Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘Yes.’ She sounded abrupt and ungrateful – Rosie on a bad day. She’d found it easier to talk to Marty. Arthur was a professional. The reassuring voice, the laid-back manner, these were techniques he’d perfected. He listened to people’s confidences for a living. She felt resentful. She didn’t want to be one of his clients. Anyway, wouldn’t he resent her spilling out all her fears in his lunch break? It was like asking a mechanic to check your brakes in his dinner hour. Still, she couldn’t stop now and she stumbled on. ‘Did you hear on the news that a body was found in the lake?’

‘Exposed after the drought. Yes.’

‘I knew him. When I was at school he was my boyfriend.’

There was a minute of silence. It was obviously the last thing he’d been expecting. ‘I’m so sorry.’ The response seemed genuine. But so, she supposed, would his Monday-to-Friday compassion with the inmates.

‘The police think he was murdered.’

‘Can they tell after all this time?’

‘There’s evidence of a knife wound. Apparently.’

‘You went to the hills to escape all the crime and punishment thing here, then you ended up with that.’

‘I know.’ She forced out a laugh. ‘As Rosie says, it’s shitty.’

‘How is Rosie? Is she giving you grief?’

‘No. She’s being a sweetie.’

There was a slightly awkward pause. ‘She seems a nice kid. Protective.’

‘She is. Usually. I’m sorry she was so prickly when you met the other night.’

He shrugged. ‘Understandable, isn’t it?’

A middle-aged waitress approached with the food. She had flat feet and they could hear her as soon as she left the bar. Arthur waited for her to put down the plates and retreat.

‘Just because it happened thirty years ago doesn’t mean you won’t go through the normal stages of bereavement. You’re bound to feel anger, guilt, all the usual junk.’

Of course he was right. Hannah supposed she should be grateful. No one else had given her the right to mourn. But it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. It wasn’t any of his business. She didn’t need a psychologist.

‘It was all a long time ago,’ she said briskly.

‘But you’ll have memories. Intense at that age.’

‘No danger of forgetting,’ she said. ‘The police are coming tonight to interview me.’

‘Whatever for?’

She was about to make a flippant remark. Something like – Perhaps they think I killed him. But that was too close to the truth. That was what really frightened her. She didn’t want to tempt fate by saying it, even as a joke.

‘After all this time they can’t find out much about him. They haven’t even traced his family. They think I can help.’

‘Ah.’ That satisfied him. He hesitated. ‘Would you like me to be there with you? Not to interfere. Just for support.’

It was tempting. If she hadn’t dismissed his earlier kindness she would probably have accepted. But she’d decided the body in the lake was none of his business. She couldn’t have it both ways.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Really. It’s just a few questions.’

She looked at her watch. It was time to go back inside.

When Hannah got in from work Rosie was in the kitchen and there was a smell of cooking. A wooden spoon hung over the edge of the bench and dripped tomato sauce on to the floor. Pans were piled on the draining board. Hannah moved the spoon. ‘This is a surprise.’ A nice surprise. Since the end of exams, Rosie had seldom been there to share a meal with her.

‘I’m supposed to be at work at seven but if you want me to stay while the police are here I can phone in sick.’

‘Don’t be silly. You can’t do that.’

Usually they ate in the kitchen but Rosie had laid the table in the dining-room with the white linen cloth Hannah saved for Christmas and special events. It was a monster to iron but she didn’t suggest changing it. Rosie proudly carried dishes from the kitchen – a tomato and aubergine casserole with a yoghurt topping, a green salad. She’d bought a bottle of wine.

‘You should cook more often,’ Hannah said.

Rosie smiled.

Afterwards there was the usual scrabble for uniform and she ran off to work. Hannah watched her through the window. Rosie wore a thin hooded jacket which hardly kept out the rain and every so often she looked at her watch and put on a spurt of speed. She ran like a toddler, legs flailing out from the knees. Then she disappeared round a corner and the house seemed very quiet. Hannah was finishing the washing-up when the doorbell rang. There was wine left in her glass and she drank it guiltily before going to the door. Porteous and Stout stood outside. They wore almost identical waterproof jackets. The sight of them – one tall and lanky, one short and squat – reminded her of a music-hall double act.

‘Come in.’ She had made sure the living-room was tidy before starting on the dishes. The gloom outside had made it seem almost dark and she turned on a table lamp.

‘On your own?’ asked Stout. He took off his jacket and waited for Hannah to take it.

‘There’s only my daughter and I. She’s at work.’ Usually she hated that explanation, but tonight it made her rather proud.

She offered them tea and was surprised when they accepted. She thought it wasn’t a good sign. They expected to be here for a long time. On the way to the kitchen she hung the coats in the cupboard under the stairs. Stout’s smelled of tobacco and reminded her of the night in The Old Rectory when she’d learned that Michael had been stabbed.

When she returned from the kitchen with a tray the men were perched side by side on the sofa. They sat with their cups and saucers on their knees, looking all prim. Hannah thought they could have been a committee of volunteers, perhaps organizing a charity jumble sale. She had sat on many such committees. It would have been more appropriate for them to interview her in the prison. That was the natural home for what Arthur had called the ‘crime and punishment thing’.

‘I’m afraid we’re no further forward,’ Stout said. ‘We checked out your idea that Michael might have been in trouble when he was young. I know you thought he might have done time in Yorkshire. But no joy. There is a youth-custody institution near Leeds…’

‘Holmedale,’ she said.

‘Holmedale, yes. It was a borstal in those days. But no one called Michael Grey was there in the years in question.’

‘I thought you said he must have changed his name.’

‘We’ve tracked down a couple of staff. There’s an officer who’s since retired and a senior probation officer who was a young welfare officer there at the time. No one recognizes the lad you describe.’

‘It was a long time ago and they’d have worked with a lot of boys.’ She wondered what made her push it. Marty hadn’t known Michael either. Why was she so sure he’d been inside?

‘Not many posh ones,’ Stout said. ‘Not many who go on to take A levels.’

‘We’ve been looking at boarding schools in Yorkshire too.’ Porteous gave a polite little smile as if to say – You see, we did listen to you, we did take your ideas seriously. ‘Just in case Michael was telling the truth when he said he’d gone to school there. We started with boarding schools. If his father were a diplomat as you thought, that would be his most likely education. Don’t you agree? We’ve been asking for a list of boys with the same date of birth as Michael gave to the dentist. We’ve tracked down every individual. They’re all accounted for. No one’s gone missing. Of course, it’s an incomplete picture. Places close, records are destroyed. The team is working through the state schools now.’