The Sleeping and the Dead

Chapter Thirty

When he returned to the station Stout wasn’t there. Claire Wright had sent him home to get a bite to eat.

‘He was bushed,’ she said. ‘He was here most of the night again and then he went over to the old folks’ bungalow to talk to Charlie Luke. And spent the rest of the morning mooching around town.’

‘Looking out for Reeves?’

‘What do you think?’

Porteous thought Stout was driven, losing it, but he didn’t answer.

‘Ray Scully’s been on the phone.’

‘And?’

‘He’s here. At the coast. He came up last night to stay at his mum’s.’

‘Can you go to see him? Check out his alibi of course, but let him talk. Anything Melanie might have told him. Did she write? Has he kept the letters? Find out if there’s any possible connection between him and the Randles. Any gossip on the Gillespies would be useful too.’

‘Sure.’

From his office Porteous phoned Carver. The pathologist was out and nobody else seemed willing to tell him if the report on Melanie Gillespie had been sent. He sat at his desk for a moment then felt the old restlessness creeping up on him and went out.

He found Eddie Stout asleep in his garden. Bet opened the door to him. She’d been washing up and had on big yellow gloves like motorcycle gauntlets.

‘Look at him.’ She pointed through the open kitchen window to a neat patio, sheltered with a trellis covered by clematis and honeysuckle. Eddie sat in the shade in a green garden chair. His head was tilted back and his mouth was slightly open. He was snoring. ‘I came in to make him a sandwich and when I went out he was off. He’s still not eaten.’

‘Leave him.’ Porteous could smell the honeysuckle. ‘He’s been doing too much. It’s not urgent.’

‘No. He’d never forgive me if he knew you’d been and I’d not told him.’

Eddie woke with a start like a small boy startled from a dream. Bet left them. In the kitchen they heard her singing along to Classic FM, the sound of water running into a kettle. Eddie moved stiffly, easing the stiffness from his body.

‘It looks as if you’re right,’ Porteous said. ‘About Alec Reeves.’ But even as he spoke he was trying to make sense of it. What had the Brices been playing at? They must have heard the rumours about Reeves but they’d invited him into a house where a young kid was staying. Then he thought – No, it was the other way round. Theo knew Reeves before he came to live with the Brices. Reeves must have introduced them.

‘It looks as if Theo Randle was at Redwood,’ Peter went on. ‘Hannah Morton remembered his mentioning it. I haven’t checked but I bet Melanie was there too, just before it closed.’

Stout shut his eyes, a silent prayer of thanks.

‘Have they found him yet?’

Porteous shook his head.

‘You’ll be going public then? Tell the press we want to talk to him?’

‘Tomorrow. I promise. I’m still worried about lack of evidence. Coincidence. It could be no more than that. If we come to trial I want nobody saying there can’t be a fair hearing because of the ranting of the press. You can be sure all the old rumours will come out. Publicity works both ways. I’ve arranged to see Alice Cornish and she might have more information on Reeves. In the meantime you could ask again around the town. Discreetly. If he’s come back here someone will know about it.’

‘When are you seeing her?’

‘I’m going straight from here. She still lives in Yorkshire.’

Eddie nodded with approval. ‘I’m seeing the Spences as you suggested. And Chris Johnson.’

‘Any problems?’

‘Not with the Spences. She’s a reporter, isn’t she? All over me like a rash. Johnson wasn’t so happy but he knew better than to object.’

‘Look,’ Porteus said. ‘Take a couple of hours off. The rest of the day if you need it. Those interviews can wait until tomorrow.’

Stout didn’t even bother to answer that. ‘I think Reeves has done a runner. He’s not gone home. He’s not visited his sister. He’s guessed that we’re on to him.’

You’re obsessed, Porteous thought, recognizing the signs. You’re thinking of nothing else. Reeves is haunting your dreams. ‘Alice Cornish might know where he’s hiding out,’ he said mildly.

‘Please do me a favour.’ Eddie leaned forward, put his hand on the arm of Porteous’s chair, almost touching him. Fervent as he’d be preaching in the chapel on Sunday. ‘Give me a ring when you get in. Let me know what she’s said. Even if there’s no news.’

‘It could be late. You’ll need some sleep.’

‘I’ll not be asleep. You phone me.’

Alice Cornish’s house was less grand than Porteous had expected. She was a celebrity of a kind, a Dame, the author of a handful of books and dozens of reports. When he’d spoken to her that morning she hadn’t exactly welcomed his visit. ‘I don’t understand, Inspector, why this conversation couldn’t be conducted by telephone. I value my privacy.’