The Sleeping and the Dead (11 page)

Outside it was still light, and at The Old Rectory four guests sat on the flagged terrace having drinks before a late dinner. Sally had driven them back from the reunion
immediately. Rosie thought it was a fuss about nothing. Sally playing the drama queen. An old body dragged out of the lake. What could that have to do with her mother?

Roger insisted that they shouldn’t decide anything until after dinner and Sally had deferred to him. Hannah seemed to think she had no right to express an opinion. Rosie thought Roger had
been transformed. That afternoon he’d been a crabby and grey old Latin teacher. Now, talking to his guests, dressed in a brocade waistcoat and floppy bow-tie, he was in his element. When they
arrived he was taking a tray of drinks to a couple in the lounge and he sat beside them for a moment to chat. He flattered the woman without annoying her husband, camping it up a little to make
himself harmless. Rosie, who was no mean actor herself, appreciated the show. She knew the effort which went into a performance.

Over dinner Sally and her mother talked in a series of elliptical comments which made little sense to her. At one point Sally said to Roger, ‘But you must remember Michael Grey, even if
you didn’t teach him. Everyone knew Michael.’

Roger stared into his wine. ‘Of course I remember him,’ he said in a sad, solemn voice. Then he made an excuse to go into the kitchen and when he returned he was his old self,
solicitous and funny.

At the end of the meal they were the only people left in the dining-room. The main lights were switched off. Their table was lit by a wall lamp with an engraved glass shade, which could have
covered a gas lamp. The room had been designed to look like a Victorian parlour, with glossy-leafed pot plants, red plush, heavy furniture and silver. For Rosie it took on a nightmare quality. She
prided herself on being able to hold her drink, but Roger had filled her glass every time it was empty and by the end of the meal her head was swimming. She listened to snatches of the
women’s conversation, and the image of the white corpse from the lake caught her attention immediately and stayed with her.

It was partly to shake off this feeling of melodrama, partly because she was so drunk that when the thought came into her head she couldn’t stop it coming out, that she interrupted their
conversation.

‘Oh, by the way, Chris sends his love.’

‘Chris?’ Her mother seemed puzzled.

‘The DJ.’

Hannah looked at Sally. ‘That was Chris?’

‘Didn’t you recognize him?’ Sally seemed pleased. ‘He hasn’t worn very well, has he?’ Then she seemed to think Rosie deserved an explanation.
‘Chris,’ she said, ‘is my unmissed ex-husband.’

Soon after, Rosie left them to it. Roger winked and wrapped a half-drunk bottle of wine in a napkin for her to take with her. Hannah would have objected if she’d noticed
but she was too preoccupied to see what was going on.

In her room Rosie drew the curtains. The window was open and she heard young voices, smelled the grilling flesh of a barbecue. By the edge of the lake someone was having a party. She switched on
the television and flicked through the channels, but nothing held her interest for long.

She poured wine into a beaker from the bathroom and wished she were outside. Leaving the set on, but with the sound turned right down, she dialled the Prom on her mobile. Frank answered.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’

He recognized her voice. She wondered idly if he’d know all his part-time staff by voice. ‘Good God, girl,’ he said. ‘Can’t you keep away from the place? I thought
it was your night off.’

‘Sad, isn’t it?’ She thought it really was sad.

‘You’re pissed,’ he said. It was a statement of fact.

‘Shit, Frank, you sound like my mum. Is anyone in?’

‘Can’t you hear them?’ He must have held the receiver over the bar. The roar was deafening.

‘Not
anyone
. Anyone I know.’

‘Nah. They were in earlier. The whole crowd.’

‘Except Mel and Joe.’ She thought they’d be in Portugal by now, sitting by the pool under the orange trees.

‘I’ve got some news about them.’ He was like an old woman about gossip. He paused, tormenting her, knowing she’d be gagging for the information.

‘What?’

‘They’re still here.’

‘Why?’

‘Mel refused to go, didn’t she.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She refused to go on holiday. They called in here on their way to the airport. Bags all packed. It was supposed to be just to say goodbye. Then all of a sudden she threw a wobbly. She
said her parents wanted to get rid of her. The holiday was a trick to get her out of the country. They never intended to let her back.’

She kept her voice flat. ‘Was Joe OK?’

‘He didn’t say much, but what was there to say? His girlfriend had practically accused him of kidnap. That girl needs help.’

She switched off her phone and dialled Joe’s house. The answerphone clicked in straight away. She left a message for Joe saying she’d call him the next day. She thought then that she
should phone Mel and check that she was all right but knew that should wait until she was sober. She’d only lose her temper. She seemed to lie awake for hours but she didn’t hear her
mother come in.

Sally was very eager that Hannah should go to the police station as soon as they returned from the school reunion.

‘It’ll be all over the papers tomorrow. They’ve got a picture. Someone will tell that detective you were Michael Grey’s girlfriend. Better he hear it from you. Of course,
I’ll come with you if you like.’

Of course, Hannah thought. That was what Sally wanted. She was a journalist, even if not a very grand one. She saw a story she could sell.

‘Let the poor woman eat,’ Roger said.

Hannah was grateful. Perhaps it was the shock but she was ravenous.

In the end two detectives came out to the hotel. It was Sally’s suggestion. She said the national press was already sniffing around in the town. On second thoughts this would be more
discreet. And, thought Hannah, it would give Sally more control. Hannah didn’t mind. She felt very tired. She didn’t think she could face going out.

It was after ten when the detectives arrived, just dark, still very warm. Rosie didn’t seem to have grasped the significance of the body in the lake. She went, a little unsteadily, to
their room. The staff were clearing up in the dining-room and there were still guests in the lounge, so Sally let them use her private sitting-room. Roger brought in a tray of coffee. There was a
bowl of roses on the table. Later Hannah would remember their fragrance, the scent of filter coffee and another smell which she realized was pipe tobacco. Although the older detective made no
attempt to smoke on that occasion, it seemed that he was an addict and his pipe was always in his pocket. It must have been hard for him to sit there for so long without it.

She couldn’t decide at first which was the senior officer. The older man was shorter, slight and dark, with an accent which suggested he came from the coast, from one of those villages
where the pits used to be. He had the look of a collier about him. He wore a grey suit. The trousers were too big for him and held up by a thin belt. His shoes were as black and shiny as a prison
officer’s boots. The younger man was tall, prematurely balding. If she’d met him on a social occasion, Hannah would have guessed that he taught humanities at a college for further
education. He could even have been a librarian. He wore odd socks and scuffed suede boots. The older one was called Stout, the younger Porteous. They must have given their ranks when they
introduced themselves but Hannah had been in too much of a daze to take in the information.

They were very polite, but something about their manner put Hannah on her guard. She drank a cup of Roger’s good, strong coffee and tried to clear her head. She had heard the prisoners
talking and knew that the police weren’t always to be trusted. What they wanted now was to clear up their case as quickly as possible. There wouldn’t be two detectives here, at this
time of night, if they didn’t think there was something in her story for them. For the first time she wondered what Sally had told them. There had been a muttered conversation at the door
before she’d shown them in. She had been surprised when Sally had left them alone together without any fuss. But perhaps she was standing at the door now with a glass to her ear. Or perhaps
there was a tape recorder hidden under one of the cushions on the sofa.

‘I don’t know what Sally has told you . . .’ she said. She wanted to take the initiative, to appear purposeful, to let them know she couldn’t be browbeaten.

Porteous, the younger, answered. He seemed diffident, almost apologetic. The voice was educated, but somewhere behind the polish there was a Midland whine.

‘She said that you and Mr Grey were close at the time of his death.’

Stout interrupted briskly. ‘We think it’s possible, Mrs Morton, that you were the last person to see him alive. That, at least, is the information we’ve been given.’

Hannah stared at them. Trust Sally to stir things up. Trust her to turn this into the plot line of a soap opera. Hannah thought her judgement had been right all along. She should never have been
persuaded to come back.

‘I know it’s a long time,’ Porteous said. ‘But if you could just take your mind back . . .’

‘How did he die?’ Hannah demanded. ‘You must have done a post-mortem if you know he was murdered. You pulled him out days ago.’

They seemed shocked and the words sounded callous even in her own head, but Hannah needed to get the facts straight, neatly catalogued like books on a shelf. Stout looked at Porteous who nodded
imperceptibly. She realized then that Porteous must be the superior and was glad to have another fact sorted.

‘He was stabbed,’ Stout said, ‘with a sharp, wide-bladed knife.’

Hannah had an image of Jenny Graves at a school play rehearsal. It must have been a dress rehearsal because she was in costume. Her dress had been hired from the local amateur-dramatic society
and was scarlet, laced at the front, daringly low cut. She had fake blood all over her hand. Mr Westcott had been so pleased with her performance that he had clapped. Hannah realized that the
detectives were staring at her, waiting for her to speak.

‘Have you told Michael’s family?’ she asked, not putting off answering but fishing again for information. She was still curious about Michael’s family.

Again Stout and Porteous looked at each other. Again, it seemed Stout was given permission to answer.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, we seem to have come up with a bit of a problem there. We’re having some difficulty tracing them. He seems to have been a real mystery your young
man, a real mystery. That was one of the reasons why we were so keen to talk to you.’

They looked at Hannah expectantly. At last she felt obliged to tell them at least something of what she knew.

‘When we were at school together Michael Grey lived with foster parents. His mother had died and his father had worked abroad a lot. Or was ill. I’m not sure.’ It had seemed to
Hannah even in the beginning that Michael had made himself up as he went along. He changed his story to suit his audience. She had caught him out a few times and at first it had seemed to
disconcert him. Later, when he realized how she felt about him, he had only grinned.

‘What did the father do?’ Stout asked. ‘Work, I mean. The boy must have said.’

‘I got the impression that he was employed by the Government. Some high-powered diplomat or civil servant. Something that took him away a lot.’

‘He must have come back sometimes to see his son.’

‘No. Never. Not that I remember. I never met him.’

‘Didn’t that strike you as odd?’

Hannah didn’t answer. Michael’s strangeness had been part of his attraction.

‘What about the foster parents?’ Porteous asked. His voice was gentle. Hannah thought he had set out to win her round. ‘You must be able to tell us about them.’

She knew he would have got that much at least from the school records, but decided to play the game.

‘Their names were Brice. Stephen and Sylvia. An elderly couple, more like grandparents than parents. They’d never had children of their own. Stephen was a retired vicar. They were
devoted to each other, kind to everyone, into good causes. They lived in one of those terraced houses near the school.’ She looked up at him sharply. ‘You must know all this.’

‘Part of it. I haven’t been able to speak to anyone who knew them.’

‘I didn’t really know them,’ she said quickly. ‘I only met them once or twice.’

They had come to the performance of
Macbeth
. From her position as prompt, Hannah had seen them sitting proudly in the front row. At the end they had stood up and cheered, more like
elderly eccentrics on the last night of the Proms than the audience of a school play. She could imagine them dressed up and waving a Union Jack. They had seemed to her then very old and even now,
looking back from middle-age, she thought they must have been in their late sixties or seventies. They both had silver hair. Sylvia wore hers long, pinned back with a tortoiseshell comb. Their
house was the quietest Hannah had ever been in. There was no television or radio. She remembered a ginger cat which purred and a clock which chimed the quarter-hour. She presumed this was not the
sort of information which would be of interest to Porteous or Stout.

‘They never reported him missing,’ Stout said in a slightly aggrieved way, as if he took the Brices’ failure to make a fuss personally. ‘Nobody started looking for him
until they died. Then the solicitor tried but couldn’t trace him.’

Hannah wondered what had happened to the small, tidy house. It seemed unfeeling to ask. She had gone there first for tea. Michael had asked her. Although the Brices hadn’t been expecting
her they were thrilled to see her. ‘We’re always telling Michael he should invite his friends in.’

His attitude to them was delightful. He was thoughtful and playful. He called them Sylvie and Steve. But as they sat in front of the fire in the tiny drawing-room, eating seed cake and crumpets,
the thread of the conversation had led Hannah to think that they knew little more about his past than she did. It seemed that Stephen had been invited to a theological college in Idaho to give a
lecture on the Psalms. They had been discussing flight plans, when Sylvia asked suddenly, ‘Have you ever been abroad, Michael? I can’t remember your saying.’