The Sleeping and the Dead

Chapter Thirty-Four

The afternoon the police came to talk to Rosie and Joe in the Prom, it was hotter than ever. Rosie thought that was why the conversation seemed so unreal. The heat seemed to shimmer, even inside the building, stopping her from thinking clearly.

When they walked in she was behind the bar. It had been one of those quiet afternoons she spent daydreaming. She’d look at the big clock in its heavy wooden frame and see that an hour had gone by and she knew she must have served half a dozen customers but she couldn’t remember any of them. Then Joe had bounced in, excited somehow despite his grief, shaking her out of her reverie, and soon after that, the policemen. She’d never met them but she guessed at once who they were. Hannah had described them as a double act and Rosie knew what she meant. It was hard to imagine them working apart. But she couldn’t work out why her mother had been so scared of them. They looked like two ordinary, middle-aged men. Out of place in here. They were dressed for the office, not the seaside in a heatwave. Doughy faces covered with a sheen of sweat.

They stood for a moment just inside the door and then the younger man came to the bar. He introduced himself and ordered orange juice. He was pleasant enough, but she couldn’t forget he’d upset her mother and found it hard to be polite. Joe took a beer off him then they sat round one of the tables in the corner, staring at each other, not sure how to start.

‘This isn’t official,’ the inspector said. ‘Nothing formal. We just want to talk about Mel.’

Somehow that started them off, so he didn’t have to ask any questions. It was like a real conversation, friends chatting. Frank wasn’t there – he was minding the bar – but the rest of them did what Porteous wanted. They just talked about Mel.

But right from the beginning Rosie couldn’t recognize who they were going on about. Slow down, she wanted to say. I mean, what is going on here? It was as if the person who’d been her best friend throughout the sixth form had disappeared to be replaced in their collective memories by a total stranger. Joe was worse than any of them. Really she wished he wasn’t there. She felt constrained. While he was going on about how delicate Mel had been, how fragile, she wanted to yell at him: No, she was more than that, stronger than that. You know what she was like. She could be a manipulative cow. Ruthless. She had to get her own way. She wasn’t the victim you’re all making out.

But she couldn’t do it to him. Not yet. Someone would have to put him straight, but it couldn’t be her. She had too much to lose. What if he never forgave her? So she sat quiet while they warbled on, pussyfooting around the subject.

‘What about you, Rosie?’ Porteous said at last, leaning across the table, giving her a seriously deep and meaningful look, as if he expected her to give them the truth. ‘What have you got to tell us about Mel?’

‘Nothing new. Nothing that’s not already been said.’

She could tell he was disappointed. They went on to talk about Mel’s music, how talented she was and how she’d already got a confirmed university place at Edinburgh, the same old gushing stuff.

‘They were so impressed,’ Joe said, ‘that they’d have taken her even if she’d failed all her A levels.’

Then Porteous tried again. He wanted to know if Mel had ever been pregnant. Not now, but at some time in the past. The question was so delicately put together that not even Joe was offended.

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘Of course not. She’d have told me.’

‘Would she?’

Joe didn’t answer that because there were lots of things Mel hadn’t liked to talk about.

Rosie though was certain. ‘It’s not possible. Mel would never get pregnant. She was paranoid about it, wasn’t she, Joe?’

Joe nodded sadly in agreement and Rosie continued.

‘She had to be in control of her body. Completely. That was what the food thing was all about. And if there was some accident, some mistake, she’d get rid of it immediately.’

‘Was there ever any accident?’

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘Not while she was with me.’

‘Are you sure?’ When there was no reply, he added. ‘No matter. The pathologist will be able to tell us.’

Rosie was daydreaming again. She and Mel had talked about children on one of their girlie nights together. She’d slept on the sofa bed in Mel’s room and they’d got through a bottle of wine each when they’d got back from the pub. Mel had got a bit soppy about the kid she used to babysit, but she’d made it clear a family wasn’t part of her future. ‘Your life’s not your own if you’re a mother,’ she’d said, shuddering. Though what could she know?

‘Eleanor seems to manage OK.’

‘That’s different. I’m old enough to look after myself. I don’t bother her any more. She wasn’t so keen when I was little.’ She’d paused. ‘I want to be someone. You can’t concentrate on what you want to do if you’re surrounded by screaming kids.’

And then, lying on top of her bed, propped up on one elbow, Mel had squinted across at Rosie. ‘What about you? I can see you as an earth mother. Married. A cottage in the country. Four or five kids, a goat and some hens scratching about in the garden.’ Rosie had laughed then, but something about the image still appealed.

She was brought back to the pub by a sudden blast from the jukebox, a couple of bikers laughing. Porteous gave her another pleading look but she ignored it. She told him she had nothing else to say and offered to look after the bar so they could talk to Frank.

Frank must have realized that Porteous would want to talk to him about the bloke who’d been in the Prom asking after Mel, but he didn’t seem very pleased about it.

‘Look, I don’t think I can be much help…’

‘Don’t be daft, Frank. No one else can remember him.’

And she gave him a playful little push, sending him out into the room. He looked shaky, panicky, walking towards the policeman as if he were already about to go into the witness box. From the bar she couldn’t hear exactly what the group in the corner were saying, but Frank was facing her and she saw him staring blankly, occasionally shaking his head. His eyes were unfocused, wandering. It was as if he wasn’t really thinking about the questions and the answers. He was just trying to survive the interview, waiting for it to be over.

The next day she tackled him about it. She’d been thinking about it all night. Frank had liked Mel, in the way that he seemed to like all the young people who came into the Prom. He’d joked with her, acted sometimes as father-confessor, standing at the bar for ages listening to all her troubles. So why had he been so reluctant to discuss her with the police?

She waited until about five o’clock when they had their meal break together and she could get him on his own. They sat in the little staff-room which led off the kitchen. They propped the outside door wide open and sat beside it on old bar stools, their plates on their knees, looking out at the pavement. Families were already trailing back from the beach, the children fractious and covered in sand, the parents loaded with towels and toys. There was the hot smell of drying seaweed and frying onions from the burger stall at the fair.

‘What was going on yesterday, Frank?’

‘What do you mean?’ He was defensive. He had the same unfocused look in his eyes as when he’d been talking to Porteous. She thought: But he can’t be scared of me. Frank had always been the boss. He knew everything there was to know about running a bar. She’d been the dippy teenager who couldn’t pour a decent pint, who couldn’t get up in the mornings, who turned into work with seconds to spare. He teased her and poked fun in a slightly flirty way which kept her wary. Something new was going on here which she didn’t quite understand. The power in the relationship had shifted.

‘Well, it didn’t look as if you were being particularly cooperative,’ she said, carefully keeping her voice neutral.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘Don’t you want to catch the bloke who killed Mel?’

‘I don’t think the chap that came in that night did kill her.’

‘How did you know that, Frank?’

He shook his head, a refusal to answer.

‘If you knew anything you should have told the police.’

An open-top bus rattled past. A party of kids on the top deck all held helium-filled balloons. Rosie imagined the bus rising slowly in the air, carried slowly out to sea. Frank took a mouthful of sandwich, muttered something which she couldn’t make out.

‘What was that?’ Sharply. Sounding like her mother trying to teach him table manners.

‘I said I’ve had dealings with the police. I know what they’re like. They’d set me up given half a chance. Best policy’s not to say anything.’

‘Nobody’s saying you’d ever harm Mel. Why would you?’

He turned to her. Grateful, sad puppy eyes were focused properly on hers for the first time. ‘I’ve got a record. That’d be enough for them.’

She hadn’t known about the record. Again she looked at him in a new light. She wondered what he’d been done for and if he’d ever been inside. She imagined him in Stavely asking her mother to find him books, then thought she couldn’t see him as the reading type.

‘But they’ll know you couldn’t have done it. You were working the night she disappeared.’

‘Only until closing time. I could have done anything after that. I live upstairs on my own, don’t I? Lisa won’t let the kids come to stay any more.’

Lisa was his ex. It was an old complaint. Rosie was irritated by the self-pity but she tried not to show it.

‘Did you go out?’ Rosie asked. She wanted to shake him. It was like speaking to a surly child.

He shook his head. ‘But if they make out I’m tied up in this case I’ll lose any chance I ever had of access.’

‘That’s ridiculous. The kids have nothing to do with this.’

Then she wondered if she’d been too hard on him. Frank doted on his children. Before Lisa started being awkward they’d come to stay at weekends. Rosie tried to understand what it must be like for him, how lonely he must feel. Perhaps that was why he was good at his job. He made an effort with the staff and the customers because without them he’d have no one to speak to. He ever talked about friends or other family.

‘Why did you say that about the bloke that came in here looking for Mel? I mean, how did you know he didn’t do it?’

‘He wasn’t the type.’

‘Come on, Frank. What is the type? You must listen to the news. Anyone can commit murder. Teachers, doctors, anyone. And if they find him, you’ll get the police off your back, won’t you? There won’t be anything to get in the way of the access application then.’

He put his empty plate on the floor. ‘You’re a good lass, Rosie. I’ll miss you when you go to college.’

Oh God, she thought. A revelation. He wants to get inside my knickers.

‘I’ve got a lot to lose,’ he said.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘This place. It’s all I’ve got.’

‘So?’

‘So people could make things awkward. With the brewery or the authorities.’

‘Has someone been threatening you?’

He looked at her with those eyes again.

‘For Christ’s sake, Frank. Go to the police. Get it sorted.’

‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘They always catch murderers, don’t they? No need for us to get involved.’

‘Yes, Frank, there is.’

But he hardly seemed to be listening. By now she knew exactly what was going on. Joe might not go for her heavy-bosomed, hippy look, but it appealed to middle-aged men. She fended off the flattery and the clumsy approaches every day at work. She’d always suspected that Frank fancied her. Now she was certain. She pulled her chair closer to his.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to see the police again. I can talk to them. I’ll say one of the customers remembered seeing the guy that night. Give me a description, a name even. I’ll pass it on. That way we can find Mel’s killer and keep you out of it.’

He didn’t answer immediately, but she knew she had him hooked. It crossed her mind that it wouldn’t be much fun working with him after this. Then she thought, Sod it. She’d just leave. She could do with a holiday anyway before she went to university. Her dad could pay up some guilt money.

She reached out and touched his arm and lowered her voice. She knew what a tart she was being, but found she was enjoying the role. The power thing again.

‘Please, Frank. I’d be really grateful.’

Chapter Thirty-Five

Rosie’s shift ended at seven. She tried to phone Hannah then. She was standing on the pavement outside the Prom, her hand cupped round her mobile, blocking out the sound of the traffic. She’d wanted to talk to her mother ever since Frank had spilled out his story. In the end he hadn’t treated her as any sort of object of desire. There’d been no groping, none of the usual crap about how lovely she was. She’d felt like his mother, for God’s sake, as he stumbled through his confession. She’d put her arm around him and told him she’d make everything all right. And she believed that she could.

Rosie hadn’t liked to phone her mother while she was still at work. She didn’t want everyone listening in and she didn’t want Frank to know how important she considered his information. Not that he’d been around much after their talk. She supposed he was embarrassed. At one point he’d gone to the flat upstairs as if the exchange between them had exhausted him and he needed to rest. He looked as if he hadn’t slept properly for weeks.

She let the phone ring until the answerphone was triggered, then she remembered Hannah had said she’d be working late at the prison. She tried the work number but no one answered in the library. A gate officer came on.

‘Sorry, pet. You’ve just missed her.’

She switched off the phone. Before starting the walk home she glanced back at the pub. Both double doors were wide open and she had a clear view. Frank was staring out at her. She’d left without saying goodbye to him and she thought about going back in. It would have been pleasant to sit on one of the high stools on the right side of the bar, drinking a long glass of white wine and soda, plenty of ice. But perhaps she shouldn’t lead him on. Anyway, he turned to serve a middle-aged couple, a big woman and a thin man, who had their backs to her. Something about them was familiar. She hoped they were regulars, customers who were as near as Frank got to friends. As she crossed the road to walk past the infant school, she had the sense that everyone in the pub was staring at her. Of course when she glanced back over her shoulder they weren’t even looking.

He must have been watching for her outside the Prom but there was always a line of parked vehicles along the road and she wasn’t aware of him until she reached the middle of the street where Joe lived. It was still warm. The tar oozed black where a patch in the road had been mended. Somewhere in the neighbourhood there was a barbecue. The street was quiet. She could hear children playing in one of the back gardens, the splash of water from a paddling pool, the occasional snatch of television through an open window, but no one was about. And until she got to Joe’s house she took no notice of her surroundings. She was running scenes in her head. Rosie as heroine, giving the police vital information which would lead to the capture of Melanie’s killer. Rosie talking to reporters outside court. Perhaps with Joe at her side.

That was when she arrived at Joe’s house. The attic window was open and she could hear the thump of his music. She thought his parents must be out or they would have made him turn it down, then she remembered his saying he was looking after Grace that evening. At first Rosie didn’t think of going in. She couldn’t face listening to more delusions about Melanie and she wanted to talk to Hannah. But she liked Grace. She’d always wished she’d had a kid brother or sister. Even now she was almost grown up Grace was passionate about animals. Rosie enjoyed being shown the latest additions to the menagerie she kept in the garden – the motherless kittens, the baby hedgehog, the house sparrow with one wing. She stopped walking and looked towards the house, tempted.

A small grey van came up the street behind her. It was moving very slowly as if the driver were looking at the house numbers. It had a wing mirror held on with black electrician’s tape and a loose bumper which rattled as the van went over the speed bumps in the road. When it pulled up at the kerb Rosie turned to face it, expecting the driver to ask for directions. But instead of winding down the window – it was a very old van and certainly wouldn’t have had electric windows – the driver got out. He was a young man, about the same age as Rosie. She didn’t recognize him and he didn’t look as if he belonged in this street of wealthy professionals, even as someone’s black sheep. He was thin with cropped hair and a tattoo running all the way down one arm. Still she paused, curious to see if it was someone who’d come to visit Joe. Joe had copied Mel’s habit of gathering up strangers and oddballs and it wouldn’t have surprised her.

But he went to the back of the van and opened the door. She decided he was making a delivery and lost interest. She turned and carried on walking down the street.

‘Hey!’ He didn’t shout but his voice was urgent. She stopped. ‘Are you Rosie?’

‘Rosie Morton. Yes.’

He stood looking for a moment, squinting against the low, evening sun.

‘Morton…’ he repeated. ‘Your mam must be librarian at Stavely nick.’ As if this was a surprise, a new piece of information which needed consideration.

She didn’t like being rude but she didn’t want to encourage him. She continued walking. He covered the distance between them quickly. She didn’t hear him running, but suddenly she could smell him, a strangely clean, chemical smell. He was behind her, so close that they almost touched, his bony chest against her shoulder blades. From a distance it would look as if he had his arms around her. She turned back to Joe’s house but the sunlight was reflected on the windows and she couldn’t tell if anyone was watching. Still she thought he might be some weird friend of Joe’s, and any moment Joe would come out and rescue her, save her from having to make a scene.

‘Get in.’

‘What?’

‘In the van. Now.’

Then he did have his arm around her. One hand stroked her neck, in the other, clenched as a fist, was a Stanley knife, only the blade showing.

‘Not a sound.’ The voice was almost caressing.

His head moved, turning quickly, his eyes darting up and down the street. In the distance an elderly woman in bowling whites stepped out into the road at the zebra crossing. He waited until she walked away in the opposite direction. Joe’s music changed tempo, became more melodic. As if they were dancing, the boy moved Rosie to the back of the van.

‘Get in,’ he said again. Inside there was an old quilt with a faded paisley design. It was shedding feathers. She climbed in. He shut the door. The back of the van was a sealed unit, separate from the front seats. Everything was black, except for a thin crack of brilliant light where the door didn’t quite fit. He started the engine and the rattle of the broken bumper vibrated through her legs and her back. She opened her mouth to yell, but it was like a nightmare, when you scream and scream and no sound comes out.

Later she spoke to Hannah. She sat on the floor of a flat which was empty except for a sleeping bag and a portable television. As far as she could tell. She’d only seen one room and the toilet. Her hands were tied behind her back, but the young man held her mobile so she could speak. The flat was on the second floor of a block on an estate she didn’t recognize. It hadn’t taken them long to get here. Twenty minutes perhaps. He’d parked at the bottom of the tower block by a couple of skips, pulling her out of the van as if he didn’t care if anyone saw. She’d had a few minutes to look around. There was a low building, some sort of school or community centre perhaps, and next to it a children’s playground, which seemed surprisingly new and in good repair, though no children were playing there. There were giant hardboard pandas and chickens on huge black springs, with black seats and handles, swings made from tyres, a wooden fort.

In contrast most of the flat windows were boarded up and beyond the tower blocks there was a building site, where a crane and a couple of diggers were marooned on the hard-packed earth. A woman came out of the school. She had a bunch of keys like the ones Rosie’s mum used at the prison, and she locked up the building, pulling at the doors to check they were secure. She looked smart and efficient and walked briskly round the corner out of sight. Her car must have been parked there because they heard the engine. She hadn’t seen them standing in the shadows. Even if she had, she’d have taken them for a couple of lovers, mucking about. They hadn’t passed anyone else on their way up the stairs to the flat.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m not coming home tonight. Don’t worry about me.’

‘Where are you staying?’

She almost said Mel’s because it came automatically. Perhaps she should have done. Perhaps her mother would have picked up the mistake and somehow understood. But the boy wasn’t stupid.

‘Laura’s,’ she said. ‘She’s having a party.’

‘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?’

Chapter Thirty-Six

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.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

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.’

‘She’s not one of your friends from school?’

‘No.’

Then she lost control of her body. She still had the towel wrapped round her but she started to shiver.

As if from a distance she heard Joe on the other end of the phone. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I don’t know everyone she does. She phoned you last night and Frank at lunchtime. She must be OK. I’ll call round and ring you back.’

She replaced the receiver and dressed quickly. The shivering didn’t stop. Feeling foolish for not having thought of it sooner, she dialled the number of Rosie’s mobile. She heard her daughter’s voice, delightfully normal, saying she couldn’t come to the phone right now, but she’d return the call as soon as she could. The doorbell rang.

It was Arthur. He was clutching a huge bunch of flowers in one hand and a bottle of red in the other. Of course, she thought, he would be a red-wine drinker. She burst into tears. He didn’t say anything then. He took her in, sat her on the sofa, poured her a glass of wine from the fridge and dumped the flowers in the sink.

‘What is it?’ he said. She saw he’d opened the red, poured a big glass for himself. ‘News from the hospital?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘Rosie?’

She explained about Joe.

‘He’s right,’ he said. ‘Rosie must be OK if she phoned you and the pub. Perhaps she’s feeling the pressure and wants to go off on her own for a bit.’

‘No. She wouldn’t. Not without telling me.’

He sat beside her, put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Could she be at her father’s? She might feel awkward about letting you know she was there.’

‘He’s away. The Dordogne.’ With Eve, the temptress. ‘He gets back tomorrow. Rosie doesn’t have a key to their house. It’s something she complains about.’

‘Do you think you should phone the police…’

She sensed he was thinking of Mel and that he was going to add ‘in the circumstances’. She didn’t want to hear it and cut him off.

‘We’ll wait ten minutes. See what Joe has to say.’

As if on cue the telephone rang. She answered it in the living-room so Arthur could hear what she was saying.

‘Mrs Morton.’ The same two words but it wasn’t Joe. ‘Mrs Morton, I’ve got a message from your daughter.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Not far away.’

‘But she’s safe?’

‘She is at the minute. You could say I’m looking after her. You should be grateful.’

‘Can I speak to her?’

He seemed to think about that. ‘I don’t think so. Not just yet.’

‘When is she coming home?’

There was another pause. ‘That depends on you.’

‘What do you mean? She knows she can come home. Anytime.’

‘I need something from you, Mrs Morton, before I can let her come back.’

‘Money?’ It was almost a relief. Something she could catch hold of. ‘A ransom. How much?’

‘I’m not greedy. Twenty thousand. You can manage that.’

‘Not immediately,’ she said. Her mind was racing. ‘There are savings, bonds. Some things need my husband’s signature.’

He lost his temper suddenly, shocking her. ‘Listen lady, she should be dead already. Tomorrow. Eleven. I’ll phone back then. And if you go to the police I’ll know. And I’ll kill her.’

She heard herself screaming as if it was somebody else. ‘Of course I won’t go to the police. I won’t tell anyone. I want her safe.’

The line had gone dead and she wasn’t sure he’d heard her.

Arthur took the receiver from her and dialled 1471 then held it to her ear so she could hear the number repeated.

‘Rosie’s mobile,’ she said. ‘He must have her.’ She jabbed her finger on 3 and waited for the number to connect, only to hear Rosie’s answering service say she couldn’t come to the phone right now. ‘He’s switched it off.’

They sat together on the sofa, each clasping an undrunk glass of wine, double handed, like bridesmaids each holding a posy of flowers, one white, one red.

‘I know who it is,’ Hannah said. ‘That boy.’

She hadn’t recognized the voice until he lost his temper, then the memory which was a curse, but which also served its purpose, replayed the scene in the prison library which had initially sent her back to Cranford.

‘You know him too. Thin, cropped hair, young. He’s got a tattoo of a snake running from his shoulder to his wrist. He can’t have been out for long. You took his pre-release course.’ She screwed up her eyes, saw the list of names on Arthur’s desk. ‘He’s called Hunter.’

‘Yes,’ Arthur said. ‘I remember. Are you sure it’s him?’ He kept his voice flat, but she could tell it wasn’t good news.

‘Certain.’ She set her glass on the table. ‘What was he in for?’

Arthur hesitated. ‘Assault, I think.’ He added quickly, ‘Not rape. Nothing like that. He was a smalltime dealer. Someone tried to muscle in on his patch.’ He paused again. ‘You know you must tell the police. They’ll have an address.’

‘What happened to the man he assaulted?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Arthur.’ The anger was wonderfully liberating. ‘You know all about these kids. That’s what you do. You tackle their offending behaviour.’ She was sneering as she used the jargon, just as the officers did when they talked about his courses.

‘Hunter stabbed him, then slashed his face. He’s got a scar.’

‘But the victim lived?’

‘Hunter isn’t a murderer, Hannah,’ Arthur said gently. ‘He didn’t kill Melanie.’

‘He was out of prison in time.’

‘What motive would he have? And he wasn’t even born when the lad in the lake died.’ He turned to her. ‘You must tell Porteous about this.’

Again she ignored the point he was making. ‘Why is he doing it? Why me? Personal revenge, perhaps. I upset him that day in the prison. Or is it Rosie? Has she done something to disturb him?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘You must tell the police. This is their area of expertise. They’ll be able to trace him.’

‘No!’ The anger returned. ‘What do the police know about why people do things? They haven’t got very far in finding Melanie’s murderer. And I can’t risk it. What if he was telling the truth? What if he knows someone who works with Porteous?’

‘He’s a kid, a smack-head. He’s not in league with the police. That’s paranoia.’

She seemed about to give in, to agree to his phoning Porteous. Certainly she presented as the old Hannah, diffident and unassuming. She straightened her skirt over her knees and clasped her hands on her lap.

‘You always wanted to play at detectives.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, now’s your chance.’

‘Hannah, what do you want me to do?’

‘Bring Rosie back.’ As if it were the most simple thing in the world. ‘You must still have access to Hunter’s file at Stavely. They won’t have cleared it yet. You can find an address for him. You worked with him. You know what he’s like. You’re a psychologist, for Christ’s sake. You’ll know what to say to him. He won’t be expecting anything to happen until eleven tomorrow. We can catch him off guard.’

‘I don’t know.’

She looked at her watch and was surprised that it still wasn’t eight o’clock. ‘If you go now to look at the file you won’t even cause a stir on the gate. They’re used to your working late.’

Still he paused.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have asked you. It could be dangerous. Just get the address and I’ll go myself.’

‘No.’ It came out as a wounded bellow. ‘It’s not that.’ He turned to her. ‘Sod it,’ he said. ‘Sod the Prison Service and the Home Office. I’ll do it. I bloody want to do it.’

Chapter Thirty-Eight

In the flat the boy was becoming more jumpy. Rosie thought of him only as ‘the boy’. She hadn’t asked his name. She didn’t care. The television was on. He’d switched it on as soon as it got light, but he kept the sound low and the flashing images couldn’t hold his attention. In the distance there was the scream of a police siren. He jumped to his feet and stared out of the window. Rosie saw his knuckles clenched white around the handle of his knife. He only started to relax when the noise disappeared into the distance. She couldn’t see her watch because her hands were tied behind her back, but it was starting to get dark, the second night. He wouldn’t put on a light. He didn’t want anyone to know he was using the flat.

She’d stopped being scared. Now she was only hungry and uncomfortable. The water to the flat was still connected. The toilet flushed and when she’d complained of being thirsty he’d brought her a drink in a blue plastic mug with a moulded handle. They’d had an identical set to take on picnics when she was a kid. He’d given her a biscuit too because she’d said she was starving. It was soft and stale.

‘Is this all there is?’ she’d demanded.

At that, he’d been flustered and said she’d soon be out of there. It wouldn’t hurt her to go without for a couple of days.

Yeah, she’d thought. She could live off her bum for a week. If she came out of this thinner perhaps the adventure would be worth it. That had led to a picture of a skeletal Mel. She had pushed the image from her head. Remembering Mel, dead in the cemetery, had made her panic. She needed to think straight.

It was clear to her that there’d been no forward planning in the boy’s decision to bring her to the flat. If he’d thought about it in advance, he’d have got food in. Even if he didn’t mind starving her, he’d have wanted to eat and as far as she could tell he didn’t have a stash hidden away. With the arrogance of someone who usually thrived on the challenge of exams, who found learning easy, she’d put him down as a bit dim. She’d worked out the sort of lad he was; there’d been someone like him in every class since she’d been an infant. The name for them in her school was ‘charvie’, meaning scally, loser, someone you wouldn’t be seen dead with socially. Charvies were the kids who started school without being able to tie their laces. They wet their pants and came last in spelling tests. Teachers hated them. In primary school they started fights in the playground and failed their SATs, and in high school they got involved in petty crime, dealing in single cigarettes, then blow or smack. When they were at school, which wasn’t often.

When Hannah heard Rosie talking like that, out would come the lecture. ‘How on earth can you be so judgmental? You don’t know anything about those kids. You don’t know where they come from or what their families are like. Of course people can change if you give them a chance.’ She thought she could change her prisoners by giving them books. What planet was she on? Rosie knew this boy was a charvie, always had been, and so he was no match for her.

She sat now with her hands behind her wriggling her fingers so she wouldn’t lose the feeling in them, and she tried to work out the best thing to do. She couldn’t rely on Hannah to go to the police. Hannah would do just as the boy said. She wouldn’t take any risks. But Rosie wasn’t going to see the boy walk away with all that money – money which could see her through university, buy her a holiday somewhere seriously hot, a little car and driving lessons. Then she wondered if Mel had died because her parents had refused to pay up.

When they’d come into the flat the boy had opened the door with a key, but he hadn’t locked it behind him. It was a Yale lock with a snick, so if she got to it she’d be able to get out. Although he was thin and wiry she didn’t think he was as fit as she was. He’d been smoking since they’d got there, tiny roll-ups. He crouched over a shiny tin to make them, so no stray strands of tobacco were lost and he used both hands. So while he was making his cigarettes he couldn’t hold his knife. She wondered what he’d do when the tobacco ran out.

He hadn’t made any sexual advance towards her. Even when he’d had his arms around her pulling her to the car, when his finger was stroking her neck, she hadn’t thought he was interested. He had other obsessions. Her body wasn’t something she could bargain with. She could tell.

It was possible that he didn’t think she’d try to escape. He’d probably grown up with the same sorts of prejudice about her as she’d had about him. He’d see her as a lardy wimp who couldn’t look after herself. He even left her while he went to the toilet. It was off the hall right next to the entrance to the flat, and he left the bathroom door open, but if he’d thought she’d make a run for it, he’d have tied her legs. He just didn’t think.

All the time she kept her eyes on the blade. She knew he could move quickly over short distances. He’d done that in the street outside Joe’s. But she thought that once she got out of the flat she’d be able to outpace him down the stairs and into the road. Usually the knife was in his hand. Otherwise it was on the floor just beside him. He was as connected to it as some of her mates were to their mobiles. You couldn’t imagine him without it. He’d said, as he let her out of the car when they’d first got here, ‘I’ve used it before, you know.’ Boasting. As if he were just waiting for an excuse to use it again.

As it grew dark, she let her head drop forward so her chin was on her chest, pretending to drowse. She’d slept a couple of hours the night before. Hannah always said it was a gift being able to sleep anywhere. But she wasn’t sure the boy had. He must be exhausted. Despite his nervousness and his restless energy, he wouldn’t be able to stay awake for ever.

There were no curtains at the window. She couldn’t see from where she was sitting but on the way in she’d glimpsed the river, cranes, and the skeleton of an oil platform, half constructed. Light came in from the glow of the city on the horizon. It reflected on the blade on the floor beside the boy. He still had his palm flat on the handle, but his breathing was regular now. Rosie was leaning back against the wall, her knees bent. She stretched one leg, tensing and relaxing the calf muscles. The boy didn’t stir. She repeated the movement with the other leg. Still his breathing didn’t change.

It crossed her mind that it might be a trick. Perhaps he wanted her to try to run. Then he’d have an excuse to chase her and hold her down and threaten her. Perhaps that was what excited him. But she didn’t think so. Charvies could be devious, but he hadn’t tried on anything like that before. He saw her as a means of making money. That was all.

She bent her knees again and bent down, so her back slid slowly up the wall until she was standing. She shook the stiffness out of her legs. Still the boy slept. She walked quickly into the narrow hall towards the front door.

She had already realized there was no way she could free her hands. She’d spent hours the night before trying. She’d seen films where magically ropes had loosened sufficiently to allow one hand to slide out. That wasn’t going to happen here. When she moved, the nylon twine cut into her wrists. They were still firmly fixed behind her back. She stood at the front door and turned her back to it, leaning forward so she could raise her straightened arms high enough to reach the Yale snick. The joints in her shoulders seemed to tear with the strain. Even when her fingers touched the catch, it was more difficult than she’d expected to open it blind. At last the knob turned. She gave a gentle tug and the door opened. The boy, caught in the orange glow from the window, muttered in his sleep. She froze but he didn’t wake and she moved out on to the landing.

She’d reached the first floor when she heard him come after her, bellowing and stumbling as if he’d wakened suddenly and was still half asleep. She thought then that all the flats must be empty, because there was no response to the noise. She’d have to get out. There was just enough light to see where she was going, some dim, emergency lamp high on the wall. She carried on down, pumping her legs, one step after another, keeping the movements small and tight, saving her energy for when she reached the bottom. Her shadow danced ahead of her.

At the bottom the steel-plated double door was open. She supposed it had been left like that the day before when they’d come in. Outside it was warm and dusty and she thought she could smell the dry mud of the river. She paused for a moment. She didn’t think the boy was gaining on her but in the distance there was muffled, amplified rock music – some sort of festival or outdoor show – and she wasn’t sure she would have heard his footsteps anyway. She needed a main road, lots of people. The music was too far away. There was a general hum of traffic and she got her bearings. She saw the lights of speeding cars in the distance beyond the building site. She started to run towards them, moving awkwardly because her tied hands threw her off balance. In the distance there was a bang and the splatter of fireworks from the festival. No sign of the boy.

The scene was lit suddenly by car headlights. They shone on the animals in the children’s playground behind its wire-mesh fence, a nightmare zoo.

He’s fetched his van to head me off, she thought. Then: I underestimated him. Not such a charvie after all.

She heard the engine revving and sensed it coming towards her, but blinded by the lights after the gloom of the flats she was paralysed. She couldn’t decide which way to run. At the last minute she twisted and started to move, but knew it was too late.

Then there was a shout. She felt the soft thud of another body, pain as she was thrown to the ground, winded and battered. Then came the movement of the vehicle past them, air on her face, and an enormous crash as it swung, out of control, into a wall.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Hannah sat by the living-room window, counting the cars go past, telling herself, When I’ve counted ten more, Arthur will arrive with Rosie. But Arthur didn’t arrive, so she counted twenty, then thirty, then fifty. She’d wanted to go with him to the estate by the river, Hunter’s last known address, but he’d said she’d be better there, next to the phone, and he’d suddenly seemed to inspire confidence so she’d done what she was told. When the car did stop she thought it was a mirage, her imagination playing tricks. But the first person she saw, the only one that mattered then, was Rosie, who got out of the back seat. And she looked dishevelled and shocked, her white work shirt stained. Too solid to be a dream.

Hannah ran to the door and held her. She felt herself crying and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, because Rosie always said she was soppy, that she cried at the drop of a hat. When she looked up she saw Porteous and Stout coming up the path. No one else was with them.

‘Where’s Arthur?’

‘They’ll explain,’ Rosie said. ‘Is there anything to eat?’

‘He’s in hospital,’ Porteous said.

‘Shouldn’t Rosie be too? For a check-up at least.’

‘Nah.’ Rosie shook her head and went to the kitchen to forage for food.

‘Is Arthur badly hurt?’

‘Serious but stable, they say.’

Like Marty, she thought.

Rosie wandered back in. She was drinking from the glass of wine Arthur had poured for himself earlier. In the other hand she held a slice of the cheesecake Hannah had finally decided on for pudding. Crumbs from the biscuit base were dribbling on to the floor. ‘Any phone calls?’ It was what she always asked. It was as if she’d only come back from a four-hour shift at the Prom.

She doesn’t want a fuss, Hannah thought. ‘Joe,’ she said. ‘Several times. He’s been frantic.’

‘I’d better phone him.’ She drifted away upstairs.

Hannah watched her then turned to Porteous. She wondered what he was still doing there, hovering just inside the door like a Jehovah’s Witness or a Kleeneze salesman. Shouldn’t he be taking statements?

‘Arthur is all right?’ she asked. ‘If it’s serious, perhaps I should go to the hospital.’

Then Porteous and Stout walked in, flanking her on each side, so she thought for a crazy minute that they intended to arrest her after all. They sat beside her on the sofa.

‘I don’t think you should do that,’ Porteous said. Hannah saw that both men looked exhausted, much worse than Rosie. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Arthur Lee’s under arrest. He’s been charged with the murders of Theo Randle, Melanie Gillespie and Alec Reeves. And the attempted murder of Rosie.’

‘No.’ Again Hannah thought she was going mad. ‘Rosie was abducted by a youth called Hunter. He phoned here for money. Arthur went to rescue her. I asked him to.’

‘Mr Lee’s just driven his car straight at her at fifty miles an hour,’ Stout said crossly, grumpy as an overtired boy. ‘If the boss hadn’t thrown your daughter out of the way she’d be dead.’

There was a silence. Porteous stood up. ‘I think this should wait. You’ll want to spend some time with your daughter.’

Hannah stood at the door and watched the policemen walk to their car. Through the ceiling she could hear Rosie’s voice chatting, almost naturally, to Joe. There was a burst of laughter, tension relieved. Suddenly Hannah felt angry. How could her daughter be so arrogant, so foolish, not to be scared, not to recognize how close she’d been to danger? But later, when Hannah was in bed, pretending to sleep, Rosie crept in beside her and they spent the rest of the night cuddled together and occasionally Rosie cried out.

Porteous invited her to Cranford to explain Arthur’s guilt. He was apologetic. He was so busy, he said, tying up loose ends. He didn’t think he could make it to Millhaven. Would she mind coming to him?

It was the evening of the following day and still the sun was shining. They met at the picnic site at Cranford Water. The press was still at the police station, Porteous said. And anyway she wouldn’t want to go there. They sat at one of the bench tables. A respectable, middle-aged couple taking the air. Porteous had brought an old-fashioned wicker shopping basket covered with a tea towel and fished out a bottle of wine and some smoked-salmon sandwiches. There were real glasses, linen napkins. Hannah wondered if this were another apology. I’m sorry I thought you were a murderer.

‘How’s Arthur?’ she asked, wanting to start them off. Really rather hoping he was dead.

‘Well enough to talk. Just. Did you know he’d worked as a psychologist at a centre for disturbed children called Redwood?’

She shook her head. ‘He didn’t talk much about the past. I knew he’d done research into families. The causes of delinquent behaviour. I don’t think he ever said where he was based.’

‘He was there for years. Almost since the place started. He went on to run training courses for other professionals, but he kept his links with the centre. He was a leader in his field. That’s why the Home Office headhunted him for Stavely when Redwood closed down.’ Porteous stretched back and closed his eyes against the sun. ‘It started with Theo Randle, the boy you knew as Michael Grey. His mum died of cancer and his dad remarried. There was a little girl. Emily. You know all that. Arthur told you, didn’t he? Once he knew we’d find out anyway. Theo’s stepmother suffered from severe post-natal depression. His father started drinking heavily. The family was falling apart. A suitable case for Mr Lee’s research. Theo hated Emily. She was only months old but he hated her. If she’d never been born he thought they might be happy. It would have been like before his mother died. So he decided to do something about it. He started a fire in the nursery when the nanny had a night off. Emily was killed.

‘Afterwards he was probably sorry. He went to his father and told him what he’d done. But his father didn’t go to the police. He was a public figure. His wife was already suffering from depression. Imagine what the press would make of it. A boy that age charged with murder. Yet he couldn’t face living with Theo either.

‘Redwood hadn’t long opened and was desperately short of money. There was a possibility that the place would shut before Alice Cornish had a chance to prove her ideas. Crispin Randle made a generous donation and Arthur accepted care of the boy. He probably saw it as a professional challenge. He promised he wouldn’t tell the authorities that Theo had killed his sister and agreed to the change of name.’

‘Was that wrong?’ Hannah asked. ‘Would Michael have been better off in a secure unit? A prison?’

‘He would have been safe there,’ Porteous said. ‘And he wouldn’t be a danger to other people.’ He paused. ‘There was another incident of arson. This time at Theo’s school. He started the fire there too. Apparently he hated the place. Arson was his answer to difficult situations. His way of hitting out. Arthur provided an alibi for him. He didn’t want people making awkward connections. Again Alice Cornish never knew. Soon after, the time came when Theo had to move on. He couldn’t be protected in Redwood for ever and Arthur couldn’t let on that he might still be a risk. Alec Reeves, a care worker at Redwood, knew the Brices. They agreed that he could live with them.’

Hannah didn’t answer. She was thinking of Michael, sitting on the shore here at Cranford Water, so bewitched by a bonfire that he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

‘Then Arthur had a tricky moment,’ Porteous said. ‘Theo wanted to confess. Perhaps it was the Brices. Being surrounded by all that religion. Perhaps he kept getting flashbacks of Emily in her cot. He’d never been allowed to admit the truth of the memories. He phoned Arthur, telling him what he intended to do. Very self-righteous. Very dramatic.’

Oh yes, he’d have been that, Hannah thought.

‘At first Alec was sent to sort him out. I don’t think he was ever told the complete story but he knew the reputation of Redwood was at stake and he’d have done pretty well anything to protect that.’

‘Did he have a blue car?’

‘Why?’

‘I saw him. He came looking for Michael here one night.’

‘Poor Alec,’ Porteous said. ‘All those rumours about his nephew and he was just a lonely, middle-aged man who got on better with children than adults. He persuaded the boy to keep quiet, but in the end Theo couldn’t let it go and Alec was sent back.’

‘The weekend of Macbeth?’

‘Yes. He realized immediately it wouldn’t work and Arthur came up himself. He and Theo met on the Sunday evening after the performance of Macbeth, the day after the party, here on the shore. It was late at night. Theo must have had the dagger with him. The prop from Macbeth. We’ll never know if he intended any harm with it or if he’d kept it as a souvenir. He was a disturbed young man and he’d already tried to kill twice. There was an argument. Arthur says Theo got wild and angry and started to wave the dagger about. They had a scrap and Theo was killed. Hard to believe it was self-defence when the boy was stabbed in the back. And considering how cool and efficient Arthur was in dealing with the death. He weighed down Theo’s body and threw it in the lake. Then he phoned the Brices and said that Theo was in the middle of some sort of crisis and had decided to go back to his father. Of course they believed him. Why wouldn’t they? Theo had been their gift from God, only theirs on loan. Presumably Alec was given a similar story.

‘And that’s how it would have stayed if it hadn’t been for global warming and a drought and a canoeist called Helen Blake, who found the body.’

‘I don’t understand where Melanie comes in.’

‘Melanie was at Redwood too, briefly.’

‘For her anorexia?’

‘No,’ Porteous said. ‘It was history repeating itself. She killed a baby. A little girl called Emma. She was babysitting. The baby wouldn’t stop crying, she got frustrated. She smothered it with a pillow. It was put down as a cot death. She confessed too. To Richard Gillespie. I couldn’t accept the coincidence. Two babies dying. Richard was a public figure like Crispin Randle, but I don’t think he was considering himself when he shipped Mel off to Redwood. He couldn’t put her through a trial. There’d been all the publicity about the killers of the little boy in Liverpool. Even after her death he didn’t want it to come out that she was a murderer. When he was young he’d worked as a solicitor for Randle. Apparently Randle got drunk one day and let slip about Theo and Redwood…’

‘… so Melanie got shipped out there too.’

‘Yes,’ Porteous said. ‘For a price. No wonder the girl was so screwed up.’

‘Why did Arthur kill her?’

‘Melanie was bright,’ Porteous said. ‘She knew what was happening to her. She was nearly fifteen when she killed Emma Leese, not a child like Theo. She was confused and mixed up and she wanted someone to blame. She knew Arthur was working locally. Rosie had talked about her mother’s new friend at Stavely. She tracked him down, phoned him a couple of times at the prison. You can imagine the sort of thing. “You really screwed me up. How could you do that to me?” Wanting sympathy, someone to take her seriously. Arthur got jumpy and went to the Prom to try to talk to her. He knew Rosie worked there, thought it would be somewhere Mel would hang out.

‘Mel might have let it go but she saw the photo of Theo on the local news in the pub on her way to the airport. She recognized him. Redwood was plastered with pictures of the kids who’d stayed there. The coincidence freaked her out. And she couldn’t understand why Arthur didn’t go to the police about the Redwood connection. Later that week the press reports were still talking about the mysterious boy with no past. She phoned him again and said that if he didn’t tell the police Michael had been at Redwood, she would. He must have been frantic but he still thought he could reason with her. He couldn’t get to her at home. She was so disturbed by then that her parents almost had her under house arrest. So he became more devious. He even followed Rosie and Joe home from the Prom one night, hoping they might lead him to Mel. At last he found her in the Rainbow’s End. He persuaded her there was a reasonable explanation for keeping quiet about Theo. If she went back with him he’d tell her all about it. But whatever story he’d dreamed up she wouldn’t accept it. She was hysterical…’

‘And he killed her.’

‘In his cottage.’ Porteous hesitated, seemed to make up his mind to continue. ‘The next night he took her body to the cemetery at Millhaven. He knew you’d been there. You were already a suspect and he wanted to implicate you.’

She sat in silence for a moment wondering how she could have been so foolish, so easily taken in. ‘What about Rosie?’ she asked. ‘She can’t have known anything about all that.’

‘Rosie suspected him.’

‘How could she?’

‘Arthur got to know a nasty little boy inside, thought he might be useful.’

‘Hunter.’ Marty knew, she thought. Or guessed. It was impossible to keep secrets in prison. He’d wanted her to know too.

‘Hunter went to see Frank at the pub and persuaded him it wouldn’t be a good idea to remember the man who’d been looking for Mel. We thought Frank was uncooperative because he didn’t like the police, but it was more than that. Rosie got an accurate description out of him.’

‘Arthur.’

Porteous nodded. ‘Later Frank had second thoughts and told Hunter what he’d done.’

‘And Arthur told Hunter to kill her?’

Porteous didn’t answer directly. ‘Hunter recognized the name. Got greedy.’

‘How did you work it all out?’ In time to save my daughter.

‘Dr Cornish had saved a book from Redwood. It was a record of all the kids she’d worked with, but Arthur’s name was in the staff register at the back. I missed it first time. And his car was seen close to Alec Reeves’s house on the night he was murdered. By then Arthur was panicking, desperate to throw suspicion elsewhere. Like Mel, Alec was starting to ask questions…’

There was a silence. ‘Rosie’s tough,’ Porteous said. ‘Brave. She’ll be OK.’

Perhaps, Hannah thought. But will I? She looked out over the flat water to the hills on the opposite bank. In a few weeks her reckless daughter would be away to university. She’d live on her own and Hannah wouldn’t know where she was or what she was doing. Hannah would retreat to the safety of the prison with its rules and its walls, but Rosie would dance and shimmy through the strange town in the south and there’d be nothing Hannah could do to protect her.

As Peter Porteous filled her glass his hand touched hers. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘She’ll be OK.’

Yes, Hannah thought. Of course we will. Both of us.