Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not coming home tonight. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Where are you staying?’

She almost said Mel’s because it came automatically. Perhaps she should have done. Perhaps her mother would have picked up the mistake and somehow understood. But the boy wasn’t stupid.

‘Laura’s,’ she said. ‘She’s having a party.’

‘When will you be home?’

‘I’ll go straight to work tomorrow.’

He switched off the phone. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ But he seemed unsettled. He paced up and down the floor. She watched him, not terrified any more, her emotions somehow slipped out of gear, but her brain working like fury. Very sharp, very clear, as if this was the most important exam of her life.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘What?’ He stopped pacing, crouched beside her, so she could smell him again.

‘Did you kill Melanie Gillespie?’

Hannah replaced the phone with satisfaction. She was proud of herself. At one time she’d have demanded details. Who was Laura? She’d never heard the name before. Where did she live? Was there a contact number? Today she just accepted Rosie’s explanation and let it go. Treating Rosie as an adult. Besides, she had other things to think about.

For example, Porteous’s visit to the prison earlier in the day. She could have died when he just turned up, unannounced, though he’d actually behaved with more discretion than she’d have expected. She wasn’t sure Marty had been taken in by the detective’s casual reference to needing witness statements, but Marty wouldn’t talk. It wouldn’t be all around the prison that she was a suspect in a murder inquiry. She could tell, though, that the orderly had been unsettled by Porteous. For the rest of the shift he’d been moody, demanding that the radio be turned down, snapping at prisoners who jostled to have their books stamped. Occasionally she caught him looking at her and she wondered if he’d say something when the place was quiet. But they were never alone. He asked to leave early, saying he had something important to see to. It wasn’t like him. He always preferred to be in the library than on the wing, would have worked twelve-hour shifts given half the chance.

The other preoccupation was that Arthur was coming to supper the following evening. She’d invited him on impulse and immediately regretted it. She hadn’t seen him all day, then met him in the car park on her way home. He must have been working late too. He’d seen her leaving the gate and was standing by his car waiting for her. His appearance had almost made her laugh out loud. He was wearing shorts which almost reached his knees and a shirt with horizontal stripes which made him look like an upended deck-chair. Dear God, she’d thought, with a jolt of affection which surprised her. Whatever is he like. No wonder the officers want rid of him.

‘Are you OK?’ He must have heard on the grapevine that Porteous had been there. And he’d be curious, of course, about what had happened. Since tracing Michael Grey’s identity he thought he had a stake in the case.

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t suppose you fancy a drink?’

She hadn’t. At least not in public. What she’d fancied had been a long, hot soak to take away the smell of prisoners, a good book, a glass of very cold, very dry wine. But he’d looked so tentative, so sure of rejection, that she hadn’t wanted to hurt him.

‘I’m sorry. Not tonight.’

He’d given her a sad smile. ‘Better things to do?’

‘Just shattered. Why don’t you come round for a meal tomorrow evening? Rosie will probably be working, but I’ll get rid of her if she’s not.’

‘Haven’t you got enough on your plate?’

‘I’ll enjoy it.’

But now she wasn’t sure that she would. She hadn’t entertained anyone in the house since Jonathan had left, and when he’d been around dinner parties had been daunting affairs, taking days of planning, sleepless nights of anxiety. She’d always admired friends who could throw together a bowl of pasta for half a dozen people, drink out of jumble-sale glasses, eat from ill-matched crockery. She’d never had that sort of confidence.

Now she worried about what she should cook for Arthur and whether she really wanted him in her house. He’d insist on going over the inquiry, picking at the threads of it. Would he be a rampant carnivore like Jonathan, who bragged that he never ate anything that hadn’t breathed? She supposed there would have to be a pudding. And would he read more into the invitation than she’d intended? What would be expected of her?

She was about to set off to the all-night supermarket where Rosie’s friend worked, in search of inspiration, when the phone rang again. It was Sally Spence, eager for a gossip. She had information to give, but throughout the conversation Hannah thought she was fishing too. She had a reason for calling which was never made clear.

‘We had one of those detectives here again this afternoon. The ugly little one.’

‘Oh?’ Perhaps Stout had told Sally that Porteous had been to the prison. Perhaps she was phoning to see if Hannah had been arrested.

There was a pause, lengthened by Sally for dramatic tension.

‘You’ll never guess who’s mixed up in this business.’

No, Hannah thought. Probably not. It was hard to remember that once Sally had been her very best friend, that she’d confided everything to her.

‘Who?’ she asked.

‘Paul Lord. You remember him?’

‘The spotty boy scout.’ Hannah smiled despite herself. She remembered sitting next to him by the bonfire at Cranford Water the evening she’d first kissed Michael.

‘Not spotty any more,’ Sally said. ‘Quite a hunk these days. You met him at the reunion, the night they identified Michael…’

‘Of course.’ Hannah replayed it all in her head – the curse of a memory which would let nothing go. She heard the conversation with Paul, his description of his computer business and the conversion of the farmhouse, the music in the background, Chris Johnson’s muttered introduction to the next record. ‘Why do the police think he’s involved?’

‘He’s a friend of a man called Alec Reeves. Apparently this guy’s disappeared from the face of the earth. They want to trace him because he knew both dead kids.’ She paused again before adding grandly, ‘At least that’s what my sources tell me.’

‘So Paul’s not really implicated. Only by association.’

‘Don’t be silly, H. You can’t see Paul Lord killing anyone, can you? He was always such a nerd.’ As if she might admire him more if he did turn out to be a murderer.

Hannah thought the conversation was finished then. She even began to say goodbye. But Sally seemed eager to prolong it.

‘How’s that lovely daughter of yours?’

‘Fine. Out partying. As usual.’

‘Oh.’ Sally sounded shocked. ‘I thought Melanie Gillespie was one of her best friends.’

‘She was.’ Hannah could have kicked herself. She didn’t want to make out that Rosie was an insensitive little cow. Especially to a reporter. What right did Sally, who was obviously enjoying every minute of the investigation, have to disapprove? ‘She’s been really upset. I thought she needed some time out with her friends.’

‘Right,’ Sally said. ‘Of course. Right.’

Hannah wondered if Sally had been hoping to talk to Rosie, to turn her memories of Mel into an article. Just as well she wasn’t at home. There was a muffled conversation at the other end of the line.

‘Roger sends his love.’

But I don’t want it, Hannah thought. Really, I don’t. I don’t care if I never see either of you again.