The Sleep of the Dead

by Tom Bradby

  ‘With respect, Major Rigby, isn’t it for us to decide what is relevant?’

  ‘Not in this case.’

  ‘But, Major Rigby, sir …’

  ‘Captain Macintosh.’ Rigby’s face was flushed. ‘I say it’s not relevant so it’s not relevant. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Very.’

  Rigby turned, then thought better of it. He was constrained by Wellar’s presence. ‘Come into my office,’ he ordered Mac quietly.

  Mac shut the door behind him as he entered. He had never seen Rigby so agitated.

  ‘Think you’re better than me, is that it, Macintosh?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Don’t you fucking “no, sir” me, you insolent bastard.’ Rigby gestured at the rest of the room with his open palm. ‘Lording it over the rest of us just because your mother was stupid enough to get you a university degree.’

  ‘I don’t think my mother has ever been to a university, sir.’

  Rigby’s face was cold. ‘If you’re not careful, Captain Macintosh, I am going to shit on you and your precious career from a very great height. I’m told you want to transfer to the Intelligence Corps. Well, you can bloody forget that for a start. Military Police not good enough for you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Rigby moved behind his desk. ‘I can see that’s why you wanted this case, so that you can go ingratiating yourself with all those limp-wristed faggots down at Ashford—’

  ‘I don’t think homosexuality is a prerequisite of intelligence work, sir.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly willing to give it a try.’

  ‘I warn you, Macintosh,’ Rigby told him.

  ‘Warn me of what, sir?’

  Rigby glowered at him. ‘This is a simple case.’

  ‘And what if it’s not?’

  ‘It’s a simple case and you will complete it quickly and pass it to your superiors for a decision to be taken.’

  ‘I understand, sir.’ Mac turned to go, but stopped in the doorway. ‘You seem vexed, sir. Perhaps a game of badminton would be in order?’

  Rigby flushed. Mac walked out.

  *

  Mac waited until Rigby had stormed out of the office before going down the staircase to the square outside. Most of the cars had gone, except those on the far side parked in front of the lecture hall, and to his right the evening sun gave the red-brick administration building a mellow warmth, its white-domed clock-tower starkly beautiful against a clear blue sky. It was a balmy evening and Mac slipped off his jacket as he walked into Registry at the far end of the block.

  There was no one at the counter, but a sign above the desk warned, ‘Do not remove any file without authorization.’ Another added, ‘Bring files back!’ A large poster listed names and files under the heading ‘Sin Bin’. Mac’s name appeared twice and he knew that both files were still in the drawer of his desk.

  There was a cool breeze coming from a window open above the computer at the back, which made the room smell less fusty than usual. To Mac’s right, tall metal storage shelves on rollers ran the length of the room. He heard the hiss of the door behind him and turned. ‘Hello, Maurice.’

  ‘Working late again.’

  Mac looked at his watch. ‘Not too bad.’

  Maurice retreated behind the counter. He had greasy dark hair, thick black spectacles and long thin white fingers. He reminded Mac of a chemistry teacher from school, so much so that he would almost have sworn the two men were twins. He did everything behind this counter with exaggerated precision.

  ‘File six, six, seven, forty-three slash B, please,’ Mac said.

  Maurice picked up a Biro and wrote this down, then walked to the far end of the room without the piece of paper. He bent to turn the wheel on one of the shelves, rolling it back to allow himself access. As he watched, Mac thought that Maurice was older than he looked. Past retirement age, probably, but indispensable due to the arcane nature of the system he and his colleagues had invented.

  Maurice shuffled back towards him, looking down at an open folder. ‘Not here,’ he said.

  ‘Who has it?’

  Maurice was back behind the counter. ‘Classification Red.’

  ‘I thought all files in here were blue.’

  ‘Almost all.’

  ‘That’s why it asks for an access code on the computer.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So who has it?’

  Maurice shook his head dolefully. ‘Classification Red,’ he said.

  Mac smiled. ‘All right, Maurice, you old bugger, who’s got it?’

  ‘You’ve not got clearance.’

  ‘Well, who has?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that either.’

  Mac raised his hands, attempting to be genial in defeat. Maurice pushed his glasses to the bridge of his nose. ‘The hard copy of the file was lodged here for the first time by Rigby on 11 February 1996. It was taken out by Rigby on 12 February 1996 and has not been returned.’ Maurice pointed a long finger at him. ‘And it’s only ’cos it’s you. Don’t tell a soul.’

  ‘Thank you, Maurice.’

  That night, when Mac walked into his flat on Battersea Rise in south-west London, there was a message on the answering-machine from Rigby, tersely informing him that the two sergeants from Beijing would be arriving at nine o’clock the following morning on flight BA 771.

  Mac’s flat was small and cold in winter but, being on the top floor, it was bright at this time of the year. He liked sitting by the window and taking in the last of the light. If you leant out, you could just see the edge of Clapham Common.

  It was nine o’clock and Mac had stopped at Domino’s on the way for a pizza, which he now put on a plate. He took a Budweiser from the fridge and sat in the armchair by the window. The flat had only one bedroom and he lived alone. He liked it that way. He had ordered pepperoni, which was cold now but he couldn’t be bothered to reheat it. He had meant to go to the gym on his way home, but it had got too late and he didn’t need to exercise to stay in shape.

  He poured the beer into a glass and drank, putting his feet up on the coffee-table and pulling the plate to his lap. He ate mechanically, his mind not on the food, then got up and chucked the rest of the pizza into the bin, before taking the address book from his satchel, locating and dialling Professor Malcolm’s number.

  ‘Professor Malcolm.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Mac … Julia’s friend. We met at the Sandhurst passing-out parade.’

  ‘Mac. Yes, of course. How are you?’

  ‘I’m pretty good. How’s retirement? Julia said you were going to retire.’

  ‘Well, yes, but … She was here today, as a matter of fact. Did you know she was back from China?’

  Mac felt unaccountably irritated. Julia’s relationship with Professor Malcolm was another part of her that was inexplicable.

  ‘Yes,’ Mac said. ‘There has been an … incident, a bad one, and I find myself as the investigating officer.’

  ‘Investigating Julia?’

  ‘Yes. It’s quite serious. She’s a high-profile individual so they’ll be lenient if they can be, I think, but I need to find some mitigating circumstances.’

  There was silence.

  ‘I’m not sure how I could help, if that is what you’re seeking,’ Professor Malcolm said.

  ‘It would be easier to discuss it face to face.’

  Professor Malcolm hesitated. ‘All right. I suppose so. From tomorrow night I will be staying in West Welham, at the Rose and Crown. If you want me, you can find me there.’

  Mac wanted to ask what Professor Malcolm was doing in West Welham, but didn’t get the chance. There was only a buzz in his ear. He replaced the receiver and returned to the window and his beer. The sky outside was losing the last of the light, silver clouds shredded by the encroaching night.

  Mac liked to live alone yet he was lonely. It was a contradiction he had yet to unravel.

>   He walked over and took out of his satchel the video from Beijing. It had come through this evening from the Chinese capital in a diplomatic bag. He put it into the player and sat on the leather sofa opposite the television with the remote control in his hand. The film was grainy, as if shot on an amateur video camera, and depicted a dusty yard with a high breeze-block wall. The light was bright and two guards slouched against it in ill-fitting dirty uniforms. There was a shout in Chinese, a barked order, and the camera panned suddenly to a scruffy-looking doorway, where another guard was looking agitated. This was the one, Mac saw, who had issued the command.

  There was a low scuffing sound and two more guards appeared, dragging a man between them. At first Mac thought he was dead, because he appeared lifeless, but then the camera jumped back and swung away, its operator moving to a different position. The lens lost focus and, when it recovered, the man was kneeling on the ground. He was wearing blue trousers and a white T-shirt, already covered in dust from the floor of the yard. He had no shoes. The two guards were beside him and, as he looked towards the camera, he was crying silently and shaking violently, hands tied behind his back. The camera closed in and Mac saw the terror of a man who knows he is about to die.

  There was another barked order then one of the guards produced a pistol. The man was sobbing audibly now, attempting to bend his head in a gesture of supplication. Then there was a dark explosion from the front of the man’s head and the crack of the pistol. His body slumped forward, trussed hands pointing into the air. The camera closed in on the dark patch in the dust, already apparently drying in the sun. It tried to find his face, but Mac pressed the stop button. ‘Shit,’ he said, under his breath.

  Julia’s legs hurt and she could feel the cramp in her calves, but she dared not move, scanning the clearing, believing they must find them soon. Alice’s hand was still in her own, the little girl’s eyes resting upon her face, looking for a lead.

  Julia did not know what to do. It had been at least forty minutes since they’d run to hide and it had never taken her father this long to find her.

  Her head hurt.

  She scanned the clearing from right to left. She tried to move, but could not. She was trapped again and began to panic, her heart beating faster, the sweat gathering on her forehead.

  What were they doing to him?

  Why was she not free to help him?

  ‘Hah!’

  Feeling his hand on her leg, Julia turned. He released her and offered her and Alice a hand each as they ducked out from under the bush. ‘To find someone, you look for the points of natural cover,’ he said, smiling at them. He did not seem to notice that she was soaked in sweat and she dared not draw attention to it by wiping her forehead.

  ‘Mum’s gone home,’ Mitch said to Alice, ruffling her hair. ‘It’s all right, we’ll go back now, you just hid so well, she got bored of looking.’

  Julia noticed that he had mud on the knees of his trousers. Was that from kneeling down to grab her leg just here? She could not see any mud – the bush was surrounded by long grass.

  He walked away, whistling softly, putting an arm around both their shoulders and squeezing gently.

  It was all right.

  Everything was okay now.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING Julia woke up with what felt like a hangover, but was not alcohol-induced. Her watch told her she had been asleep for ten hours, but she did not feel rested and she got out of bed quickly, uneasy from unwelcome dreams. It was a clear day again, the sky above the de la Rues’ house a vivid blue.

  She listened for her mother, but there was no sound from downstairs so she assumed she must already be at the gallery. Julia tried to remember what day of the week it was. Friday, she thought.

  She had a shower, then looked out of the window at the de la Rues’ garden while she brushed her teeth. As from her bedroom, she could see the corner of the patio and most of the garden from here. In the middle of the lawn, there was a child’s bike, with stabilizers attached to its rear. It had fallen or been pushed over and one wheel was bent backwards.

  Woodpecker Lane was a good place to learn to ride because it was a cul-de-sac with only three houses – the Fords’, the Havillands’, then the de la Rues’ at the end. Julia had been taught there, her father behind, her mother ahead. She had learnt quickly. Julia learnt everything quickly.

  Perhaps Jessica was at home, with her children, as she was getting divorced, and the bike belonged to one of them, she thought.

  Jessica was an only child. She was two years older than Julia and, as a teenager, had considered her neighbour painfully unfashionable and square. Jessica had smoked marijuana, dated art-school students and lost her virginity under the willow tree at the end of the garden on her fifteenth birthday.

  Julia had left most of her own clothes at home while she was in Ireland and China, so she took out a clean, pressed pair of jeans – and discovered they were baggy around the waist – then found a T-shirt. She emptied the dirty clothes out of her case, carried them downstairs and dumped them in front of the washing machine. Its instructions were in German and she couldn’t see how to turn it on so gave up.

  She made some coffee and ate her breakfast in silence. The Daily Telegraph lay folded on the side and she opened it and began to turn the pages, but was unable to find any reference to Robert Pascoe’s appeal. She wondered whether he would now bear any resemblance to the shy, ungainly, peculiar youth – the son of her mother’s cleaner – who used to run around the village with a pack on his back and intensity in his face.

  She reached up to the shelf and turned on the radio, but it was twenty past nine and she had missed the news.

  Her father had always said he had got Pascoe into the regiment, and Julia wondered if he had regretted it.

  After she had cleared away her bowl and cup, she went upstairs to the corridor outside her room and looked up at the entrance to the attic. The hook, as usual, was in the spare-room cupboard. It was the end of a curtain rail that her father had attached to a broomstick. Julia used it to open the hatch, then pull down the ladder.

  She climbed up it and emerged into the light, the window to her left making it less gloomy than the corridor below. It was tidier than she remembered, with fewer boxes. Her footsteps sounded loud as she crossed the floor to the Velux window ahead.

  This was the best view in the house: straight ahead, one of the de la Rues’ fields sloped gently to the edge of the common with its dense wood. She could see the Ford house, too, with its garden and tennis court, and on this side of the hedge, the edge of her mother’s lawn and the garden shed pushed up against the fence at the back. The shed looked old now and one or two of its planks had fallen out of place, leaving a small hole.

  Julia opened the Velux. There was a cool breeze, but she was still warm enough in a T-shirt. The sound of a power-saw drifted up from the bottom of the valley. The attic was her father’s place and its transformation had been his project. Ahead was a red-brick wall and, between two vertical wooden beams, a wooden workbench. At both ends he had erected a large vertical wooden board on which all the tools were hung from nails or pegs. On top of the workbench there was a vice, and by her feet, two wooden boxes with Perspex drawers containing nails and screws, neatly arranged by size.

  Julia remembered listening from her room below to her father’s footsteps. This way, then a long pause, then back to the window – to and fro, to and fro. Pace, pace, pace, stop. Pace, pace, pace, stop. She returned to the Velux with the same staccato tread and looked out again. What had he looked at from up here? Just the common, perhaps, a tranquil, soothing sight, as beautiful a view as southern England offered and timeless, too, since the common belonged to the National Trust, and building regulations in the village were tightly controlled to preserve its rural charm.

  The other half of the attic, to her right, was storage space. A pair of her father’s skis, with bindings that betrayed their age, stood against the wall at the end a
nd next to them, pushed into the corner, was his desk, with its round-backed captain’s chair. A blotter still lay on it, although the photographs that had once stood there were gone.

  Julia thought of his energy and the way Alan was easier to have around. Ten years ago, that might have made her feel guilty, as if favouring one father over another, but she had grown out of the need to avoid comparison. They were both admirable, but different.

  There were a lot of boxes around the desk and, closest to the Velux, her bicycle – the one she’d been taught to ride in Woodpecker Lane – was propped up against the sloping roof. Julia knelt down and picked it up. Its handlebars were rusty and only one brake worked, with a high-pitched squeak. Caroline had probably kept it for the grandchildren.

  Julia massaged the back of her neck and glanced over towards Alan’s garden, to see him standing on the terrace, looking out towards the common, with his hands in his pockets. Julia wondered why he was at home and not on the base. She remembered that she had not told him about Beijing and decided that she must do so, before the army – perhaps even Mac – called to see if he could offer an explanation for her behaviour.

  Julia went back down the ladder and outside the house. The back door slammed shut after her and she didn’t bother to lock it. There was wind now and it brought a chill to the air. She crossed her arms, nursing a few goose-pimples with her palms.

  As she came through the gap in the hedge, he did not see her at first. ‘Alan?’

  There was anxiety in his face, and tension. ‘Julia.’

  She climbed the steps slowly. ‘Are you all right?’

  He looked at her. He was not all right. His face was startling. It was a straight throwback to the days after the murders. His eyes stared, but she did not think he really saw her. ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ he said. ‘Pascoe has just been released. They said on the radio he was expected to return home.’

  Alan turned back to look out over the common, his left hand gripping his right, its thumb rubbing the joints at the base of his fingers.