The Sleeping and the Dead (15 page)

‘My mother,’ he said. ‘Actually.’

She sensed that he was ready to talk, took his arm and pulled him into a pub.

Talking to the detectives, she was aware on a number of occasions of coincidences, links between her life as an eighteen-year-old and her life as a mother. Often she caught herself thinking,
What would Rosie have done if that had happened to her? Certainly she would have been more assertive. She wouldn’t have waited for almost a year, content with a kiss and a fairly chaste
grope. She would have wanted to know what was going on. The pub was the most obvious coincidence. When Rosie first started work in the Promenade, Hannah thought the name was familiar. She called in
occasionally to collect her daughter from a late shift but the place stirred no memories. By the time Rosie worked there the Prom had become one big room with long windows painted white. One
evening, when she wasn’t quite ready for her lift home, Hannah looked at the old photographs on the walls. They hadn’t been bought as a job lot by the brewery; they showed the place as
it had been before it had been taken over. With a start she realized it was the pub where she and Michael had sat on that winter’s day. Then, the Promenade had two small bars separated by a
gloomy corridor. The walls were half panelled in wood covered in a sticky yellow varnish, wrinkled like custard skin. They had sat all lunchtime in the corner of the snug, with their half-pints in
front of them, and nobody disturbed them.

That was the time he told her about his mother’s funeral, the story Hannah passed on to the detectives, without giving them the context, without telling them where she sat to hear it. He
talked in short phrases, not trying to call attention to himself this time, but trying to get it right. He described the big car whose purpose he could only guess at. The stern people in black
clothes. The crocuses on the lawn.

But the funeral hadn’t taken place in Yorkshire. Hannah was sure of that. It had taken place in the windswept town on the coast. Why hadn’t she passed on
that
particular gem
of information to Porteous and Stout? She had her reasons. Because they had irritated her with their insinuating questions. Because Michael wouldn’t have wanted them to know.

In the pub it was cold, so cold that she found it hard at first to concentrate on what Michael was saying. At one point she put her hand on the radiator and pulled it away because it was
freezing, almost literally, so she felt her skin might stick to the pipe. They sat, huddled in jackets with the hoods still pulled up, Michael talking in spluttering fits.

‘I don’t remember much of the time she was ill. A visit to the hospital with my father. He was holding flowers – orange lilies, I think – and when we got to the bed he
pushed them into my hand. The smell. In hospital and at home. Disinfectant, I suppose. Her face. I think I remember her face, but I’ve struggled too much to hold that in my mind and I’m
not sure how accurate it is. You lose something, don’t you, if you try too hard?’

‘You must have photographs,’ Hannah said. Even after just a couple of years her memory of her father seemed to come from family snaps. There was one of him, taken at Christmas, with
a paper hat on his head and a forced smile on his face, which she’d have been glad to forget.

But Michael shook his head. ‘I don’t know where they all went.’

‘Doesn’t your father have them?’ He shook his head again. He was so upset that she didn’t feel she could push it. Later she knew that to be a mistake.

‘Did she take you to the fair?’

‘I think she must have done. It’s one of the pictures I have in my head. We went down the helter skelter together. I sat between her legs. She wore tan nylons. I remember the mat we
sat on. I was wearing shorts and it was prickly like coconut fibre. The sun was shining.’ He paused. ‘I chose the wrong day, didn’t I, to re-create the atmosphere?’

‘We can come back in the summer.’

‘She was buried here,’ he said suddenly. ‘In the cemetery by the lighthouse.’

‘Shall we go to look for the grave?’

He shivered. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough now. Let’s go home.’

He placed an emphasis on the last word as if he’d come to a decision. Home was the Brices’ house. It wasn’t this place.

Rosie stood behind the bar of the Prom with her back to the punters and took a moment to catch her breath. It had been a crazy evening. Friday nights were always busy, but this
had been wild. On Friday night the locals came out and trippers and people from the city. They dressed up and paraded along the sea front from one pub to another, ending up after closing in the
clubs. On Friday nights every pub along the sea front had a bouncer outside. The clubs were heaving. Scantily dressed waiters and waitresses pranced between the tables with trays held high above
the customers. The Prom wasn’t really part of this circuit, but some people who did the Friday-night gig as a bit of a joke started off there, because the beer was cheaper, and to show that
they weren’t really taking it seriously.

Early on, a visiting rugby team had arrived and taken up residence in front of the widescreen television.

‘Isn’t rugby a winter thing?’ Rosie had asked vaguely.

They had explained it was a special tournament but she had already lost interest. She had never seen so many similar-looking men before. They were like clones, she thought. They wore matching
sweatshirts with a sponsor’s logo on the back. All had square jaws and squat, square bodies. All drank the same brand of lager. As the evening wore on they grew more raucous. They bought two
pints each to save queuing at the bar. They whistled and shouted at the female images on the television, but when Rosie went to clear the tables they seemed not to see her.

Tonight was even busier than usual because they were one person down. Lindsay, their most experienced barmaid, had called in sick. Frank was grumbling. Rosie, preparing to dive back into the
fray to collect glasses, heard him muttering to himself. She grinned. It’ll be his age, she thought. Poor old thing. He can’t stand the pace.

Just before closing time the crowd suddenly thinned. The rugby team stumbled away to look for a curry or a late-night bar. The holiday makers returned to their B&Bs. In the distance she
heard the wail of a police siren. Then Joe came in. Mel wasn’t with him.

Rosie hadn’t seen him since she’d come back from The Old Rectory with her mother. He hadn’t returned her calls and she’d almost given him up. She’d tried to talk to
Mel but hadn’t got through to her either. Mrs Gillespie always answered the phone – even during the day, which was a sign that something was wrong. Mrs Gillespie was usually as much of
a workaholic as her husband, certainly worked the same sort of hours. At first when Rosie phoned, Mel’s mum had been evasive – Mel wasn’t available and she wasn’t sure when
she’d be back. Later she’d come clean.

‘Look, I’m sorry, Rosie. She’s really not very well.’

‘I could come round.’

‘Not just at present. Maybe when she’s a bit better.’

So when Joe turned up at the Prom on his own that night, Rosie wasn’t surprised. She pulled him a pint.

‘On me,’ she said, because she knew he’d have no money, even if he hadn’t been on holiday.

He sat on one of the high stools by the bar.

‘How’s Mel?’ she asked, though if she was honest by now she really didn’t care. He cared though, which is why she asked.

He shrugged. ‘Her mother says she doesn’t want to see me.’ He looked over the glass. ‘I don’t know what to make of that woman. When Mel first introduced us I
thought she was OK. Smart. Funny. Mel always made out she was some kind of monster but I didn’t get it. Now I don’t know . . . I’ve spent the last few days at home waiting for Mel
to phone. I’m not even sure if her mother passed on the messages. I had to get out. I need some air. Or space. Whatever . . .’

‘Why wouldn’t she go to Portugal with you?’

‘I don’t know. She was excited at first. We were all set to go. It must have been something I did.’ He went on in a rush. ‘I do everything wrong. I always say the wrong
thing. Perhaps it would be better if we finished. What do you think?’

Yes, she cried silently. But he didn’t want an answer. Not that one at least.

‘She’s so delicate.’ He spoke slowly, struggling for the words, looking to Rosie to help him. ‘So fragile. And I’m clumsy. Perhaps she’d be better off without
me.’

Then, for the first time in such stark terms, Rosie saw what she was up against. She understood the competition. She was a size fourteen. Healthy. As strong as an ox. She laughed too loudly and
could drink Joe under the table. He didn’t want that. He was a romantic. Mel was frail and needed looking after. Consumption would have been better, but now that was no longer feasible,
anorexia came a close second.

‘Well?’ he demanded.

She shook her head. What was the point of speaking?

He drank the beer without thanking her. To be fair that wasn’t like him and she couldn’t use it as an excuse to be mean. She felt like howling but she couldn’t freeze him out.
No point throwing a wobbly like Mel. Really she’d always known the score.

‘My mum’s a suspect in a murder inquiry.’

She thought that would grab his attention. It might not have the romantic appeal of anorexia but she thought it deserved some sympathy, some interest. It should take his mind for a moment off
Mel’s skinny body, her huge and haunting eyes. And he did look up, suitably curious.

She told him about the corpse in the lake. ‘He was the love of Hannah’s life.’ Keeping her voice cynical, though she had been moved by the tale of first love, at least the bits
of it which Hannah had told during the drive home.

Frank was getting rid of the last of the drinkers. As she talked to Joe she was washing glasses, holding them over the machine, then standing them on the draining board to dry.

A taxi stopped outside for three of the other barmaids. Frank asked, ‘Do you want to go in that?’

‘I’ll walk home with you,’ Joe said, so she shook her head.

She undid her tie and her apron, rolled them into a ball and stuffed them in her bag. Frank waited at the door for the women who were catching the taxi. The driver was getting impatient and hit
the horn. They scurried out swearing and laughing. He watched for a moment until the car drove off then he shut the door and switched off the main lights. Even with the door shut they could hear
the noise outside. The street was full of people moving from one club to another.

‘Fancy a nightcap, you two?’ Frank had never suggested anything like that before. Rosie was glad Joe was there. She thought her boss must be lonely. Word in the pub was that his
ex-wife was getting funny about access and he was missing the kids. Rosie didn’t particularly want a drink. It wasn’t that her mum would kick up if she were late. She was always late on
a Friday. Sometimes it took over an hour to clear up. Sometimes she went on to a club with her mates. But she was knackered. And she wasn’t too proud to want a bit of time with Joe to
herself. Joe seemed to take the invitation as an honour though and brightened up.

‘Yeah. Great.’

Frank didn’t ask what they wanted. He stood by the optic and poured three whiskies. He’d taken off his jacket and as he stood with his hand above his head they could see the flab
spill out over his trousers. When he turned round with their drinks he was sweating slightly. He set one of the whiskies in front of Joe.

‘Did that bloke ever catch up with your lass?’

‘Which bloke?’

‘There was a bloke in here a couple of nights back asking after your Melanie.’

Frank kept his voice casual but Rosie could tell he was desperate to know what had been going on. That was probably why he’d invited them to stay. She thought it was really sad, this need
he had to know all their business.

‘What sort of bloke?’

‘Middle-aged, respectable. A mate of her dad’s maybe. I didn’t like to say where she lived. He didn’t seem that bothered so I expect he had some other way of catching up
with her.’

‘Perhaps she’s into older men.’ Rosie had meant it as a joke, but when she saw Joe’s face she wished she’d kept quiet.

‘Didn’t he leave his name?’ Joe said.

‘No,’ Frank had drunk his whisky and was getting another. ‘I asked but he seemed in a rush. He didn’t even stop for a drink.’

Out on the street Joe took her arm as he often did and steered her through the crowd on the pavement. A middle-aged woman in a see-through leopard-print shirt was throwing up in the gutter. A
teenage girl was sobbing on her friend’s shoulder. Joe held Rosie’s hand and pulled her at a run across the road and on to the sea front. She had learned to take no notice of these
gestures of affection but she still enjoyed them.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The scenic route.’ He paused. ‘You don’t mind going the long way?’

‘No.’

There was enough light from the street to see the white line of foam fall on to the beach. They walked in silence. She was thinking of her mother, of the body in the lake. If Joe disappeared
into thin air, Rosie thought she’d make some effort to find him. She’d hassle his family, contact the rest of his friends. If they couldn’t help she’d go to the police. Yet
from what she could gather her mother had done none of these things. Michael Grey had disappeared and she had accepted it without a fuss. That was a very Hannahlike way to behave, but even so it
just didn’t make sense. She hadn’t even been to see the couple Michael had been living with. She hadn’t gone to the police. She’d sat her exams as if nothing had happened
and then she’d left the area without trying to trace him to say goodbye. And she’d never gone back.

Rosie stopped. Without the noise of their footsteps they could hear the tide dragging back the shingle.

‘That stuff I told you about my mother being a suspect in a murder inquiry. It was a joke, right?’

‘Of course it was a joke.’ He sounded amused. That was all she was to him. One big joke.

‘It’s just she’s had enough to put up with. Everyone talking about my dad . . .’