Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘Why the change of name?’

‘I don’t know. To me he was always Michael. Perhaps the family were in the public eye and afraid of publicity.’

‘Perhaps.’ Porteous thought it an extreme move. Once interest had died down after the fire, would anyone care what happened to a small boy?

‘Did the family visit?’

‘The father. Occasionally. Usually he was drunk when he turned up. When Michael was ready to leave we tried to arrange meetings with family members to discuss his future. But the appointments were never kept.’

‘Michael attended a private school as a day boy?’

‘It was what his father wanted. He made the arrangements. If Michael had been allowed to choose I think he’d have gone to the local grammar.’

‘There was a fire at the school.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was Michael implicated?’

‘Not in any way. The police came here first of course. We housed “problem” children. But he had an alibi. A member of staff was with him all evening.’

‘Alec Reeves?’

‘No. Not Alec Reeves.’

‘How did he end up with the Brices?’

‘Was that the name of the couple who took him in?’

He nodded.

‘When Michael was sixteen we had a problem. Frankly he was taking a bed which could be better used by another child. He’d turned into a bright and well-adjusted young man. He’d enjoyed being at Redwood and he hadn’t wanted to move, and we didn’t want to throw him out. Of course we waited until he’d completed his O levels before thinking about it seriously at all. There was no interest from the family – we’d even had to subsidize his school fees because they’d stopped paying. So what to do with him? The fire in the middle of his lower-sixth year brought matters to a head.’

‘Alec Reeves came up with a solution?’

‘Yes. He’d not long started working with us. There was a retired clergyman and his wife, he said, in his home town. Childless, but full of love. We all met. Michael liked them. It seemed a wonderful solution.’

‘Until he died less than two years later…’

‘I never knew about that. Not until the press reports of his death.’

‘Tell me about Melanie Gillespie.’ If he hoped to shock her into some admission or indiscretion he was unsuccessful. She seemed lost in thought. The ginger cat had moved on to the grass beside her feet and she stopped absent-mindedly to tickle its ear.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I don’t recognize the name.’

‘Melanie Gillespie was one of the children in your care. Much more recently. Within the last three or four years.’ At least, he thought, I hope she was. Otherwise I’ve nothing to work on at all.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘She had an eating disorder. Probably another private referral.’

‘I’ve explained that in recent years my contact with the centre has been minimal.’ She seemed tired now, rather than hostile. ‘But we can check. Come inside and I’ll show you my book. My record of achievement you might call it. More precious to me at least, than all the awards put together.’

She took him into a dusty and cluttered study. The book was gigantic, leather bound. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in a cathedral. In it successive children had signed their names, written scraps of verse, drawn pictures.

‘When do you think she left us?’

‘Two years ago. Three perhaps.’

She turned the pages slowly.

‘You see, Inspector. No Melanie Gillespie.’

‘May I look?’ Theo Randle had changed his name. Perhaps Melanie had too.

He found it immediately. Mel Scully written in spiky italics. Beside it a cartoon. A stick figure with cropped hair holding an electric guitar, with a balloon coming out of her mouth. Inside the balloon the words: What now?

‘Scully was her father’s name,’ he said.

‘I do remember her! Very bright. Very articulate. Self-destructive with her eating. A lot of aggression directed at her parents. Not nearly as confident as she wanted everyone to think her.’

‘Had there been a child, do you know?’

‘You think she’d been pregnant? Certainly not while she was here. Before?’ She shrugged. ‘She was someone we never quite got through to. She never felt able to trust us.’ Porteous remembered Collier saying something similar. She closed the book suddenly. The air displaced by the heavy covers stirred the dust. ‘What’s happened to her?’

‘She’s dead too.’

Despite his sleep in the garden Eddie Stout was tired. As he drove to The Old Rectory he found his concentration slipping, the car bouncing suddenly on the Cat’s-eyes in the middle of the road. The Spences had agreed to see him at four. That was their quiet time, they said, between lunch and dinner. Sally would leave the paper early especially.

And they were waiting for him. A young woman in a black dress met him at the front door and led him to the lounge where the Spences sat, expectant and curious. Between them a small table was set for tea. There was a silver pot and china cups, tiny sandwiches, a double-tiered plate with scones and cakes.

‘Just in time, Sergeant. I was about to pour.’ Roger Spence wore a white shirt and a red bow-tie. He handed a cup and a plate to Stout, who juggled with them awkwardly, in the end balancing the plate on the arm of his chair. He noticed that Spence’s fingers were very long, the nails beautifully manicured. Spence set down the teapot and rubbed his hands together. ‘Now, how can we help?’

They both turned towards Eddie and smiled in a predatory way. Sally was dressed in a grey silk tunic over trousers. She filled the armchair, a huge grey walrus. He wondered how she would manage to prise herself to her feet. Jack Sprat and his wife, he thought. Throughout the conversation images and words came into his head unbidden as in a dream. Perhaps he should have followed Porteous’s advice and waited until he was less tired. He felt he was no match for these two, especially now.

‘I’ve been hearing rumours,’ Sally said when he didn’t answer immediately. Her tone was confidential, slightly flirtatious. She leaned forward and he could see the top of her bra. ‘People are saying that you’ve linked Michael’s murder – I still think of him as Michael – with that girl on the coast.’

‘We’re ruling out nothing at present.’ The standard line. If she were any sort of a journalist she’d know anyway. And he thought she probably was very good at her job. She had the necessary ruthless streak

‘We didn’t know her,’ Sally went on. ‘The girl on the coast. We’d never met her.’ She seemed very keen to make that point.

Eddie struggled to stamp his authority on the interview. ‘It’s the first murder I’d like to talk about.’

‘Oh?’ She smiled again, took a chocolate éclair from the plate and bit it in half.

Eddie turned to include them both in his question. ‘You were at the final performance of Macbeth ? The Friday before Michael disappeared.’

‘That’s right, Sergeant. I was selling programmes and Roger was helping to direct.’

Eddie watched the second half of the éclair disappear into her mouth. He unclipped his briefcase and took out the photograph given to him by Jack Westcott.

‘Do you recognize the gentleman sitting next to Mr and Mrs Brice?’

Roger flicked his eyes towards the picture and immediately away again.

‘I don’t think I do,’ he said casually. ‘Why?’

‘We’re trying to trace as many people as possible who were there that evening. If you could try to remember, Mr Spence.’

‘I know who it is!’ Eddie almost expected her to clap her hands like a little girl who’s just come top in a spelling test. ‘It’s Mr Reeves, isn’t it? You must remember Roger. Alec Reeves, the scout master. There was talk…’