Ann Cleeves - The Sleeping and the Dead

He wandered down the stairs to the car park and was hovering there, trying to think of a legitimate journey he could make, when Eddie Stout returned from his meeting with the solicitor who’d handled the Brices’ affairs.

‘Any joy?’ He thought he sounded businesslike. Not like someone trying to dream up an excuse not to go inside.

‘I don’t know. More complications.’

‘We’ll talk about it over a cup of tea, shall we?’ Porteous said. ‘Not here. Not the canteen. Let’s go somewhere else.’ To his own ears he sounded hysterical, but Stout seemed not to notice, even to be pleased by the suggestion.

‘There’s quite a nice place along by our church…’

The walk calmed Porteous, made him slightly less jumpy. He felt his pulse slow. The café was attached to the church and was obviously run by its members. It was called the Mustard Seed. Besides tea and cakes it sold religious books and sentimental greetings cards. Again Porteous wondered if Stout saw him as a subject ripe for conversion. The building was new, airy, but as they went in Porteous had a fleeting smell of damp books and old ladies’ perfume.

Perhaps Stout sensed his discomfort. He said defensively, ‘It’s run by volunteers. All the profit goes to our charities. I like to support it. Anyway it’s a quiet place to talk.’

They were fussed over by two grey-haired grandmothers. There were frilly tablecloths and silk flowers, but the women made him Earl Grey to his exact specification and the shortbread was excellent. The church had been built as part of a new housing development, along with shops and a community centre. They looked out on to a street. A funeral service was taking place in the church next door. One of the undertaker’s men was standing by the hearse, smoking a cigarette. The women were interested in what was happening and kept coming out into the room to peer through the window. At a nod from Stout they retreated behind their counter and soon became engrossed in their memories of the dead man. Porteous resisted an impulse to fidget. He wanted to arrange the sugar cubes into towers, to straighten the birthday cards on a nearby stand.

‘I’ve finally met someone who knew Michael Grey,’ he said. ‘The social worker wasn’t much use. He decided the fostering arrangement with the Brices must have been informal, set up between them and the parents. He’d have no record of that. But he put me in touch with the school. There’s a teacher called Jack Westcott, head of history. He remembered Michael quite well.’

‘I’d take what Westcott said with a pinch of salt,’ Stout said tartly. ‘He’ll have been in the Percy Arms all lunchtime.’

‘Is that a regular event? I thought it was just because it was the last day of term.’

‘Regular enough. He’s retiring now, so the school hasn’t made an issue of it. He never taught Ruth but I kept an eye on what was going on.’

I bet they love you at the school, Porteous thought. He said, ‘There’s written confirmation, anyway. A reference from Westcott to help Michael get a place at university.’

Stout didn’t reply.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t know the Brices,’ Porteous went on. Thinking, You know everything about every other bugger in the place.

‘For some reason we never bumped into each other. I’ve been asking around though. Stephen Brice was an ordained priest with the Church of England. He worked in Africa before coming back to be rector here. After he retired he still did a lot of writing and teaching. People I’ve spoken to can’t remember the lad, but they say it would be just like the Brices to take someone in. They liked young people. Set up a youth group. Run, coincidentally, by Alec Reeves.’

‘Was it now?’

‘Unfortunately he’d already left the area before Michael went to live with them.’ Stout shrugged. ‘Like you said, I’ll have to let that go.’

‘What did you get out of the solicitor?’

‘Everything he had to give. The Brices died just over a year after Michael disappeared. There was a car crash on the A1. Stephen died immediately. Sylvia was taken to hospital but passed away a couple of days later in intensive care. The wills were drawn up by the couple without the help of a solicitor. He said that if he’d been involved he would have worded things a bit differently, but the intention of the couple was quite clear and he has no doubt the wills are legal documents. They were found with the rest of the Brices’ papers after their deaths. He was one of the executors and determined to carry out their wishes as best he could.’

Stout pulled a notebook from his pocket. ‘Each of the wills was identical. The estate was to be left first to the other partner. In the event of the survivor dying it should go to “our foster son, our gift from God, known as Michael Grey, so he can lead an independent life”. That was it, quoted word for word.’

‘No legacies to charity or to the church?’

‘No. According to the solicitor, they gave regularly in covenants while they were alive, but there was nothing in the will.’

‘Doesn’t that seem odd to you?’

‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t a huge estate. Only a small terraced house and a couple of thousand in savings. Perhaps they wanted to give as much as possible to Michael.’

‘Their gift from God.’ Porteous tried to keep the sneer from his voice. ‘They obviously thought he was still alive at the time of their deaths or they’d have changed the wills. And they must have believed the solicitor could trace him without too much difficulty. Didn’t they think it odd when Michael didn’t get in touch for months?’

‘The solicitor said he’d never had any other clients like them. They were unworldly, as trusting as children. They didn’t worry about things they couldn’t change.’

That’s what I try to do, Porteous thought. But I never manage it. ‘What do you make of the “known as” in the phrase “known as Michael Grey”?’

‘I supposed it meant the Brices considered him their son, even though he used a name different from theirs.’

‘Not that Michael Grey was an assumed name?’

Stout looked up sharply from his tea. ‘That would complicate matters.’

‘Wouldn’t it just.’ But, thought Porteous, if that’s the way it is I can’t change it, so there’s no point worrying.

They sat for a moment in silence. The coffin was carried from the church and replaced in the hearse, which drove slowly away. The congregation had spilled out on to the street and elderly men in shiny black suits stood chatting in the sunshine. One of the ladies behind the counter plucked up courage to call over to them. ‘Can we get you anything else, Mr Stout?’

‘Some more tea, Mavis, would be lovely.’

Still there were no other customers. After the tea had been presented Porteous said, ‘What steps did the solicitor take to trace Michael Grey?’

‘Much the same as we’ve done today. He contacted the school. He thought it most likely that Michael had gone on to further education and that the school would have the name of the college or university even if it couldn’t give him his home address. At that time he thought it would be quite straightforward to find him.’

‘But it wasn’t.’

‘Apparently Michael left quite suddenly without taking A levels.’

‘The Brices must have thought they knew where he was or surely they would have got in touch with us.’

‘I don’t know. Unless they talked to a friend about it, we’ll never find out. The solicitor did report him as a missing person when he couldn’t get an address from the school. His main objective was to prove that he’d done everything possible to find Michael. Apparently that’s a legal requirement. He advertised for information in the local Cranford paper, the Newcastle Chronicle and the London Evening Standard . It’s standard procedure.’