The Sleeping and the Dead (31 page)

‘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.’

But he’d wanted to meet her. Not only because he thought he’d get more out of her face to face. He’d admired her work. And still he was itching with the need to run away. When
he’d persisted in his request for a meeting she’d given in gracefully and instructed him precisely on his route from the motorway. It was an area he didn’t know, too close to
industrial centres to be of interest to second homers and holiday makers. As he left the main road there were views of the Pennines to the east and Emley Moor to the west. He drove down a steep
hill into a valley bottom, turned at a disused mill and then he was there. A small stone cottage with a meadow beyond it and a garden in front so tangled with perennials that when he walked up the
brick path he scattered pollen with his legs. A ginger cat was sleeping on a window-sill.

‘Inspector.’ She had the door open before he knocked, while he was still stroking the cat, and he was caught off guard and felt slightly frivolous to be petting the animal. But she
must have liked cats because her mood was softer than it had been on the phone. ‘Shall we talk in the garden?’

There was a small patch of lawn at the side of the house, the edges ragged with long grass where it hadn’t been properly trimmed. They sat side by side on a wrought-iron bench.

‘What is all this about? You said on the phone it was about Redwood. But I’ve retired. The centre is closed.’

‘You employed a man called Reeves?’

‘Alec, yes. One of our longest-serving employees. By the end he was part of the architecture of the place. He wasn’t a demonstrative man. He never drew attention to himself. But it
was impossible to imagine Redwood without him. His retirement and my decision to give up control coincided. I felt that was appropriate.’

‘You liked him?’

‘He didn’t let anyone else get close enough to him for that. Not adults at least. He was very different with the children. But I respected him.’

‘Were you aware when you appointed him that there were rumours he’d been involved in child abuse?’

‘No!’ She turned her face sharply so she was facing him. She wore her grey hair in a severe bob which must have been fashionable when she was a small child in the thirties. ‘I
don’t believe it.’

‘You had no suspicion when he was working for you that he had an undesirable relationship with any of the children in his care?’

‘None.’

‘You didn’t think it was odd that he’d never married?’

‘Are you married, Inspector? Because I’m not.’

He could sense her hostility and sat for a moment in silence searching for words which might appease her, but she came at him again.

‘Do you suspect Alec of child abuse, Inspector? A recent case?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘I’m sorry!’ The sarcasm could have come from a ferocious headmistress. ‘I’m not sure that I understand you. What do you mean “not exactly”?’

‘We want to question Alec Reeves about two murders. We’ve been trying to trace him for a number of days. We hoped you might help us find him.’

She sat quite still with her hands folded in her lap, staring ahead of her.

‘You’ve come from the north-east, Inspector?’

He nodded confirmation.

‘Then one of the murders you’re investigating is that of Michael Grey?’

‘His real name was Theo Randle, but yes, I’m the senior investigating officer in that case.’

‘I recognized the name when it appeared in the papers. When you phoned I thought you had questions about Michael . . . It never occurred to me that Alec was implicated.’

‘We’ve no proof against Alec Reeves. But he was staying in Michael’s home the weekend he was murdered. He had an unsavoury reputation in the town and was linked to the
disappearance of another boy, a child with a learning disability of about the same age. You can understand why we want to talk to him. His disappearance is a cause for concern.’

‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘I can see that it would be.’ She turned towards him again. ‘But I don’t believe it, Inspector. I’ll cooperate with you because
I think that’s what Alec would wish. But you’re wrong about him. It’s not unusual for him to disappear for a week or two in the summer. He’s a hillwalker and he likes wild
places and he avoids other people. He’ll appear suddenly from the Highlands or the Peak District and make himself known to you.’

I hope he does, Porteous thought. But I’ll not hold my breath.

‘Can you tell me about the boy you knew as Michael Grey?’ he said. ‘You never knew his other name?’

‘Not so far as I remember.’

‘Perhaps you could check with your files?’

‘There are no files. Not that we kept. It was part of the Redwood philosophy. The files remained the property of the children. They had open access to them while they stayed at the centre
and they took all the records with them when they left.’

‘Didn’t that cause problems if you needed to liaise with other agencies?’

‘No. It meant that we all had to involve the young people about their futures from the beginning.’

‘There must be some records. A list, at least, of the children you cared for.’

‘I have an autograph book. The children all signed their names when they left, added any comments they wanted. Towards the end of my time at Redwood there were names that I hardly
recognized. I was so busy – lectures, reports, committees. Much of the day-to-day administration was left to my staff. That was when I knew it was time to leave.’ She paused. ‘At
the beginning it was very different. We had so little money and we had to do everything ourselves. If it hadn’t been for a generous benefactor the place would have closed only months after we
started. It was a round of fund-raising, the school run, keeping the house from falling down and most of all finding time for some very disturbed children.’

‘Was Michael Grey very disturbed?’

‘Not as disturbed as some.’

‘How was he referred? Social Services?’

‘It was a long time ago, Inspector.’

‘But you do remember?’ He was sure that she did. Since hearing the news of Michael’s murder, she would have gone over the details of his stay at Redwood. It was natural, what
anyone would do.

‘Michael was a private referral. It did happen occasionally. We were registered through Social Services and most of the children came through them, but sometimes we were approached by
desperate parents who’d seen stories about us in the papers. Of course, they kept legal custody. Michael was unusual because he stayed with us for such a long time.’

‘His father brought him to you?’

‘I believe he did.’

‘Don’t you remember?’

‘I wasn’t here. I was in Geneva. Receiving some award.’ She waved her hand as if it were of no importance. ‘I wasn’t keen but the staff thought I should go to raise
the profile of the house. We’d not long opened. We were a democratic organization. I went. When I returned there was a new little boy. Michael. White hair, beautiful manners. Very distant.
Very withdrawn. He didn’t speak for months. I was told his mother had severe depression and his father a drink problem. A sister had been killed in a fire. The family didn’t want Social
Services involved but they thought we could help. I thought we could too. We were a good team . . .’

‘Why the change of name?’

‘I don’t know. To me he was always Michael. Perhaps the family were in the public eye and afraid of publicity.’

‘Perhaps.’ Porteous thought it an extreme move. Once interest had died down after the fire, would anyone care what happened to a small boy?

‘Did the family visit?’

‘The father. Occasionally. Usually he was drunk when he turned up. When Michael was ready to leave we tried to arrange meetings with family members to discuss his future. But the
appointments were never kept.’

‘Michael attended a private school as a day boy?’

‘It was what his father wanted. He made the arrangements. If Michael had been allowed to choose I think he’d have gone to the local grammar.’

‘There was a fire at the school.’

‘Yes.’

‘Was Michael implicated?’

‘Not in any way. The police came here first of course. We housed “problem” children. But he had an alibi. A member of staff was with him all evening.’

‘Alec Reeves?’

‘No. Not Alec Reeves.’

‘How did he end up with the Brices?’

‘Was that the name of the couple who took him in?’

He nodded.

‘When Michael was sixteen we had a problem. Frankly he was taking a bed which could be better used by another child. He’d turned into a bright and well-adjusted young man. He’d
enjoyed being at Redwood and he hadn’t wanted to move, and we didn’t want to throw him out. Of course we waited until he’d completed his O levels before thinking about it
seriously at all. There was no interest from the family – we’d even had to subsidize his school fees because they’d stopped paying. So what to do with him? The fire in the middle
of his lower-sixth year brought matters to a head.’

‘Alec Reeves came up with a solution?’

‘Yes. He’d not long started working with us. There was a retired clergyman and his wife, he said, in his home town. Childless, but full of love. We all met. Michael liked them. It
seemed a wonderful solution.’

‘Until he died less than two years later . . .’

‘I never knew about that. Not until the press reports of his death.’

‘Tell me about Melanie Gillespie.’ If he hoped to shock her into some admission or indiscretion he was unsuccessful. She seemed lost in thought. The ginger cat had moved on to the
grass beside her feet and she stopped absent-mindedly to tickle its ear.

‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I don’t recognize the name.’

‘Melanie Gillespie was one of the children in your care. Much more recently. Within the last three or four years.’ At least, he thought, I hope she was. Otherwise I’ve nothing
to work on at all.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘She had an eating disorder. Probably another private referral.’

‘I’ve explained that in recent years my contact with the centre has been minimal.’ She seemed tired now, rather than hostile. ‘But we can check. Come inside and
I’ll show you my book. My record of achievement you might call it. More precious to me at least, than all the awards put together.’

She took him into a dusty and cluttered study. The book was gigantic, leather bound. It wouldn’t have looked out of place in a cathedral. In it successive children had signed their names,
written scraps of verse, drawn pictures.

‘When do you think she left us?’

‘Two years ago. Three perhaps.’

She turned the pages slowly.

‘You see, Inspector. No Melanie Gillespie.’

‘May I look?’ Theo Randle had changed his name. Perhaps Melanie had too.

He found it immediately.
Mel Scully
written in spiky italics. Beside it a cartoon. A stick figure with cropped hair holding an electric guitar, with a balloon coming out of her mouth.
Inside the balloon the words:
What now?

‘Scully was her father’s name,’ he said.

‘I do remember her! Very bright. Very articulate. Self-destructive with her eating. A lot of aggression directed at her parents. Not nearly as confident as she wanted everyone to think
her.’

‘Had there been a child, do you know?’

‘You think she’d been pregnant? Certainly not while she was here. Before?’ She shrugged. ‘She was someone we never quite got through to. She never felt able to trust
us.’ Porteous remembered Collier saying something similar. She closed the book suddenly. The air displaced by the heavy covers stirred the dust. ‘What’s happened to
her?’

‘She’s dead too.’

Despite his sleep in the garden Eddie Stout was tired. As he drove to The Old Rectory he found his concentration slipping, the car bouncing suddenly on the Cat’s-eyes in
the middle of the road. The Spences had agreed to see him at four. That was their quiet time, they said, between lunch and dinner. Sally would leave the paper early especially.