victim.’

  ‘Have we finished?’ Porteous asked, a bit embarrassed to have had such a dramatic effect.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Stout straightened the cover on the crumpled bed. It was dark blue with gold stars and moons, too young for the sophisticated young woman they’d come to know, perhaps a relic from childhood. He felt under the pillow and came out with a photograph in a small silver frame.

  ‘The boyfriend?’ Porteous asked. Then more interested. ‘Or the father?’

  ‘Neither.’

  It was of a small girl, perhaps eighteen months old, with blond curls tied with a ribbon. She had a plump face and dimples.

  ‘There’s no younger sister, is there?’

  Porteous shook his head. He slipped the photograph from the frame. On the back of the print was written ‘Em’. ‘Another coincidence,’ he said. ‘The Randle child who was killed in the fire was called Emily.’

  ‘The photo’s much more recent than that,’ Stout said. ‘Unless they had Teletubbies thirty years ago. Look at that top she’s wearing.’

  ‘Perhaps the Gillespies will know.’

  ‘Aye,’ Stout said. ‘And perhaps they’ll tell. Which is another thing altogether.’

  Eleanor Gillespie had joined her husband in his office. Porteous thought perhaps they didn’t want their personal space contaminated by the police. Eleanor wore jeans and a big sweater. She seemed very small inside it. She hardly looked up when they came in. Porteous apologized for the intrusion but couldn’t tell if she was listening.

  ‘It won’t take long.’

  She shrugged. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world.’

  ‘We need to trace your husband, Mrs Gillespie. Do you have any idea where he is?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Is there anyone who might know?’

  ‘His mother, if she’s still alive.’ She gave an address.

  Porteous handed the photograph of the baby to her. ‘Could you tell us who this is, please?’

  Eleanor looked down listlessly, then seemed to jerk awake. She shot a look at her husband.

  ‘It’s Emma,’ she said. ‘Emma Leese. Just a little girl Mel used to babysit for. Before she got tied up with exams. I didn’t realize she’d kept a photo.’ She gave a sob. ‘It’s so unfair. If Mel had gone away on holiday when she’d planned she wouldn’t have been here. She’d have been on some beach in Portugal soaking up the sun.’

  ‘What made her change her mind?’

  ‘I don’t know. Perhaps Joe wasn’t keen. He never seemed very happy about the idea. Perhaps Mel was so low that she just couldn’t face it.’

  She turned again to her husband. ‘We should all have gone. As a family.’ An accusation. He turned away and didn’t respond.

  Porteous stood to go.

  ‘Does the name Alec Reeves mean anything to either of you?’

  She seemed about to answer but Gillespie stood too and spoke for both of them. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve never heard of him. Have you, Ellie?’

  She said nothing and stared dumbly after the men as her husband led them down the stairs.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Eddie said he was starving so they queued at a baker’s for a sandwich and sat on a bench on the sea front like trippers to eat.

  ‘I wouldn’t give that marriage long.’ Eddie cupped his hand to catch the oozing tuna mayonnaise before it splashed on to his lap.

  ‘No?’ It wasn’t the first time Porteous had been surprised by Eddie’s cynicism. ‘I thought they were well matched. He seemed supportive. Protective even.’

  ‘Nah. She blames him already for the lassie’s death. I’d give it six months. She doesn’t trust him. We should get her on her own.’

  ‘What have you got against him? Besides his money?’

  ‘That’ll do for the time being. And the fact that he was lying.’

  After the glare of the afternoon sun the pub was inviting. Rosie had been right. At this time of day the place was quiet. She was on her own behind the bar, chatting to a thin lad with a pony tail. She realized who they were as soon as they came through the door, and went to the back to call a plump, balding man, before greeting them.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ It was an offhand snarl. Porteous thought if she was as ungracious as that to all the customers she was lucky still to have a job.

  ‘Orange
juice.’ He raised his eyebrows to Stout, who nodded. ‘Two.’

  She poured the drinks then turned to her boss. ‘Can I have my break now, Frank?’

  ‘Aye. Take as long as you like. We’re hardly rushed off our feet.’

  She helped herself to a Coke and led them to a table in the corner. The skinny boy followed after.

  ‘This is Joe,’ she said. ‘Mel’s boyfriend.’

  ‘It was good of you to come.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To talk about Mel, that’s all. To try to get a clearer idea what she was like. Her parents are upset.’

  ‘We’re upset too.’

  Porteous wished Eddie would help him out. He hadn’t expected the girl’s hostility. Didn’t Eddie know about teenagers? But Eddie drank his orange juice and seemed content to let his boss struggle on.

  ‘It’s not just that. She’ll have told things to you that she’d never let on to her parents. Wouldn’t she?’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose.’

  ‘So just talk to us. Describe her. Joe?’

  ‘She wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever met.’

  That hardly helps, Porteous thought.

  ‘She was delicate, fragile. It wasn’t just the anorexia. I mean, I could never get to the bottom of what that was about. It didn’t seem to be about food. Not image even. I mean, it didn’t seem to be about the supermodel thing. She didn’t want starvation chic. She had more about her than that. It was as if she didn’t feel she deserved to eat. Which was crazy when you knew her, because everyone thought she was brilliant. Not just the teachers but her mates. People liked being around her. I couldn’t believe it when we started going out. I was on a high for months.’

  Hadn’t that been how Hannah Meek had described her relationship with Michael Grey? Porteous thought. But perhaps it could be a description of any teenage infatuation.

  ‘Did she talk to you about her dad?’

  ‘You know about that?’ Joe seemed surprised. ‘My God, you’d have thought he was a murderer the way Richard Gillespie made her keep it secret. I think that made her dream about him even more. She had this romantic notion that Ray Scully, the great musician, was going to turn up and take her away from all that respectability.’

  ‘Richard wasn’t Mel’s real dad?’ Porteous could tell Rosie was hurt.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never said. Even when she went missing.’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ Joe said. ‘She’d made me promise . . .’ Like a six-year-old in the playground.

  ‘Had she heard from her dad recently?’ Porteous asked.

  ‘No, I’m sure she would have said.’

  ‘How were things between you before she died?’

  ‘I hadn’t seen her for a few days. Her parents said she was too ill.’

  ‘You’d spoken on the phone though?’

  ‘They’d said she wasn’t up to it. I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t she? Had you had a row?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But something had happened to freak her out. I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was something I’d done or she’d thought I’d done, but she wouldn’t say.’ He paused, drank his beer. Porteous thought that despite his grief part of him was enjoying this – the attention, the drama. At university it would make an unusual chat-up story. The murder of the love of his life would demand sympathy. Women would go for it in droves. ‘We were going on holiday. It was her parents’ idea. They thought she should get away. The stress of waiting for exam results was getting to her. They knew someone with a villa on the Algarve.’

  ‘Eleanor said you weren’t very keen on the idea.’

  Joe seemed shocked by the interruption. Porteous thought he’d already conjured a fantasy in which there’d been no disagreements in their relationship.

  ‘I just wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility.’

  ‘She could be disturbed?’

  ‘Not mad!’ Joe said. ‘Troubled, depressed maybe. I’m not saying she was insane.’

  ‘So you were all set for a holiday to the Algarve. What happened?’

  ‘We were in here. All packed. Our suitcases with us. It was an evening flight and we’d arranged for the taxi to pick us up outside at six. We were having a few drinks, saying goodbye to our friends. Not Rosie. She’d gone away with her mum.’

  Porteous turned slowly to Rosie. ‘That was the day of the school reunion?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Was the television on in here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Joe had finished the beer. He put the empty glass on the table. ‘Why?’

  ‘An idea. Humour me.’

  ‘Mel started watching it. Suddenly she shouted for everyone to keep quiet. She was ratty. I mean really ratty. The moment before, she’d been laughing, then suddenly she was screaming at people because she couldn’t hear.’

  ‘What was on the television?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Local news, I think.’

  That was the day they’d issued the press release naming the boy in the lake as Michael Grey and shown the photograph. Porteous felt a hit of adrenalin, breathed slowly to keep his voice calm.

  ‘Did she say what had interested her?’

  ‘Not really. Nothing that made sense. She got up and switched off the telly. Not angry any more, but serious. I asked her what was so important. “Nothing,” she said. “I think I’ve just seen a ghost. That’s all.” Then she said the holiday was off. “You go,” she said. “Take someone else. Take Rosie if you like.” But she didn’t mean it. And anyway I couldn’t just fly off and leave her like that. The taxi turned up then and we got it to take us home. The driver was moaning because he’d been expecting the full fare out to the airport and he’d turned down other work. I said we’d pay him anyway. I sat in the back next to her and she was shaking. She wasn’t causing a scene. She was really upset. She wouldn’t let me go into the house with her. “You’ve paid all that money. You might as well get him to drop you at your doorstep.” That was the last time I saw her.’

  ‘Rosie, did you ever see her after that, after you came back from Cranford?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Does the name Alec Reeves mean anything to either of you?’

  ‘Is he the suspect?’ Joe asked, almost with relish. Again Porteous thought the boy would survive this experience without too many scars. He wasn’t so sure about Rosie.

  ‘Just someone we’re trying to trace.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Rosie?’

  Again she shook her head.

  ‘What about Emma Leese?’

  ‘Wasn’t she the little girl Mel used to babysit?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No. It was before Mel moved round here. But she used to talk about her. About how cute she was.’

  ‘When did Mel move to the coast?’

  ‘A couple of years ago. At the beginning of the sixth form.’ Rosie gave Joe a brave grin. ‘That’s why all the lads fancied her. Because she was new, exciting. Him and me started infant school together. No secrets at all.’

  Another connection with Theo, Porteous thought, almost automatically. But his mind was moving on in wider speculation. Wasn’t the relationship between Mel and the baby girl more intense than that between a young babysitter and her charge? Could Mel be the child’s mother, the photograph her only souvenir of a baby handed over for fostering or adoption? It would explain Richard Gillespie’s hostility and his reluctance to answer questions. Even after her death he wouldn’t want details of a teenage pregnancy made public. It might explain too why the family had moved just before she started her A-level course, why Mel was so mixed up.

  ‘Did Mel ever talk about having children?’ he asked.

  Rosie picked up on what he was on about at once. ‘You must be joking.’

  ‘Where did she go to school before she started with you?’

  ‘Don’t know. Some
private place inland, I think. Did she ever tell you, Joe?’

  Or a special unit, Porteous thought, for pregnant schoolgirls. With very wealthy parents. Then immediately – I wonder if Redwood would take a kid like that. But wouldn’t Carver have picked up the fact that she’d had a child at the post-mortem? Perhaps it was in the final report which still hadn’t arrived.

  ‘Don’t you want to know,’ Joe demanded, ‘about the guy that came in here looking for her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll get back behind the bar,’ Rosie said. ‘Then Frank can come and talk to you.’ She walked away from them. Joe watched her wistfully, unsure whether or not he should follow.

  Porteus could tell immediately that Frank wouldn’t be any help. There’d been a brief discussion with Rosie behind the bar. He’d been reluctant to let her take over. Now he did approach them his face was greasy with sweat.

  ‘Look.’ He held out his hands, palms outward, a gesture to distance himself from the policemen and their questions. ‘I can’t remember anything. Honest. I wish I could. It was really busy. A guy came in asking about Mel. I didn’t tell him anything and he left. That’s all.’

  ‘Middle-aged, you said. Respectable.’

  ‘A ye.’

  ‘Not elderly then? Not an old man?’

  ‘Compared to these kids they all look old, don’t they?’

  Stout had got hold of a recent photograph of Alec Reeves. He’d been in the paper in his home town handing over Duke of Edinburgh awards to a bunch of school children. He looked younger than his years. It must have been all that walking in the hills. He stood, fit and tanned, in the centre of the frame smiling shyly. It was hard to think of him as a monster.

  ‘Could that be him?’

  ‘Do you know how many faces I see in here?’

  Porteus could feel Eddie beside him, winding himself up for a row.

  ‘Please concentrate,’ he said quietly.

  ‘All right. Aye. It could have been him. But I wouldn’t swear to it. Certainly not in court.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  At the police station in Cranford, Claire Wright was waiting for them. ‘I’ve traced Elizabeth Milburn, the woman who was Emily Randle’s nanny. She’s head teacher now of a nursery school in the city but she lives out this way. She’ll be in this evening after eight if you want to get in touch.’