The Sleeping and the Dead

‘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.

She decided on a casserole for Arthur, something she could cook that night and heat up the next day. Chicken with tarragon, she thought. Then she could use some of the wine she had chilling in the fridge and she wouldn’t end up drinking the whole bottle. The supermarket was quiet. There were a couple of single men in suits carrying wire baskets of ready-cooked meals and designer lager, sad disorganized women like her who had nothing better to do at nine o’clock at night than shop. She looked out for Joe. She would never do it because Rosie would be mortified, but she wanted to say, ‘Look at my daughter. I mean really look at her. She’s a beauty and she fancies you like crazy. What are you doing, letting her go?’ She expected to bump into him at the checkout or filling shelves but he wasn’t there. She hoped it was his night off and he was at Laura’s party too.

The next day, Marty wasn’t waiting outside the library for her to unlock the door and he still hadn’t showed when the papers arrived. She tried to rouse Dave, the prison officer, but he was stretched out in the chair in the office and the rhythm of his snoring didn’t alter a beat even when she shook him. She phoned the wing.

‘Haven’t they told you?’

If they had, I’d not be ringing, she thought. She didn’t say it because she knew the wing officer and liked him. She didn’t have so many friends in the place that she could afford to offend him. But she came closer than she ever would have done when she was living with Jonathan. Perhaps living on her own with Rosie was making her assertive.

‘Where is he?’ She thought Marty might have been shipped out to an open prison before release. Sometimes it happened without warning.

‘He’s in hospital.’ The officer was from North Wales and spoke with a sibilant hiss which was mimicked by the inmates and other staff.

‘The sick bay?’ She was still thinking of it only as an administrative inconvenience. She ran through the library rota in her head, wondering if she could draft in another orderly, trying to think of a suitable candidate.’

‘No. The General.’

That brought her up short. ‘Serious then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s wrong with him? He seemed fine yesterday.’

‘There was a fight. Nastier than most. We didn’t get to it in time.’ He paused. ‘Marty started it. They all say that. Some new lad was winding him up. He can kiss goodbye to his parole, if he lives that long.’

‘It’s that serious?’ What’s happening to the people I know? She thought. He can’t die. Not him too.

‘I’ve not heard how he is this morning. The Governor will know, I suppose, but you know what he’s like. He tells us nothing. It looked bad last night.’