The Sleeping and the Dead (21 page)

‘I’ve been everywhere I can think of.’ She sat on the bed.

‘Anything?’

‘She went to the Rainbow’s End after the Prom. Maura said she was a bit jumpy, but nothing new there . . . It was a student gig. Maybe she met someone . . .’

There was a pause.

‘The police think she might have been kidnapped.’ He couldn’t keep a shiver of excitement from his voice. He was still worried but kidnapping was something out of the movies,
glamorous even.

Rosie frowned. ‘The Gillespies went to the police?’

‘Eleanor did. I think she cracked. Richard didn’t sound very happy. I phoned just now and I could hear him in the background. He says everyone’s overreacting.’

So do I, Rosie thought. I think she picked up a bloke at the Rainbow’s End out of boredom or desperation or devilment. She’s hiding out in a hall of residence or a grotty bedsit,
waiting for the maximum fuss before making her appearance. Rosie wouldn’t have told Joe but it wouldn’t be the first time Mel had gone home with someone she’d met on one of her
walkabouts.

‘Why do they think she was kidnapped?’

‘Apparently it’s not much more than a theory. Eleanor and Richard are high-profile parents. And there was a case a couple of months ago. The kidnappers got away with a half a
million. Since then there has been a spate of copycat attempts. Mostly amateurs, the police say. Mostly easy to deal with.’ He paused and sat beside her on the bed. His feet were bare. She
could see every bone and joint under the skin. ‘Do you remember Frank saying someone was in the Prom looking for her? An older bloke.’

‘Yes. Do the police think he might have been the kidnapper?’

‘I told Eleanor anyway. It’s up to them. She thought they might want to talk to us sometime.’

‘Me too?’

‘Why not? You know her as well as anyone. You’re best mates.’

Suddenly she felt sick with guilt. She remembered the good times. The girlie sleepovers with bottles of wine and soppy videos, the gossip about lads, mega shopping sessions in the city. She
imagined Mel being held somewhere and what they might be doing to her. And she’d been thinking it was all some attention-seeking stunt.

‘Let’s go and look,’ she said. ‘Just in case. I can’t sit here doing nothing.’

They spent the evening in the city, tramping through all the pubs, even those Mel had never set foot in so far as they knew. They asked in the arcade and the pizza places and the roller-skating
rink. No one had seen her. They ended up with Maura in the Rainbow’s End, shouting their questions over a flamenco guitar. Had there been an older guy in the night before? Anyone taking a
special interest in Mel? Maura tried to answer their questions but in the end she got fed up with them and sent them home.

Joe walked Rosie all the way to her door. On the step he held on to her in a desperate bear hug. She pushed him away in the end, feeling confused and guilty. As guilty as if she’d played
some part in Mel’s disappearance.

Hannah had been expecting Arthur to be waiting for her at the prison but she went through the gate to the library without seeing him. It was halfway through the morning when he
bounced in.

‘Can you spare a minute?’

She turned to Marty. ‘Are you OK on your own? Dave’s in the office.’

Marty rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Is that supposed to be reassuring?’

‘Well . . .’

‘Go on. I’ll be fine.’

They sat in Arthur’s office drinking coffee. He was a different man: the super-cool Scouser had gone; he was bubbling, the words falling over themselves. She regretted her impulse of the
night before to involve him. She could tell there would be no stopping him now.

‘I’ve been to the Central Library, tracked down the back copies of the local rag. It’s great that they’ve still got them.’

‘Aren’t they all on microfilm?’ She wanted to slow him down, rein back some of the enthusiasm. Stop, she wanted to say. You don’t know what you’re getting into.

‘Mm?’ The interruption only checked him for a moment. ‘It’s amazing what you can find in the births, marriages and deaths columns.’

‘You haven’t wasted any time.’

‘I started with Maria’s death. The notice said she died after “a brave struggle with illness”. Cancer isn’t mentioned but that’s the implication.’

‘That would fit in with Michael’s memories.’

‘Then I went back a few years and found the report of her marriage. A front-page spread. Obviously a big do. The wedding of the season. Crispin Randle seems to have been a member of the
local gentry. He owned land not far from here. He was an MP. Tory of course. Master of the Hunt. You know the sort of bloke. He married Maria Grey in 1952. Two years later Theo’s birth was
announced. He was named Theo Michael, so I don’t think there’s any doubt we’re on the right track.’

She nodded, felt irrationally pleased that she could continue to think of her ghost as Michael.

‘I almost gave up the search then. I mean, I’d got enough for the police to be going on with. But I thought Randle was still a young man. What if he’d remarried . .
.’

‘And had he?’ Just to show she was still listening.

‘Yeah. Three years later. That wedding was a much quieter event. The bride was Stella Midwood, who’d been working as his secretary. A year later they had a daughter,
Emily.’

The names and dates washed over her. She thought she’d have to write it all down like a family tree to make sense of it.

‘Why didn’t they have Michael to live with them?’ she asked. ‘Why board him out with the Brices?’

‘Wait. There’s more drama to come. In 1964 when Theo Michael was ten, there was a fire in the family home. It was big news. The place was burned to a shell and Emily, the little
girl, Michael’s stepsister, was killed. Crispin Randle sold the estate and some months later he resigned his seat in the Commons. Michael isn’t mentioned in the account of the fire or
the resignation.’

‘Is that significant?’

‘Dunno. Perhaps it was too painful for Crispin to have him around. Perhaps Michael reminded him of the death of his first wife and his daughter. Perhaps Crispin had some sort of breakdown
and couldn’t cope.’

‘Michael was only ten!’

‘Old enough to be shipped off to boarding school.’

‘Why did he come to Cranford then? And why the change of identity?’

Arthur shrugged. ‘Teenage rebellion? It’s possible he didn’t get on with his stepmother. Perhaps he resented the way his father dumped him.’

‘Perhaps.’ It’s all guesswork, she thought. Really, despite Arthur’s excitement we’re not much further forward. ‘Do we know where Stella and Crispin are
living now?’

‘There’s no record. But the police will find out easily enough. We’ve done all the hard work for them.’ He hesitated. ‘Don’t you have an early finish
today?’

‘Why?’ She knew he wanted something from her. Living with Rosie had given her a sixth sense about people bumming favours.

‘What about going to Cranford? This afternoon. We can give all this information to Porteous in person. That’ll stop him hassling you.’

Who are you kidding? she thought. That’s not what this is about. This is about you showing off to the police. You want the glory. You want to sit there and gloat.

‘We could stay the night. I could meet your friends. We could be back in time for work tomorrow.’

‘Go on then.’ She couldn’t think of an argument against it and, as Rosie knew, she’d always been an easy touch.

She phoned Porteous from the library. Dave had sloped off and Marty pretended not to listen.

‘Mrs Morton,’ Porteous said. ‘I was hoping to speak to you. More questions I’m afraid. Something’s come up.’

‘I can’t talk now. I’m at work.’ She couldn’t face an interview over the phone. She wanted Arthur there.

He said he was tied up all day and that he’d come to The Old Rectory in the evening. She sensed he was preoccupied and wondered if there’d been a development in the case. Perhaps
he’d discovered Michael’s background without Arthur’s help.

Later she phoned Sally and asked if she could put the two of them up for the night as paying guests.

‘A double room?’ Sally asked mischievously. ‘The honeymoon suite?’

‘Of course not!’ Hannah thought her humour hadn’t developed since they were children. She’d always been a tease about sex.

Arthur hadn’t quite finished his class when she arrived at his room at lunchtime. Some form of role-play was going on. Hannah walked back down the corridor so she wouldn’t be tempted
to watch. She found that sort of exercise embarrassing enough without spectators, though she’d come to realize that Arthur liked play-acting and games.

He admitted as much in the car. He’d been asking about the people who’d been around at the time of Michael’s death. She described Roger Spence, Sally and her disc-jockey
boyfriend, Stephen and Sylvia Brice. By the time they arrived at The Old Rectory she had the feeling that he knew them as well as she did and probably understood them better.

‘What’s all this about, Arthur?’ It was her librarian, who’s-been-turning-down-the-page-corners voice.‘I really think we should leave it to the police.’

‘Come on, girl. Don’t spoil my fun.’ She was about to say tartly that it wasn’t fun for her when he added, ‘I might leave it to them if I could be certain
they’d get it right.’ He paused. ‘You must have met men inside who don’t deserve to be there.’

‘I’ve met men who
say
they don’t.’

‘Well, I don’t want any cock-ups in this case.’ He smiled but she wasn’t reassured. He worked for the Home Office. He should have had more faith in the system.

It was just after two when they arrived. Hannah had expected Sally to be at work but she was there to meet them. Curiosity about Arthur, Hannah thought, and a nose for a story. Sally hustled
them into the dining-room and organized a late lunch. Later, over coffee, Roger joined them too.

They talked about Michael Grey. It was Arthur’s doing, but perhaps the Spences were eager to talk about him anyway. Sally had her own agenda.

‘I had the impression he’d come from the private system,’ Roger said, ‘but his Latin wasn’t up to much. Hardly prep-school standard. Not what you’d
expect.’

‘Was he doing Latin A level?’ Arthur gave the impression he was just being polite. Hannah knew better.

‘No, but I dragooned him in to help with one of my first-year groups. In the end I let him go. He wasn’t any use at all.’

‘Perhaps he just wanted his free period back.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t think so. It’s quite hard to fake genuine ignorance, isn’t it?’

‘How did you get to know him if you didn’t teach him?’

‘Through the school play. I coached him. Individual rehearsals.’

‘Were you surprised when he disappeared?’

‘Not very surprised. Not at first. He liked mysteries. I remember one session when I talked about him bringing his own experience into his acting. He said he was already doing that but he
refused to discuss his past with me. I was more surprised when he never returned. I kept expecting him to turn up out of the blue to astound and amaze us.’

Arthur turned lazily to Sally. ‘How well did you know him?’

‘Only as Hannah’s boyfriend. And I’m sorry, pet, but I didn’t really take to him. He was a bit arty-farty for me. There was too much pretence.’

‘Whereas you . . .’ Roger interrupted, ‘you had your own bit of rough.’

She laughed, not offended in the slightest. ‘Quite right,’ she said. ‘And very nice it was too. You’ll be able to meet him tonight, Arthur. Chris. My
ex-bit-of-rough.’

She narrowed her eyes. Hannah thought Sally knew what he was up to. Perhaps journalists and psychologists had similar techniques when it came to ferreting out a story.

Sally continued, ‘There’s a wedding party in the annexe and Chris is doing the disco. He’s still playing the same sort of gigs. I think it’s a bit sad that he’s
never moved on.’

In the afternoon they left the car at the hotel and walked to the lake. There was a footpath through an old deciduous wood and then a strip of forestry-commission plantation.
The footpath was overgrown and looked as if it must have been there in Hannah’s time, but she couldn’t remember having used it, and at the lakeside everything was so different that she
found it hard to get her bearings. A group of teenagers in orange life-jackets stood where once Chris had bought her vodka. A woman was spelling out the rules of safety on the water, shouting to
get their attention. Hannah thought that if they capsized they’d be able to walk back to the shore. The water level was even lower than she’d expected. The beach, which she’d
remembered as a narrow strip of sand, had widened to an unsightly expanse of mud, rock and shingle. The trainee sailors had to push their dinghies to the water on trolleys, lifting them
occasionally over the larger rocks. A new island had been formed at the north end of the lake.

She didn’t know what Arthur hoped to gain by the walk. A sense of place perhaps. She’d told him about her first romantic encounter with Michael by the bonfire on the beach. But this
scene, on a sunny afternoon, with the giggles and squawks of the school party coming to them over the water, had nothing in common with the night after the exams. She felt it was an anticlimax.
She’d waited so long to come back and now it meant nothing. Arthur seemed dissatisfied by it too, because he sat for a moment in the sun then suggested that they return to The Old Rectory by
the lane. On the walk back she started to fret about what Porteous would want from her and how she would explain her failure to pass on the information about Maria’s grave. She said nothing
to Arthur. How could she tell him she felt like a schoolgirl, waiting for one of Spooky Spence’s beastly tests?

Outside the hotel a battered white transit was parked. One headlight seemed to be held on by gaffer tape. Chris was standing by the sliding door, shuffling a loudspeaker towards him so he could
get his arms around it. Hannah didn’t want to face him yet and touched Arthur’s arm to stop him from approaching. Chris shifted the balance of the speaker so he was taking all the
weight and walked slowly with it round the side of the building. His hair was a lot shorter and he was a bit thicker round the waist but he hadn’t changed much. It could have been the same
black T-shirt as the one he’d worn to the party after
Macbeth
.