Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ Gillespie said. ‘She wouldn’t let our cleaning lady in. Something else to fight over.’

‘You can leave it to us, sir. We’ll come down when we’ve finished.’

Gillespie turned. They waited in silence until they heard his footsteps retreating down the polished wood stairs.

‘Well?’ Porteous asked. ‘What do you think of him?’

‘He’s told us some of it.’ Eddie had already started on the dressing table. He pulled the top drawer right out and began feeling carefully through an octopus of tights. ‘Thrown us a few crumbs – like the fact that he’d paid the dad to go away. But he’s not told us everything. Not by a long chalk. Perhaps it’s not relevant. If he’s having an affair with his secretary, for instance. I don’t suppose that would have anything to do with the murder. But he’s keeping secrets and I don’t like it.’

‘I’m not sure.’ It was unlike Eddie to get so heated. Lack of sleep, Porteous thought. He felt more sympathy for Gillespie. ‘Perhaps he just feels guilty because he sent the father away and screwed up the kid.’

‘No,’ Eddie snorted. ‘His sort don’t do guilt.’

They sorted through the mess but they didn’t find a hiding place. No cache of love letters. No diary, which Porteous had been hoping for. He’d thought an introspective young woman like that would have kept a written record of her thoughts and feelings. No photo of her father, which he’d been looking for too. He’d have liked something to show the manager of the pub.

In the bathroom there was still a dirty towel on the floor. There was a small wall cupboard empty except for a bottle of anti-depressants on a shelf inside. It was dated a month before but it was still full. Had she stopped taking her medication because she thought she could manage without? Or was she saving the pills for a grand suicidal gesture?

Eddie was replacing the final drawer. ‘Nothing. Still, if Gillespie knew there was anything incriminating he’d have had plenty of time to get rid of it. There’s this… for what it’s worth…’

It was the National Record of Achievement from her school. The academic reports were glowing. There was a number of unaccounted absences, but allowance had obviously been made. The teachers had written sympathetic comments about Mel’s courage in the face of her medical difficulties. Eddie snorted again.

‘You don’t think she had serious health problems?’ Porteous asked.

‘Well, it’s not like cancer, is it? Self-induced and self-indulgent. If you ask me she could have done with a bit of healthy neglect.’ He opened the door of one of the wardrobes. Porteous had already been through the clothes checking the pockets. ‘Look at all that stuff. She didn’t get that in C amp;A or New Look. My Ruthie would give her eye-teeth for one of those frocks.’

‘Not a justification for murder though, is it?’ Porteous said quietly. ‘Being spoiled by your parents.’

Stout stopped, horrified, his arm still flung out in a gesture of righteous indignation.

‘You’re right. That was crass. I don’t know what came over me. It was that man. I let him get to me. One of the first rules, isn’t it? Don’t blame the victim.’

‘Have we finished?’ Porteous asked, a bit embarrassed to have had such a dramatic effect.

‘Just a minute.’

Stout straightened the cover on the crumpled bed. It was dark blue with gold stars and moons, too young for the sophisticated young woman they’d come to know, perhaps a relic from childhood. He felt under the pillow and came out with a photograph in a small silver frame.

‘The boyfriend?’ Porteous asked. Then more interested. ‘Or the father?’

‘Neither.’

It was of a small girl, perhaps eighteen months old, with blond curls tied with a ribbon. She had a plump face and dimples.

‘There’s no younger sister, is there?’

Porteous shook his head. He slipped the photograph from the frame. On the back of the print was written ‘Em’. ‘Another coincidence,’ he said. ‘The Randle child who was killed in the fire was called Emily.’

‘The photo’s much more recent than that,’ Stout said. ‘Unless they had Teletubbies thirty years ago. Look at that top she’s wearing.’

‘Perhaps the Gillespies will know.’

‘Aye,’ Stout said. ‘And perhaps they’ll tell. Which is another thing altogether.’

Eleanor Gillespie had joined her husband in his office. Porteous thought perhaps they didn’t want their personal space contaminated by the police. Eleanor wore jeans and a big sweater. She seemed very small inside it. She hardly looked up when they came in. Porteous apologized for the intrusion but couldn’t tell if she was listening.

‘It won’t take long.’

She shrugged. ‘We’ve got all the time in the world.’

‘We need to trace your husband, Mrs Gillespie. Do you have any idea where he is?’

She shook her head.

‘Is there anyone who might know?’

‘His mother, if she’s still alive.’ She gave an address.

Porteous handed the photograph of the baby to her. ‘Could you tell us who this is, please?’

Eleanor looked down listlessly, then seemed to jerk awake. She shot a look at her husband.

‘It’s Emma,’ she said. ‘Emma Leese. Just a little girl Mel used to babysit for. Before she got tied up with exams. I didn’t realize she’d kept a photo.’ She gave a sob. ‘It’s so unfair. If Mel had gone away on holiday when she’d planned she wouldn’t have been here. She’d have been on some beach in Portugal soaking up the sun.’

‘What made her change her mind?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps Joe wasn’t keen. He never seemed very happy about the idea. Perhaps Mel was so low that she just couldn’t face it.’

She turned again to her husband. ‘We should all have gone. As a family.’ An accusation. He turned away and didn’t respond.

Porteous stood to go.

‘Does the name Alec Reeves mean anything to either of you?’

She seemed about to answer but Gillespie stood too and spoke for both of them. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve never heard of him. Have you, Ellie?’

She said nothing and stared dumbly after the men as her husband led them down the stairs.

Eddie said he was starving so they queued at a baker’s for a sandwich and sat on a bench on the sea front like trippers to eat.

‘I wouldn’t give that marriage long.’ Eddie cupped his hand to catch the oozing tuna mayonnaise before it splashed on to his lap.

‘No?’ It wasn’t the first time Porteous had been surprised by Eddie’s cynicism. ‘I thought they were well matched. He seemed supportive. Protective even.’

‘Nah. She blames him already for the lassie’s death. I’d give it six months. She doesn’t trust him. We should get her on her own.’

‘What have you got against him? Besides his money?’

‘That’ll do for the time being. And the fact that he was lying.’

After the glare of the afternoon sun the pub was inviting. Rosie had been right. At this time of day the place was quiet. She was on her own behind the bar, chatting to a thin lad with a pony tail. She realized who they were as soon as they came through the door, and went to the back to call a plump, balding man, before greeting them.

‘Do you want a drink?’ It was an offhand snarl. Porteous thought if she was as ungracious as that to all the customers she was lucky still to have a job.

‘Orange juice.’ He raised his eyebrows to Stout, who nodded. ‘Two.’

She poured the drinks then turned to her boss. ‘Can I have my break now, Frank?’

‘Aye. Take as long as you like. We’re hardly rushed off our feet.’