Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘Oh yes. Hi!’ She’d never met Mel’s father. She’d seen him on the telly, but whenever she was at the house he was working. ‘How’s Mel?’

There was a pause. ‘We’ve a bit of a problem here. I wonder if you’d mind coming round.’

‘Is Mel OK?’ Rosie wondered if it was Mel’s voice she could hear in the background. If so, she was almost hysterical.

‘I don’t really care to discuss it on the telephone. Look, if you like I’ll come and pick you up.’

‘I can walk thanks.’

‘As soon as possible then.’

He hung up. She wished she’d put up more of a fight. She thought she knew what it was about. He wanted her to persuade Mel to go into hospital. Mel hated hospital, always had. She’d hinted darkly about past experiences. Rosie imagined scenes from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and wasn’t going to force her into something she didn’t want. Then she thought there must be something seriously wrong with Mel to keep Richard Gillespie away from his microchip empire. She dialled Joe’s number. He might know what was going on. The line was engaged. Was Mr Gillespie enlisting him to do his dirty work too?

Outside, the rain had cleared the air. The sun was shining again but the day didn’t feel so humid or sticky. She paused in front of Joe’s house, considered calling in to find out if he had any news of Mel. But there was a car in the drive. Joe’s mum only worked part-time. Once she’d seen Rosie very drunk and ever since Rosie had sensed the disapproval. She couldn’t face it today. Besides, Richard Gillespie had made it clear he expected her immediately and even over the phone she’d found him intimidating.

She loved Mel’s house. It was three storeys, set back from a quiet road. An old brick herring-bone wall separated it from its neighbours. At the back there were apple trees and blackcurrant bushes. There was nothing flash or showy about it. The Gillespies had money but didn’t feel the need to flaunt it. Even the Volvo parked in the drive was a couple of years old. She thought that showed real style. Jonathan insisted on a new car every year.

Despite all that, Rosie wasn’t sure she’d want Richard and Eleanor Gillespie as parents. Perhaps it was because style mattered to them too much. Image at least. Eleanor had made a career out of it. She was head of marketing for the big brewery which owned the Prom. According to Mel she’d been responsible for the huge posters which had recently appeared all over the city, featuring an elephant and a beer bottle and a slogan about gigantic thirst.

Image mattered to Richard too. Rosie had seen him on television talking about his family. The picture he presented was of a close and supportive group. ‘Really, I couldn’t cope without them.’

How did a nervy anorexic fit in with that? Mel said he had ambitions to go into politics. ‘Power. That’s what really turns him on.’ It must have bugged him that he couldn’t turn her into the daughter he wanted.

Richard opened the door to her. She recognized him from the newspaper articles and television reports. He looked younger than Eleanor, hardly old enough to be Mel’s dad. She wondered if he dyed his hair.

‘Hello. You must be Rosie.’ A firm handshake and a smile. Charm on tap. A habit.

He showed her through to the kitchen. It looked over the garden and she thought, as she always did, that you could fit the whole of her house inside it. The style here was farmhouse chic. There was an Aga, a rack of stainless-steel pans hanging from the ceiling, a huge dresser with shelves of glass jars full of beans and pulses. Rosie had never seen either of the parents cook but she imagined them having dinner parties here at the weekends. Of course, the guests would sit at the scrubbed pine kitchen table. Richard would probably do the cooking – Thai perhaps or Mexican. She could imagine him in an apron. Melanie wouldn’t be invited. She couldn’t be trusted around food.

Mel’s mother was sitting in a wicker chair by the Aga. She was wearing leggings and a big sweatshirt – aerobics-class clothes. Rosie knew she belonged to a gym but had never seen her dressed casually before. Without the suit and the make-up she looked like a different woman. She sat with her feet on the edge of the chair, her knees near her chin, her arms clasped around her legs in a sort of foetal coma.

‘Where’s Mel?’ Rosie demanded, thinking from Eleanor’s desolation that an ambulance had already come to cart her away.

Eleanor came to life, shifted position, put her feet on the floor. The wicker creaked. ‘She didn’t come home last night.’

‘I thought she might be at your house,’ Richard said. ‘But obviously not.’

‘Have you tried Joe’s?’ Rosie wasn’t quite sure why they were so worried. Not after one night. They weren’t usually like Hannah, who panicked if Rosie was half an hour late.

‘She’s not with him either. But I’ve asked him to come round. Between us we should be able to work out where she is.’

Rosie sat on one of the reclaimed pine chairs. ‘Is there any chance of a coffee? I came straight out.’ Usually she wouldn’t have had the cheek to ask, but they needed her help, didn’t they?

‘Of course.’ Richard filled the filter machine.

‘Where did she go when she left you last night?’ Eleanor demanded.

‘I didn’t see Mel last night. I haven’t seen her for days. You said she was too ill.’

‘Last night she insisted on going out. She said she was going to the Promenade. It was only down the road, so we thought…’ her voice tailed off. ‘Anyway, we couldn’t stop her.’

That explained some of their anxiety. Mel had left in a strop after a fight. They’d be feeling guilty too.

‘What time did she leave home?’

‘Late,’ Richard said. ‘She told us she’d just go in for last orders. She knew you’d be working. We thought she’d be all right with you.’

Christ, Rosie thought. As if it’s my fault.

He went on. ‘It was probably about quarter-past ten. We went to bed soon after, assumed she’d go back to your house or Joe’s and let herself in late. It was only this morning when Eleanor got back from the gym that she realized Mel’s bed hadn’t been slept in.’ And had an attack of anxiety and guilt and summoned Richard back from work.

‘I’d already left the pub at ten,’ Rosie said. ‘Frank let me go early.’

‘Were any of her other friends in the pub?’

Rosie thought, shook her head. Monday was usually quiet; people spent all their money at the weekend. ‘Have you spoken to Frank?’

‘Frank?’

‘The manager. To check that she arrived there.’

‘Not yet. We didn’t want to make a lot of fuss until we were sure it was justified.’

‘Do you want me to phone him? He needn’t know she’s missing.’

‘Yes,’ Richard said. ‘That’d be helpful.’ Another flash of the smile.

Rosie would have preferred not to have an audience, but they obviously expected her to use the phone in the kitchen. She looked at her watch. Ten o’clock. Frank should be up by now. He answered quickly. ‘The Promenade. Frank speaking. How may I help you?’ Very brisk and efficient. He must have been expecting a call from his boss at headquarters.

‘Hi. It’s me. Rosie.’

‘Hey, lass. I hope you’re in a better mood than you were last night.’

‘Did Mel come in after I left?’

‘Aye but only to poke her head round the door to ask where you were. I’d have bought her a drink if she’d hung around. She looked like she could do with one.’

‘Do you know where she went after?’

‘No idea, pet.’

Rosie replaced the receiver. ‘Sorry,’ she said. Both Gillespies were staring at her. ‘She was there but only for a couple of minutes.’