The Sleeping and the Dead

‘No!’ The anger returned. ‘What do the police know about why people do things? They haven’t got very far in finding Melanie’s murderer. And I can’t risk it. What if he was telling the truth? What if he knows someone who works with Porteous?’

‘He’s a kid, a smack-head. He’s not in league with the police. That’s paranoia.’

She seemed about to give in, to agree to his phoning Porteous. Certainly she presented as the old Hannah, diffident and unassuming. She straightened her skirt over her knees and clasped her hands on her lap.

‘You always wanted to play at detectives.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, now’s your chance.’

‘Hannah, what do you want me to do?’

‘Bring Rosie back.’ As if it were the most simple thing in the world. ‘You must still have access to Hunter’s file at Stavely. They won’t have cleared it yet. You can find an address for him. You worked with him. You know what he’s like. You’re a psychologist, for Christ’s sake. You’ll know what to say to him. He won’t be expecting anything to happen until eleven tomorrow. We can catch him off guard.’

‘I don’t know.’

She looked at her watch and was surprised that it still wasn’t eight o’clock. ‘If you go now to look at the file you won’t even cause a stir on the gate. They’re used to your working late.’

Still he paused.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you. It could be dangerous. Just get the address and I’ll go myself.’

‘No.’ It came out as a wounded bellow. ‘It’s not that.’ He turned to her. ‘Sod it,’ he said. ‘Sod the Prison Service and the Home Office. I’ll do it. I bloody want to do it.’

Chapter Thirty-Eight

In the flat the boy was becoming more jumpy. Rosie thought of him only as ‘the boy’. She hadn’t asked his name. She didn’t care. The television was on. He’d switched it on as soon as it got light, but he kept the sound low and the flashing images couldn’t hold his attention. In the distance there was the scream of a police siren. He jumped to his feet and stared out of the window. Rosie saw his knuckles clenched white around the handle of his knife. He only started to relax when the noise disappeared into the distance. She couldn’t see her watch because her hands were tied behind her back, but it was starting to get dark, the second night. He wouldn’t put on a light. He didn’t want anyone to know he was using the flat.

She’d stopped being scared. Now she was only hungry and uncomfortable. The water to the flat was still connected. The toilet flushed and when she’d complained of being thirsty he’d brought her a drink in a blue plastic mug with a moulded handle. They’d had an identical set to take on picnics when she was a kid. He’d given her a biscuit too because she’d said she was starving. It was soft and stale.

‘Is this all there is?’ she’d demanded.

At that, he’d been flustered and said she’d soon be out of there. It wouldn’t hurt her to go without for a couple of days.

Yeah, she’d thought. She could live off her bum for a week. If she came out of this thinner perhaps the adventure would be worth it. That had led to a picture of a skeletal Mel. She had pushed the image from her head. Remembering Mel, dead in the cemetery, had made her panic. She needed to think straight.

It was clear to her that there’d been no forward planning in the boy’s decision to bring her to the flat. If he’d thought about it in advance, he’d have got food in. Even if he didn’t mind starving her, he’d have wanted to eat and as far as she could tell he didn’t have a stash hidden away. With the arrogance of someone who usually thrived on the challenge of exams, who found learning easy, she’d put him down as a bit dim. She’d worked out the sort of lad he was; there’d been someone like him in every class since she’d been an infant. The name for them in her school was ‘charvie’, meaning scally, loser, someone you wouldn’t be seen dead with socially. Charvies were the kids who started school without being able to tie their laces. They wet their pants and came last in spelling tests. Teachers hated them. In primary school they started fights in the playground and failed their SATs, and in high school they got involved in petty crime, dealing in single cigarettes, then blow or smack. When they were at school, which wasn’t often.

When Hannah heard Rosie talking like that, out would come the lecture. ‘How on earth can you be so judgmental? You don’t know anything about those kids. You don’t know where they come from or what their families are like. Of course people can change if you give them a chance.’ She thought she could change her prisoners by giving them books. What planet was she on? Rosie knew this boy was a charvie, always had been, and so he was no match for her.