The Sleeping and the Dead (26 page)

Porteous nodded again, thought Eddie would get to the point in his own time.

‘I just wanted to get him talking. Claire Wright hasn’t found any teacher who moved from Cranford to the school on the coast, but I thought there might be some informal connections
– specialist music teachers, drama festival, sport. That sort of thing.’

‘Anything?’

‘Not that Theo was involved in. So I asked about the other kids in the school. It occurred to me that Melanie’s mother and father would be about the same age as Theo if he’d
lived. But Westcott couldn’t remember a Richard Gillespie or an Eleanor of any description, so I could kiss goodbye to that theory.’

‘Worth checking though. And it’s possible that Richard Gillespie was at Theo’s boarding school.’

‘Aye. From what I’ve seen of him on TV he’s got the air of a public-school boy about him . . . I’d pretty much given up hope of anything useful when Jack said he’d
been digging around at home and he’d found some more photos of the
Macbeth
production. Would I like to see them? Most likely an excuse so he wouldn’t have to face that dragon of
a wife on his own, but I thought he might have a sharper photo of the boy we could give to the press, so I went along with him.’

Porteous was finding it difficult to give the story his full attention. He didn’t mind Eddie Stout being here as much as he’d expected, but the evening sun was making him drowsy.

Eddie continued. ‘You’d have thought he was a schoolboy himself, the way he spoke to his wife. He took me upstairs to a sort of den where he hides away from her. There were cardboard
boxes full of snaps. There must have been pictures in there of every school play in the past thirty years, but he’d sorted out the ones he thought were relevant.’

‘Anything of Theo we could use for the media?’

‘No. Jack must have had the shakes even then. None of them were brilliant. But amongst them I found this.’ Carefully, holding the picture by the edges with his fingertips, Eddie
handed it over. It was a black and white photo of the audience, taken probably from the side of the stage just before the show was about to start. Parents clutched hand-printed programmes on their
knees and chatted to their neighbours. There was no indication that they’d been aware of the photographer. Eddie pointed to a couple in the front row.

‘Those are the Brices.’

They looked ordinary, elderly. They could have been anyone’s grandparents. Stephen wore a hand-knitted sweater over corduroy trousers. Sylvia had made more of an effort about dressing up
and had a high-necked blouse over a long black skirt. There was a brooch at the neck. They were holding hands.

‘Interesting,’ Porteous said. He always found it helpful to put a face to names. But he couldn’t quite understand Eddie’s excitement. It was hardly worth a trek into the
country at tea time.

Eddie took a deep breath. ‘That,’ he said, pointing to a pale, insignificant man sitting next to Sylvia, ‘that is Alec Reeves.’

Then Porteous did understand the excitement. This was Alec Reeves who’d worked as assistant manager in the hardware store in Cranford high street. Alec Reeves, uncle to Carl Jackson, the
lad with the learning disability who’d disappeared not long before Theo. Alec Reeves, who, according to Eddie, liked young boys and had gone off to get a job in a children’s home.

‘I thought Sarah Jackson said he’d left Cranford by then.’

‘She did. He must have come back.’

Porteous looked again at the photo. Although Sylvia was holding Stephen’s hand she was talking to Reeves. Her head was turned to him and she was smiling. It was the relaxed conversation of
friends. ‘You said they knew him.’

‘Aye,’ Stout said bitterly. ‘You’d have thought they’d have had better taste.’

‘This changes things,’ Porteous said. Slowly. Not wanting to wind Eddie up any further. But Eddie was buzzing already.

‘Of course it does. Alec was there that night. It must have been the last performance, because Hannah Morton says that’s when the Brices were in the audience. No reason why he
couldn’t have got hold of the knife. I bet when we check the records we’ll find other lads in his care who’ve mysteriously disappeared.’

‘Theo wasn’t in his care,’ Porteous said. ‘Not as far as we know.’ And Melanie Gillespie wasn’t a lad, he thought.

‘He could have been. Perhaps the Brices asked Alec to have a word with the boy. Perhaps Theo was depressed because of the mess he’d made of his love life and they asked Alec to help.
He was always a sympathetic listener. I’ll give him that. Maybe he offered to take Theo out for the day, offered a shoulder to cry on. He was nearer the boy’s age than the Brices. More
like a father.’

‘How would he explain Theo’s disappearance?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ Eddie’s words tumbled over each other. ‘Someone told the Brices that Theo had decided to go back to his dad. It must have been Alec
Reeves.’

‘It’s certainly a plausible theory,’ Porteous said. Then gently, ‘Where does Melanie Gillespie fit in?’

‘Maybe she’s the last of a string of teenagers who’ve disappeared. We don’t take missing teenagers very seriously, do we? Not the restless, unsettled ones. We put them
down as runaways and hope the Sally Army will do the business for us.’

‘Melanie didn’t disappear though, did she? Her body was found. No attempt was made to hide it.’

‘Perhaps Reeves was disturbed. Or all the publicity about the body in the lake made him want to come out into the open. Could be he’s been enjoying the glory.’

Porteous said nothing. He wished he knew more about the subject. Perhaps after all he would have to talk to Hannah’s fat psychologist, ask his advice. He drank his beer absent-mindedly. He
hadn’t eaten and felt it go to his head, mixed with the medication he’d taken earlier in the day. Like Stella Randle, he thought, I should take more care.

‘Sir?’ Eddie was on his feet. He was obviously desperate to move the case forward.

‘Peter. Call me Peter here, please.’ He set the glass on the table, stood up too, tried to sound decisive when all he had were questions. ‘I want to know where Reeves is.
Don’t go to Sarah Jackson. I don’t want him frightened off. Put a watch on her bungalow. But be discreet. When you find Reeves, don’t pull him in. Tail him but leave him where he
is. We’ll need more evidence, any evidence, before we question him. At present he doesn’t know there’s anything to connect him to Theo Randle and that’s how I want it. Show
this photograph to the barman in the Promenade who said someone was looking for Melanie. Reeves will have changed since then, but it’s better than nothing. Tomorrow we’ll talk to her
parents. See if the name means anything to them.’ He paused. ‘Go easy on this, Eddie. Bet will be expecting you back for a meal. Most of this you can do from home.’

But as Eddie bounded down the stairs Porteous knew he was wasting his breath. Eddie was a man with a mission and was losing the power of rational thought.

When Porteous arrived at the police station the next morning – early for him though he’d still walked, still kept to the same routine – Stout was already
there. He looked as if he’d spent all night at his desk. He’d shaved but he was wearing the same clothes and he spoke too quickly, feverish through lack of sleep.

No use to man nor beast in that state, Porteous thought. Then recognized that as the pious sentiment of the newly converted and he listened to the steps Stout had already taken to track down
Alec Reeves.

‘There’s an empty bungalow over the road from Sarah Jackson’s. The council were going to do it up before the next tenant anyway. I talked to a chap in building services who
goes to our church. He pushed the work to the top of the list. They’re going to start this morning.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Should be there already. I’ve sent Charlie Luke
along as part of the team.’

‘Won’t the council workers talk?’

‘No, they think he’s a management trainee. They have to do work experience in every department.’

Porteous smiled at the thought that Luke could pass as management material, but Stout was continuing. ‘He’ll have a key and can let our people in at night. If the neighbours get used
to workmen being in the place it shouldn’t cause so much gossip.’

‘Good.’ Porteous thought the plan unnecessarily elaborate. They had no evidence that Reeves would try to contact his sister. But he knew Stout wasn’t in the mood to take
criticism. Counselling had taught him the futility of knocking his head against a brick wall.

‘I got an address for Reeves from the DVLA. He lives in a small town in the Yorkshire Dales.’

‘Back to Yorkshire,’ Porteous said. ‘Hannah Morton thought Theo had been at school there but we didn’t get anywhere when we checked earlier. Could Alec have introduced
Theo to the Brices, I wonder? I suppose it’s more likely to be coincidence. Theo would have been in a boarding school and Alec a care assistant in a Social Services assessment centre so
it’s hard to see where they’d have met. Not that I’ve traced either establishment yet. But it shouldn’t be difficult now.’

‘I’ve found out where Reeves worked.’ Stout was jubilant. Porteous tried to be gracious in his moment of glory. ‘It was a place called Redwood. It wasn’t run by
Social Services. Not officially. They bought in places there for difficult kids they couldn’t persuade anyone else to take. It was operated by a charitable trust. It closed about a year ago
when the person in charge retired. A woman by the name of Alice Cornish. Apparently she’s famous.’

‘Oh yes,’ Porteous said. ‘She’s very famous.’

He was surprised Stout had never heard of her. Alice Cornish had been committed to providing quality care for children before the improvement of residential services became a fashionable cause.
She’d worked in local-authority children’s homes in the late sixties and resigned, very publicly, exposing a series of scandals. The press hadn’t known what to make of her and in
some quarters she’d been portrayed as an idealistic but rather hysterical trouble maker. She’d gone on to qualify as a doctor and then to set up an establishment of her own –
Redwood – in a farmhouse in the country. Her peers found it hard to understand why she was bothering with grubby and disruptive children when she could be earning a comfortable living within
the health service, but her qualifications made them take her seriously. She welcomed research teams into Redwood and they had to admit that her methods worked. She had gone on to be hugely
respected in the field of social welfare. She had been made a Dame and chaired committees of inquiry into widespread abuse. Yet still she maintained her personal contact with Redwood and the
children who’d lived there spoke of her with great affection. It seemed inconceivable that she would have employed anyone suspected of abuse. Porteous said as much, tactfully, to Stout.

‘She wouldn’t have known, would she? He was never convicted. Never even charged.’

‘I just don’t see how he would have got away with it at a place like that. Dr Cornish’s whole philosophy was about listening to children. The kids wouldn’t have been
frightened to talk if Reeves had tried anything on.’

‘He’s clever,’ Stout said stubbornly. ‘Cunning. You don’t know.’

Again Porteous saw no point in arguing. ‘Is Reeves at home now?’

‘I got in touch with the local nick. They sent a community policeman round there yesterday evening. If Alec had answered he’d have got a pep talk about the neighbourhood watch, but
nobody was in. According to the neighbours he’s a model citizen, keeps his lawn cut, does his stint driving meals on wheels round the village and – get this – he helps organize
the Duke of Edinburgh award scheme at the local high school.’

‘Perhaps that’s how he met Theo Randle,’ Porteous said, almost to himself.

‘Perhaps that’s still how he gets to meet young lads.’

‘Had the local bobbies heard that anything like that’s going on?’

‘They didn’t say.’ Stout sounded disappointed. ‘But he’s known as a loner. Well thought of in the village, but no real friends, no wife, no ladyfriend.’

You could say the same about me, Porteous thought.

‘Did the neighbours have any idea where Reeves had gone?’ he asked.

‘Away for a week to visit an old colleague. They think he’ll be back today or tomorrow.’

‘I don’t suppose they mentioned where the old colleague lives?’

‘No. The old lady who lives next door asked but he wouldn’t say. It wasn’t like him. Usually he was happy to have a cup of tea with her and a chat.’

‘Suspicious . . .’ Porteous said, but only to please Stout. He didn’t want Reeves to be uncovered as a child-abuser and serial killer. His employment at Redwood would be seized
upon by the press. Alice Cornish would lose her credibility. And it would mean that Stout had been right all along. He hated to admit it but an element of competition had crept into the inquiry.
Stout had found an address for Reeves, but still Porteous hadn’t discovered where Crispin Randle had taken Theo to be educated after the fire. He didn’t want Stout to be proved right
about this.

‘I’ve made an appointment to visit Mr and Mrs Gillespie,’ he said. It would be the first formal interview with Melanie’s parents. According to Richard Gillespie the
doctor had said Eleanor wasn’t up to it before. Gillespie still wasn’t keen but Porteous had persisted and he’d reluctantly given way. He must have realized it would have to
happen eventually. ‘One o’clock. Is that all right with you?’

‘You want me to come?’

‘I don’t want to miss anything. And while we’re at the coast I thought we’d see Melanie’s friends. Rosalind Morton and the boyfriend. You’re good at
teenagers.’ He’d thought Stout would be pleased to be asked. ‘Don’t worry. They’ll let us know if there’s any news on Reeves.’

When Stout left the office Porteous made his decaffeinated coffee and spent most of the next hour on the phone. His first call was to an official in the Department for Education. He needed to
find out where a child had been at school thirty years ago. It was urgent. A murder inquiry. Was there any way of finding out? There was a moment of silence and Porteous sensed the usual shock and
excitement.