The Sleep of the Dead

by Tom Bradby

  The flat to the right seemed more likely to be occupied, so he knocked once there and heard a dog bark loudly. A light came on in the hall. He took a step back.

  The door opened and a short, dark, intense young man stood before him. He was wearing a white vest and black jeans, and Mac wouldn’t have put him at much more than twenty. He was stooping slightly, holding the bull terrier’s collar.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Mac said, ‘but I was just looking for Mr Wilkes.’ There was no obvious sign of recognition in the boy‘s eyes, so he went on, ‘Lives next door.’

  The boy shook his head, without breaking his stare. ‘No idea.’

  ‘But he still lives here?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘But somebody lives next door?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for days.’

  ‘So Mr Wilkes does still live next door?’ Mac looked up at the broken windows.

  ‘Don’t know his name. Short man with a moustache.’

  ‘Right. But you’ve not seen him for some days?’

  The young man shrugged again.

  ‘Do you have any idea where he might be?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where he works?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Do you know anything at all about him … where he drinks?’

  The dog, which had been staring at Mac, now wanted to get out of the flat. ‘Back, back,’ the boy said. ‘Most drink in the Rat and Parrot across the road. Back. Back.’ He yanked the dog by the collar and straightened again. ‘What’s he done anyway?’

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘There was another lot earlier. Looked like coppers as well.’

  Mac looked at him. ‘Two men … one balding, another thin face, like a weasel?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Same as you. Wanted to know where he was.’

  ‘He’s not done anything,’ Mac said. As he turned away, the door was slammed shut behind him.

  Mac walked down the stairs with his hands in his pockets and across the courtyard below. The light was fading now.

  The Rat and Parrot was just about what he would have expected, a grubby establishment dedicated to serious alcohol consumption, full of Formica tables and chairs with black plastic covers. There was a pinball machine and pool table in one corner, next to a juke-box, and a large, rectangular bar in the centre. It smelt heavily of beer. A young blond man with two earrings and short, spiked hair nodded at him.

  ‘I’m looking for someone called Mr Wilkes.’ Mac pointed over his shoulder. ‘Lives in the tower block opposite. Short man with a moustache.’

  The youth shrugged. ‘Darren!’ he shouted.

  An older man sauntered over. Like his assistant, he had a tea-towel over his shoulder. Mac repeated his question.

  ‘Description rings a bell. Not seen him for a while, though.’

  ‘Days? Weeks?’

  ‘Not since last week, anyway. Never says much. Buys his pint and sits in the corner with his roll-ups. What’s he done?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Mac stepped back. ‘Nothing at all.’

  Later, Mac went to the office. He had checked the car-park thoroughly for Rigby and Sanderson’s cars, but it was nearly midnight and only the night staff were around.

  The office was empty.

  Mac noticed the top of his desk had been cleaned. He found the small key on the key-ring and opened the drawer of his desk. He took out the Browning 9 mm pistol and checked the magazine was full before loading it into the handle. He took a spare clip, then shoved the pistol into his waistband, did up the buttons on his jacket and walked towards the door.

  Down below, he emerged cautiously, once more scanning the car-park ahead of him, determined to make sure he was not caught off guard.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  JULIA’S HEAD WAS still sore the next morning. She sat up straight, pushed her hair gently off her forehead, rather than combing it, got dressed and brushed her teeth. The house was silent. She opened the bedside drawer and put the chisel carefully to one side, before taking out the white envelope containing the photographs of Adrian and Sarah.

  Outside, it was still warm, the sky above clear, but there was a strong breeze again. At the Rose and Crown, Professor Malcolm opened the door. He was red in the face from standing out in the sun the day before.

  ‘Hello, Rudolph,’ she said.

  He stepped back.

  Julia handed him the envelope, then sat on the bed and waited while he pulled out the pictures and leafed slowly through them. ‘A photographer from Cranbrooke took them. He doesn’t know I’ve got them, by the way. Technically, they’re stolen property.’

  Professor Malcolm looked at her, then at the photographs again. He put them back in the envelope, holding it by his side and looking out of the window.

  ‘Alice Ford was conceived before marriage,’ Julia said. He looked at her. ‘Sarah’s doctor told me. It explains why Alan married her.’

  Professor Malcolm raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps it does.’

  ‘Why only perhaps?’

  ‘Well, it’s more likely to explain why she married him.’

  Julia frowned. ‘I’ve worked out,’ she said, ‘why you are interested in the way Alice was being made to look like a smaller version of her mother.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it could tie them together in the mind of the killer.’

  He nodded. ‘That’s true. It’s not the only reason, but it’s true.’

  ‘I mean, that’s the irony. We’ve agreed that the scene of the crime suggests that this is really all about the woman, but that in itself could be misleading. Sarah stimulated strong emotions, we know that, particularly in men. On that basis, lots of people could have killed her. But how many could have looked into the eyes of a little girl and done the same? In other words, many people had the capacity to murder Sarah, but very few to murder Alice.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was still looking out of the window.

  ‘You don’t seem to agree.’

  He looked at her. ‘No, I do. But my original point was just that it was a development that needed explaining. I agree that it might tie them together in the mind of the killer, but of course that is a result rather than an explanation for why it happened in the first place.’

  Julia turned towards the window. She could see the trees swaying in the wind on the top of the hill. ‘Sarah was using Alice as a professional model. The photographer told me. Even the doctor noted how well turned-out she was.’

  Professor Malcolm did not respond. He did not seem impressed.

  ‘Why was Sarah suddenly so interested in grooming her daughter?’

  ‘I don’t know. A sign of frustration. With her marriage, possibly. With life. Living vicariously through her daughter, seeking fulfilment while satisfying some preconceived notion of being a mother …’

  ‘But she just didn’t seem to me to be interested …’

  ‘That’s what you thought. Perhaps she was trying to show that Alice was wholly her own. It might have been about possession. It is possible to be interested and neglectful, because the wrong kind of interest can be worse than none at all.’ He was tapping the envelope against his leg. ‘Or this may have nothing at all to do with Sarah. It may be more complex. It’s just … odd. Perhaps I’m old-fashioned, but I don’t think five-year-olds should be wearing makeup.’

  He stared out of the window.

  ‘They didn’t find the body?’ Julia asked, changing the subject.

  ‘No. That’s another riddle that troubles me.’ He turned to her. ‘Why Rouse? Why was she fucking Rouse?’ He leant against the desk. ‘What is he like?’

  ‘He’s a family friend, but I wouldn’t say I knew him well.’ Julia tried to think about Rouse. ‘He takes things seriously, responsibilities and so on. Maybe a bit pompous, dull, even. He did my will three years ago and his office is very orderly – he is very orderly and thorough. What y
ou’d expect from a country-practice solicitor. He’s a thoughtful man, though. He was the first to write to me after I won the Sword of Honour from Sandhurst.’

  ‘Saying how proud your father would have been.’

  ‘Yes. He gave me his war diary years ago, too. Said he wanted me to have a proper three-dimensional picture of Dad. He said he was a great man.’ She wished again that she had not given the diary to Mac.

  ‘What about his wife, Leslie?’

  Julia didn’t answer immediately. ‘She’s more easy-going when he’s not around. A bit uptight when they’re together. I never thought much of it before this. I assumed she just felt stultified by village life, but on the evidence of the photographs, I may have misread them. I feel she might have given up on life a bit. She wears dowdy clothes. Sometimes there’s just a look, if you catch her at the right moment, of real ennui with life. Boredom. Dissatisfaction.’

  ‘They have two children?’

  ‘Yes, James, and Elizabeth, who is at Edinburgh University studying medicine.’

  Professor Malcolm held up the white file. ‘I must go and see Rouse. Do you wish to come?’

  Julia was looking at her hands. ‘I almost didn’t give you those.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’ His voice was soft. ‘You don’t have to come.’

  She looked up at him.

  They went to Rouse’s office at the bottom of the high street in Cranbrooke. There was a car-park next to it, and as they walked round via the street, Julia looked across at the newsagent opposite, where the headline on the Southern Echo, pasted to a billboard was, ‘Welham Search: No Body Found’.

  Adrian Rouse’s office was on the first floor of a tall sandstone building. The brass plaque outside read ‘Rouse, Dunkin, Brane, solicitors’. Julia and Professor Malcolm climbed the newly carpeted red stairs to the small reception area at the top, but the elderly receptionist told them Mr Rouse had a touch of the flu and was at home today. Julia felt relieved.

  In the car on the way out of Cranbrooke, Professor Malcolm turned towards her, his face sombre. ‘There is some bad news,’ he said.

  She waited for him to go on. ‘It would probably help if you could stop looking like an undertaker.’

  ‘I’m persuading Weston,’ he went on, ‘to widen the search for the body.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s going to achieve much, but I don’t see why that is bad news.’

  ‘I want all the gardens that back on to the common to be turned over and checked through. Yours, the de la Rues’, the Fords’.’

  Julia stared at him, then accelerated as they cleared the last traffic light and came up the hill. ‘How do you – how do you expect me to react?’

  He was staring out of the windscreen now. ‘I’m not sure I can predict that.’

  ‘Well, then, I’ve achieved something.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Becoming something you can’t predict.’

  Neither of them smiled.

  ‘You’re joking, right?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are joking.’

  ‘No, of course I’m not.’

  Julia was frowning so hard her head was beginning to hurt. ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I know it will be difficult.’

  ‘You can’t do that.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Julia.’

  ‘Did you know you were going to propose this from the start?’

  ‘No, of course—’

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’ She could see the flush of annoyance in his cheeks. ‘I’m not going to let you get away with this.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Julia, but—’

  ‘There’s no way—’

  ‘There is.’

  The ferocity of his voice shocked her. There was a lay-by ahead and she pulled into it, lowering her head slowly on to the steering-wheel while he stared out of the window.

  ‘The point is,’ he said, ‘I just don’t understand what happened to Alice. We cannot find the body on the common and I don’t believe a murderer is going to start carrying her around like a sack of potatoes on a Sunday when you could easily run into anyone, anywhere.’

  Julia sighed. ‘So he carries her across an open field? Surely that is even less likely.’

  ‘No.’ His voice was firm. ‘I was thinking more along the lines that she might have run in that direction. In the direction of home. Perhaps she never got there.’

  They were silent. Julia pulled out again and drove on. When she parked the Golf in the thick gravel drive of the Rouses’ house and got out, she realized that her hands were shaking. She hid them in her pockets.

  They walked slowly across the gravel. The Rouses’ home was about the same size as her mother’s, but was built of stone, with a steep red-tile roof and a large chimney above a small, white attic window. The front door was in an arch. They knocked once and waited.

  The door opened. Professor Malcolm smiled. ‘Hello.’

  Adrian looked at them coldly, then stepped back and ushered them through the door and the dining room to the kitchen at the back. He ignored Julia, as if she didn’t exist. Leslie was sitting on a stool pushed up against the island in the middle of the room, sewing. ‘Hello, Julia,’ she said.

  They betrayed no reaction to her presence, save for an uncharacteristic coldness of manner.

  Adrian sat down at the kitchen table and Julia noticed how podgy his hands were. It was hard to imagine him as a military man.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Adrian,’ Julia said.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ Leslie retorted. She was glowering at them and Julia could see the tension and resentment in her face.

  Professor Malcolm approached the table, pulled back a chair and sat down between Leslie and her husband, facing the latter.

  He took the photographs out of the folder and spread them out on the table, carefully, so that no one picture obscured another. Adrian put his head in his hands. Leslie betrayed no reaction at all.

  ‘Well,’ Professor Malcolm said, ‘here we are.’

  There was silence.

  Adrian looked at Professor Malcolm. He had an air of weary resignation. ‘She already knows about it.’

  Professor Malcolm turned to face Leslie. ‘A smutty little photographer. Someone hired him. I never found out who. After the trial, the photographer tried to blackmail Adrian with the prints. But he told me and I dealt with it.’

  Professor Malcolm now seemed confused. ‘So,’ he said, ‘someone hired the photographer, or the agency, to follow Sarah, find out what is going on … if it was Alan, then he discovers that his wife has been having sexual intercourse – finds out in the most graphic possible way – with one of his best friends and the godfather of his only daughter.’ He looked intently at Adrian. ‘But you’re still friends.’

  ‘No, they’re not,’ Leslie said.

  ‘But you’re part of the village set.’

  ‘We go a long way to keep Caroline and Julia happy. Were it not for them, we would not speak to Alan.’

  Leslie had spoken about Julia as if she wasn’t there and she flushed, feeling instinctively protective of Alan.

  ‘Why?’

  Leslie seemed to be weighing up how much she should say. ‘Sarah was lost and misguided and selfish.’

  ‘But Alan was worse?’

  ‘Alan has always had his limitations. He’s a social climber. Grammar-school boy. He loved the big house and the money and the beautiful wife. He hated that he couldn’t control it.’

  Professor Malcolm was looking at the photographs. Julia wondered how she could have missed Leslie’s inner ugliness.

  ‘You know what I think?’ Professor Malcolm said.

  Adrian was looking down at his hands.

  ‘I think it might have been Adrian. I can see how a man could become obsessed with Sarah … with her beauty, with her sexual availability and the liberties she allowed you.’ He turned to Adrian. ‘I mean look at the liberation in these photographs, the facial e
xpressions.’

  Leslie was sewing now.

  ‘Perhaps you hated the little girl for being in the way, but the real anger was building up in you because you couldn’t control this woman. You could fuck her, but she was never going to be yours.’

  ‘That’s enough!’

  Professor Malcolm turned to face Leslie. Her face was pulled tight with tension, and flushed. ‘Of course he bloody wanted her,’ she said. ‘They all did, but look at him!’

  There was silence for a moment.

  ‘She was playing with him. She loved corrupting, that was what she was about, but she corrupted better men than him. Look at him, he’s not capable of murder.’

  Professor Malcolm was staring at Leslie. ‘Which men are you referring to?’

  Leslie glanced in Julia’s direction.

  Professor Malcolm turned to Adrian. ‘Did you believe you were the only one, Adrian?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘It would help your position,’ Professor Malcolm said softly, ‘under the circumstances, if you were to be a little more forthcoming.’

  Adrian sighed. ‘It began because I took her to task one day.’ Now it was his turn to look at Julia. ‘It was generally assumed …’ He was looking at his hands again. ‘There was gossip about Mitchell. They were seen together so often. We all saw them. People talked. I thought it was bad for the village. Bad for the regiment.’

  ‘She confirmed it?’

  ‘She said she could corrupt anyone.’

  ‘And you told her it wasn’t true.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But she corrupted you?’

  Adrian did not respond.

  ‘Say it,’ Leslie hissed.

  ‘Yes. She – she had this … She made you feel you were reaching something special – a place she had never let anyone else and then, too late, you saw that it was just a trick, a game.’

  ‘And you hated her for it?’

  Adrian did not answer.

  ‘When were these photographs taken?’

  He looked up at the pictures, without catching their eye. ‘About a month before the deaths. It was the only time we …’

  ‘And what did Alan say?’

  Adrian cleared his throat. ‘Alan has never mentioned it.’