Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

Michael’s mother was buried in the grave next to Frances Lumley’s and, despite her care, Hannah nearly missed it. In comparison to Frances’s headstone the white marble was clean; the engraving looked as if it had been chiselled the day before. And there were fresh flowers in a brass pot which gleamed in the last of the sunlight. At first she thought this was a new grave, slotted in amongst the others to fill a space. It was only when she read the date that she saw the occupant had been buried the year after Frances. She had died on 19 February.

So there were relatives who lived near enough to tend the grave. She hadn’t expected that. She still thought of Michael as he had been then. Quite alone. With only her and the Brices to care for him.

She read aloud. ‘Maria Jane Randle née Grey. Daughter of Anthony and Hester. Beloved wife of Crispin and mother of Theo.’ The facts were as bold as the carving. There was no comforting verse or religious text.

She knew her search was over. If she had opened the shoebox in Michael’s bedroom on that day after school she would have found a birth certificate, and probably a passport too, in the name of Theo Randle. She couldn’t guess where Michael – because that was how she would continue to think of him – had filched his first name. The family name he’d taken from his mother’s parents. All the same she continued her walk past the last two lines of graves. She had to be sure and she hated a job half done. There were no other women of the right age buried in the place. She returned to Maria’s grave and though she could remember them by heart she jotted down the details of her death and her birth, copying the engraving word for word. The sun had almost gone and she was starting to feel cold.

Hannah hadn’t managed to eat anything after her interview with the detectives the night before, and after her walk along the sea front she was starving. In the town she queued up with the trippers to buy fish and chips and sat on a bench looking over the sea to eat them. She finished everything, even the thick pieces of batter she usually left behind, and licked her fingers. She had to pass the Prom on her way home and looked through the open door, thinking that Rosie’s urgent appointment might involve a drink with her friends. But there was no sign of her or of anyone else Hannah recognized.

She had intended phoning Porteous as soon as she got home, had been gearing herself up to it all the way home. But when she got in the answerphone was blinking and there was a message from Arthur. ‘Hi, I was hoping to see you today. How did you get on last night?’ The taped voice had a stronger Liverpudlian accent than she remembered, was even more mellow and laid back. He’d left his home number and she dialled it quickly before she thought too much about it. He answered after a couple of rings. ‘Hi,’ again, as one of the kids would. Her mother, who’d been very strong on telephone etiquette, would have had a fit.

‘Arthur. It’s me. Hannah. Are you doing anything?’

‘Nah, a couple of reports. Nothing interesting. Nothing urgent. And have you seen what’s on the telly?’

‘Would you come over? I could do with your advice.’ She felt breathless. She thought he must be able to tell from her voice how nervous she was.

‘Do you want to go for a drink?’

‘Not a drink, no.’ The idea of alcohol turned her stomach. Even the fish and chips seemed a mistake. ‘Would you mind coming to the house?’

She gave him directions then sat and waited, thinking she’d made a fool of herself. Melodrama wasn’t her style. It didn’t suit her. He’d think, as Jonathan had done, that she was menopausal and hysterical. Or he’d get the wrong idea entirely and see her as one of those pathetic women, recently dumped, who’d do anything for the company of a man.

He arrived sooner than she’d expected. It hadn’t given her time to work out what to say so she opened the door and stood awkward and tongue-tied in the hall.

‘Are you OK?’ He’d come out so quickly that he was still wearing carpet slippers – battered suede moccasins. Jonathan would never wear slippers. He said they were old men’s garments, like pyjamas.

She began an explanation for calling him, but stumbled over the words. He put his arm around her.

‘Hey. What is it?’

She pushed him away gently. ‘Look, I’m really sorry to have dragged you out.’

‘Just tell me what’s going on here.’

So she sat him on the sofa where the night before Porteous and Stout had played their double act and she told him about it – about Michael Grey whose real name was Theo Randle, about the detectives who thought she was a murderer, about her discovery of Maria Randle’s grave in the cemetery. He listened. He didn’t move or give any of the usual verbal encouragements to prove he was listening, but she could tell she had his full attention.

‘Can you be sure,’ he asked, ‘that Theo’s the same person as Michael?’

‘There’s no other explanation. Maria’s the only person buried in the cemetery who could be his mother. His memory of the funeral was so clear and precise that I’m sure he was telling the truth. And it can’t be a coincidence that he chose Maria’s maiden name as his surname.’

‘Of course, you’ll have to tell the police.’

‘I know. But what will they think? I could have told them at the first interview that Michael’s mother was buried there.’

‘They’ll think you were in shock, intimidated. I don’t suppose they’re stupid. They know how law-abiding people can react to police questioning.’ He stretched his legs. He was wearing paint-stained sweat pants. He’d bought a cottage near the prison and seemed to have been decorating for months. ‘Do you want to phone now, while I’m here? Then I can stay if they want to come to talk to you.’

‘Yes.’ Again she knew she was being pathetic but she couldn’t help it. ‘Are you sure that’s all right?’

The phone was answered by a young woman who said that Porteous was no longer in the office. She was polite but distant. Any secretary talking about any middle manager. Was it urgent? She could find someone else to speak to Hannah. Otherwise, if Hannah wanted to leave a message she could be put through to his voicemail.

‘Yes.’ It was some sort of reprieve. ‘I’ll do that.’

She listened for the beep. ‘Hello. This is Hannah Morton. I’ve remembered something which might be useful for you. Perhaps you could get in touch.’ She replaced the receiver. Arthur pulled a face of mock disappointment.

‘Bugger. So I miss out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was hoping for the chance to play detective.’

‘You can’t be serious?’

He put out his hands, palms up, a gesture of being caught in the act. ‘OK I admit it. I love crime fiction. I’m a sucker for all those crappy cop shows on TV.’

‘This is hardly the same!’

‘I know.’ He paused, continued slowly, a dream confided. ‘I’ve always thought I’d make a good psychological profiler. At least in my work I meet real criminals and I’m not sure how many academics could say the same.’

‘You’re welcome to be here when the police talk to me.’

‘Right.’ He paused. ‘What about making a few enquiries on our own? While we’re waiting for the police to get in touch?’

‘This isn’t a game, Arthur. Not for me.’

‘I know.’

But she couldn’t bear to disappoint him. It was like when Rosie really wanted something. She always gave in. She thought, Being a mother is like trying to please the world.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘We might find something which would divert attention away from you…’

‘That’s an excuse.’