The Sleeping and the Dead

by Ann Cleeves

  ‘Do you remember any of these, Eddie?’

  Stout read them quickly, flicking his eyes occasionally back to his boss’s face.

  ‘Carl Jackson. I remember that one. I was up on the hill with everyone else searching, even when I’d come off shift. It was March but the weather was foul. Low mist. Rain. I thought I’d been mad to move away from the coast.’

  ‘Could it be our chap in the lake?’

  ‘I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.’ He seemed angry with himself.

  ‘So it could be him?’

  ‘Carl was murdered, if that’s what you mean. There’s no way he just wandered away from the track and got lost.’

  ‘But it doesn’t say anything here about a murder investigation.’

  ‘There wasn’t one. Everyone was content to put it down as an accident. According to the press, if anyone was to blame it was the social worker who suggested that he should be allowed to walk home on his own. But I talked to her in the day centre and I was impressed. She said Carl was deaf. No one had picked up how profound that disability was, and she thought he was more capable than his parents allowed him to be. In the few months since she’d known him he’d begun to read quite fluently. She thought he might catch up enough to move on to the technical college, perhaps hold down a real job. But his parents were horrified by those plans. They wanted nothing to do with them.’

  ‘Hard, I suppose, to stop being protective after all those years.’

  ‘There was more to it than that. They were a strange family.’ It was Stout’s turn to stare into space, to drag back the memories, image by image.

  ‘You think one of the parents was responsible for his death?’

  ‘Not directly. The wife, Sarah, had a younger brother. I can’t believe I can’t remember the name. He caused me enough sleepless nights at the time. He didn’t live at the farm but he’d never married and he spent a lot of time there. He was assistant manager in a hardware shop in town. It’s been closed for years but it was a big place then, dealt in agricultural supplies and machinery too. In his spare time he got involved in community work.’ He turned his head so he wasn’t looking directly at Porteous. ‘Quite a saint if you listened to Sarah. He was a scout leader in Cranford for years and ran the youth club in our church until I persuaded the committee it wasn’t such a good idea.’

  ‘Child abuse?’

  ‘Nothing proved. Never charged.’ Stout paused. ‘It was before all the child-safety legislation, don’t forget. Before Childline. Some people even treated it as a bit of a joke. If a pervy old man liked to touch young lads’ behinds when they were horsing around, so what? At least it kept the kids off the streets. And no one else wanted the responsibility of organizing the group.’

  ‘What put you on to him?’

  ‘Rumours. Some of the things the kids said. The fact that he was such a loner. He never liked working with other adults. If he had an assistant it was an older lad who’d gone through the group. I had just enough to persuade my church to drop him. Tactfully of course, with a letter of thanks and a ten-quid book token. But not enough to take it further.’

  ‘Until Carl Jackson disappeared.’

  ‘Even then it wasn’t a central line of investigation. I was a young DC. New to the district. No connections. I passed on the rumours and some enquiries were made but it seemed that the bloke had an alibi for the time Carl disappeared.’ Porteous waited for Stout to continue but he was frowning, preoccupied. ‘I’ve just remembered his name. It was Reeves. Alec Reeves.’

  ‘You don’t think much of the alibi?’

  ‘It was half-day closing at the shop so his boss couldn’t vouch for him. Reeves claimed he was at home taking one of his lads through his paces for the Queen’s Scout badge.’

  ‘And the boy bore it out?’

  ‘Too scared or too involved not to. So far as I know no other checks were made on where they both were that afternoon.’

  ‘Would you be able to dig out the name of the witness?’

  ‘Aye. I made sure I kept all my notes on that one. I knew it would come back to haunt me.’

  ‘Do you know what happened to Carl’s parents? I tried to phone the farm last night. The number’s the same but it seems to be some sort of office now. Computers.’

  ‘Alf, the father, died. We didn’t think he was involved in any way with Carl’s disappearance. He was a grafter but not the sharpest tool in the box. Last time I heard, Sarah was in one of those old folks’ council bungalows near the river. I presume she’s still alive. She’s one of those women you imagine would go on for ever. She’ll be a good age now.’

  ‘And Reeves?’

  ‘Funnily enough he left the town soon after the investigation was wrapped up.’ His voice, which was heavy with sarcasm, turned to a quiet desperation. ‘To work as a care assistant in a children’s home. I should have told someone. Said something. But he hadn’t been charged and he had a lot of powerful friends. I really didn’t think anyone would take any notice.’

  ‘Do you remember where he went?’

  ‘I don’t think I ever knew. Look, I can’t tell you if that body in the lake was Carl’s, but if it was, I can tell you who killed him and I’m glad I’ll be there to see him go down.’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do until we’ve checked the dental records. That’s happening this morning.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to Sarah. Now. While we’ve got an element of surprise.’

  Porteous had never seen Eddie Stout like this. He was usually the one in the team to caution detachment: ‘We don’t get paid to act as judges,’ he’d say. ‘That’s for God and the chaps with the hairy wigs.’

  ‘She’ll surely have heard about the body in the lake.’

  ‘But no details. Not that we’re calling it murder.’

  Porteous wanted to say no. If he didn’t feel he owed Eddie, he’d have refused immediately.

  Eddie sensed the hesitation. ‘If it is Carl it would give us a head start. Let me see what she’s got to say for herself. You’re right. Of course she’ll have heard about the body in the lake. She might give something away. And I want to find out what happened to Alec Reeves. If he’s still working with children I want to know about it. Things are different these days.’

  God, thought Porteous, suddenly feeling very tired, I haven’t been that passionate about anything in years. He sensed that Stout wouldn’t let it go and couldn’t face a confrontation. He shrugged.

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘But I’m coming with you.’

  Stout drove. There was no air-conditioning in the car and even with the windows down Porteous felt sticky, slightly light-headed in the heat. The bungalows were grouped around a square of grass which was brown through lack of water. Two old men in white hats stood chatting and broke off their conversation when Stout knocked on the door.

  Porteous had worked out that Sarah Jackson must be at least eighty, but she opened the door to them herself, and she recognized Stout immediately.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She had an underbite and a way of thrusting her jaw forwards to emphasize it. She was skinny and short and the mannerism gave her the air of an aggressive child. A cotton floral dress added to the impression. ‘You might as well come in.’

  She led them into a small room packed with shabby furniture which must have come from the farm.

  ‘I heard you sold up after Alf died,’ Stout said.

  ‘I could hardly work the place on my own.’

  ‘Good timing, just before the bottom fell out of hill farming. You were lucky.’

  She glared at him. ‘You make your own luck in this world.’

  Porteous had the impression that this was a continuation of the sparring which had gone on twenty years before. He sat on a fireside chair that had been covered in pink stretch nylon, and watched.

  ‘I hear there’s a computer business in the old house now,’ Stout said. He was still standing, looking out of the window.

  ‘Is that what it was abou
t?’ She hardly seemed interested. ‘I suppose there would be plenty of space.’

  ‘You don’t miss the place?’ Stout persisted.

  ‘It was never the same after Carl went.’

  ‘No,’ Porteous interrupted. He could feel Stout’s anger across the room. ‘It can’t have been.’

  She sniffed, slightly mollified, and perched on the edge of an overstuffed chesterfield.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘You’ll have heard we found a body in Cranford Water?’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Why are you so certain it’s not Carl in the lake?’

  ‘Because he just wandered off. It was the sort of thing he did. I told the social workers he couldn’t take in what you said to him. And it wasn’t because he couldn’t hear. Even with his deaf aid he had his head in the clouds. And he couldn’t have walked that far without anyone seeing him. Where did you find the body? Near the Adventure Centre. That’s the opposite side of the lake from the farm. A twenty-mile walk. At least. You lot were out searching before he could have made it. And, before you ask, he couldn’t swim. Or row a boat.’

  She spoke with confidence. It was a well-rehearsed speech.

  ‘Someone could always have driven him in a car,’ Stout said softly.

  ‘Which someone are we talking about now?’

  ‘Alec had a car, didn’t he? A Morris 1100. Navy blue. It was his pride and joy as I remember.’

  ‘I wondered how long it would be before you got round to Alec.’ She was contemptuous, turning her back on Stout and directing the rest of the conversation at Porteous. ‘My little brother was hounded out of the town by your man, just when I needed his support the most. It was rumours at first. Gossip. Snide, like a lassie. Don’t trust Alec Reeves with your children. Then he went to his boss and accused Alec of taking our Carl. As if he would. He was good to the boy, more patient than me or Alf could ever be. He took him for treats, things we never had the time or the money to give him. The pictures on Saturday afternoons, picnics in the hills . . .’

  She wiped the corner of her eye with an embroidered handkerchief. Porteous, who was looking closely, could see no tears.

  ‘Please don’t distress yourself,’ he said. ‘We thought you’d rather we came ourselves to tell you what was happening. My people are checking the dental records now – we know that Carl saw a dentist while he was at the day centre. The records are still available. You shouldn’t have long to wait. We’ll have a positive identification by this afternoon.’

  Sarah Jackson was so angry that she seemed not to care. ‘That’s all very well,’ she cried. ‘But you shouldn’t have brought that man here. It wasn’t tactful. It wasn’t right.’

  She stood up as if she expected them to leave but Porteous stayed where he was.

  ‘What happened to Alec when he left Cranford, Mrs Jackson?’

  ‘He did well for himself. Better than if he’d stayed here.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘He got a job in a home for kiddies. They sent him away to college.’ She was as proud as if she’d been talking about her own son.

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘He retired. I thought he might come home then. We’d been so close, him and me. Our parents died when he was still at school. I brought him up. But he couldn’t face it after what happened before. All those lies. He bought a bungalow in the Pennines not far from the school. I visit when I can. I’ll go again when it’s not so hot.’

  ‘Whereabouts in the Pennines?’

  ‘What’s it to you? I’ll not have him harassed.’ She walked towards the door and threw it open. ‘I’m an old woman. I need my peace. I’ve nothing more to say to you.’

  They walked out into the glare of the sunshine. ‘I’ll be in touch this afternoon,’ Porteous said, ‘when we’ve heard back from the dentist.’ But she had already shut the door on them.

  They were in the station, walking up the stairs towards Porteous’s office, when they heard footsteps running up behind them. It was Claire Wright, a young DC, flushed, excited, out of breath so she could hardly speak.

  ‘We’ve got a match.’ She bent double, gasping.

  ‘You look as if you’ve just won the Great North Run.’ Porteous forced himself to stay calm, to keep his voice light.

  ‘Who?’ demanded Stout. When she did not reply immediately he added, almost in a whisper, ‘Is it Carl Jackson?’

  By then she had caught her breath. ‘Nah, nothing like. It’s the lad called Michael Grey.’

  ‘Ah.’ Porteous continued up the stairs, unlocked his door and flicked the kettle on. He waited for Stout to follow.

  Chapter Four

  Stout stood in the doorway of Porteous’s office.

  ‘You don’t seem surprised.’

  ‘Not too surprised, no,’ Porteous said. ‘You were right about Sarah Jackson. She does know what happened to her son. But when we talked about the body in the lake she wasn’t bothered, hardly interested. She knew it wasn’t him.’

  He made a mug of tea for Eddie, strong, as he knew he liked it, and waved it at him to invite him in. ‘We’ll have to save Carl for another day.’ The words sounded unbelievably trite. ‘I’m sorry, Eddie, I mean it. Now we have to concentrate on Michael Grey, find out everything there is to know about him.’

  Porteous could tell the man’s mind and heart weren’t really in it. He was still thinking about the deaf boy everyone had labelled as dumb. When this investigation was over he’d give Eddie his head for a few weeks, let him dig around for a bit. Even if nothing came of it he deserved that much.

  Soon it became clear they would find out very little about Michael Grey. Not immediately at least. At first Porteous had thought it would be easy. A piece of piss, he said to himself, though not to Eddie who disapproved of such language. Michael Grey had been fostered to a couple called Brice. Fostering meant Social Services and that meant records as long as your arm – reports for the court, case conferences, personal records kept to cover the back of whichever poor social worker had been in charge of him. There would be details of the natural family at least and of any contact between them and the boy. Michael hadn’t been adopted, so he would still have been officially in care when he disappeared. Some attempt would have been made to trace him.

  He sent Eddie to talk to the solicitor who’d triggered the first missing-person report after the foster parents’ death. ‘Find out who benefited from the will in the absence of the boy. Did anyone? Is the cash still being held in trust for him? What happens to it now?’

  Stout slunk away like a sulky teenager. As soon as he had gone Porteous made an appointment with the senior social worker on duty at the town hall. The man was prepared to see him at once. The town hall was in the same street and of the same design as the police station – redbrick Victorian Gothic – though it had a depressing concrete and glass extension at the back, where the Social Services department was housed. A small middle-aged man named Jones met Porteous at reception and led him upstairs. They left behind them the screams of an elderly woman, demanding to see her social worker, and the increasingly irate reply of the receptionist who said she would have to wait.

  They sat in a cubby-hole looking out on a busy open-plan office where one of the phones always seemed to be ringing. Jones was tidy, with a few wisps of hair combed over a balding pate. He was apologetic. ‘After you phoned I checked our records. I like to think we’re efficient in that department. But we’ve no details of a couple called Brice being registered as foster parents. Nothing at all. No application form, no record of training.’

  ‘Would you still have the file after all this time?’

  ‘Oh yes. We go back thirty years. Longer. Child protection, you see. It’s important to know who’s been looking after our children.’

  ‘Could the Brices have been working for someone else? A charity, perhaps? Another authority?’

  ‘That’s what I thought!’ He seemed impressed that Porteous had been think
ing along the same lines. ‘But I’ve phoned around and I can’t find anyone else in the field who’s heard of them. I’m not saying it’s impossible that they were registered with another agency, but – if it doesn’t sound too big-headed – my contacts are second to none. I’d certainly say it’s unlikely.’

  ‘You’ll have a record, though, of Michael Grey?’

  ‘No.’ The man closed his mouth firmly, allowing no question. He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands round his small paunch. He seemed to be delighted by the mystery, and by Porteous’s discomfort.

  ‘But I gave you his date of birth. We found it in the dental records.’ Porteous could tell he was sounding desperate. That’ll teach me, he thought. A piece of piss.

  ‘It doesn’t help, I’m afraid. I’ve phoned the court. They keep their own records. No care or supervision order was placed on anyone called Michael Grey in the seventies anywhere in the county.’ He paused, savouring the moment. ‘Social Services were never involved with him either.’

  ‘But they must have been.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Jones leaned forward, but didn’t elaborate.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘How old was he?’ The tone was patronizing. An infant teacher talking to a particularly thick six-year-old. Just what I deserve, Porteous thought.

  ‘When we think he went missing? Eighteen.’

  ‘There you are then.’ Jones leaned back in the chair once more and smirked. ‘Over sixteen and we wouldn’t get involved. He could have been younger than that when he started living with the foster parents, if it was an informal arrangement.’

  ‘Perhaps you would explain.’ Porteous had never minded eating humble pie. It was surprising how people liked you to grovel. The social worker was loving it.

  ‘Let’s take a hypothetical situation. Something we come across all the time. Say there’s a single mum with a teenage lad. He starts to run a bit wild. Perhaps it’s nothing that would get him in trouble with the police, but he’s staying out late, skipping school. She begins to feel she’s losing control. Now, it could be that the boy has a good relationship with her parents and they offer to have him to live with them for a while. To take the heat off her until things calm down. That would be fostering of a sort, wouldn’t it? Nothing official. No need for Social Services to be involved even if the lad were under sixteen. In fact that’s usually the last thing a family under stress wants. A nosy cow from the Welfare knocking on the door.’