The Sleeping and the Dead (36 page)

‘When will you be home?’

‘I’ll go straight to work tomorrow.’

He switched off the phone. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Very good.’ But he seemed unsettled. He paced up and down the floor. She watched him, not terrified any more, her emotions
somehow slipped out of gear, but her brain working like fury. Very sharp, very clear, as if this was the most important exam of her life.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘What?’ He stopped pacing, crouched beside her, so she could smell him again.

‘Did you kill Melanie Gillespie?’

Hannah replaced the phone with satisfaction. She was proud of herself. At one time she’d have demanded details. Who was Laura? She’d never heard the name before.
Where did she live? Was there a contact number? Today she just accepted Rosie’s explanation and let it go. Treating Rosie as an adult. Besides, she had other things to think about.

For example, Porteous’s visit to the prison earlier in the day. She could have died when he just turned up, unannounced, though he’d actually behaved with more discretion than
she’d have expected. She wasn’t sure Marty had been taken in by the detective’s casual reference to needing witness statements, but Marty wouldn’t talk. It wouldn’t be
all around the prison that she was a suspect in a murder inquiry. She could tell, though, that the orderly had been unsettled by Porteous. For the rest of the shift he’d been moody, demanding
that the radio be turned down, snapping at prisoners who jostled to have their books stamped. Occasionally she caught him looking at her and she wondered if he’d say something when the place
was quiet. But they were never alone. He asked to leave early, saying he had something important to see to. It wasn’t like him. He always preferred to be in the library than on the wing,
would have worked twelve-hour shifts given half the chance.

The other preoccupation was that Arthur was coming to supper the following evening. She’d invited him on impulse and immediately regretted it. She hadn’t seen him all day, then met
him in the car park on her way home. He must have been working late too. He’d seen her leaving the gate and was standing by his car waiting for her. His appearance had almost made her laugh
out loud. He was wearing shorts which almost reached his knees and a shirt with horizontal stripes which made him look like an upended deck-chair. Dear God, she’d thought, with a jolt of
affection which surprised her. Whatever is he like. No wonder the officers want rid of him.

‘Are you OK?’ He must have heard on the grapevine that Porteous had been there. And he’d be curious, of course, about what had happened. Since tracing Michael Grey’s
identity he thought he had a stake in the case.

‘Of course.’

‘I don’t suppose you fancy a drink?’

She hadn’t. At least not in public. What she’d fancied had been a long, hot soak to take away the smell of prisoners, a good book, a glass of very cold, very dry wine. But he’d
looked so tentative, so sure of rejection, that she hadn’t wanted to hurt him.

‘I’m sorry. Not tonight.’

He’d given her a sad smile. ‘Better things to do?’

‘Just shattered. Why don’t you come round for a meal tomorrow evening? Rosie will probably be working, but I’ll get rid of her if she’s not.’

‘Haven’t you got enough on your plate?’

‘I’ll enjoy it.’

But now she wasn’t sure that she would. She hadn’t entertained anyone in the house since Jonathan had left, and when he’d been around dinner parties had been daunting affairs,
taking days of planning, sleepless nights of anxiety. She’d always admired friends who could throw together a bowl of pasta for half a dozen people, drink out of jumble-sale glasses, eat from
ill-matched crockery. She’d never had that sort of confidence.

Now she worried about what she should cook for Arthur and whether she really wanted him in her house. He’d insist on going over the inquiry, picking at the threads of it. Would he be a
rampant carnivore like Jonathan, who bragged that he never ate anything that hadn’t breathed? She supposed there would have to be a pudding. And would he read more into the invitation than
she’d intended? What would be expected of her?

She was about to set off to the all-night supermarket where Rosie’s friend worked, in search of inspiration, when the phone rang again. It was Sally Spence, eager for a gossip. She had
information to give, but throughout the conversation Hannah thought she was fishing too. She had a reason for calling which was never made clear.

‘We had one of those detectives here again this afternoon. The ugly little one.’

‘Oh?’ Perhaps Stout had told Sally that Porteous had been to the prison. Perhaps she was phoning to see if Hannah had been arrested.

There was a pause, lengthened by Sally for dramatic tension.

‘You’ll never guess who’s mixed up in this business.’

No, Hannah thought. Probably not. It was hard to remember that once Sally had been her very best friend, that she’d confided everything to her.

‘Who?’ she asked.

‘Paul Lord. You remember him?’

‘The spotty boy scout.’ Hannah smiled despite herself. She remembered sitting next to him by the bonfire at Cranford Water the evening she’d first kissed Michael.

‘Not spotty any more,’ Sally said. ‘Quite a hunk these days. You met him at the reunion, the night they identified Michael . . .’

‘Of course.’ Hannah replayed it all in her head – the curse of a memory which would let nothing go. She heard the conversation with Paul, his description of his computer
business and the conversion of the farmhouse, the music in the background, Chris Johnson’s muttered introduction to the next record. ‘Why do the police think he’s
involved?’

‘He’s a friend of a man called Alec Reeves. Apparently this guy’s disappeared from the face of the earth. They want to trace him because he knew both dead kids.’ She
paused again before adding grandly, ‘At least that’s what my sources tell me.’

‘So Paul’s not really implicated. Only by association.’

‘Don’t be silly, H. You can’t see Paul Lord
killing
anyone, can you? He was always such a nerd.’ As if she might admire him more if he did turn out to be a
murderer.

Hannah thought the conversation was finished then. She even began to say goodbye. But Sally seemed eager to prolong it.

‘How’s that lovely daughter of yours?’

‘Fine. Out partying. As usual.’

‘Oh.’ Sally sounded shocked. ‘I thought Melanie Gillespie was one of her best friends.’

‘She was.’ Hannah could have kicked herself. She didn’t want to make out that Rosie was an insensitive little cow. Especially to a reporter. What right did Sally, who was
obviously enjoying every minute of the investigation, have to disapprove? ‘She’s been really upset. I thought she needed some time out with her friends.’

‘Right,’ Sally said. ‘Of course. Right.’

Hannah wondered if Sally had been hoping to talk to Rosie, to turn her memories of Mel into an article. Just as well she wasn’t at home. There was a muffled conversation at the other end
of the line.

‘Roger sends his love.’

But I don’t want it, Hannah thought. Really, I don’t. I don’t care if I never see either of you again.

She decided on a casserole for Arthur, something she could cook that night and heat up the next day. Chicken with tarragon, she thought. Then she could use some of the wine she had chilling in
the fridge and she wouldn’t end up drinking the whole bottle. The supermarket was quiet. There were a couple of single men in suits carrying wire baskets of ready-cooked meals and designer
lager, sad disorganized women like her who had nothing better to do at nine o’clock at night than shop. She looked out for Joe. She would never do it because Rosie would be mortified, but she
wanted to say, ‘Look at my daughter. I mean really look at her. She’s a beauty and she fancies you like crazy. What are you doing, letting her go?’ She expected to bump into him
at the checkout or filling shelves but he wasn’t there. She hoped it was his night off and he was at Laura’s party too.

The next day, Marty wasn’t waiting outside the library for her to unlock the door and he still hadn’t showed when the papers arrived. She tried to rouse Dave, the
prison officer, but he was stretched out in the chair in the office and the rhythm of his snoring didn’t alter a beat even when she shook him. She phoned the wing.

‘Haven’t they told you?’

If they had, I’d not be ringing, she thought. She didn’t say it because she knew the wing officer and liked him. She didn’t have so many friends in the place that she could
afford to offend him. But she came closer than she ever would have done when she was living with Jonathan. Perhaps living on her own with Rosie was making her assertive.

‘Where is he?’ She thought Marty might have been shipped out to an open prison before release. Sometimes it happened without warning.

‘He’s in hospital.’ The officer was from North Wales and spoke with a sibilant hiss which was mimicked by the inmates and other staff.

‘The sick bay?’ She was still thinking of it only as an administrative inconvenience. She ran through the library rota in her head, wondering if she could draft in another orderly,
trying to think of a suitable candidate.’

‘No. The General.’

That brought her up short. ‘Serious then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What’s wrong with him? He seemed fine yesterday.’

‘There was a fight. Nastier than most. We didn’t get to it in time.’ He paused. ‘Marty started it. They all say that. Some new lad was winding him up. He can kiss goodbye
to his parole, if he lives that long.’

‘It’s that serious?’ What’s happening to the people I know? She thought. He can’t die. Not him too.

‘I’ve not heard how he is this morning. The Governor will know, I suppose, but you know what he’s like. He tells us nothing. It looked bad last night.’

‘It’s crazy,’ she cried. ‘Marty had so much to lose. I always guessed he had a temper, but he told me he’d learned to control it.’

‘Did anything happen yesterday to upset him?’

She thought immediately of Porteous, but what did that have to do with Marty? ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You two didn’t have a row?’

‘No. Why?’

‘He seemed wound up anyway. I had a bit of a run-in with him earlier in the evening. I mean, sometimes you could tell that he was getting tense, but he’d take a deep breath and walk
away from it. But yesterday, before lights-out, he had a go at me.’ There was a silence at the end of the phone and she thought he’d finished, but he continued in a rush.
‘I’m afraid it was about you. He wanted me to give him your home phone number. He said it was urgent, vital that he talked to you. I told him if it was that urgent to give me a message
and I’d pass it on. And anyway he’d see you today. He calmed down in the end, but like you said, usually he managed to hold it together, and last night he was way over the top. I
couldn’t do it, Hannah. I couldn’t give an inmate your home number. Not even Marty.’

‘No,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Of course you couldn’t.’

During the day Hannah tried to find out more about Marty. He hadn’t had any close friends in the prison. He’d always worked on his own. But she thought someone might know what was
behind the fight.

‘Who was the lad he went for?’

‘Don’t know, miss. He was new. Just out of reception.’

‘What did he do to wind Marty up?’

‘I didn’t see. Honest, miss. It all happened so fast.’

Apparently no one had seen. Or they weren’t telling. She thought they were scared, but perhaps she was deluding herself. Perhaps she didn’t want to believe Marty could have been such
a fool.

At lunchtime she phoned the General Hospital, but the sister on ICU wasn’t giving much away either. She said Marty was ‘serious but stable’. And no, he wasn’t fit to
receive visitors. She sounded disapproving. Perhaps the prison officer who would be sitting on the end of Marty’s bed was making a nuisance of himself. It wasn’t always the most
house-trained member of staff they chose for escort duty.

Hannah wished she had the name and number of Marty’s girlfriend. Perhaps it would be possible to trace it through the bail hostel where she’d worked as a volunteer. But Hannah
didn’t feel she had any emotional claim on Marty and she didn’t want to look as if she were interfering. In the end she shut the library early and went home. When Dave roused himself to
complain she said it was a gesture of respect.

The incident with Marty had stopped her worrying about dinner. She was glad now that she’d invited Arthur. He might know what had happened. Despite his outsider status he
always seemed to understand what was going on in the prison. She took pleasure now in the preparations, set the table carefully, polished glasses, opened wine. She was coming out of the shower when
the phone rang. Usually she’d have let the answerphone take it, but she thought it might be about Marty. She’d asked his wing officer to let her know if there was any news.

‘Mrs Morton?’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I speak to Rosie?’

Because she was thinking about the prison it took her a moment to place the voice: Rosie’s friend Joe.

‘She’s not here,’ Hannah said. ‘She’s at work. Sorry.’

There was an awkward pause.

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘I’ve just been to the Prom. Frank said she’d called in sick.’

Hannah’s first response was irritation. It wasn’t the first time Rosie had phoned in sick if she felt like a day’s shopping or an expedition up the coast with her mates. Then
she thought that Rosie would have told her what she was up to. Not just to cover in case Frank got in touch, but because she knew Hannah would be worried after what had happened to Mel.

‘Did you see her last night?’ she demanded.

‘No. I met her the day before with the policemen, but not yesterday. My parents were out. I had to look after my sister.’

‘You weren’t at Laura’s party then?’

‘Sorry?’

‘She was at a party last night and she stayed over. She phoned to tell me. Laura’s party.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘I don’t know anyone called Laura.’