Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘Please look at the photo carefully, Mrs Randle.’

‘I haven’t seen him since he was a young boy.’

‘All the same.’

He spoke firmly and her resistance went. She sat at the table, took a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of her skirt and studied the photograph.

‘It could be him,’ she said at last. ‘That hair. Yes, I rather think it is.’

‘Do you have any photos of him as a young boy?’

He could tell she was about to say no without thinking about it, then she caught his eye and changed her mind.

‘There was one. He was pageboy at our wedding. Even Crispin didn’t have the heart to get rid of those. Not that they were worth anything…’ She jumped to her feet. He thought she was about to fetch the album, but she poured out the tea and arranged chocolate biscuits on a plate.

‘If I could look at it…’ he prompted.

‘Yes.’ The forced gaiety disappeared quite suddenly. ‘I don’t see why not.’ She left the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. When she returned some time later her eyes were red. He wondered what had made her cry. He hadn’t told her yet that Theo was dead. She hadn’t asked.

She had certainly been happy when she married. She beamed from every shot. The photos were in a red leather album, separated by flimsy sheets of tissue paper. They had been taken in a garden. She hadn’t worn a traditional wedding dress but a short white frock with a lacy white coat over the top. She must have been in her early twenties but had the enthusiastic grin of a school girl. She held a posy of garden flowers and there was a circlet of ox-eye daisies in her hair. Randle stood beside her, proud, rather paternal. His face looked a little flushed and Porteous thought he might have been drinking heavily even then.

‘They were taken at Snowberry,’ she said. ‘That was Crispin’s house. It had been in the family for years. It was foolish of course but I thought I’d grow old there. I imagined it full of grandchildren at Christmas. I was very young. Perhaps I fell in love with Snowberry as much as I did with Crispin.’ She gave a sad little laugh. Her hands had stopped turning the pages of the album.

‘You said there was a photo of Theo,’ Porteous prompted gently.

‘Theo. I did try very hard with Theo. I’d hoped he might dress up for the wedding. I can’t remember now what plans I had…’ She stopped, lost in thought. It seemed to be very important to her to remember what she had wanted the boy to wear. She looked up smiling triumphantly. ‘A sailor suit,’ she said. ‘I think that was it. I’d seen a picture in a magazine… I didn’t have bridesmaids. It wasn’t a big affair. Crispin didn’t want the fuss. He’d done all that the first time round. Anyway Theo wasn’t having any of it. I don’t think he resented my taking his mother’s place. I don’t think it was anything like that. Crispin said not at least, and we always seemed to be good pals. Perhaps it was his age. At the last minute anyway, he refused to wear the costume I’d chosen for him. Had an almighty tantrum.’ She smiled and it seemed to Porteous that she remembered the boy with genuine fondness. ‘Crispin was furious. I said it didn’t matter. Why should it? So Theo came to the wedding in his school clothes. Short grey trousers and a cherry-red tie. Very festive and perfectly appropriate. He was very sweet actually. He came up to me later and said he was sorry for making a fuss. I said I supposed the sailor suit was a bit sissy and he gave me a kiss. First time ever.’

‘Where was Theo at school?’ Porteous asked.

‘A place called Linden House. A little prep school. He went as a day boy. Crispin had been sent away as a boarder as a very young child and he didn’t want that for Theo. Not then.’ There was no hesitation. As she talked, the details of her life at Snowberry seemed to become sharper. She had more confidence in her memory.

‘The photograph…’ Porteous prompted her again.

She turned a page and there it was. A boy of about seven or eight standing on his own, looking into the camera, apparently enjoying the attention and the chance to show off. Instead of a traditional buttonhole he had a daisy pinned to the lapel of his blazer. There was a scab on one of his knees and his socks needed pulling up. He looked as if he’d been eating chocolate sauce.

‘I did want a photo of him,’ Stella said, ‘but I knew he wouldn’t stand being cleaned up first.’

Porteous was looking at the face, at the shock of white hair, the long straight nose. It would take an expert to check both pictures to confirm the identification but he was prepared to bet a year’s salary that Theo Randle had turned into Michael Grey.

‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that Theo’s dead.’

She had been staring at the photograph, apparently lost in memory, and he had to repeat the words to be sure she’d heard. Then she gave a little moan. ‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘Not him too.’

‘We believe he died a long time ago,’ Porteous said. ‘When he was only eighteen.’

‘How?’ Her eyes were bright, feverish. The question demanded an immediate and an honest answer.

‘He was stabbed.’

She seemed almost relieved by the words. ‘Quick then?’

‘Oh yes. He wouldn’t have felt any pain.’

‘That’s good.’ She got up from the table and poured more hot water into the teapot. Then she stood at the sink with her hands over her eyes as if she wanted to pretend Porteous wasn’t there.

‘Mrs Randle,’ he said gently.

She lowered her hands and asked fiercely, ‘Did Crispin know about this?’

‘I don’t see how he could have done.’ Unless, Porteous thought, he was responsible. ‘The body was only discovered last week.’

‘Crispin didn’t tell me everything,’ she said. ‘He kept things from me. He didn’t want me upset. He said it was for my own good. But I never knew what was going on. It’s very confusing, Inspector, to be kept in the dark. Sometimes I thought I was going mad.’

‘Would you like me to phone someone to be with you? A relative perhaps?’

She shook her head.

‘I will have to ask questions,’ Porteous said. ‘About Theo and your husband. Would you like me to come back another time to do that? Perhaps now I should call your doctor. You’ve had a great shock.’ He wasn’t sure he should leave her on her own.

‘No.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘No doctors.’

They sat for a moment in silence, looking at each other.

‘Ask your questions, Inspector. It’ll give me an excuse to talk about it. Talking helps. Isn’t that what the doctors say? That’s what they said after Emily died. It was a lie of course. Nothing helped. Except the pills. Crispin drank and I became a junkie. Not heroin. Nothing like that. Prescription medicine. All quite legal. Nothing for you to worry about. Professionally.’

‘Are you still taking medication now?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I took myself off them when Crispin was very ill. I needed to feel angry. The pills stop you feeling very much at all.’

‘That must have been hard.’

‘The hardest thing ever. At least it stopped me blaming Crispin for his drinking. He’d been through more than me. First Maria. Then Emily. How could I expect him to give it up? When I knew what he was going through. It brought us together at the end.’ She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I did love him, Inspector. People thought I was after him for the money and the house and there was some of that in it. How could you separate them? It was all a part of what he was. But I wasn’t a gold-digger. I loved him. And Theo. I took them on as a package.’ She looked at him across the table, gave him her young woman’s smile. ‘So, Inspector, why don’t you ask your questions?’