Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘Oh?’

‘Oh aye. I’m to respect Melanie’s confidentiality although she’s dead. The cheek of the man. You’d think he was paying me.’

‘Isn’t that odd? I mean Melanie being treated on the NHS. He must have private health insurance.’

‘I’m the best,’ Collier said, quite seriously. ‘If he’d asked around he’d have been told that. And I don’t do private.’

‘I do know. That you’re the best.’

Collier grinned. ‘And they might have gone private before they came here. They said not, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d tried something else. Herbal remedies. Acupuncture. Hypnosis. Any damn thing to avoid having to face what was going on. You’d be surprised by the number of patients who’ve been fooled by some quack but who’re too embarrassed to admit it.’

‘So,’ Porteous said cautiously. ‘There’s nothing you’re prepared to tell me. You’ve been warned off.’

‘I can’t tell you about the lassie’s illness.’

‘When did you last see her?’

Collier opened a desk diary. The pages were covered in scribbled notes and crossing out. The lack of order made Porteous wince.

‘A week ago. It was a house call.’ He paused, frowned. ‘Oh bugger Gillespie! But just be discreet. He says he’ll sue. He couldn’t, of course, but he could make things awkward. Eleanor, the mother, phoned up in a state. She said Melanie was delusional, in the middle of some sort of crisis. She needed to be in hospital. I offered to send in a community nurse but that wouldn’t do. By the time I could get there Gillespie had turned up. He said the same as his wife but more forcefully. I had to treat the girl as an inpatient.’

‘But you didn’t admit her?’

‘No. I wasn’t going to be bullied. I’d have liked to talk to Melanie alone but the parents weren’t having any of it and I didn’t think I could insist. It was an awkward situation. I was on my own. Sod’s law. I’d been trailing a female student around with me the rest of the week.’

‘How was Melanie?’

‘Angry. She’d had some sort of tantrum, throwing furniture around, smashing plates. It was over by the time I got there but I presume that was why Eleanor phoned.’

‘The anger was directed at her parents?’

‘That was the impression I had.’

‘Was it about the anorexia?’

‘Melanie used food as a weapon in every situation. But as to what triggered the scene…’ He shrugged.

‘Could it have had anything to do with her natural father?’

Collier looked up at him sharply then shrugged again.

‘I don’t know. By the time I arrived Melanie was very controlled and she wasn’t giving anything away. She insisted she didn’t want to be in hospital and I don’t have the beds to admit every young person who causes their parents grief. She was perfectly rational and I didn’t think she was suicidal. No grounds for sectioning. I made her an outpatient appointment.’

‘When for?’

‘I would have liked to have seen her immediately. Get her here, away from home territory. I felt there’d been some sort of breakthrough, that, you know, she trusted me for standing up to her father. But I couldn’t make it for a couple of days. I was speaking at a conference in Edinburgh. I gave her a chance to see a colleague but she wasn’t happy about that.’

‘When was the appointment?’

‘The morning her body was found in the cemetery.’

There was a pause. Porteous was aware of the patients in the waiting-room, their nerves twisting to breaking point as the minutes ticked on. He knew Collier was thinking of them too.

‘Had she ever been in Redwood?’

‘The assessment centre? Alice Cornish’s place? Not so far as I know. Why?’

‘One of our suspects was a social worker there. It would be a link. And that’s privileged information too, even if I can’t sue.’

‘They never said. I mean, I took a history. Schools. You know the sort of thing. But I didn’t check. Why should I?’ He paused, tilted back in his chair. ‘Redwood was an amazing place. I did a residential placement there. One of my options. There’s no reason why the Gillespies wouldn’t have admitted to her having gone there. It was harder to get into than Eton. Something for them to brag about.’ His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall and Porteous realized his time was up.

Outside the sun splashed off the big glass windows of the hospital and the superstore. His car, trapped between the buildings, was sweltering. He opened all the windows but didn’t start driving. He couldn’t face Cranford and Eddie’s obsession, the rest of the team expecting answers and leadership.

When he did start it was to go up the coast towards Stavely Prison, knowing he was running away. In the low fields on the coastal plain the combine harvesters moved relentlessly over the crop, followed by swarms of herring-gulls, as if the machines were trawlers. By the time he’d arrived he’d persuaded himself that the trip was vital. Hannah was still the best link they had between the killings.

Because he hadn’t told the prison in advance that he intended to visit, he had to wait at the gatehouse while they found someone to take him to the library. There was a tiny room which he shared with a nervous young solicitor, who farted loudly then blushed. The walls were posted with mission statements about racism and bullying. They weren’t as colourful as those in the hospital but they had the same improving tone.

He’d led the officer on the gate to believe that Hannah was expecting him. ‘No. Don’t disturb her. Just get an escort to take me over.’

The escort was a stocky young woman who seemed new to the job. They walked past a group of inmates who were weeding a huge circular bed, planted with geraniums in the shape of an anchor. The inmates whistled and shouted and the officer turned scarlet. Porteous didn’t think she’d stick it long.

The library was closed and the officer had to unlock it. Inside, an orderly sat at a desk, covering books with transparent plastic.

‘Mrs Morton about?’

‘In the office. Hannah, there’s someone to see you.’

She came out carrying a pile of new books. She seemed so shocked to see him that he thought she might drop them, but she recovered her composure well. She ignored him and spoke to the officer. ‘That’s all right, Karen. You can leave us to it. I’ll see Mr Porteous back to the gate.’

The officer went reluctantly, obviously curious about what he was doing there.

‘Do you want to go out for a smoke, Marty? Just give us a few minutes.’

When they were on their own she turned on him with a ferocity which surprised him.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’

‘I had another appointment on the coast and I thought I’d call in, see if you could spare a few minutes.’ I’m playing hookey. Hiding from my team.

‘You don’t get it, do you? In a prison a visit from the police means arrest, guilt, trouble. It’ll be around the place in minutes that you’ve been to see me. There’ll be rumours, stories. It’s hard enough to work here as it is.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Really just a few questions. Would you like Mr Lee with you?’ He would quite have liked to talk to the psychologist, get some informal advice about what might be going on with the Gillespies.

‘Arthur can’t be here. He’s taking a class. If you’d phoned in advance we could have arranged it.’

‘Really, it’s no big deal.’

‘Yes, Inspector. It is a big deal. Two murders nearly thirty years apart are linked by the same weapon. I knew both victims. I’m not stupid. I know how it looks.’

‘I talked to your daughter yesterday.’