The Sleeping and the Dead

He was early but Eddie must have been looking out because he was halfway down the drive before Porteous had switched off the engine. He was carrying a foil-wrapped packet, which he threw on to the back seat.

‘Bet insisted on making sandwiches. I told her it would all be over before dinner.’

They met up at the police station and drove in convoy round the reservoir, held up at one point by an ancient tractor. The only other traffic was a post van. They pulled into the lay-by where Stout had turned his car the day before while the team got into place. Stout didn’t mention that. He didn’t mention how close he’d been to going it alone.

At seven thirty exactly they drove up the track. That was the time they’d decided on. Not too early to cause offence if it did all turn out to be a mistake and Reeves wasn’t there at all. Stout dismissed the possibility, but went along with the theory. These were business people, keen surely. They’d be checking their emails, planning their day. But it was still early enough to catch them on the hop, to emphasize that they were here on serious business.

‘This has changed a bit. I don’t think I’d have recognized it.’ Stout was driving. He pulled into a marked parking bay in what had once been the farmyard. A brass sign by the door of a converted barn said ‘Reception’ but they ignored that and went towards the house. Everything was smart, spruce, clean. The garden was landscaped. A conservatory had been added. Porteous took a breath and rang the doorbell.

The door was opened by a child, a boy of about twelve, half dressed for school, his shirt hanging out, his buttons undone. Porteous hadn’t expected that. There’d been no mention of children.

‘Could I talk to your father please?’

The boy grunted. He still seemed half asleep. He led them through the house to a large kitchen, all new oak and terracotta tiles. There was a smell of coffee and faintly of cinnamon. At a table by a big window sat a couple, the woman in a silk kimono, the man, his hair wet from the shower in a short towelling dressing gown. The table was laid for three but it seemed the third place was for the boy because there was no sign of Reeves. Either the couple hadn’t heard the doorbell or they thought the boy had dealt with it because they didn’t look up. They were discussing work, planning a meeting for later in the day. If Reeves was there, Porteous thought they weren’t aware of what he’d done. They had no sense of danger.

The boy stood dreamily. His bare feet had made no sound on the floor. Eventually he seemed to remember what he was doing.

‘Dad.’ Then they did look round and he nodded over his shoulder in the direction of the visitors before wandering off.

Paul Lord must have taken them for potential clients. If he was surprised or annoyed that they’d turned up at such an inconvenient time, he didn’t show it. Perhaps it wasn’t unusual. He stood up, held out his hands, a gesture of welcome, but also of apology for the dressing gown, the half-eaten breakfast. He was confident, rather good looking. There was no sign of the spotty schoolboy. His makeover had been as dramatic as that of the farm.

‘Can I help you?’ Then he turned to Stout. ‘Don’t I know you? I remember, you were a policeman. That dreadful case when I was a boy. Do you know, you’ve hardly changed.’

‘Still am a policeman, sir. Here to ask you a few questions.’

And still Lord remained courteous and composed. Too courteous? Porteous wondered. Wouldn’t most people be irritated, hostile, if they were interrupted in the middle of breakfast. But perhaps it had become a habit to be pleasant. Perhaps that was why he was so successful. He treated them now with a puzzled good humour.

He asked to be allowed to dress first and they let both of them go, because even if Reeves was hiding out somewhere in this big house and tried to do a runner the team outside would get him. That might be better even. Save them having to search and it would look better in court if he had been trying to escape.

‘Does Phillippa have to be involved in this, Inspector?’

Phillippa, the wife, had remained silent throughout.

‘We do have questions for both of you.’

And he accepted even that without a fuss.

While they were waiting in the kitchen the boy came in for breakfast. He shovelled in cereal, then, well trained, stacked the bowl in the dishwasher and returned the milk to the fridge. He showed no curiosity about who they were.

‘Do you need a lift to school, lad?’ Stout asked.

‘No thank you.’ Very polite, very well brought up. ‘I get the bus from the end of the track.’

Like Carl Jackson, thirty years before. Doesn’t that haunt Paul Lord? Porteous thought. He was involved in the case even if it was only as a witness. How can he send his son up that lane every morning without a worry?

They carried out the interview in the conservatory, drinking the best coffee Porteous had tasted for years from chunky, hand-thrown mugs. Stout took the lead. That was what they had decided.