by Ann Cleeves
He didn’t answer immediately, but she knew she had him hooked. It crossed her mind that it wouldn’t be much fun working with him after this. Then she thought, Sod it. She’d just leave. She could do with a holiday anyway before she went to university. Her dad could pay up some guilt money.
She reached out and touched his arm and lowered her voice. She knew what a tart she was being, but found she was enjoying the role. The power thing again.
‘Please, Frank. I’d be really grateful.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rosie’s shift ended at seven. She tried to phone Hannah then. She was standing on the pavement outside the Prom, her hand cupped round her mobile, blocking out the sound of the traffic. She’d wanted to talk to her mother ever since Frank had spilled out his story. In the end he hadn’t treated her as any sort of object of desire. There’d been no groping, none of the usual crap about how lovely she was. She’d felt like his mother, for God’s sake, as he stumbled through his confession. She’d put her arm around him and told him she’d make everything all right. And she believed that she could.
Rosie hadn’t liked to phone her mother while she was still at work. She didn’t want everyone listening in and she didn’t want Frank to know how important she considered his information. Not that he’d been around much after their talk. She supposed he was embarrassed. At one point he’d gone to the flat upstairs as if the exchange between them had exhausted him and he needed to rest. He looked as if he hadn’t slept properly for weeks.
She let the phone ring until the answerphone was triggered, then she remembered Hannah had said she’d be working late at the prison. She tried the work number but no one answered in the library. A gate officer came on.
‘Sorry, pet. You’ve just missed her.’
She switched off the phone. Before starting the walk home she glanced back at the pub. Both double doors were wide open and she had a clear view. Frank was staring out at her. She’d left without saying goodbye to him and she thought about going back in. It would have been pleasant to sit on one of the high stools on the right side of the bar, drinking a long glass of white wine and soda, plenty of ice. But perhaps she shouldn’t lead him on. Anyway, he turned to serve a middle-aged couple, a big woman and a thin man, who had their backs to her. Something about them was familiar. She hoped they were regulars, customers who were as near as Frank got to friends. As she crossed the road to walk past the infant school, she had the sense that everyone in the pub was staring at her. Of course when she glanced back over her shoulder they weren’t even looking.
He must have been watching for her outside the Prom but there was always a line of parked vehicles along the road and she wasn’t aware of him until she reached the middle of the street where Joe lived. It was still warm. The tar oozed black where a patch in the road had been mended. Somewhere in the neighbourhood there was a barbecue. The street was quiet. She could hear children playing in one of the back gardens, the splash of water from a paddling pool, the occasional snatch of television through an open window, but no one was about. And until she got to Joe’s house she took no notice of her surroundings. She was running scenes in her head. Rosie as heroine, giving the police vital information which would lead to the capture of Melanie’s killer. Rosie talking to reporters outside court. Perhaps with Joe at her side.
That was when she arrived at Joe’s house. The attic window was open and she could hear the thump of his music. She thought his parents must be out or they would have made him turn it down, then she remembered his saying he was looking after Grace that evening. At first Rosie didn’t think of going in. She couldn’t face listening to more delusions about Melanie and she wanted to talk to Hannah. But she liked Grace. She’d always wished she’d had a kid brother or sister. Even now she was almost grown up Grace was passionate about animals. Rosie enjoyed being shown the latest additions to the menagerie she kept in the garden – the motherless kittens, the baby hedgehog, the house sparrow with one wing. She stopped walking and looked towards the house, tempted.
A small grey van came up the street behind her. It was moving very slowly as if the driver were looking at the house numbers. It had a wing mirror held on with black electrician’s tape and a loose bumper which rattled as the van went over the speed bumps in the road. When it pulled up at the kerb Rosie turned to face it, expecting the driver to ask for directions. But instead of winding down the window – it was a very old van and certainly wouldn’t have had electric windows – the driver got out. He was a young man, about the same age as Rosie. She didn’t recognize him and he didn’t look as if he belonged in this street of wealthy professionals, even as someone’s black sheep. He was thin with cropped hair and a tattoo running all the way down one arm. Still she paused, curious to see if it was someone who’d come to visit Joe. Joe had copied Mel’s habit of gathering up strangers and oddballs and it wouldn’t have surprised her.
But he went to the back of the van and opened the door. She decided he was making a delivery and lost interest. She turned and carried on walking down the street.
‘Hey!’ He didn’t shout but his voice was urgent. She stopped. ‘Are you Rosie?’
‘Rosie Morton. Yes.’
He stood looking for a moment, squinting against the low, evening sun.
‘Morton . . .’ he repeated. ‘Your mam must be librarian at Stavely nick.’ As if this was a surprise, a new piece of information which needed consideration.
She didn’t like being rude but she didn’t want to encourage him. She continued walking. He covered the distance between them quickly. She didn’t hear him running, but suddenly she could smell him, a strangely clean, chemical smell. He was behind her, so close that they almost touched, his bony chest against her shoulder blades. From a distance it would look as if he had his arms around her. She turned back to Joe’s house but the sunlight was reflected on the windows and she couldn’t tell if anyone was watching. Still she thought he might be some weird friend of Joe’s, and any moment Joe would come out and rescue her, save her from having to make a scene.
‘Get in.’
‘What?’
‘In the van. Now.’
Then he did have his arm around her. One hand stroked her neck, in the other, clenched as a fist, was a Stanley knife, only the blade showing.
‘Not a sound.’ The voice was almost caressing.
His head moved, turning quickly, his eyes darting up and down the street. In the distance an elderly woman in bowling whites stepped out into the road at the zebra crossing. He waited until she walked away in the opposite direction. Joe’s music changed tempo, became more melodic. As if they were dancing, the boy moved Rosie to the back of the van.
‘Get in,’ he said again. Inside there was an old quilt with a faded paisley design. It was shedding feathers. She climbed in. He shut the door. The back of the van was a sealed unit, separate from the front seats. Everything was black, except for a thin crack of brilliant light where the door didn’t quite fit. He started the engine and the rattle of the broken bumper vibrated through her legs and her back. She opened her mouth to yell, but it was like a nightmare, when you scream and scream and no sound comes out.
Later she spoke to Hannah. She sat on the floor of a flat which was empty except for a sleeping bag and a portable television. As far as she could tell. She’d only seen one room and the toilet. Her hands were tied behind her back, but the young man held her mobile so she could speak. The flat was on the second floor of a block on an estate she didn’t recognize. It hadn’t taken them long to get here. Twenty minutes perhaps. He’d parked at the bottom of the tower block by a couple of skips, pulling her out of the van as if he didn’t care if anyone saw. She’d had a few minutes to look around. There was a low building, some sort of school or community centre perhaps, and next to it a children’s playground, which seemed surprisingly new and in good repair, though no children were playing there. There were giant hardboard pandas and chickens on huge black springs, with black seats and handl
es, swings made from tyres, a wooden fort.
In contrast most of the flat windows were boarded up and beyond the tower blocks there was a building site, where a crane and a couple of diggers were marooned on the hard-packed earth. A woman came out of the school. She had a bunch of keys like the ones Rosie’s mum used at the prison, and she locked up the building, pulling at the doors to check they were secure. She looked smart and efficient and walked briskly round the corner out of sight. Her car must have been parked there because they heard the engine. She hadn’t seen them standing in the shadows. Even if she had, she’d have taken them for a couple of lovers, mucking about. They hadn’t passed anyone else on their way up the stairs to the flat.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m not coming home tonight. Don’t worry about me.’
‘Where are you staying?’
She almost said Mel’s because it came automatically. Perhaps she should have done. Perhaps her mother would have picked up the mistake and somehow understood. But the boy wasn’t stupid.
‘Laura’s,’ she said. ‘She’s having a party.’
‘When will you be home?’
‘I’ll go straight to work tomorrow.’
He switched off the phone. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ But he seemed unsettled. He paced up and down the floor. She watched him, not terrified any more, her emotions somehow slipped out of gear, but her brain working like fury. Very sharp, very clear, as if this was the most important exam of her life.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘What?’ He stopped pacing, crouched beside her, so she could smell him again.
‘Did you kill Melanie Gillespie?’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Hannah replaced the phone with satisfaction. She was proud of herself. At one time she’d have demanded details. Who was Laura? She’d never heard the name before. Where did she live? Was there a contact number? Today she just accepted Rosie’s explanation and let it go. Treating Rosie as an adult. Besides, she had other things to think about.
For example, Porteous’s visit to the prison earlier in the day. She could have died when he just turned up, unannounced, though he’d actually behaved with more discretion than she’d have expected. She wasn’t sure Marty had been taken in by the detective’s casual reference to needing witness statements, but Marty wouldn’t talk. It wouldn’t be all around the prison that she was a suspect in a murder inquiry. She could tell, though, that the orderly had been unsettled by Porteous. For the rest of the shift he’d been moody, demanding that the radio be turned down, snapping at prisoners who jostled to have their books stamped. Occasionally she caught him looking at her and she wondered if he’d say something when the place was quiet. But they were never alone. He asked to leave early, saying he had something important to see to. It wasn’t like him. He always preferred to be in the library than on the wing, would have worked twelve-hour shifts given half the chance.
The other preoccupation was that Arthur was coming to supper the following evening. She’d invited him on impulse and immediately regretted it. She hadn’t seen him all day, then met him in the car park on her way home. He must have been working late too. He’d seen her leaving the gate and was standing by his car waiting for her. His appearance had almost made her laugh out loud. He was wearing shorts which almost reached his knees and a shirt with horizontal stripes which made him look like an upended deck-chair. Dear God, she’d thought, with a jolt of affection which surprised her. Whatever is he like. No wonder the officers want rid of him.
‘Are you OK?’ He must have heard on the grapevine that Porteous had been there. And he’d be curious, of course, about what had happened. Since tracing Michael Grey’s identity he thought he had a stake in the case.
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t suppose you fancy a drink?’
She hadn’t. At least not in public. What she’d fancied had been a long, hot soak to take away the smell of prisoners, a good book, a glass of very cold, very dry wine. But he’d looked so tentative, so sure of rejection, that she hadn’t wanted to hurt him.
‘I’m sorry. Not tonight.’
He’d given her a sad smile. ‘Better things to do?’
‘Just shattered. Why don’t you come round for a meal tomorrow evening? Rosie will probably be working, but I’ll get rid of her if she’s not.’
‘Haven’t you got enough on your plate?’
‘I’ll enjoy it.’
But now she wasn’t sure that she would. She hadn’t entertained anyone in the house since Jonathan had left, and when he’d been around dinner parties had been daunting affairs, taking days of planning, sleepless nights of anxiety. She’d always admired friends who could throw together a bowl of pasta for half a dozen people, drink out of jumble-sale glasses, eat from ill-matched crockery. She’d never had that sort of confidence.
Now she worried about what she should cook for Arthur and whether she really wanted him in her house. He’d insist on going over the inquiry, picking at the threads of it. Would he be a rampant carnivore like Jonathan, who bragged that he never ate anything that hadn’t breathed? She supposed there would have to be a pudding. And would he read more into the invitation than she’d intended? What would be expected of her?
She was about to set off to the all-night supermarket where Rosie’s friend worked, in search of inspiration, when the phone rang again. It was Sally Spence, eager for a gossip. She had information to give, but throughout the conversation Hannah thought she was fishing too. She had a reason for calling which was never made clear.
‘We had one of those detectives here again this afternoon. The ugly little one.’
‘Oh?’ Perhaps Stout had told Sally that Porteous had been to the prison. Perhaps she was phoning to see if Hannah had been arrested.
There was a pause, lengthened by Sally for dramatic tension.
‘You’ll never guess who’s mixed up in this business.’
No, Hannah thought. Probably not. It was hard to remember that once Sally had been her very best friend, that she’d confided everything to her.
‘Who?’ she asked.
‘Paul Lord. You remember him?’
‘The spotty boy scout.’ Hannah smiled despite herself. She remembered sitting next to him by the bonfire at Cranford Water the evening she’d first kissed Michael.
‘Not spotty any more,’ Sally said. ‘Quite a hunk these days. You met him at the reunion, the night they identified Michael . . .’
‘Of course.’ Hannah replayed it all in her head – the curse of a memory which would let nothing go. She heard the conversation with Paul, his description of his computer business and the conversion of the farmhouse, the music in the background, Chris Johnson’s muttered introduction to the next record. ‘Why do the police think he’s involved?’
‘He’s a friend of a man called Alec Reeves. Apparently this guy’s disappeared from the face of the earth. They want to trace him because he knew both dead kids.’ She paused again before adding grandly, ‘At least that’s what my sources tell me.’
‘So Paul’s not really implicated. Only by association.’
‘Don’t be silly, H. You can’t see Paul Lord killing anyone, can you? He was always such a nerd.’ As if she might admire him more if he did turn out to be a murderer.
Hannah thought the conversation was finished then. She even began to say goodbye. But Sally seemed eager to prolong it.
‘How’s that lovely daughter of yours?’
‘Fine. Out partying. As usual.’
‘Oh.’ Sally sounded shocked. ‘I thought Melanie Gillespie was one of her best friends.’
‘She was.’ Hannah could have kicked herself. She didn’t want to make out that Rosie was an insensitive little cow. Especially to a reporter. What right did Sally, who was obviously enjoying every minute of the investigation, have to disapprove? ‘She’s been really upset. I thought she needed some time out with her friends.’
‘Righ
t,’ Sally said. ‘Of course. Right.’
Hannah wondered if Sally had been hoping to talk to Rosie, to turn her memories of Mel into an article. Just as well she wasn’t at home. There was a muffled conversation at the other end of the line.
‘Roger sends his love.’
But I don’t want it, Hannah thought. Really, I don’t. I don’t care if I never see either of you again.
She decided on a casserole for Arthur, something she could cook that night and heat up the next day. Chicken with tarragon, she thought. Then she could use some of the wine she had chilling in the fridge and she wouldn’t end up drinking the whole bottle. The supermarket was quiet. There were a couple of single men in suits carrying wire baskets of ready-cooked meals and designer lager, sad disorganized women like her who had nothing better to do at nine o’clock at night than shop. She looked out for Joe. She would never do it because Rosie would be mortified, but she wanted to say, ‘Look at my daughter. I mean really look at her. She’s a beauty and she fancies you like crazy. What are you doing, letting her go?’ She expected to bump into him at the checkout or filling shelves but he wasn’t there. She hoped it was his night off and he was at Laura’s party too.
The next day, Marty wasn’t waiting outside the library for her to unlock the door and he still hadn’t showed when the papers arrived. She tried to rouse Dave, the prison officer, but he was stretched out in the chair in the office and the rhythm of his snoring didn’t alter a beat even when she shook him. She phoned the wing.
‘Haven’t they told you?’
If they had, I’d not be ringing, she thought. She didn’t say it because she knew the wing officer and liked him. She didn’t have so many friends in the place that she could afford to offend him. But she came closer than she ever would have done when she was living with Jonathan. Perhaps living on her own with Rosie was making her assertive.