Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

Today two young women sat near the window. The tide was in, right up to the concrete walkway, and it felt like being in a boat. The women had children with them – a toddler apiece in pushchairs and a baby in a sling. Maura was going gooey-eyed over the baby, talking about the benefits of terry nappies and breast milk. The women agreed about the breast milk at least. They all seemed very smug.

Perhaps that was Mel’s problem, Rosie thought facetiously. She probably wasn’t breastfed.

She interrupted the baby talk and ordered a sandwich – mozzarella, tomatoes and basil on ciabatta.

‘Has Mel been in?’

Maura shook her head. ‘Not today.’

‘Yesterday?’ In the evenings the place had a licence. It sold veggie meals and organic wine in candlelight. So you couldn’t see what you were getting. Often there was live music.

‘Yes. Last night. First time in ages. She stopped for one beer and then she left.’

The Rainbow’s End only had a table licence but that had never bothered Mel.

‘Was anyone with her?’

Maura shook her head again. The beads and the braids swung and clacked. ‘I felt a bit mean actually.’ She had a surprisingly classy voice, very deep and well modulated. ‘She wanted to talk. But we were busy. We’d hired a student band and they’d brought all their friends. You know what it’s like.’

Rosie didn’t really. She didn’t go there in the evening. She thought the people and the music a bit pretentious. She liked something you could dance to.

‘How did she seem?’

‘Not brilliant. A bit jumpy. Sort of desperate actually. I let her have the drink and told her to wait. Adam was on his break. I thought when he came back I’d take her out for a walk, calm her down a bit. But when I looked again she’d gone. She didn’t even bother to say goodbye.’

When Rosie had finished the sandwich there didn’t seem much point in staying and she couldn’t think of anywhere else to look. She went home and snoozed on the sofa in front of a black and white movie. She didn’t want to talk to her mother – she couldn’t face the fuss of explanation – so she wrote her a note and at five o’clock she went round to Joe’s. Joe’s sister Grace let her in. She was a gawky thirteen-year-old with pointed elbows like the legs of a tree frog and a mouth full of metal brace. Grace yelled up the stairs. There was no answer. She shrugged.

‘He’s in. You’d better go up.’

Joe’s room was in the attic. It had a sloping roof with a big velux window and even more crap on the floor than Rosie’s. Divine Comedy was rolling away in the background.

‘I was just going out,’ he said, guilty because he’d been sleeping all day while Mel was missing.

‘I’ve been everywhere I can think of.’ She sat on the bed.

‘Anything?’

‘She went to the Rainbow’s End after the Prom. Maura said she was a bit jumpy, but nothing new there… It was a student gig. Maybe she met someone…’

There was a pause.

‘The police think she might have been kidnapped.’ He couldn’t keep a shiver of excitement from his voice. He was still worried but kidnapping was something out of the movies, glamorous even.

Rosie frowned. ‘The Gillespies went to the police?’

‘Eleanor did. I think she cracked. Richard didn’t sound very happy. I phoned just now and I could hear him in the background. He says everyone’s overreacting.’

So do I, Rosie thought. I think she picked up a bloke at the Rainbow’s End out of boredom or desperation or devilment. She’s hiding out in a hall of residence or a grotty bedsit, waiting for the maximum fuss before making her appearance. Rosie wouldn’t have told Joe but it wouldn’t be the first time Mel had gone home with someone she’d met on one of her walkabouts.

‘Why do they think she was kidnapped?’

‘Apparently it’s not much more than a theory. Eleanor and Richard are high-profile parents. And there was a case a couple of months ago. The kidnappers got away with a half a million. Since then there has been a spate of copycat attempts. Mostly amateurs, the police say. Mostly easy to deal with.’ He paused and sat beside her on the bed. His feet were bare. She could see every bone and joint under the skin. ‘Do you remember Frank saying someone was in the Prom looking for her? An older bloke.’

‘Yes. Do the police think he might have been the kidnapper?’

‘I told Eleanor anyway. It’s up to them. She thought they might want to talk to us sometime.’

‘Me too?’

‘Why not? You know her as well as anyone. You’re best mates.’

Suddenly she felt sick with guilt. She remembered the good times. The girlie sleepovers with bottles of wine and soppy videos, the gossip about lads, mega shopping sessions in the city. She imagined Mel being held somewhere and what they might be doing to her. And she’d been thinking it was all some attention-seeking stunt.

‘Let’s go and look,’ she said. ‘Just in case. I can’t sit here doing nothing.’

They spent the evening in the city, tramping through all the pubs, even those Mel had never set foot in so far as they knew. They asked in the arcade and the pizza places and the roller-skating rink. No one had seen her. They ended up with Maura in the Rainbow’s End, shouting their questions over a flamenco guitar. Had there been an older guy in the night before? Anyone taking a special interest in Mel? Maura tried to answer their questions but in the end she got fed up with them and sent them home.

Joe walked Rosie all the way to her door. On the step he held on to her in a desperate bear hug. She pushed him away in the end, feeling confused and guilty. As guilty as if she’d played some part in Mel’s disappearance.

Hannah had been expecting Arthur to be waiting for her at the prison but she went through the gate to the library without seeing him. It was halfway through the morning when he bounced in.

‘Can you spare a minute?’

She turned to Marty. ‘Are you OK on your own? Dave’s in the office.’

Marty rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Is that supposed to be reassuring?’

‘Well…’

‘Go on. I’ll be fine.’

They sat in Arthur’s office drinking coffee. He was a different man: the super-cool Scouser had gone; he was bubbling, the words falling over themselves. She regretted her impulse of the night before to involve him. She could tell there would be no stopping him now.

‘I’ve been to the Central Library, tracked down the back copies of the local rag. It’s great that they’ve still got them.’

‘Aren’t they all on microfilm?’ She wanted to slow him down, rein back some of the enthusiasm. Stop, she wanted to say. You don’t know what you’re getting into.

‘Mm?’ The interruption only checked him for a moment. ‘It’s amazing what you can find in the births, marriages and deaths columns.’

‘You haven’t wasted any time.’

‘I started with Maria’s death. The notice said she died after “a brave struggle with illness”. Cancer isn’t mentioned but that’s the implication.’

‘That would fit in with Michael’s memories.’

‘Then I went back a few years and found the report of her marriage. A front-page spread. Obviously a big do. The wedding of the season. Crispin Randle seems to have been a member of the local gentry. He owned land not far from here. He was an MP. Tory of course. Master of the Hunt. You know the sort of bloke. He married Maria Grey in 1952. Two years later Theo’s birth was announced. He was named Theo Michael, so I don’t think there’s any doubt we’re on the right track.’

She nodded, felt irrationally pleased that she could continue to think of her ghost as Michael.