The Sleeping and the Dead

‘Just tell me what’s going on here.’

So she sat him on the sofa where the night before Porteous and Stout had played their double act and she told him about it – about Michael Grey whose real name was Theo Randle, about the detectives who thought she was a murderer, about her discovery of Maria Randle’s grave in the cemetery. He listened. He didn’t move or give any of the usual verbal encouragements to prove he was listening, but she could tell she had his full attention.

‘Can you be sure,’ he asked, ‘that Theo’s the same person as Michael?’

‘There’s no other explanation. Maria’s the only person buried in the cemetery who could be his mother. His memory of the funeral was so clear and precise that I’m sure he was telling the truth. And it can’t be a coincidence that he chose Maria’s maiden name as his surname.’

‘Of course, you’ll have to tell the police.’

‘I know. But what will they think? I could have told them at the first interview that Michael’s mother was buried there.’

‘They’ll think you were in shock, intimidated. I don’t suppose they’re stupid. They know how law-abiding people can react to police questioning.’ He stretched his legs. He was wearing paint-stained sweat pants. He’d bought a cottage near the prison and seemed to have been decorating for months. ‘Do you want to phone now, while I’m here? Then I can stay if they want to come to talk to you.’

‘Yes.’ Again she knew she was being pathetic but she couldn’t help it. ‘Are you sure that’s all right?’

The phone was answered by a young woman who said that Porteous was no longer in the office. She was polite but distant. Any secretary talking about any middle manager. Was it urgent? She could find someone else to speak to Hannah. Otherwise, if Hannah wanted to leave a message she could be put through to his voicemail.

‘Yes.’ It was some sort of reprieve. ‘I’ll do that.’

She listened for the beep. ‘Hello. This is Hannah Morton. I’ve remembered something which might be useful for you. Perhaps you could get in touch.’ She replaced the receiver. Arthur pulled a face of mock disappointment.

‘Bugger. So I miss out.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was hoping for the chance to play detective.’

‘You can’t be serious?’

He put out his hands, palms up, a gesture of being caught in the act. ‘OK I admit it. I love crime fiction. I’m a sucker for all those crappy cop shows on TV.’

‘This is hardly the same!’

‘I know.’ He paused, continued slowly, a dream confided. ‘I’ve always thought I’d make a good psychological profiler. At least in my work I meet real criminals and I’m not sure how many academics could say the same.’

‘You’re welcome to be here when the police talk to me.’

‘Right.’ He paused. ‘What about making a few enquiries on our own? While we’re waiting for the police to get in touch?’

‘This isn’t a game, Arthur. Not for me.’

‘I know.’

But she couldn’t bear to disappoint him. It was like when Rosie really wanted something. She always gave in. She thought, Being a mother is like trying to please the world.

‘What did you have in mind?’

‘We might find something which would divert attention away from you…’

‘That’s an excuse.’

‘What about having a shot at tracing the boy’s father? I don’t mean camping out on his doorstep. Just finding out where he is.’

‘How would you go about that?’

‘Through the records office, the archives of the local paper. There may have been a death notice when Maria died, an address. If the Brices said Michael was going to meet his father just before he died I’d say Crispin Randle makes an adequate suspect. If we hand him to Porteous on a plate it’ll give him someone else to harass.’

‘Why would he kill his own son?’

‘Why would he desert him? We’ll have to find out.’ He was like an overenthusiastic boy. Michael was a stranger to him. A puzzle to be untangled. He must have sensed her reservation, her distaste. ‘God,’ he said. ‘What an insensitive git. Look, I’ll clear out and leave it to the police.’

‘No,’ she said. He must have known she would give in eventually. ‘You play detective. If it makes you happy.’

Chapter Nineteen

Rosie spent the day looking for Mel in some of the places she could be lying low. There were days when Mel couldn’t face the Prom. Then she’d turn her back on her friends and Frank’s teasing and she’d go walkabout. Usually she wanted to be on her own but sometimes on the trawls around town she’d take Rosie with her. She didn’t speak much. She just waited for Rosie to follow her round the arcades, the sleazy snack bars, the tiny back-street pubs where a couple of pensioners sat all evening in silence. Everywhere people seemed to know her. Rosie stuck with her because in that mood Mel frightened her.

Rosie went first to the snack bar next to the bus station. A Formica shelf ran shoulder-high around the room and there were tall stools bolted to the floor. A water heater steamed behind a counter. The windows ran with condensation. There was a smell of frying bacon, which made her want to throw up.