by Ann Cleeves
When he did start it was to go up the coast towards Stavely Prison, knowing he was running away. In the low fields on the coastal plain the combine harvesters moved relentlessly over the crop, followed by swarms of herring-gulls, as if the machines were trawlers. By the time he’d arrived he’d persuaded himself that the trip was vital. Hannah was still the best link they had between the killings.
Because he hadn’t told the prison in advance that he intended to visit, he had to wait at the gatehouse while they found someone to take him to the library. There was a tiny room which he shared with a nervous young solicitor, who farted loudly then blushed. The walls were posted with mission statements about racism and bullying. They weren’t as colourful as those in the hospital but they had the same improving tone.
He’d led the officer on the gate to believe that Hannah was expecting him. ‘No. Don’t disturb her. Just get an escort to take me over.’
The escort was a stocky young woman who seemed new to the job. They walked past a group of inmates who were weeding a huge circular bed, planted with geraniums in the shape of an anchor. The inmates whistled and shouted and the officer turned scarlet. Porteous didn’t think she’d stick it long.
The library was closed and the officer had to unlock it. Inside, an orderly sat at a desk, covering books with transparent plastic.
‘Mrs Morton about?’
‘In the office. Hannah, there’s someone to see you.’
She came out carrying a pile of new books. She seemed so shocked to see him that he thought she might drop them, but she recovered her composure well. She ignored him and spoke to the officer. ‘That’s all right, Karen. You can leave us to it. I’ll see Mr Porteous back to the gate.’
The officer went reluctantly, obviously curious about what he was doing there.
‘Do you want to go out for a smoke, Marty? Just give us a few minutes.’
When they were on their own she turned on him with a ferocity which surprised him.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’
‘I had another appointment on the coast and I thought I’d call in, see if you could spare a few minutes.’ I’m playing hookey. Hiding from my team.
‘You don’t get it, do you? In a prison a visit from the police means arrest, guilt, trouble. It’ll be around the place in minutes that you’ve been to see me. There’ll be rumours, stories. It’s hard enough to work here as it is.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Really just a few questions. Would you like Mr Lee with you?’ He would quite have liked to talk to the psychologist, get some informal advice about what might be going on with the Gillespies.
‘Arthur can’t be here. He’s taking a class. If you’d phoned in advance we could have arranged it.’
‘Really, it’s no big deal.’
‘Yes, Inspector. It is a big deal. Two murders nearly thirty years apart are linked by the same weapon. I knew both victims. I’m not stupid. I know how it looks.’
‘I talked to your daughter yesterday.’
‘She told me.’
‘They’re nice kids. Her and Joseph.’
‘What is this about, Inspector? Marty and I have work to do. The library opens in twenty minutes.’
‘Did Theo mention anyone called Alec Reeves?’
There was moment before she reacted. He saw that she still wasn’t used to the boy’s new name. Then she shook her head. He was disappointed. If she had met him, he thought, she’d have remembered. She remembered everything else. But he persisted.
‘He was a friend of the Brices. You might have met him at their home.’
‘I didn’t meet anyone else there. They were content with their own company.’
‘He was sitting with the Brices for the final production of Macbeth. In the front row. You told me you chatted to the Brices in the interval. You would have seen him then.’
She sat with her eyes shut and he knew she was trying to re-create the scene. He had heard of photographic memory but he’d never before met anyone with such vivid recall.
‘A little man,’ she said. ‘Nondescript. Grey.’
‘Yes.’ He tried to keep the voice measured but she picked up his excitement.
‘Did he kill Michael?’
‘We want to talk to him.’
‘So you’re looking at someone else? Not just me.’
He smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not just you.’
‘You’re right. He was staying with the Brices. He had been a member of the church but he’d been working away. There was a special service on the Sunday – a confirmation, I think. He’d come back for that and they’d persuaded him to stay the whole weekend.’
‘What did Theo think of him?’
‘He said he was boring. Boring but worthy.’
‘He wasn’t frightened of him? You said Theo phoned you on the Sunday to say he was scared and he needed to talk to you. Could he have been frightened of Alec Reeves?’
‘I don’t know. If he was, he didn’t say.’
‘Mr Reeves worked at a place called Redwood. Did Theo ever mention that to you?’
‘Wasn’t that the name of his school in Yorkshire?’
‘No,’ Porteous said gently. He didn’t want to do anything to stifle her memory. ‘I don’t think it was.’
‘Yes. I’m almost certain. Isn’t it strange? I’d been trying so hard to remember if he ever told me the name and couldn’t come up with a thing. Then you mentioned Redwood and the conversation’s come back to me almost word for word.’
‘Could you tell me? It is important.’
‘It was the George Eliot essay.’ She looked at him. She’d told him so many details of her time with Michael that she thought he knew it all. ‘He was a George Eliot fan. As was I. There was a teacher who inspired him. When I reran the conversation in my head first he talked about “someone in the old place”. But that wasn’t what he said. Not at first. He corrected himself straight away but what he first said was “someone in Redwood”.’
She beamed at him, delighted to have got it right. He could see why the fat psychologist fancied her.
So, Porteous thought, after the fire and Emily’s death, Theo was sent to Redwood. He’d attended Marwood Grange as a day boy. That’s why Hillier the housemaster hadn’t remembered him. He must have lived at Redwood for years, until he moved to live with the Brices. Why? Because it was a place of safety and Randle had thought he was in danger from his stepmother? Or because he was so traumatized by the death of his sister, that he needed long-term help? If they could establish that Melanie had been there too, they’d have their link between both teenagers and Alec Reeves.
Hannah walked with him back to the gate. Marty was sitting outside on the grass. As they walked past him the orderly gave her a look which was almost protective.
Chapter Thirty
When he returned to the station Stout wasn’t there. Claire Wright had sent him home to get a bite to eat.
‘He was bushed,’ she said. ‘He was here most of the night again and then he went over to the old folks’ bungalow to talk to Charlie Luke. And spent the rest of the morning mooching around town.’
‘Looking out for Reeves?’
‘What do you think?’
Porteous thought Stout was driven, losing it, but he didn’t answer.
‘Ray Scully’s been on the phone.’
‘And?’
‘He’s here. At the coast. He came up last night to stay at his mum’s.’
‘Can you go to see him? Check out his alibi of course, but let him talk. Anything Melanie might have told him. Did she write? Has he kept the letters? Find out if there’s any possible connection between him and the Randles. Any gossip on the Gillespies would be useful too.’
‘Sure.’
From his office Porteous phoned Carver. The pathologist was out and nobody else seemed willing to tell him if the report on Melanie Gillespie had been sent. He sat at his desk for a m
oment then felt the old restlessness creeping up on him and went out.
He found Eddie Stout asleep in his garden. Bet opened the door to him. She’d been washing up and had on big yellow gloves like motorcycle gauntlets.
‘Look at him.’ She pointed through the open kitchen window to a neat patio, sheltered with a trellis covered by clematis and honeysuckle. Eddie sat in the shade in a green garden chair. His head was tilted back and his mouth was slightly open. He was snoring. ‘I came in to make him a sandwich and when I went out he was off. He’s still not eaten.’
‘Leave him.’ Porteous could smell the honeysuckle. ‘He’s been doing too much. It’s not urgent.’
‘No. He’d never forgive me if he knew you’d been and I’d not told him.’
Eddie woke with a start like a small boy startled from a dream. Bet left them. In the kitchen they heard her singing along to Classic FM, the sound of water running into a kettle. Eddie moved stiffly, easing the stiffness from his body.
‘It looks as if you’re right,’ Porteous said. ‘About Alec Reeves.’ But even as he spoke he was trying to make sense of it. What had the Brices been playing at? They must have heard the rumours about Reeves but they’d invited him into a house where a young kid was staying. Then he thought – No, it was the other way round. Theo knew Reeves before he came to live with the Brices. Reeves must have introduced them.
‘It looks as if Theo Randle was at Redwood,’ Peter went on. ‘Hannah Morton remembered his mentioning it. I haven’t checked but I bet Melanie was there too, just before it closed.’
Stout shut his eyes, a silent prayer of thanks.
‘Have they found him yet?’
Porteous shook his head.
‘You’ll be going public then? Tell the press we want to talk to him?’
‘Tomorrow. I promise. I’m still worried about lack of evidence. Coincidence. It could be no more than that. If we come to trial I want nobody saying there can’t be a fair hearing because of the ranting of the press. You can be sure all the old rumours will come out. Publicity works both ways. I’ve arranged to see Alice Cornish and she might have more information on Reeves. In the meantime you could ask again around the town. Discreetly. If he’s come back here someone will know about it.’
‘When are you seeing her?’
‘I’m going straight from here. She still lives in Yorkshire.’
Eddie nodded with approval. ‘I’m seeing the Spences as you suggested. And Chris Johnson.’
‘Any problems?’
‘Not with the Spences. She’s a reporter, isn’t she? All over me like a rash. Johnson wasn’t so happy but he knew better than to object.’
‘Look,’ Porteus said. ‘Take a couple of hours off. The rest of the day if you need it. Those interviews can wait until tomorrow.’
Stout didn’t even bother to answer that. ‘I think Reeves has done a runner. He’s not gone home. He’s not visited his sister. He’s guessed that we’re on to him.’
You’re obsessed, Porteous thought, recognizing the signs. You’re thinking of nothing else. Reeves is haunting your dreams. ‘Alice Cornish might know where he’s hiding out,’ he said mildly.
‘Please do me a favour.’ Eddie leaned forward, put his hand on the arm of Porteous’s chair, almost touching him. Fervent as he’d be preaching in the chapel on Sunday. ‘Give me a ring when you get in. Let me know what she’s said. Even if there’s no news.’
‘It could be late. You’ll need some sleep.’
‘I’ll not be asleep. You phone me.’
Alice Cornish’s house was less grand than Porteous had expected. She was a celebrity of a kind, a Dame, the author of a handful of books and dozens of reports. When he’d spoken to her that morning she hadn’t exactly welcomed his visit. ‘I don’t understand, Inspector, why this conversation couldn’t be conducted by telephone. I value my privacy.’
But he’d wanted to meet her. Not only because he thought he’d get more out of her face to face. He’d admired her work. And still he was itching with the need to run away. When he’d persisted in his request for a meeting she’d given in gracefully and instructed him precisely on his route from the motorway. It was an area he didn’t know, too close to industrial centres to be of interest to second homers and holiday makers. As he left the main road there were views of the Pennines to the east and Emley Moor to the west. He drove down a steep hill into a valley bottom, turned at a disused mill and then he was there. A small stone cottage with a meadow beyond it and a garden in front so tangled with perennials that when he walked up the brick path he scattered pollen with his legs. A ginger cat was sleeping on a window-sill.
‘Inspector.’ She had the door open before he knocked, while he was still stroking the cat, and he was caught off guard and felt slightly frivolous to be petting the animal. But she must have liked cats because her mood was softer than it had been on the phone. ‘Shall we talk in the garden?’
There was a small patch of lawn at the side of the house, the edges ragged with long grass where it hadn’t been properly trimmed. They sat side by side on a wrought-iron bench.
‘What is all this about? You said on the phone it was about Redwood. But I’ve retired. The centre is closed.’
‘You employed a man called Reeves?’
‘Alec, yes. One of our longest-serving employees. By the end he was part of the architecture of the place. He wasn’t a demonstrative man. He never drew attention to himself. But it was impossible to imagine Redwood without him. His retirement and my decision to give up control coincided. I felt that was appropriate.’
‘You liked him?’
‘He didn’t let anyone else get close enough to him for that. Not adults at least. He was very different with the children. But I respected him.’
‘Were you aware when you appointed him that there were rumours he’d been involved in child abuse?’
‘No!’ She turned her face sharply so she was facing him. She wore her grey hair in a severe bob which must have been fashionable when she was a small child in the thirties. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘You had no suspicion when he was working for you that he had an undesirable relationship with any of the children in his care?’
‘None.’
‘You didn’t think it was odd that he’d never married?’
‘Are you married, Inspector? Because I’m not.’
He could sense her hostility and sat for a moment in silence searching for words which might appease her, but she came at him again.
‘Do you suspect Alec of child abuse, Inspector? A recent case?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘I’m sorry!’ The sarcasm could have come from a ferocious headmistress. ‘I’m not sure that I understand you. What do you mean “not exactly”?’
‘We want to question Alec Reeves about two murders. We’ve been trying to trace him for a number of days. We hoped you might help us find him.’
She sat quite still with her hands folded in her lap, staring ahead of her.
‘You’ve come from the north-east, Inspector?’
He nodded confirmation.
‘Then one of the murders you’re investigating is that of Michael Grey?’
‘His real name was Theo Randle, but yes, I’m the senior investigating officer in that case.’
‘I recognized the name when it appeared in the papers. When you phoned I thought you had questions about Michael . . . It never occurred to me that Alec was implicated.’
‘We’ve no proof against Alec Reeves. But he was staying in Michael’s home the weekend he was murdered. He had an unsavoury reputation in the town and was linked to the disappearance of another boy, a child with a learning disability of about the same age. You can understand why we want to talk to him. His disappearance is a cause for concern.’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I can see that it would be.’ She turned towards him again. ‘But I don’t believe it, Inspector. I’ll cooperate with you because I think that’s what Alec
would wish. But you’re wrong about him. It’s not unusual for him to disappear for a week or two in the summer. He’s a hillwalker and he likes wild places and he avoids other people. He’ll appear suddenly from the Highlands or the Peak District and make himself known to you.’
I hope he does, Porteous thought. But I’ll not hold my breath.
‘Can you tell me about the boy you knew as Michael Grey?’ he said. ‘You never knew his other name?’
‘Not so far as I remember.’
‘Perhaps you could check with your files?’
‘There are no files. Not that we kept. It was part of the Redwood philosophy. The files remained the property of the children. They had open access to them while they stayed at the centre and they took all the records with them when they left.’
‘Didn’t that cause problems if you needed to liaise with other agencies?’
‘No. It meant that we all had to involve the young people about their futures from the beginning.’
‘There must be some records. A list, at least, of the children you cared for.’
‘I have an autograph book. The children all signed their names when they left, added any comments they wanted. Towards the end of my time at Redwood there were names that I hardly recognized. I was so busy – lectures, reports, committees. Much of the day-to-day administration was left to my staff. That was when I knew it was time to leave.’ She paused. ‘At the beginning it was very different. We had so little money and we had to do everything ourselves. If it hadn’t been for a generous benefactor the place would have closed only months after we started. It was a round of fund-raising, the school run, keeping the house from falling down and most of all finding time for some very disturbed children.’
‘Was Michael Grey very disturbed?’
‘Not as disturbed as some.’
‘How was he referred? Social Services?’
‘It was a long time ago, Inspector.’
‘But you do remember?’ He was sure that she did. Since hearing the news of Michael’s murder, she would have gone over the details of his stay at Redwood. It was natural, what anyone would do.