The Sleep of the Dead

by Tom Bradby

  ‘Yes,’ Julia said.

  ‘We should be able to get them today. I’ll have to chase the phone records you asked for.’

  ‘Any sign of Pascoe today?’ Professor Malcolm asked. He was smiling at Baker, and Julia felt momentarily and confusingly jealous.

  Baker gave a wry smile. ‘No, he’s left his makeshift camp up, but he’s not there today. We checked this morning.’

  Julia had a strong mental image, again, of Pascoe’s aggressive, distorted face.

  Breckenridge hurried along the corridor, glancing in as he passed. Baker looked at Professor Malcolm and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘He’s like a cat on a hot tin roof.’ She looked at the board on the wall behind her desk. ‘I’ve got the poisoned chalice, the ultimate thankless task. Can you imagine if anything happens, or even if Pascoe’s caught hanging around a school?’

  Professor Malcolm had had his hands in his pockets and he now took them out and clapped them together, as if excited. ‘If anything happens, it won’t be what you think, so don’t worry.’

  Baker shrugged. ‘Everyone’s looking for him. Had the Military Police on today.’

  Now it was Professor Malcolm’s turn to frown. ‘What did they want?’

  ‘Wouldn’t say. Just that they needed to get hold of him urgently.’ Baker moved towards her desk and pulled back the chair. ‘If you want to get a coffee or something, I’ll be done and we can go down and pick up the bank records.’

  They walked into the corridor outside and into the stairwell. ‘Good woman, Baker,’ Professor Malcolm said, once they were out of earshot.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Intelligent. Thorough.’

  Julia didn’t respond.

  The canteen was at the far end of the ground-floor corridor. It felt depressingly reminiscent of the many military dining halls in which Julia had spent so much time. Professor Malcolm went to get her a cup of coffee and she sat at a table in the far corner, overlooking the garden. The windows were wet from some light rain, the grass glistening in the isolated rays of sunshine.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, as he came to join her.

  She looked up at him. ‘I’m fine.’ She put some milk into her coffee and two packets of sugar, stirring it and sipping before leaning back and looking out at the gardens once more. He’d bought her a small packet of biscuits, which she opened. ‘Custard creams provide one of the most vivid memories of school,’ she said. He leant forward, elbows on the table. ‘Where did you go to school?’

  ‘A comprehensive in Sheffield,’ he replied.

  ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  He was looking out of the window, holding the cup in two hands in front of his face. ‘No.’

  ‘Not an academic school?’

  ‘Hardly a school at all.’

  Julia stared at the biscuit in her hand, feeling the weight of the privileges she had been offered in life. She could imagine all too easily what a comprehensive in Sheffield must have been like for a lonely boy with a brilliant brain but an ugly face and body.

  She had been going to ask him about the conversation with Breckenridge upstairs, but instead, she sighed quietly and turned her head towards the garden again. She tried to force herself to relax. It was the case that a man was innocent until proven guilty and nothing had been proven.

  Nothing had been proven at all.

  When they got back upstairs, Julia saw a familiarly large figure occupying the doorway of Baker’s office. As he turned and caught sight of her, she thought he looked uncomfortable, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. ‘Mac,’ she said.

  He smiled at her and stepped back to allow the two of them to enter. Baker was standing behind her desk, the chair pushed up against the wall.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Julia asked him.

  ‘Looking for Pascoe,’ Baker said.

  ‘Why?’

  Julia could see that Professor Malcolm knew exactly why Mac was here. ‘Detailed off to find Pascoe,’ he said.

  ‘Second visit from the RMP today,’ Baker added.

  Julia was beginning to dislike her. ‘Why do you want to know about him?’

  Mac hesitated. ‘Honestly not sure,’ he said. ‘Orders.’ Julia could see that he was lying and he wasn’t good at it. He appeared edgy and it heightened her nerves again. She found herself wanting to hold him – for everyone else to go, to disappear, and for her to forget everything and place her head on his chest.

  Mac was her friend. He could be relied upon.

  ‘I’m ready for you now,’ Baker said, putting on a raincoat and following them down the corridor, alongside Mac. Outside, Julia watched him walk over to the old Fiesta and, as they got into her Golf, he turned once and raised his hand. She didn’t respond.

  It took for ever to get the bank records. They drove to the branch in Cranbrooke, only to be told they hadn’t arrived yet. In the end, it took three hours for them to come and by then Baker had long since ordered a taxi and left Julia to it, taking Professor Malcolm back for another meeting with Breckenridge.

  The box was sealed, and when she got home, Julia took it upstairs to her room to open.

  Inside, there was a thick pile of paper, covering three years and finishing a month after Sarah’s death. The account was registered in the names Ford, A.G. J.F., and Mrs S. The overdraft limit was listed on each sheet as ten thousand pounds, which struck Julia as high.

  The first thing she noticed was the contrast between the month before Sarah’s death and the month after, where spending dropped almost to zero, presumably because she was dead and Alan, by then, on his way to war.

  There were many entries for the month before Sarah’s death. Looking back, Julia could see that there were always two main entries in the receipts column, one of which looked like Alan’s salary. The other was for five times the amount and came as a transfer on the first of each month from ‘Bowring Asset Management’.

  Julia swapped columns and tried to see patterns in the payments column. There were a couple of direct debits to what looked like insurance firms, there was the mortgage and, finally, after careful examination, she saw that there were repeated payments of a thousand pounds, which went out on a different day every month to the same account number and were simply listed as transfers.

  On closer inspection, Julia saw that this stretched back a year, but had stopped in the month before Sarah’s death.

  By checking to the back of the pile, Julia discovered another thing: almost all the sheets were for one account, but at the back there were a couple that related to a different one, listed solely to Ford, Mrs S. It had been opened the week before Sarah died with a transfer of a hundred pounds. There had been no other transactions.

  Julia was most interested in the large transfers from the joint account. She went to use the phone in her mother’s room, got the number from Directory Enquiries, then called Lloyds Bank in Cranbrooke.

  She had to produce another fax, which she sent downstairs from the hall, along with a copy of the police authorization. She gave a number at Cranbrooke CID for them to call for verification.

  While she waited for the woman to phone back, Julia wondered why Sarah Ford had set up a new bank account only the week before she died. Julia imagined her going in to do it, a glamorous presence in Cranbrooke’s drab bank, Alice waiting patiently beside her.

  Every memory of the two of them resonated because of the way it showed how much they had looked to life beyond the day of their death.

  The woman called her back and said that the account to which the sums of money had been transferred was held at the same branch, was still current, and was now listed to a Mr Michael Haydoch of the Old Rectory, East Welham, formerly of Derby Cottage, East Welham.

  After putting down the telephone, Julia didn’t move for some time. She heard her mother call up to her, but didn’t respond. There was noise and activity below – the kettle being put on perhaps.

  When she did come downstairs, Caroline was arranging flowers
in a vase by the sink.

  ‘Hi,’ Julia said.

  ‘Alan called me at the gallery.’ Caroline Havilland turned. Her face was like ice. Her brow was creased, her stance defensive. A strand of hair had fallen down, but no attempt was being made to replace it. ‘He said Commissioner Breckenridge asked for permission to dig up all of our gardens.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Julia.’

  Julia dropped her head. ‘I hadn’t heard about this.’ She watched her mother arranging the flowers with studied concentration.

  ‘They seem determined to humiliate us.’

  Julia sat in one of the chairs by the kitchen table. ‘It is beginning to look like that.’

  ‘Are you still …’

  ‘No. I’ve stopped.’

  Perhaps it was Julia’s imagination, but she thought her mother’s posture seemed to relax a little.

  ‘I think they may have been using you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I …’ Caroline stopped what she was doing. She came over to Julia, took her head gently and placed it against her stomach, her hand stroking Julia’s hair.

  Julia closed her eyes. The light scent of her mother was familiar and she tried to suppress the unease that threatened to nullify the pleasure and comfort afforded by this simple gesture.

  *

  Julia sheltered in her room. She tried phoning Michael Haydoch, but he didn’t answer and she wasn’t going to leave a message. She kept on trying until it was beginning to get dark and her mother was calling her.

  Finally, he answered, but she cut the line, got up, took her jacket off the back of the chair and ran out of the front door to her car.

  When she got to his house, Michael opened the door. ‘You lying bastard,’ she said. ‘You lying, lying …’

  He looked back into the hall. Two men appeared, carrying themselves just as Michael did. One wore a dusky yellow canvas jacket, both were in jeans and trainers. They smiled at her, but he didn’t bother to introduce them.

  Julia stepped aside to let them pass. She hadn’t noticed a black Peugeot parked in the corner, underneath the big oak at the edge of the lawn.

  ‘Bull,’ he said. ‘China shop.’

  Inside the hall, she followed Michael into the study where, once again, a fire was burning. ‘Colleagues?’ she asked.

  ‘Business partners.’

  ‘SAS?’

  He ignored the question.

  ‘Business meeting?’

  ‘Trouble with Russian partner.’

  ‘You found a solution?’

  ‘Yes. Terminate Russian partner.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I was expecting you to avoid me.’

  She stared into the fire, then she looked at him. ‘Did I undress myself last night?’

  ‘No.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll get you a drink.’

  ‘No. Not tonight.’

  ‘So … what? More recollections?’

  She reached across, took a cigarette from his packet and lit it. ‘We’ve received Sarah Ford’s bank records,’ she said. ‘We’ve discovered that there was a major transfer every month to your account, which ceased in the month before her death.’

  He didn’t flinch. ‘And?’

  ‘What do you mean, “and”? Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘You think I killed her?’

  ‘I came over here last night to ask about this and you never mentioned anything about it. You made a lot of insinuations about people who are close to me and—’

  ‘And it’s your right to know?’

  ‘Well, as you said, someone killed Alice.’

  ‘And you think it was me?’ His face was going a livid red. ‘You’ve asked a few fucking questions around the village and suddenly you think I killed your friend?’

  ‘Alice was everyone’s friend.’

  ‘And Miss Marple thinks that I killed her?’

  ‘Don’t trivialize this. I was here asking you as a friend, and you never mentioned—’

  ‘And why should I?’

  ‘Because someone killed her. Them. You said it.’

  He reached for the cigarettes and lit one for himself. Every aspect of the movement betrayed his anger.

  ‘A thousand pounds a month into your bank account,’ she said, ‘ceasing just before the deaths. You cannot deny—’

  ‘That it is none of your business.’

  ‘It’s a matter of public record.’

  ‘But the reasons are not.’ He sat in the armchair again, but forward, legs splayed, in as aggressive a posture as sitting allowed. ‘Let’s be clear. You think that because I once had the pleasure of deflowering you, you’ve suddenly got the right to muck around in a past that is none of your business.’

  ‘As I said, it’s a matter of public record, the past is everyone’s business in this instance, and thank you for the nasty reminder. I’m sorry it was such a joke for you.’

  He blew out smoke angrily and sat back. ‘You think I was having an affair with Sarah, after all, is that it?’

  ‘I can’t think of any other way to explain it.’

  ‘Well, there is, and it’s the truth. Sarah and I were friends. I had debts to pay off at the time and … We were discussing it one day and she said the money meant nothing to her and I was welcome to it. We had an argument about it. She said she’d be insulted if I didn’t take it. I told you already, Sarah was very generous about money.’

  ‘Not with Alan.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘There are enough records.’

  He threw the rest of the cigarette into the fire. He had hardly smoked it.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I ran into debt. The reasons are none of your business. I told Sarah, in passing, and she said she’d help. I refused, but she insisted. She said she had masses of money and didn’t care. We agreed that she would pay off the debt in a certain number of instalments. If you go back, I think you’ll find there were about ten. Then the debt was finished so the payments ceased.’

  ‘But your affair continued.’

  The anger returned to his face. ‘And if she hadn’t died, I’d have repaid her the money. I’ve told you several times, there was no affair.’

  ‘And you’d admit it if there had been?’ Her face was still flushed. It was hot in here. She took off her jacket and placed it over the side of the sofa. ‘Did the police ask you about this?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, dismissing their efforts with a wave of his hand.

  ‘The police did find some diary extracts which detail, explicitly, an affair, either fantasized or real, with an M.’

  ‘M for Michael, you suddenly think.’

  She looked at him. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve told you. Sarah and I were friends.’

  ‘Then who was M?’

  ‘I don’t know. You’re the expert.’

  ‘That’s not a good enough answer.’

  ‘M for Mitchell. Which is what you really think.’ He leant back in his chair again. ‘You’re hoping I’m going to relieve you of that burden, but I can’t.’

  She pushed herself forward. ‘What happened, Michael? Were you late for the meeting with Sarah that day? Did you get delayed? Did you find the body before me? Did you arrive after the police?’

  He looked at her with contempt.

  ‘Or were you on time? Were you early for this rushed meeting, waiting for her? Why were you in such a hurry to see her that day? What was so important that couldn’t wait?’

  ‘Look at yourself, Julia.’ His voice was soft. ‘Just look at yourself. You’re a grown woman now.’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘I’ve told you. I want to help you, but I can’t tell you what you want to hear. I cannot relieve you of your suspicion. You’re killing yourself for nothing. You’ve got to let go. You’ll never prove anything.’

  ‘I will. I’ll go through every bank record and phone record, every scrap of paper and every memory until I know.’ Julia sat forward. ‘Get me a d
rink.’

  Without asking what she wanted, he filled a tumbler with whisky and ice. Julia looked down at the brown liquid. She swirled it around the ice, then drank it all.

  He sat again, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘There was only one man I saw with Sarah that year with any frequency. M for Mitchell. And I’ve tried to protect you, like everyone else has, but you won’t listen. You go on and on and on and on. You want to hear the truth that everyone knows? Yes, Mitchell was fucking Sarah, and Christ knows how sordid it was all getting. They used to waltz around together like a family. Sarah, Mitchell, the little girl on his shoulders. Like his own daughter. It was the talk of the village and the whole bloody battalion. The boss is shagging his next-door neighbour, and that wasn’t even the half of it, not to those of us in the know. It was …’ He looked at her. ‘Is this it, Julia? Is this what you want to hear?’

  Julia got up and walked over to the CD player, then turned to face him, her movements hesitant, as if slowed by the amount of energy being consumed in the process of thought. She thought of Alice’s pink dress.

  A sexy five-year-old …

  Fear snaked around her stomach and clutched at her throat. She could feel her heart beating fast, her head pounding with blood. It was hard to think.

  He stood up and took her glass, brushing his hand on her cheek, before going to the drinks cabinet, filling the glass with ice and whisky and coming back.

  He sat.

  She looked down into the glass, then drank from it, waiting for the burning sensation in her stomach, wondering what she sought here. Did she really suspect this man, or was he her escape? Was he the only one she actually trusted? Her hand was shaking. She took another large sip. Her breath was rasping. Nervousness, or unease, quickened her pulse.

  She stood up. ‘I’m going to go home now,’ she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  OUTSIDE, JULIA LEANT against her car, her head in her hand, attempting to steady herself. She had the same sensation as in Beijing, of losing control.