The Sleeping and the Dead (18 page)

She shook her head. She’d always regretted not having one.

‘No? Pity. Still . . .’ He seemed lost in a thought of his own, then ditched all the make-believe vagueness. ‘The final performance of
Macbeth
was on the Friday night.
You were prompting and looking after the props?’

She nodded, remembered like a slow-motion replay the Brices rising in their seats to cheer.

‘Did you talk to him that evening? In the interval perhaps, or afterwards?’

‘I’m not sure. Probably.’

‘So you were still going out with him on the Friday then. So far as you’re aware. The disagreement between you must have happened on the Saturday or the Sunday.’

‘The Saturday,’ she said. She felt she was being boxed in, tricked. She should have claimed not to remember. How could she be expected to have perfect recall of that sort of detail
after so many years? But she did remember. She had played the scene over and over in her head ever since.

‘You’re absolutely certain about that?’

She nodded. She wished suddenly that Arthur were there. So much for pride. They wouldn’t push so hard if another person were present. They’d be more circumspect. She wondered if she
should refuse to answer their questions, demand to have a solicitor there. But she’d never been much good at demanding. Besides, then they’d assume that she was guilty, that she had
something to hide.

Porteous straightened his back and looked satisfied as if it were just as he had supposed. He was taking the lead in the questions. Stout had taken out a soft, thick pencil and was making notes
on a shorthand pad. As Porteous had waited for her answer Hannah had heard the lead move over the paper.

‘We’ll come back to Saturday later,’ Porteous continued. ‘If you could cast your mind back to the Friday.’ He paused, gave her a look of reluctant admiration.
‘You do have a most remarkable memory, Mrs Morton. It was the same during our previous conversation. So tell us what happened in the interval. Did all the actors remain backstage?’

‘Yes.’ An easy question. ‘Mr Spence, the producer, was strict about that. There was to be no running around the hall. The PTA organized refreshments for the audience and took
juice and biscuits for the actors and crew.’

‘But
you
were prompting, I understand, from the front of the audience. It wasn’t a traditional stage with wings.’

‘That’s right.’ Good God, she thought. He’s a magician. How can he know all this?

He closed his eyes as if he were picturing the scene. ‘Did you go backstage in the interval or stay where you were?’

‘I stayed in my seat. Mr and Mrs Brice came to speak to me.’ That had been a relief. Her mother had been in the audience too, a gesture of support which she should have welcomed.
Hannah wouldn’t have known what to say to her and the Brices kept her away. Hannah had seen Audrey from the corner of her eye, circling at a distance.

‘Did they mention that Michael might be leaving the area?’

‘Definitely not. They talked about the play.’

‘Of course. So either they didn’t know about his plans at that stage – if indeed there were any plans – or Michael had asked them to keep a secret. Otherwise they would
have discussed his leaving with you.’

‘Yes, I’m sure they would.’

‘What did you do after the performance?’

‘We walked into town together and bought fish and chips.’ Again to avoid her mother. So she wouldn’t have to talk to Audrey on the way home. She saw he was astonished that she
had remembered a detail like that and added, ‘At least I think that’s what we did. It could have been another time.’

‘What about the props?’ he asked. ‘Did you clear them up that night?’

She thought, He knows about the knife. Felt the last of her control slipping. Held it together.

‘Some of them. While I was waiting for the others to change and take off their make up. A team of us came in on the Saturday afternoon to do the rest.’

‘What did you do with all the stuff?’

‘Packed it into boxes. I don’t know what happened to it then.’

‘Did any of the cast keep anything? A souvenir perhaps. Something to remind them of the play?’

She shook her head. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.

‘Was Michael there that afternoon?’

‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘He was the star. Too grand to muck about with props and costumes.’

Porteous smiled. ‘Well that takes us nicely to Saturday evening.’

‘There was a party,’ she said. ‘For the cast and the crew and a few of the teachers who were involved in the production.’

‘Mr Spence?’

‘I’m not sure. Yes, perhaps he was there.’

‘Mr Westcott?’

‘I don’t think so. It was mostly the younger staff. I believe there was someone from the art department . . .’

‘Don’t worry. We can check the names if we need to.’

‘We weren’t allowed the party in school. Not the sort of party at least that we would have wanted. We hired a room on the caravan park. The DJ ran the disco for nothing.’ She
paused. ‘Chris Johnson. He’s still around in the town. He’s got a record. You probably know him.’ She was going to add that he’d been married to Sally but decided that
would be petty. They’d find out anyway if they asked around. She watched Stout scribble furiously on his notepad.

‘And you and Michael had a row?’

‘Not a row.’ She’d had enough. She could hear her voice raise a pitch. ‘We just decided it would be best if we didn’t see each other until after the
exams.’

She expected him to probe with more questions but he nodded understandingly.

‘Did you see Michael on the Sunday?’

‘No. I had an exam the next day. I didn’t go out at all. I was working.’ It wasn’t a lie.

‘And on the Monday the Brices told the art teacher that Michael had gone back to his father . . .’

He sat for a moment as if he was musing the significance of the detail for the first time, but it was all show. He must have gone over that information dozens of times before visiting her. He
stood up suddenly, seeming to take Stout by surprise. Hannah fetched their coats and showed them to the door. Stout was still stuffing his notebook and pencil into his pocket as he left. It had
stopped raining so Stout was able to light his pipe on the way to the car, curling his hand around the match to nurture the flame.

Frank sent Rosie home early. Perhaps that’s what she’d been hoping for when she told him about the police and her mum. He was a good boss. It had been quiet in the
pub anyway and she knew she’d been ratty. Raging PMT. Sometimes it got her so she wanted to roar with frustration. Like a huge lioness. She’d made a real effort with her mum earlier so
she’d taken it out on Frank and the others at work. No wonder he’d wanted shot of her.

When she got in Hannah was sitting in the living-room. She must have heard the door, but she didn’t get up or turn around. There wasn’t the usual inquisition about what had happened
to Rosie at work. No television. The only light came from a small table lamp. Hannah was sitting in shadow. She’d opened another bottle of wine and nearly finished it. She hadn’t got
drunk even on the night Jonathan had walked out, but tonight she was ratted. Rosie sat on the arm of the chair and put her arm around her. She took the glass from her hand.

‘You’d better let me have that. You’re not used to it and you’ve got work in the morning.’

‘I was used to it once. When I was your age.’

Is that how I’ll get? Rosie thought. Pissed after a couple of glasses of wine.

‘I take it the police came,’ she said. ‘Was it dreadful?’

‘They were all right. Polite. Just doing their job.’ Hannah turned to her and Rosie saw lines on her face she’d never noticed before: on her neck and framing the bottom of her
jaw. ‘But they think I killed him,’ Hannah said in the same flat voice. ‘They think we had a row and he dumped me and I stabbed him.’

The next day Hannah must have got up in time to go to work but Rosie didn’t hear her. She never woke up much before lunchtime unless she was on an eleven o’clock
shift. Today she had a day off. She hadn’t made any plans.

She was jerked awake by the phone, which didn’t stop, even after the seven rings when the answerphone usually clicked in. Her mother must have forgotten to switch on the machine before
leaving for work. Rosie got out of bed, saw it was only nine thirty, swore and took the call in Hannah’s bedroom. The bed was made, the few clothes left out were neatly folded on the chair.
Even with a hangover her mother couldn’t bear to leave the house without tidying. Talk about anal.

‘Rosie? That
is
Rosie Morton?’ The caller had waited so long that he seemed surprised to get a response. She didn’t recognize the voice. It was a middle-aged male.
Somewhere in the background a woman was talking very quickly.

‘This is Richard Gillespie.’ She was still fuddled with sleep and didn’t answer so he added with a trace of impatience, ‘Mel’s father.’

‘Oh yes. Hi!’ She’d never met Mel’s father. She’d seen him on the telly, but whenever she was at the house he was working. ‘How’s Mel?’

There was a pause. ‘We’ve a bit of a problem here. I wonder if you’d mind coming round.’

‘Is Mel OK?’ Rosie wondered if it was Mel’s voice she could hear in the background. If so, she was almost hysterical.

‘I don’t really care to discuss it on the telephone. Look, if you like I’ll come and pick you up.’

‘I can walk thanks.’

‘As soon as possible then.’

He hung up. She wished she’d put up more of a fight. She thought she knew what it was about. He wanted her to persuade Mel to go into hospital. Mel hated hospital, always had. She’d
hinted darkly about past experiences. Rosie imagined scenes from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
and wasn’t going to force her into something she didn’t want. Then she
thought there must be something seriously wrong with Mel to keep Richard Gillespie away from his microchip empire. She dialled Joe’s number. He might know what was going on. The line was
engaged. Was Mr Gillespie enlisting him to do his dirty work too?

Outside, the rain had cleared the air. The sun was shining again but the day didn’t feel so humid or sticky. She paused in front of Joe’s house, considered calling in to find out if
he had any news of Mel. But there was a car in the drive. Joe’s mum only worked part-time. Once she’d seen Rosie very drunk and ever since Rosie had sensed the disapproval. She
couldn’t face it today. Besides, Richard Gillespie had made it clear he expected her immediately and even over the phone she’d found him intimidating.

She loved Mel’s house. It was three storeys, set back from a quiet road. An old brick herring-bone wall separated it from its neighbours. At the back there were apple trees and
blackcurrant bushes. There was nothing flash or showy about it. The Gillespies had money but didn’t feel the need to flaunt it. Even the Volvo parked in the drive was a couple of years old.
She thought that showed real style. Jonathan insisted on a new car every year.

Despite all that, Rosie wasn’t sure she’d want Richard and Eleanor Gillespie as parents. Perhaps it was because style mattered to them too much. Image at least. Eleanor had made a
career out of it. She was head of marketing for the big brewery which owned the Prom. According to Mel she’d been responsible for the huge posters which had recently appeared all over the
city, featuring an elephant and a beer bottle and a slogan about gigantic thirst.

Image mattered to Richard too. Rosie had seen him on television talking about his family. The picture he presented was of a close and supportive group. ‘Really, I couldn’t cope
without them.’

How did a nervy anorexic fit in with that? Mel said he had ambitions to go into politics. ‘Power. That’s what really turns him on.’ It must have bugged him that he
couldn’t turn her into the daughter he wanted.

Richard opened the door to her. She recognized him from the newspaper articles and television reports. He looked younger than Eleanor, hardly old enough to be Mel’s dad. She wondered if he
dyed his hair.

‘Hello. You must be Rosie.’ A firm handshake and a smile. Charm on tap. A habit.

He showed her through to the kitchen. It looked over the garden and she thought, as she always did, that you could fit the whole of her house inside it. The style here was farmhouse chic. There
was an Aga, a rack of stainless-steel pans hanging from the ceiling, a huge dresser with shelves of glass jars full of beans and pulses. Rosie had never seen either of the parents cook but she
imagined them having dinner parties here at the weekends. Of course, the guests would sit at the scrubbed pine kitchen table. Richard would probably do the cooking – Thai perhaps or Mexican.
She could imagine him in an apron. Melanie wouldn’t be invited. She couldn’t be trusted around food.

Mel’s mother was sitting in a wicker chair by the Aga. She was wearing leggings and a big sweatshirt – aerobics-class clothes. Rosie knew she belonged to a gym but had never seen her
dressed casually before. Without the suit and the make-up she looked like a different woman. She sat with her feet on the edge of the chair, her knees near her chin, her arms clasped around her
legs in a sort of foetal coma.

‘Where’s Mel?’ Rosie demanded, thinking from Eleanor’s desolation that an ambulance had already come to cart her away.

Eleanor came to life, shifted position, put her feet on the floor. The wicker creaked. ‘She didn’t come home last night.’

‘I thought she might be at your house,’ Richard said. ‘But obviously not.’

‘Have you tried Joe’s?’ Rosie wasn’t quite sure why they were so worried. Not after one night. They weren’t usually like Hannah, who panicked if Rosie was half an
hour late.

‘She’s not with him either. But I’ve asked him to come round. Between us we should be able to work out where she is.’

Rosie sat on one of the reclaimed pine chairs. ‘Is there any chance of a coffee? I came straight out.’ Usually she wouldn’t have had the cheek to ask, but they needed her help,
didn’t they?

‘Of course.’ Richard filled the filter machine.

‘Where did she go when she left you last night?’ Eleanor demanded.