by Ann Cleeves
All the time she kept her eyes on the blade. She knew he could move quickly over short distances. He’d done that in the street outside Joe’s. But she thought that once she got out of the flat she’d be able to outpace him down the stairs and into the road. Usually the knife was in his hand. Otherwise it was on the floor just beside him. He was as connected to it as some of her mates were to their mobiles. You couldn’t imagine him without it. He’d said, as he let her out of the car when they’d first got here, ‘I’ve used it before, you know.’ Boasting. As if he were just waiting for an excuse to use it again.
As it grew dark, she let her head drop forward so her chin was on her chest, pretending to drowse. She’d slept a couple of hours the night before. Hannah always said it was a gift being able to sleep anywhere. But she wasn’t sure the boy had. He must be exhausted. Despite his nervousness and his restless energy, he wouldn’t be able to stay awake for ever.
There were no curtains at the window. She couldn’t see from where she was sitting but on the way in she’d glimpsed the river, cranes, and the skeleton of an oil platform, half constructed. Light came in from the glow of the city on the horizon. It reflected on the blade on the floor beside the boy. He still had his palm flat on the handle, but his breathing was regular now. Rosie was leaning back against the wall, her knees bent. She stretched one leg, tensing and relaxing the calf muscles. The boy didn’t stir. She repeated the movement with the other leg. Still his breathing didn’t change.
It crossed her mind that it might be a trick. Perhaps he wanted her to try to run. Then he’d have an excuse to chase her and hold her down and threaten her. Perhaps that was what excited him. But she didn’t think so. Charvies could be devious, but he hadn’t tried on anything like that before. He saw her as a means of making money. That was all.
She bent her knees again and bent down, so her back slid slowly up the wall until she was standing. She shook the stiffness out of her legs. Still the boy slept. She walked quickly into the narrow hall towards the front door.
She had already realized there was no way she could free her hands. She’d spent hours the night before trying. She’d seen films where magically ropes had loosened sufficiently to allow one hand to slide out. That wasn’t going to happen here. When she moved, the nylon twine cut into her wrists. They were still firmly fixed behind her back. She stood at the front door and turned her back to it, leaning forward so she could raise her straightened arms high enough to reach the Yale snick. The joints in her shoulders seemed to tear with the strain. Even when her fingers touched the catch, it was more difficult than she’d expected to open it blind. At last the knob turned. She gave a gentle tug and the door opened. The boy, caught in the orange glow from the window, muttered in his sleep. She froze but he didn’t wake and she moved out on to the landing.
She’d reached the first floor when she heard him come after her, bellowing and stumbling as if he’d wakened suddenly and was still half asleep. She thought then that all the flats must be empty, because there was no response to the noise. She’d have to get out. There was just enough light to see where she was going, some dim, emergency lamp high on the wall. She carried on down, pumping her legs, one step after another, keeping the movements small and tight, saving her energy for when she reached the bottom. Her shadow danced ahead of her.
At the bottom the steel-plated double door was open. She supposed it had been left like that the day before when they’d come in. Outside it was warm and dusty and she thought she could smell the dry mud of the river. She paused for a moment. She didn’t think the boy was gaining on her but in the distance there was muffled, amplified rock music – some sort of festival or outdoor show – and she wasn’t sure she would have heard his footsteps anyway. She needed a main road, lots of people. The music was too far away. There was a general hum of traffic and she got her bearings. She saw the lights of speeding cars in the distance beyond the building site. She started to run towards them, moving awkwardly because her tied hands threw her off balance. In the distance there was a bang and the splatter of fireworks from the festival. No sign of the boy.
The scene was lit suddenly by car headlights. They shone on the animals in the children’s playground behind its wire-mesh fence, a nightmare zoo.
He’s fetched his van to head me off, she thought. Then: I underestimated him. Not such a charvie after all.
She heard the engine revving and sensed it coming towards her, but blinded by the lights after the gloom of the flats she was paralysed. She couldn’t decide which way to run. At the last minute she twisted and started to move, but knew it was too late.
Then there was a shout. She felt the soft thud of another body, pain as she was thrown to the ground, winded and battered. Then came the movement of the vehicle past them, air on her face, and an enormous crash as it swung, out of control, into a wall.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Hannah sat by the living-room window, counting the cars go past, telling herself, When I’ve counted ten more, Arthur will arrive with Rosie. But Arthur didn’t arrive, so she counted twenty, then thirty, then fifty. She’d wanted to go with him to the estate by the river, Hunter’s last known address, but he’d said she’d be better there, next to the phone, and he’d suddenly seemed to inspire confidence so she’d done what she was told. When the car did stop she thought it was a mirage, her imagination playing tricks. But the first person she saw, the only one that mattered then, was Rosie, who got out of the back seat. And she looked dishevelled and shocked, her white work shirt stained. Too solid to be a dream.
Hannah ran to the door and held her. She felt herself crying and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, because Rosie always said she was soppy, that she cried at the drop of a hat. When she looked up she saw Porteous and Stout coming up the path. No one else was with them.
‘Where’s Arthur?’
‘They’ll explain,’ Rosie said. ‘Is there anything to eat?’
‘He’s in hospital,’ Porteous said.
‘Shouldn’t Rosie be too? For a check-up at least.’
‘Nah.’ Rosie shook her head and went to the kitchen to forage for food.
‘Is Arthur badly hurt?’
‘Serious but stable, they say.’
Like Marty, she thought.
Rosie wandered back in. She was drinking from the glass of wine Arthur had poured for himself earlier. In the other hand she held a slice of the cheesecake Hannah had finally decided on for pudding. Crumbs from the biscuit base were dribbling on to the floor. ‘Any phone calls?’ It was what she always asked. It was as if she’d only come back from a four-hour shift at the Prom.
She doesn’t want a fuss, Hannah thought. ‘Joe,’ she said. ‘Several times. He’s been frantic.’
‘I’d better phone him.’ She drifted away upstairs.
Hannah watched her then turned to Porteous. She wondered what he was still doing there, hovering just inside the door like a Jehovah’s Witness or a Kleeneze salesman. Shouldn’t he be taking statements?
‘Arthur is all right?’ she asked. ‘If it’s serious, perhaps I should go to the hospital.’
Then Porteous and Stout walked in, flanking her on each side, so she thought for a crazy minute that they intended to arrest her after all. They sat beside her on the sofa.
‘I don’t think you should do that,’ Porteous said. Hannah saw that both men looked exhausted, much worse than Rosie. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Arthur Lee’s under arrest. He’s been charged with the murders of Theo Randle, Melanie Gillespie and Alec Reeves. And the attempted murder of Rosie.’
‘No.’ Again Hannah thought she was going mad. ‘Rosie was abducted by a youth called Hunter. He phoned here for money. Arthur went to rescue her. I asked him to.’
‘Mr Lee’s just driven his car straight at her at fifty miles an hour,’ Stout said crossly, grumpy as an overtired boy. ‘If the boss hadn’t thrown your daughter out of the way she’d be dead.’
There was a silence. Porteous stood up. ‘I think this sh
ould wait. You’ll want to spend some time with your daughter.’
Hannah stood at the door and watched the policemen walk to their car. Through the ceiling she could hear Rosie’s voice chatting, almost naturally, to Joe. There was a burst of laughter, tension relieved. Suddenly Hannah felt angry. How could her daughter be so arrogant, so foolish, not to be scared, not to recognize how close she’d been to danger? But later, when Hannah was in bed, pretending to sleep, Rosie crept in beside her and they spent the rest of the night cuddled together and occasionally Rosie cried out.
Porteous invited her to Cranford to explain Arthur’s guilt. He was apologetic. He was so busy, he said, tying up loose ends. He didn’t think he could make it to Millhaven. Would she mind coming to him?
It was the evening of the following day and still the sun was shining. They met at the picnic site at Cranford Water. The press was still at the police station, Porteous said. And anyway she wouldn’t want to go there. They sat at one of the bench tables. A respectable, middle-aged couple taking the air. Porteous had brought an old-fashioned wicker shopping basket covered with a tea towel and fished out a bottle of wine and some smoked-salmon sandwiches. There were real glasses, linen napkins. Hannah wondered if this were another apology. I’m sorry I thought you were a murderer.
‘How’s Arthur?’ she asked, wanting to start them off. Really rather hoping he was dead.
‘Well enough to talk. Just. Did you know he’d worked as a psychologist at a centre for disturbed children called Redwood?’
She shook her head. ‘He didn’t talk much about the past. I knew he’d done research into families. The causes of delinquent behaviour. I don’t think he ever said where he was based.’
‘He was there for years. Almost since the place started. He went on to run training courses for other professionals, but he kept his links with the centre. He was a leader in his field. That’s why the Home Office headhunted him for Stavely when Redwood closed down.’ Porteous stretched back and closed his eyes against the sun. ‘It started with Theo Randle, the boy you knew as Michael Grey. His mum died of cancer and his dad remarried. There was a little girl. Emily. You know all that. Arthur told you, didn’t he? Once he knew we’d find out anyway. Theo’s stepmother suffered from severe post-natal depression. His father started drinking heavily. The family was falling apart. A suitable case for Mr Lee’s research. Theo hated Emily. She was only months old but he hated her. If she’d never been born he thought they might be happy. It would have been like before his mother died. So he decided to do something about it. He started a fire in the nursery when the nanny had a night off. Emily was killed.
‘Afterwards he was probably sorry. He went to his father and told him what he’d done. But his father didn’t go to the police. He was a public figure. His wife was already suffering from depression. Imagine what the press would make of it. A boy that age charged with murder. Yet he couldn’t face living with Theo either.
‘Redwood hadn’t long opened and was desperately short of money. There was a possibility that the place would shut before Alice Cornish had a chance to prove her ideas. Crispin Randle made a generous donation and Arthur accepted care of the boy. He probably saw it as a professional challenge. He promised he wouldn’t tell the authorities that Theo had killed his sister and agreed to the change of name.’
‘Was that wrong?’ Hannah asked. ‘Would Michael have been better off in a secure unit? A prison?’
‘He would have been safe there,’ Porteous said. ‘And he wouldn’t be a danger to other people.’ He paused. ‘There was another incident of arson. This time at Theo’s school. He started the fire there too. Apparently he hated the place. Arson was his answer to difficult situations. His way of hitting out. Arthur provided an alibi for him. He didn’t want people making awkward connections. Again Alice Cornish never knew. Soon after, the time came when Theo had to move on. He couldn’t be protected in Redwood for ever and Arthur couldn’t let on that he might still be a risk. Alec Reeves, a care worker at Redwood, knew the Brices. They agreed that he could live with them.’
Hannah didn’t answer. She was thinking of Michael, sitting on the shore here at Cranford Water, so bewitched by a bonfire that he couldn’t take his eyes off it.
‘Then Arthur had a tricky moment,’ Porteous said. ‘Theo wanted to confess. Perhaps it was the Brices. Being surrounded by all that religion. Perhaps he kept getting flashbacks of Emily in her cot. He’d never been allowed to admit the truth of the memories. He phoned Arthur, telling him what he intended to do. Very self-righteous. Very dramatic.’
Oh yes, he’d have been that, Hannah thought.
‘At first Alec was sent to sort him out. I don’t think he was ever told the complete story but he knew the reputation of Redwood was at stake and he’d have done pretty well anything to protect that.’
‘Did he have a blue car?’
‘Why?’
‘I saw him. He came looking for Michael here one night.’
‘Poor Alec,’ Porteous said. ‘All those rumours about his nephew and he was just a lonely, middle-aged man who got on better with children than adults. He persuaded the boy to keep quiet, but in the end Theo couldn’t let it go and Alec was sent back.’
‘The weekend of Macbeth?’
‘Yes. He realized immediately it wouldn’t work and Arthur came up himself. He and Theo met on the Sunday evening after the performance of Macbeth, the day after the party, here on the shore. It was late at night. Theo must have had the dagger with him. The prop from Macbeth. We’ll never know if he intended any harm with it or if he’d kept it as a souvenir. He was a disturbed young man and he’d already tried to kill twice. There was an argument. Arthur says Theo got wild and angry and started to wave the dagger about. They had a scrap and Theo was killed. Hard to believe it was self-defence when the boy was stabbed in the back. And considering how cool and efficient Arthur was in dealing with the death. He weighed down Theo’s body and threw it in the lake. Then he phoned the Brices and said that Theo was in the middle of some sort of crisis and had decided to go back to his father. Of course they believed him. Why wouldn’t they? Theo had been their gift from God, only theirs on loan. Presumably Alec was given a similar story.
‘And that’s how it would have stayed if it hadn’t been for global warming and a drought and a canoeist called Helen Blake, who found the body.’
‘I don’t understand where Melanie comes in.’
‘Melanie was at Redwood too, briefly.’
‘For her anorexia?’
‘No,’ Porteous said. ‘It was history repeating itself. She killed a baby. A little girl called Emma. She was babysitting. The baby wouldn’t stop crying, she got frustrated. She smothered it with a pillow. It was put down as a cot death. She confessed too. To Richard Gillespie. I couldn’t accept the coincidence. Two babies dying. Richard was a public figure like Crispin Randle, but I don’t think he was considering himself when he shipped Mel off to Redwood. He couldn’t put her through a trial. There’d been all the publicity about the killers of the little boy in Liverpool. Even after her death he didn’t want it to come out that she was a murderer. When he was young he’d worked as a solicitor for Randle. Apparently Randle got drunk one day and let slip about Theo and Redwood . . .’
‘ . . . so Melanie got shipped out there too.’
‘Yes,’ Porteous said. ‘For a price. No wonder the girl was so screwed up.’
‘Why did Arthur kill her?’
‘Melanie was bright,’ Porteous said. ‘She knew what was happening to her. She was nearly fifteen when she killed Emma Leese, not a child like Theo. She was confused and mixed up and she wanted someone to blame. She knew Arthur was working locally. Rosie had talked about her mother’s new friend at Stavely. She tracked him down, phoned him a couple of times at the prison. You can imagine the sort of thing. “You really screwed me up. How could you do that to me?” Wanting sympathy, someone to take her seriously. Arthur got jumpy and went to the Prom to try to talk to her.
He knew Rosie worked there, thought it would be somewhere Mel would hang out.
‘Mel might have let it go but she saw the photo of Theo on the local news in the pub on her way to the airport. She recognized him. Redwood was plastered with pictures of the kids who’d stayed there. The coincidence freaked her out. And she couldn’t understand why Arthur didn’t go to the police about the Redwood connection. Later that week the press reports were still talking about the mysterious boy with no past. She phoned him again and said that if he didn’t tell the police Michael had been at Redwood, she would. He must have been frantic but he still thought he could reason with her. He couldn’t get to her at home. She was so disturbed by then that her parents almost had her under house arrest. So he became more devious. He even followed Rosie and Joe home from the Prom one night, hoping they might lead him to Mel. At last he found her in the Rainbow’s End. He persuaded her there was a reasonable explanation for keeping quiet about Theo. If she went back with him he’d tell her all about it. But whatever story he’d dreamed up she wouldn’t accept it. She was hysterical . . .’
‘And he killed her.’
‘In his cottage.’ Porteous hesitated, seemed to make up his mind to continue. ‘The next night he took her body to the cemetery at Millhaven. He knew you’d been there. You were already a suspect and he wanted to implicate you.’
She sat in silence for a moment wondering how she could have been so foolish, so easily taken in. ‘What about Rosie?’ she asked. ‘She can’t have known anything about all that.’
‘Rosie suspected him.’
‘How could she?’
‘Arthur got to know a nasty little boy inside, thought he might be useful.’
‘Hunter.’ Marty knew, she thought. Or guessed. It was impossible to keep secrets in prison. He’d wanted her to know too.
‘Hunter went to see Frank at the pub and persuaded him it wouldn’t be a good idea to remember the man who’d been looking for Mel. We thought Frank was uncooperative because he didn’t like the police, but it was more than that. Rosie got an accurate description out of him.’