Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘Don’t you want to know,’ Joe demanded, ‘about the guy that came in here looking for her?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’ll get back behind the bar,’ Rosie said. ‘Then Frank can come and talk to you.’ She walked away from them. Joe watched her wistfully, unsure whether or not he should follow.

Porteus could tell immediately that Frank wouldn’t be any help. There’d been a brief discussion with Rosie behind the bar. He’d been reluctant to let her take over. Now he did approach them his face was greasy with sweat.

‘Look.’ He held out his hands, palms outward, a gesture to distance himself from the policemen and their questions. ‘I can’t remember anything. Honest. I wish I could. It was really busy. A guy came in asking about Mel. I didn’t tell him anything and he left. That’s all.’

‘Middle-aged, you said. Respectable.’

‘A ye.’

‘Not elderly then? Not an old man?’

‘Compared to these kids they all look old, don’t they?’

Stout had got hold of a recent photograph of Alec Reeves. He’d been in the paper in his home town handing over Duke of Edinburgh awards to a bunch of school children. He looked younger than his years. It must have been all that walking in the hills. He stood, fit and tanned, in the centre of the frame smiling shyly. It was hard to think of him as a monster.

‘Could that be him?’

‘Do you know how many faces I see in here?’

Porteus could feel Eddie beside him, winding himself up for a row.

‘Please concentrate,’ he said quietly.

‘All right. Aye. It could have been him. But I wouldn’t swear to it. Certainly not in court.’

At the police station in Cranford, Claire Wright was waiting for them. ‘I’ve traced Elizabeth Milburn, the woman who was Emily Randle’s nanny. She’s head teacher now of a nursery school in the city but she lives out this way. She’ll be in this evening after eight if you want to get in touch.’

‘Any news on Reeves?’ Eddie demanded.

‘Nothing. He’s not visited his sister and he’s not gone home.’ She was sitting at her desk and didn’t look up from her computer screen. Eddie walked away. He knocked an empty Coke can off the desk and didn’t bother picking it up. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘Reeves,’ Porteus said. ‘Eddie’s convinced he killed a disabled lad before Theo Randle, and he likes him for these two. If there are only two.’

‘Looks that way at the moment. We’ve pulled up all the serious-crime reports that might be relevant. I can’t see anything which fits into a pattern with Randle and Gillespie. Not yet.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Members of the public have been ringing in all day, claiming they saw Melanie on the evening she died. It’s taken time to sort through. We’re following up anything that looks promising this evening. OK?’

‘Sure.’

He went to his office to start tracking down Ray Scully. Scully’s mother still lived at the address given to him by Eleanor Gillespie and she answered the phone on the first ring, shouting a little so he realized she was hard of hearing.

‘Yes? Who is it?’

He explained, repeating the questions louder when she didn’t seem to understand.

‘Ray isn’t here.’

‘I know that Mrs Scully. Where is he? We want to talk to him.’

‘What about?’

It was obvious that she didn’t read the newspapers and the Gillespies hadn’t bothered telling her. He didn’t want to break the news of her granddaughter’s death over the phone.

‘He’s not in any trouble, Mrs Scully.’

‘Are you sure?’ The deafness made her sound truculent.

‘Absolutely.’ Crossing his fingers, wondering if this was true.

There was a long pause.

‘Mrs Scully?’

She made up her mind suddenly. ‘He’s in Cromer. Norfolk. Summer season in the theatre at the end of the pier. Playing in the band for the musical turns.’

‘Has he got a telephone there?’

Suspicion returned. ‘No. He phones me. Once a week. Regular as clockwork.’

‘Can you ask him to contact me? Tell him it’s about Mel.’

He repeated the question to check that she’d understood, but she’d already gone. He left a similar message with the theatre manager.

It was six o’clock. Too early to visit Lizzie Milburn, so he could make a start on finding out everything there was to know about Frank Garrity, the manager of the Prom. A treat to himself after a dispiriting day. There was nothing he liked better than a dig through the files and records. He found what he was after quickly, made himself a celebratory mug of coffee and went to look for Eddie. He was at his desk, engaged in an earnest discussion with Charlie Luke, who was holed up in the bungalow opposite Sarah Jackson’s.

‘Nobody’s been there all day except a bloke selling dodgy dusters.’

‘I know why Frank was so reluctant to talk to us,’ Porteous said.

‘Why?’

‘He was charged with rape twenty years ago. It never came to court. The girl changed her story. But he was held on remand for a few days. It must have made an impression.’

‘Could he have killed Melanie? No one else saw the bloke who asked for her. He could have made it up to muddy the waters.’

‘He could. But he’d have still been in primary school when Theo Randle was killed.’

‘Could Carver be wrong about the links between the deaths?’

Could he? Porteous thought about it. It wouldn’t be the first time a team had wasted weeks following up connections which didn’t really exist.

‘I don’t think so. I don’t like the man, but he’s a good pathologist. And he’s put his reputation on the line.’ Another thought occurred to him. ‘Has his completed report been sent over yet?’

‘I’ve not seen it.’ As if he didn’t really care. As if all he cared about was nailing Reeves.

‘I want you to talk to the Spences and Chris Johnson tomorrow,’ Peter said.

‘Why?’ As truculent as Mrs Scully.

‘Back to basics, I suppose. They were at the party where Theo was last seen alive. Ask them about Reeves. Did they know him at the time? Show them a photo. Both photos. Did anyone see Reeves and Theo together? Has he been knocking around recently?’

‘Yes,’ Eddie said slowly. ‘I could do that.’

Then he was on the phone again, asking for an update from Charlie Luke.

Lizzie Milburn was in her fifties, but rather glamorous in an efficient, power-dressed sort of way. Certainly more glamorous than he’d expected someone who spent her days with three- and four-year-olds to be. But it seemed she ran the Early Years Centre on a big council estate on the edge of the city and spent little time these days with paint and sand. Porteous arrived at her home before her. She had a flat in what had once been a large country house. When there was no reply he was about to walk back to his car to wait, but she drove up, very quickly, and pulled to a stop beside him, scattering gravel. She was in a convertible Golf and the roof was down. She slid one slim leg out and stood up to greet him. She smelled expensive. Her skirt was short. Her shoes were dusty.

‘You wouldn’t believe the mess on the estate,’ she said. ‘It’s like a dust bowl. They’re knocking down most of the flats and putting up houses. A good thing. No one wanted to live in those high rises. But they seem to be taking for ever. And it’s worse in the winter. You need wellingtons to get from your car.’ She didn’t expect any response and went on, ‘Sorry I’m late. Parents evening. In a place like ours it’s hard to get the parents there and we don’t feel we can chase them away.’

At the door she slipped off her shoes. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but I really must have a very large G and T. I don’t suppose you…?’