The Sleep of the Dead

by Tom Bradby

  ‘They never have.’

  ‘I’ve called them. Many times.’

  ‘Who were these men, Sandra?’

  She shook her head. ‘There was a Major Rigby. He was in charge. The others … I don’t know.’

  Mac looked at her, thoughtfully. ‘Sandra, do you have any idea what the letters were about? Were they to do with the war?’

  She shook her head. ‘We met after the war, in 1984. He never talked about his experiences. Never. Not a single word. Clive Danes was the same. I sometimes talked to Jennifer about it. Clive’s wife.’

  ‘You still have a telephone number for her, presumably.’

  Sandra nodded. ‘I’ll get it for you in a minute, if you want.’

  ‘Did you ever hear any mention of Mitchell Havilland’s death?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘Richard never commented on it – on the articles about Mitchell’s daughter a few years ago or anything like that?’

  There was a glimmer of recognition. ‘Yes, he did see those. When she won that award?’

  ‘The Sword of Honour at Sandhurst.’

  ‘Yes. A sword with a picture of her in uniform.’

  ‘It was in most newspapers.’

  ‘Yes, he was reading that.’

  ‘And he commented on it?’

  Sandra was thinking. ‘He said the man would not have been a hero if he had come back from the war.’

  ‘What did he mean by that?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He was … it was in the morning and he was never at his best, just stuck into the newspaper, and I asked him what he meant and he ignored me. I suppose I thought it was military tactics or something but I knew better by then than to ask about the war.’

  ‘What did you think he might have meant?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When he said it, presumably you thought he meant that if Havilland had come back from the war, if he’d not been killed and therefore had returned with everyone else, then something would have come to public light which would have caused him not to be viewed as a hero, in fact the reverse.’

  Sandra looked confused. ‘I suppose so, yes.’

  ‘That was the tenor of what he said. I’m sorry, but it might be important.’

  She thought about it some more. ‘It was a throwaway remark.’

  ‘But memorable enough for you to recall it some … what – six or seven years later.’

  Sandra sighed. ‘I suppose I just thought it was not pleasant to speak ill of someone who had died in that way … Richard was normally very respectful of colleagues and it struck me as odd that he’d say such a thing, but again … it was the war. He just didn’t talk about it. It was off-limits.’

  Mac stood and put his cup of tea down on the mantelpiece. ‘Sandra, you said that they took some of the things from his study. Would it be possible … I mean, I don’t know if you have packed all his effects away but, if you haven’t, it would be useful to me to look through to see if there is anything they might have left behind.’

  Without saying anything further, she led him up the staircase to the landing above and a small room at the far end. As he turned to thank her, Mac saw only the door being quietly shut.

  He sat in a tall, high-backed wooden chair with red decorative painting across its head, which looked Scandinavian in style. Mac wondered if the Clavertons really did have Nordic connections.

  The desk had an old Apple computer in one corner, but was otherwise bare. Underneath, to the left of his legs, there was a cabinet with three drawers. Mac switched on the computer, and opened the top drawer, which was full of files.

  He pulled them out and looked through the contents of each. Richard Claverton had been a neat, methodical man. There was a file for car insurance, another for the house and one with ‘Army’ on the cover, which Mac opened with a sense of expectation. It yielded thin pickings, containing only his discharge papers (12 November 1984, at the rank of sergeant) and details of his pension. There was another file headed ‘Postal Service’, which dealt with his career after the army. He had been in the human resources department and had retired in 1994.

  Mac paid careful attention to the ‘Bank’ file, but again learnt nothing of substance. The Clavertons were not wealthy, but neither were they profligate, living comfortably within their means.

  He combed through all the bank statements that had been kept – about two years’ worth – but found that the Clavertons had been overdrawn only once and then only by a hundred and twenty-nine pounds for three days at the end of a month.

  The other drawers held nothing of interest – some French money, details of an Air France frequent-flyer programme, paperclips, three films and a new-looking camera.

  Mac browsed through the computer, but there was not a single file on it.

  He stood up and went downstairs to find Sandra, who was sitting on the sofa, with her hands in her lap.

  ‘Sandra, did Richard have any files on the computer?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know how to use it. I’m sure he did.’

  ‘Did the men who came … did Rigby use the computer?’

  ‘I left them in the study.’

  Mac put his hands in his pockets, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. He thought about the way in which he’d suddenly started speaking about his own colleagues as if they were enemies and how it seemed so natural.

  ‘There’s nothing in his drawers to suggest he was in the army at all, except his discharge papers. Did he keep any mementoes, photographs or letters – anything at all from his career or from the war?’

  ‘No. As I said, he never talked about it. Of his former colleagues he saw only Clive. I suppose they must have talked about it, after all they’d gone through together, but never in front of me or Jennifer. When Richard received any communication from the regiment or the army, if it wasn’t about his pension, he threw it straight in the bin.’

  ‘There’s nothing else?’

  Mac was forming the impression Sandra was holding something back, but instinct told him not to push too hard. He stood with his back to the fireplace, his hands still in his pockets, his head bent in thought. After a minute, or perhaps more, Sandra stood and left the room.

  Mac listened to her climbing the stairs. When she came back, she had a small leather book in her hand. ‘I don’t think it will be much use, but it’s the only other thing I have.’

  Mac took it and sat down in the armchair. He was hoping Sandra would leave him to look at it in peace, but she returned to her position on the sofa. The room seemed to have grown darker, but there was enough light from the window to enable him to read.

  The diary was leatherbound and obviously personal. It had a string wrapped around it with what looked like a Chinese coin on the end. Mac’s heart sank as he opened it and began to turn the pages. It was evidently some kind of fishing journal, with headings written in ink. The first was ‘River Test’, the title and date underlined, 12 June 1993. It was a factual account of a day spent fishing, including the size and nature of the catch. There was nothing personal about it.

  The fourth page was headed ‘Nomads to Norway, Summer of ’94’ and, again, it provided a bald account of the fishing, written up day by day. On most occasions, the sub-heading was ‘Self and Clive’, though sometimes other names were added. What engaged Mac’s interest were the illustrations, because Claverton had been a talented amateur, depicting landscapes and sometimes individuals with an impressionist’s flair. There was a particularly attractive pencil sketch of a man in a hat fishing in a broad river with a mountain behind him. The man was short – Clive Danes, probably, Mac thought.

  After the fishing trip to Norway, there was a pencil sketch of what looked like a large garden shed and it took Mac a few seconds to work out that this was a design drawing. He held up the page to Sandra and she smiled, pointing out of the window at the garden.

  Mac began to turn the pages faster. There was another Nomads trip to Scotland
, again with illustrations.

  Then he stopped. In the corner of one page was a list of names – two lists, in fact – and they had caught his eye because they were written in very small letters in the margin and set out as if they were two opposing football teams.

  On one side, Richard Claverton had written, ‘Pascoe, Claverton, Danes, Wilkes’. On the other, ‘Ford, Rouse, Haydoch’.

  But most striking was the heading. Claverton had written above the list the letter H, which he had neatly circled and placed a cross through.

  Mac got up. He handed her the book and pointed to the list, but she shrugged.

  He took a step back and half turned away. ‘Sandra, I’m going to have to ask you how, exactly, Richard died.’

  ‘It was a gun.’

  ‘Do you know what kind?’

  ‘A Browning pistol, they said at the inquest.’

  ‘Did he own such a gun?’

  Sandra shook her head.

  ‘And Clive Danes, how …’

  ‘The same way.’

  ‘Exactly the same?’

  ‘No, they found Clive in a wood behind the house, but …’

  ‘But he shot himself, also with a pistol?’

  ‘I don’t know the make of the gun.’

  ‘Did you … Are you aware that the man who wrote those letters, Robert Pascoe, was in prison because he was convicted of the Welham Common murders? Do you remember …’

  She was nodding her head.

  ‘Did you ever hear Richard or Clive refer to them?’

  She did not respond.

  ‘What I’m getting at is what “truth” it was exactly that Pascoe may have been referring to in those letters and why he had decided it was “time” to tell it.’

  She shook her head.

  Mac looked down. ‘Something was important enough to trigger, if you are correct, not one but two murders.’

  Mac found it hard to leave that night. Each time he stood to go, Sandra would ask if he wanted another cup of tea with a soulful loneliness in her eyes. Mac did not know if it was company she sought – any company – or whether she had already come to hope he would offer a resolution of the circumstances surrounding her husband’s death.

  Eventually, he stood up firmly and thanked her. She did not get up to say goodbye and, as he pulled the door shut, the last thing he saw was Sandra Claverton sitting with her head in her hands, her body shaking.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PROFESSOR MALCOLM WAS sitting by the desk, staring out of the window. As Julia came in, he hurriedly picked up some papers and shoved them into his pocket. He looked surprised to see her and it was a second or two before he remembered the meeting at the village hall.

  They climbed down the fire exit, avoiding the pub below, and walked down the road, past the green and the churchyard to the village hall beyond.

  There were about twenty people in the hall, half of whom Julia recognized. She guessed that some of the strangers were from neighbouring East Welham, the rest newcomers to this village. Most were standing, some leaning on the same trestle tables that her mother had used at the disco all those years ago. Cynthia Walker was there, without her husband and daughter, sitting next to Hattie Travers and her husband, who was not, this time, supported by his thugs.

  A small group were on the stage at the front: Alan Ford sitting, head bowed, Jasper de la Rue leaning against the side, Adrian Rouse standing just in front of them. Adrian was holding the meeting.

  Julia had been spotted now. Jasper, Adrian and Alan all seemed to register her presence at the same time and their frowns were uniform, though Alan’s was more surprise than annoyance and was quickly replaced by a smile. Adrian, who had been addressing the gathering, stared at them, as if he had seen a ghost. One or two of the others, who faced the triumvirate on the stage, now turned towards them and an awkward silence fell, punctuated by the sound of metal chairs scraping against a wooden floor as people swung back.

  The hall was run down, old and unwelcoming. Once, it had even been used for amateur dramatics, but now it was rarely occupied.

  ‘I share your sentiments,’ Adrian went on, ‘but we have some responsibility to ensure that whatever we do does not teeter into illegality.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ Travers told him. ‘Your children are grown up.’ He looked at Cynthia Walker as he said this.

  ‘That’s true, but I repeat what I said earlier.’ Adrian looked straight at Julia and Professor Malcolm. ‘None of us want this man here, but most of us are agreed we have a duty to respect the law.’

  ‘We’re still not agreed,’ Travers said. He was wearing a mustard-coloured cardigan and spoke with the vowels of someone whose upbringing had been spent north of Watford Gap, which set him apart from the men on the stage and, Julia assumed, most of the rest of the room. Travers had sought to dominate the village before, swaying planning meetings with bluster and threats of legal action for discrimination, having bought out an old village couple then decided to knock down their red-brick cottage to make way for his home.

  ‘We’ve a duty,’ Travers said slowly, ‘to the children of the village, to take any action necessary to ensure their safety is protected.’ Again, he looked at Cynthia Walker meaningfully. ‘Where is he?’

  To Travers and Cynthia Walker and all the other relative newcomers, this must seem simple, Julia thought.

  ‘He was taken to Cranbrooke this afternoon,’ Rouse said, ‘at his own request.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  ‘How do we know that he won’t come back?’

  ‘We don’t.’

  ‘They should be watching him … filth like that …’

  ‘But the difficulty is that he is no longer a criminal. There’s a limit …’

  ‘Oh, fuck the law,’ Travers said. ‘There are people here with young children and I don’t care what the judiciary, in their wisdom, have decided. If the police believe they got their man, then that’s that. There are people in this village and in this room with young children and we’ll go on using every available means to show Mr Pascoe that he’s not welcome.’

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  Adrian glanced at Alan Ford. He slipped off the stage, an athletic and youthful figure alongside Jasper and Adrian, despite his slight tummy, though he was Adrian’s age. He pulled his sweater down over his belt and ran his hand through his thick, wavy dark hair, flattening it at the front. He stood with his hands in his pockets for a moment. Adrian Rouse touched his shoulder, a gesture of support befitting an old friend.

  ‘I don’t want this man back here,’ Alan said. ‘We’ll make sure he does not remain.’ He looked around the room. ‘However, this is one of the moments by which a community must judge itself. We cannot be seen to be hounding him … however terrible he may be and however much we may … wish to.’

  ‘Hold on a second.’ It was Cynthia Walker. Heads turned in her direction. ‘What if Pascoe is innocent?’ she asked.

  Silence fell once more.

  Alan, Adrian and Jasper were all frowning. ‘We can only go by the law,’ Adrian said.

  ‘Yes, but what if Pascoe didn’t do it? The judiciary have freed him on the grounds that his guilt cannot be proven and we’re all assuming that’s a technicality, but what if he didn’t do it?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at,’ Adrian went on.

  ‘If Pascoe didn’t do it, then someone else did.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re saying,’ Jasper said, stepping forward, his voice resonant with the authority of his position in the village.

  ‘I’m saying that if Pascoe has been proved innocent by the law, then isn’t it possible that he is? Shouldn’t we be asking for a new police investigation?’ Cynthia said.

  Jasper looked around the room. ‘We’re confident the police got the right man.’ He turned towards Professor Malcolm. ‘I understand the police a
re conducting an informal review of the evidence, but I doubt any of us would want to go through a full investigation again. Let us concentrate on ensuring an appropriate response to the circumstances with which we are now faced.’

  ‘You might not want to go through it, but you’ve not got children at risk.’

  Jasper cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think your daughter is at risk, Cynthia.’

  ‘Why not? If it wasn’t Pascoe, it must have been someone else. Perhaps he is still here.’

  ‘But there has not been an incident for fifteen years.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean there’s never going to be one.’

  ‘We should call for an investigation,’ Travers said. ‘Why not, what is there to lose?’

  ‘Police investigations create a great deal of ill-feeling,’ Alan said, ‘and attract unwanted media attention.’ He took another pace forward, putting his hands back in his pockets. ‘Most of you already know that a semi-official review is being conducted by the Professor here.’ People in the room turned their heads once again to look at Professor Malcolm, but he ignored them. ‘I think we should do all we can to help. If there are any grounds for further suspicion, then they should be pursued.’

  ‘But that doesn’t prevent the danger to our children,’ Cynthia said.

  Julia saw that both Adrian and Jasper were beginning to look exasperated, but Alan remained unflustered. ‘I’m sure if there is a danger, the Professor will identify it. I’m told he is the foremost brain the police possess.’

  This might have been sarcasm, Julia couldn’t be sure, but if so, it was delivered with enough finesse to ensure it went largely unnoticed.

  There was another hesitation. Then the chairs began to scrape again and the villagers got up and filed solemnly past Julia and Professor Malcolm. Travers, his wife and Cynthia Walker all looked them straight in the eye as they left.

  Julia realized she had misread the mood of the community. They were afraid of Pascoe, but they were confused too, wary and suspicious.

  Professor Malcolm approached the stage. Adrian was stooping to pack some papers into a leather briefcase, his bald patch facing them; Jasper was standing to the side, his hands in his pockets. As always, he wore a dull sports jacket, with a new white check shirt and a tie.