Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

Porteous was late and when he did arrive he was looking crumpled and breathless. She was thrown because he was on his own. She felt she should ask after Stout. It was as if a husband had turned up at a dinner party without his wife.

‘Oh,’ Porteous said. ‘We’re very busy…’ She had the impression that he’d been rushing around all day.

‘You don’t mind if my friend joins us. He’s responsible for most of the information.’

‘No,’ Porteous said. ‘Of course.’ Though he seemed surprised. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t the sort to have friends.

They sat in the lounge where he had interviewed her on the evening of the school reunion.

‘I remembered something. Michael once mentioned the cemetery on the coast…’

Porteous’s head shot up. He’d been taking notes. It seemed an overreaction.

‘Which cemetery, Mrs Morton?’ The voice as bland and polite as always.

‘Near the lighthouse. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve heard of it certainly.’

‘I looked at the graves, narrowed down the possibilities. I think I’ve found Michael’s mother. She was called Maria Randle. If we’re right, Michael’s first name was Theo.’

Arthur took him through the dates and the family history. Eagerly. A magician pulling each new bit of information from his hat. ‘Theo’s father, Crispin, remarried his secretary Stella. They had a daughter. She died in a fire in the family home. Since then there’s been no mention of the boy.’

Porteous wrote meticulous notes, but Arthur seemed upset by his lack of reaction. He must have been expecting gratitude, to be welcomed with open arms into the investigation.

‘You don’t seem surprised,’ he said. ‘Had you worked all that out for yourself then?’

‘No, Mr Lee, you’ve been very helpful.’ Still polite but dismissive. Porteous turned his attention back to Hannah. ‘When did you say you were at the cemetery?’

‘Yesterday evening.’ She added in a rush, ‘I did try to phone you then.’

‘Did you?’

‘There’s something else. I’ve remembered the party after the school play.’

‘Ah,’ Porteous said. ‘Michael and the young Lady Macbeth. Yes. Mr Johnson told us about that.’

‘Yes. And the next morning Michael phoned me. He sounded anxious, scared even.’

‘Tell me, Mrs Morton, why are you telling me this now? It’s not something you’d have forgotten. Seeing your boyfriend with another girl. Not when you remembered other details so clearly.’

She was saved from the need to answer because her mobile phone rang. It was Rosie.

‘Mum. Something terrible’s happened.’

She was almost screaming and Arthur and Porteous couldn’t help overhearing. They both stared out of the window but Hannah could tell they were listening.

‘What is it?’ Her first thought was Jonathan. A car accident. He drove like a maniac.

Rosie was panting, trying to steady her voice so she could speak.

‘It’s Mel,’ Rosie said. ‘She’s dead. Someone found her body today on one of the footpaths by the cemetery. She was stabbed.’

Hannah’s first thought was, Thank God it’s not Rosie. Then she pictured her daughter frightened and alone in the house.

‘We’re coming,’ she said. ‘Leaving straight away.’

She clicked off the phone and stood up. Porteous was already on his feet, blocking the door. ‘Do you know Melanie Gillespie, Mrs Morton?’

‘Not well. She was my daughter’s best friend.’

‘Why?’ Arthur asked.

Porteous looked down at him as if he were considering whether or not to answer. ‘I’m running the investigation into her murder.’

‘A bit far from your patch, isn’t it?’

Hannah knew what Arthur was up to. Being deliberately provocative in the hope of prising more information from the detective.

Porteous hesitated then chose his words carefully. ‘We have reason to believe that the deaths of Michael Grey and Melanie Gillespie are connected. Go back to your daughter, Mrs Morton. Of course she’s upset. I’ll be in touch shortly when I’ve checked the information you’ve given me.’ He paused. ‘You’ve nothing more to tell me now? About your visit to the cemetery?’

‘No!’ She understood for the first time how Audrey had felt, when she’d crumpled in a heap on the floor.

‘There will be more questions. Of course you understand that.’ He turned and let himself out.

Peter Porteous stood in front of them looking more than ever like a teacher at a second-rate college for further education. He’d set up a flip chart and there was an overhead projector to show slides of the victims and crime scenes.

‘If Carver hadn’t done the Gillespie post-mortem we’d probably never have made the link,’ he said. ‘But the Michael Grey inquiry was still fresh in his mind. He’s convinced the same knife was used in both murders. If not the same, so similar that it’s still significant. Not an ordinary kitchen knife. A dagger. Short bladed but wide. Very sharp.’

He flicked through half a dozen slides – grey flesh, Carver’s hands holding steel instruments, wounds which looked now very tidy and clean – then he paused. It was hot again. He’d taken off his jacket, loosened his tie just a touch.

‘So, let’s look at the victims.’ He turned a page of the flip chart. Stuck to the next page was the old photograph of Michael Grey playing Macbeth. Porteous stretched and wrote in felt-tip at the top: Theo Randle. He had no problem accepting the new name of the boy. He had more important things to worry about. He flipped the page again and scrawled a rudimentary family tree. The felt-tip squealed on rough paper.

‘Maria died when Theo was very young. Crispin remarried and had a second child, Emily. She was killed in a house fire when she was still a baby. Two tragedies. Perhaps that explains the family breakdown and the fostering.’

A young DC at the back stuck up a hand.

‘Yes?’

‘How did we get a positive ID on the boy in the end, sir?’

Porteous thought the man already knew the answer and intended to rub salt into the wounds. He was a cocky little sod. And it did come hard to admit that an enthusiastic amateur had got there before him. But he kept his voice friendly.

‘With the help of a member of the public. A psychologist who works for the Home Office. He had information we didn’t have access to, but I’ll come to that later.

‘Let’s turn now to what we know about Theo Randle. Quite a lot, considering how much time has elapsed. He was bright, well educated, personable. He seems to have come from a wealthy family. Just before he died he had a row with his girlfriend because she caught him making love to someone else. He was a talented actor and was starring in a production of Macbeth in the week before he disappeared. One of his props was a dagger. According to witnesses it was very sharp. I’d like to trace it. The school is doing its best but I don’t hold out much hope… He was lodging with a couple called Sylvia and Stephen Brice. Everyone says they were very fond of him. There was no question of ill treatment or abuse and I think we can rule them out. They’re dead now, but perhaps we can trace friends who knew Theo, knew how he came to be living there. None of this might be relevant, but I want to know.’

He turned to the next page on the chart. This was covered with a montage of photographs of Melanie Gillespie. Before she’d dyed her hair red she’d been blonde. In the centre there was a picture of her, blown up. She was half turned, caught unexpectedly. She had a wide mouth, high cheekbones and she was supermodel thin.