Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

Just before closing time the crowd suddenly thinned. The rugby team stumbled away to look for a curry or a late-night bar. The holiday makers returned to their B amp;Bs. In the distance she heard the wail of a police siren. Then Joe came in. Mel wasn’t with him.

Rosie hadn’t seen him since she’d come back from The Old Rectory with her mother. He hadn’t returned her calls and she’d almost given him up. She’d tried to talk to Mel but hadn’t got through to her either. Mrs Gillespie always answered the phone – even during the day, which was a sign that something was wrong. Mrs Gillespie was usually as much of a workaholic as her husband, certainly worked the same sort of hours. At first when Rosie phoned, Mel’s mum had been evasive – Mel wasn’t available and she wasn’t sure when she’d be back. Later she’d come clean.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Rosie. She’s really not very well.’

‘I could come round.’

‘Not just at present. Maybe when she’s a bit better.’

So when Joe turned up at the Prom on his own that night, Rosie wasn’t surprised. She pulled him a pint.

‘On me,’ she said, because she knew he’d have no money, even if he hadn’t been on holiday.

He sat on one of the high stools by the bar.

‘How’s Mel?’ she asked, though if she was honest by now she really didn’t care. He cared though, which is why she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Her mother says she doesn’t want to see me.’ He looked over the glass. ‘I don’t know what to make of that woman. When Mel first introduced us I thought she was OK. Smart. Funny. Mel always made out she was some kind of monster but I didn’t get it. Now I don’t know… I’ve spent the last few days at home waiting for Mel to phone. I’m not even sure if her mother passed on the messages. I had to get out. I need some air. Or space. Whatever…’

‘Why wouldn’t she go to Portugal with you?’

‘I don’t know. She was excited at first. We were all set to go. It must have been something I did.’ He went on in a rush. ‘I do everything wrong. I always say the wrong thing. Perhaps it would be better if we finished. What do you think?’

Yes, she cried silently. But he didn’t want an answer. Not that one at least.

‘She’s so delicate.’ He spoke slowly, struggling for the words, looking to Rosie to help him. ‘So fragile. And I’m clumsy. Perhaps she’d be better off without me.’

Then, for the first time in such stark terms, Rosie saw what she was up against. She understood the competition. She was a size fourteen. Healthy. As strong as an ox. She laughed too loudly and could drink Joe under the table. He didn’t want that. He was a romantic. Mel was frail and needed looking after. Consumption would have been better, but now that was no longer feasible, anorexia came a close second.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

She shook her head. What was the point of speaking?

He drank the beer without thanking her. To be fair that wasn’t like him and she couldn’t use it as an excuse to be mean. She felt like howling but she couldn’t freeze him out. No point throwing a wobbly like Mel. Really she’d always known the score.

‘My mum’s a suspect in a murder inquiry.’

She thought that would grab his attention. It might not have the romantic appeal of anorexia but she thought it deserved some sympathy, some interest. It should take his mind for a moment off Mel’s skinny body, her huge and haunting eyes. And he did look up, suitably curious.

She told him about the corpse in the lake. ‘He was the love of Hannah’s life.’ Keeping her voice cynical, though she had been moved by the tale of first love, at least the bits of it which Hannah had told during the drive home.

Frank was getting rid of the last of the drinkers. As she talked to Joe she was washing glasses, holding them over the machine, then standing them on the draining board to dry.

A taxi stopped outside for three of the other barmaids. Frank asked, ‘Do you want to go in that?’

‘I’ll walk home with you,’ Joe said, so she shook her head.

She undid her tie and her apron, rolled them into a ball and stuffed them in her bag. Frank waited at the door for the women who were catching the taxi. The driver was getting impatient and hit the horn. They scurried out swearing and laughing. He watched for a moment until the car drove off then he shut the door and switched off the main lights. Even with the door shut they could hear the noise outside. The street was full of people moving from one club to another.

‘Fancy a nightcap, you two?’ Frank had never suggested anything like that before. Rosie was glad Joe was there. She thought her boss must be lonely. Word in the pub was that his ex-wife was getting funny about access and he was missing the kids. Rosie didn’t particularly want a drink. It wasn’t that her mum would kick up if she were late. She was always late on a Friday. Sometimes it took over an hour to clear up. Sometimes she went on to a club with her mates. But she was knackered. And she wasn’t too proud to want a bit of time with Joe to herself. Joe seemed to take the invitation as an honour though and brightened up.

‘Yeah. Great.’

Frank didn’t ask what they wanted. He stood by the optic and poured three whiskies. He’d taken off his jacket and as he stood with his hand above his head they could see the flab spill out over his trousers. When he turned round with their drinks he was sweating slightly. He set one of the whiskies in front of Joe.

‘Did that bloke ever catch up with your lass?’

‘Which bloke?’

‘There was a bloke in here a couple of nights back asking after your Melanie.’

Frank kept his voice casual but Rosie could tell he was desperate to know what had been going on. That was probably why he’d invited them to stay. She thought it was really sad, this need he had to know all their business.

‘What sort of bloke?’

‘Middle-aged, respectable. A mate of her dad’s maybe. I didn’t like to say where she lived. He didn’t seem that bothered so I expect he had some other way of catching up with her.’

‘Perhaps she’s into older men.’ Rosie had meant it as a joke, but when she saw Joe’s face she wished she’d kept quiet.

‘Didn’t he leave his name?’ Joe said.

‘No,’ Frank had drunk his whisky and was getting another. ‘I asked but he seemed in a rush. He didn’t even stop for a drink.’

Out on the street Joe took her arm as he often did and steered her through the crowd on the pavement. A middle-aged woman in a see-through leopard-print shirt was throwing up in the gutter. A teenage girl was sobbing on her friend’s shoulder. Joe held Rosie’s hand and pulled her at a run across the road and on to the sea front. She had learned to take no notice of these gestures of affection but she still enjoyed them.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The scenic route.’ He paused. ‘You don’t mind going the long way?’

‘No.’

There was enough light from the street to see the white line of foam fall on to the beach. They walked in silence. She was thinking of her mother, of the body in the lake. If Joe disappeared into thin air, Rosie thought she’d make some effort to find him. She’d hassle his family, contact the rest of his friends. If they couldn’t help she’d go to the police. Yet from what she could gather her mother had done none of these things. Michael Grey had disappeared and she had accepted it without a fuss. That was a very Hannahlike way to behave, but even so it just didn’t make sense. She hadn’t even been to see the couple Michael had been living with. She hadn’t gone to the police. She’d sat her exams as if nothing had happened and then she’d left the area without trying to trace him to say goodbye. And she’d never gone back.