The Sleeping and the Dead

‘There’s an empty bungalow over the road from Sarah Jackson’s. The council were going to do it up before the next tenant anyway. I talked to a chap in building services who goes to our church. He pushed the work to the top of the list. They’re going to start this morning.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Should be there already. I’ve sent Charlie Luke along as part of the team.’

‘Won’t the council workers talk?’

‘No, they think he’s a management trainee. They have to do work experience in every department.’

Porteous smiled at the thought that Luke could pass as management material, but Stout was continuing. ‘He’ll have a key and can let our people in at night. If the neighbours get used to workmen being in the place it shouldn’t cause so much gossip.’

‘Good.’ Porteous thought the plan unnecessarily elaborate. They had no evidence that Reeves would try to contact his sister. But he knew Stout wasn’t in the mood to take criticism. Counselling had taught him the futility of knocking his head against a brick wall.

‘I got an address for Reeves from the DVLA. He lives in a small town in the Yorkshire Dales.’

‘Back to Yorkshire,’ Porteous said. ‘Hannah Morton thought Theo had been at school there but we didn’t get anywhere when we checked earlier. Could Alec have introduced Theo to the Brices, I wonder? I suppose it’s more likely to be coincidence. Theo would have been in a boarding school and Alec a care assistant in a Social Services assessment centre so it’s hard to see where they’d have met. Not that I’ve traced either establishment yet. But it shouldn’t be difficult now.’

‘I’ve found out where Reeves worked.’ Stout was jubilant. Porteous tried to be gracious in his moment of glory. ‘It was a place called Redwood. It wasn’t run by Social Services. Not officially. They bought in places there for difficult kids they couldn’t persuade anyone else to take. It was operated by a charitable trust. It closed about a year ago when the person in charge retired. A woman by the name of Alice Cornish. Apparently she’s famous.’

‘Oh yes,’ Porteous said. ‘She’s very famous.’

He was surprised Stout had never heard of her. Alice Cornish had been committed to providing quality care for children before the improvement of residential services became a fashionable cause. She’d worked in local-authority children’s homes in the late sixties and resigned, very publicly, exposing a series of scandals. The press hadn’t known what to make of her and in some quarters she’d been portrayed as an idealistic but rather hysterical trouble maker. She’d gone on to qualify as a doctor and then to set up an establishment of her own – Redwood – in a farmhouse in the country. Her peers found it hard to understand why she was bothering with grubby and disruptive children when she could be earning a comfortable living within the health service, but her qualifications made them take her seriously. She welcomed research teams into Redwood and they had to admit that her methods worked. She had gone on to be hugely respected in the field of social welfare. She had been made a Dame and chaired committees of inquiry into widespread abuse. Yet still she maintained her personal contact with Redwood and the children who’d lived there spoke of her with great affection. It seemed inconceivable that she would have employed anyone suspected of abuse. Porteous said as much, tactfully, to Stout.

‘She wouldn’t have known, would she? He was never convicted. Never even charged.’

‘I just don’t see how he would have got away with it at a place like that. Dr Cornish’s whole philosophy was about listening to children. The kids wouldn’t have been frightened to talk if Reeves had tried anything on.’

‘He’s clever,’ Stout said stubbornly. ‘Cunning. You don’t know.’

Again Porteous saw no point in arguing. ‘Is Reeves at home now?’

‘I got in touch with the local nick. They sent a community policeman round there yesterday evening. If Alec had answered he’d have got a pep talk about the neighbourhood watch, but nobody was in. According to the neighbours he’s a model citizen, keeps his lawn cut, does his stint driving meals on wheels round the village and – get this – he helps organize the Duke of Edinburgh award scheme at the local high school.’

‘Perhaps that’s how he met Theo Randle,’ Porteous said, almost to himself.

‘Perhaps that’s still how he gets to meet young lads.’

‘Had the local bobbies heard that anything like that’s going on?’

‘They didn’t say.’ Stout sounded disappointed. ‘But he’s known as a loner. Well thought of in the village, but no real friends, no wife, no ladyfriend.’

You could say the same about me, Porteous thought.

‘Did the neighbours have any idea where Reeves had gone?’ he asked.

‘Away for a week to visit an old colleague. They think he’ll be back today or tomorrow.’

‘I don’t suppose they mentioned where the old colleague lives?’

‘No. The old lady who lives next door asked but he wouldn’t say. It wasn’t like him. Usually he was happy to have a cup of tea with her and a chat.’