The Sleeping and the Dead

‘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.

Chapter Seventeen

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.’