Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

You’re obsessed, Porteous thought, recognizing the signs. You’re thinking of nothing else. Reeves is haunting your dreams. ‘Alice Cornish might know where he’s hiding out,’ he said mildly.

‘Please do me a favour.’ Eddie leaned forward, put his hand on the arm of Porteous’s chair, almost touching him. Fervent as he’d be preaching in the chapel on Sunday. ‘Give me a ring when you get in. Let me know what she’s said. Even if there’s no news.’

‘It could be late. You’ll need some sleep.’

‘I’ll not be asleep. You phone me.’

Alice Cornish’s house was less grand than Porteous had expected. She was a celebrity of a kind, a Dame, the author of a handful of books and dozens of reports. When he’d spoken to her that morning she hadn’t exactly welcomed his visit. ‘I don’t understand, Inspector, why this conversation couldn’t be conducted by telephone. I value my privacy.’

But he’d wanted to meet her. Not only because he thought he’d get more out of her face to face. He’d admired her work. And still he was itching with the need to run away. When he’d persisted in his request for a meeting she’d given in gracefully and instructed him precisely on his route from the motorway. It was an area he didn’t know, too close to industrial centres to be of interest to second homers and holiday makers. As he left the main road there were views of the Pennines to the east and Emley Moor to the west. He drove down a steep hill into a valley bottom, turned at a disused mill and then he was there. A small stone cottage with a meadow beyond it and a garden in front so tangled with perennials that when he walked up the brick path he scattered pollen with his legs. A ginger cat was sleeping on a window-sill.

‘Inspector.’ She had the door open before he knocked, while he was still stroking the cat, and he was caught off guard and felt slightly frivolous to be petting the animal. But she must have liked cats because her mood was softer than it had been on the phone. ‘Shall we talk in the garden?’

There was a small patch of lawn at the side of the house, the edges ragged with long grass where it hadn’t been properly trimmed. They sat side by side on a wrought-iron bench.

‘What is all this about? You said on the phone it was about Redwood. But I’ve retired. The centre is closed.’

‘You employed a man called Reeves?’

‘Alec, yes. One of our longest-serving employees. By the end he was part of the architecture of the place. He wasn’t a demonstrative man. He never drew attention to himself. But it was impossible to imagine Redwood without him. His retirement and my decision to give up control coincided. I felt that was appropriate.’

‘You liked him?’

‘He didn’t let anyone else get close enough to him for that. Not adults at least. He was very different with the children. But I respected him.’

‘Were you aware when you appointed him that there were rumours he’d been involved in child abuse?’

‘No!’ She turned her face sharply so she was facing him. She wore her grey hair in a severe bob which must have been fashionable when she was a small child in the thirties. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘You had no suspicion when he was working for you that he had an undesirable relationship with any of the children in his care?’

‘None.’

‘You didn’t think it was odd that he’d never married?’

‘Are you married, Inspector? Because I’m not.’

He could sense her hostility and sat for a moment in silence searching for words which might appease her, but she came at him again.

‘Do you suspect Alec of child abuse, Inspector? A recent case?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I’m sorry!’ The sarcasm could have come from a ferocious headmistress. ‘I’m not sure that I understand you. What do you mean “not exactly”?’

‘We want to question Alec Reeves about two murders. We’ve been trying to trace him for a number of days. We hoped you might help us find him.’

She sat quite still with her hands folded in her lap, staring ahead of her.

‘You’ve come from the north-east, Inspector?’

He nodded confirmation.

‘Then one of the murders you’re investigating is that of Michael Grey?’

‘His real name was Theo Randle, but yes, I’m the senior investigating officer in that case.’

‘I recognized the name when it appeared in the papers. When you phoned I thought you had questions about Michael… It never occurred to me that Alec was implicated.’

‘We’ve no proof against Alec Reeves. But he was staying in Michael’s home the weekend he was murdered. He had an unsavoury reputation in the town and was linked to the disappearance of another boy, a child with a learning disability of about the same age. You can understand why we want to talk to him. His disappearance is a cause for concern.’

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I can see that it would be.’ She turned towards him again. ‘But I don’t believe it, Inspector. I’ll cooperate with you because I think that’s what Alec would wish. But you’re wrong about him. It’s not unusual for him to disappear for a week or two in the summer. He’s a hillwalker and he likes wild places and he avoids other people. He’ll appear suddenly from the Highlands or the Peak District and make himself known to you.’

I hope he does, Porteous thought. But I’ll not hold my breath.

‘Can you tell me about the boy you knew as Michael Grey?’ he said. ‘You never knew his other name?’

‘Not so far as I remember.’

‘Perhaps you could check with your files?’

‘There are no files. Not that we kept. It was part of the Redwood philosophy. The files remained the property of the children. They had open access to them while they stayed at the centre and they took all the records with them when they left.’

‘Didn’t that cause problems if you needed to liaise with other agencies?’

‘No. It meant that we all had to involve the young people about their futures from the beginning.’

‘There must be some records. A list, at least, of the children you cared for.’

‘I have an autograph book. The children all signed their names when they left, added any comments they wanted. Towards the end of my time at Redwood there were names that I hardly recognized. I was so busy – lectures, reports, committees. Much of the day-to-day administration was left to my staff. That was when I knew it was time to leave.’ She paused. ‘At the beginning it was very different. We had so little money and we had to do everything ourselves. If it hadn’t been for a generous benefactor the place would have closed only months after we started. It was a round of fund-raising, the school run, keeping the house from falling down and most of all finding time for some very disturbed children.’

‘Was Michael Grey very disturbed?’

‘Not as disturbed as some.’

‘How was he referred? Social Services?’

‘It was a long time ago, Inspector.’

‘But you do remember?’ He was sure that she did. Since hearing the news of Michael’s murder, she would have gone over the details of his stay at Redwood. It was natural, what anyone would do.

‘Michael was a private referral. It did happen occasionally. We were registered through Social Services and most of the children came through them, but sometimes we were approached by desperate parents who’d seen stories about us in the papers. Of course, they kept legal custody. Michael was unusual because he stayed with us for such a long time.’

‘His father brought him to you?’

‘I believe he did.’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘I wasn’t here. I was in Geneva. Receiving some award.’ She waved her hand as if it were of no importance. ‘I wasn’t keen but the staff thought I should go to raise the profile of the house. We’d not long opened. We were a democratic organization. I went. When I returned there was a new little boy. Michael. White hair, beautiful manners. Very distant. Very withdrawn. He didn’t speak for months. I was told his mother had severe depression and his father a drink problem. A sister had been killed in a fire. The family didn’t want Social Services involved but they thought we could help. I thought we could too. We were a good team…’