The Sleeping and the Dead

‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t a huge estate. Only a small terraced house and a couple of thousand in savings. Perhaps they wanted to give as much as possible to Michael.’

‘Their gift from God.’ Porteous tried to keep the sneer from his voice. ‘They obviously thought he was still alive at the time of their deaths or they’d have changed the wills. And they must have believed the solicitor could trace him without too much difficulty. Didn’t they think it odd when Michael didn’t get in touch for months?’

‘The solicitor said he’d never had any other clients like them. They were unworldly, as trusting as children. They didn’t worry about things they couldn’t change.’

That’s what I try to do, Porteous thought. But I never manage it. ‘What do you make of the “known as” in the phrase “known as Michael Grey”?’

‘I supposed it meant the Brices considered him their son, even though he used a name different from theirs.’

‘Not that Michael Grey was an assumed name?’

Stout looked up sharply from his tea. ‘That would complicate matters.’

‘Wouldn’t it just.’ But, thought Porteous, if that’s the way it is I can’t change it, so there’s no point worrying.

They sat for a moment in silence. The coffin was carried from the church and replaced in the hearse, which drove slowly away. The congregation had spilled out on to the street and elderly men in shiny black suits stood chatting in the sunshine. One of the ladies behind the counter plucked up courage to call over to them. ‘Can we get you anything else, Mr Stout?’

‘Some more tea, Mavis, would be lovely.’

Still there were no other customers. After the tea had been presented Porteous said, ‘What steps did the solicitor take to trace Michael Grey?’

‘Much the same as we’ve done today. He contacted the school. He thought it most likely that Michael had gone on to further education and that the school would have the name of the college or university even if it couldn’t give him his home address. At that time he thought it would be quite straightforward to find him.’

‘But it wasn’t.’

‘Apparently Michael left quite suddenly without taking A levels.’

‘The Brices must have thought they knew where he was or surely they would have got in touch with us.’

‘I don’t know. Unless they talked to a friend about it, we’ll never find out. The solicitor did report him as a missing person when he couldn’t get an address from the school. His main objective was to prove that he’d done everything possible to find Michael. Apparently that’s a legal requirement. He advertised for information in the local Cranford paper, the Newcastle Chronicle and the London Evening Standard. It’s standard procedure.’

‘No response?’

‘Not even from cranks.’

‘What did the solicitor do then?’

‘He didn’t feel there was anything else he could do. He’d fulfilled all his legal obligations.’

‘What happened to the money?’

‘It went to Sylvia Brice’s next of kin. Because she survived her husband by a couple of days her relative was the beneficiary, not his. It was actually a nephew, a commodity broker in the city. He hardly needed the cash. According to the solicitor all the family have done well for themselves. Perhaps that’s why the Brices decided to leave the estate to Michael.’

‘I’m glad they never knew,’ Porteous said, ‘that he couldn’t be traced.’

‘There is one complication.’

‘Only one?’

‘The solicitor’s very keen for us to fix a date of death.’

‘Aren’t we all!’

Stout ignored the sarcasm and ploughed on. ‘You see, if Michael’s death predated the Brices’ then the arrangement by which the nephew inherited was fair and legal. But suppose Michael was still alive when the Brices had the car crash. Suppose he’d just gone to earth somewhere and he was killed and dumped in the lake later. Then that would affect the inheritance.’

‘In what way?’

‘The cash should have gone to his next of kin, not the Brices.’

Porteous found that he could concentrate again on the detail. The dreadful restlessness seemed to have left him. ‘I don’t think that’s likely, do you? He wasn’t the sort of lad I imagined at first. I don’t see him disappearing for months, moving from one squat to another, spending time inside. He was bright. He had a lot to lose. I think he was killed soon after he was missed at school.’

Outside, the congregation had dispersed. The grandmothers were banging pots in the kitchen to show they wanted to lock up.

Stout stood up. ‘What now?’

‘Back to the station to organize a press conference. It’s time we went public. The school gave me a photo, a cutting from the local rag, but it could be anyone. Let’s see if the paper still has the original. I know it happened nearly thirty years ago, but people round here have good memories. There’ll be friends still living in the town. And enemies. Come on, Eddie. Let’s make you a star.’