The Sleeping and the Dead (5 page)

Porteous smiled.

‘So you’re saying these Brices were probably relatives?’

‘They might have been. Or friends. They might even have been doing it for money. All I can tell you is I don’t think they were official.’

‘Where do you suggest I go from here?’

‘Have you got the name of the school?’

‘Cranford Grammar.’ That too had been in the dental records.

‘Try there then. If it was an informal fostering they’d still have wanted the names of the natural parent. It’s possible that he moved away from home after he started the
school. Most problems of that sort start in adolescence. You might even find a couple of teachers who remember him. My kids go there and some of the staff must be close to retirement.’

He led Porteous down the concrete stairs. In the waiting-room the old lady had begun to sob.

Cranford Grammar had since become Cranford High, and when Porteous phoned the school from his office he was told that it was the last day of the summer term. The secretary
sounded on the verge of hysteria. In the background he heard the high-pitched yelps of children, an impatient teacher calling for mislaid reports, a yell for silence.

‘It really isn’t a good time.’

Then he explained that he was running a murder inquiry and suddenly her attitude changed. Porteous had noticed it before. It wasn’t a desire to be a good citizen and help the police.
Murder had the same effect as the mention of celebrity, of a pop idol or football star. She was excited. Later she would boast to her friends that she had been involved.

He told her again what he wanted.

‘I can only think of one member of staff who would have been around then,’ she said. ‘Mr Westcott. He’s head of history. I know he has a free period first thing after
lunch but that’s probably not the best time to talk to him.’

‘Why not?’ he asked politely.

‘Oh well. I suppose it’ll be all right. I’ll tell him you’re calling. And I’ll check our records. If you come to the office first I’ll have everything ready
for you.’

The electric bell sounding the end of lunch was ringing as he got out of his car. By the time he got to the school office the children were contained in their classrooms. No
pretence was being made to teach them. He heard whoops of laughter, the blare of rock music. The secretary moved away from her computer screen when she saw him and held towards him a manila
envelope. He could tell from the weight that there were only a couple of sheets of paper inside.

‘It’s not much I’m afraid. After all this time . . .’ He knew that she would have done all she could to help. There was no point in pushing for more. He followed her
directions to the staff-room. Jack Westcott was plump and round and when Porteous pushed open the door to the cluttered room, he was asleep. Despite the heat he wore a tweed jacket with a loud
check and there were beads of sweat on his forehead. Porteous leaned over him to tap him on the shoulder and smelled whisky fumes. That explained the secretary’s feeling that the first period
after lunch might not be a good time to speak to him. Jack Westcott had been celebrating the end of term in the pub. He opened rheumy eyes and with an unembarrassed jolt he sat up.

‘You must be the policeman chappie.’

Porteous admitted that he was.

‘Help yourself to coffee.’ He nodded unsteadily towards a filter machine in the corner. ‘I have mine black. Two sugars if the bastards have left any.’

He pressed on the arms of his chair as if to hoist himself out of it, but the effort was too much for him. The three remaining teachers in the room picked up their bags and wandered out.
Porteous carried back the polystyrene cups of coffee and sat beside him.

‘I’m here about a boy called Michael Grey. Your secretary said you might remember him. We think he could have been a bit of a troublemaker.’

‘No, no no.’ The words were thundered so loud that Porteous was startled. Jack Westcott set the cup on the table and shook his head as if to clear an alcoholic fug. ‘He was a
good chap, Michael. One of the best.’

‘So you do remember him?’ Porteous felt a wonderful relief. He had begun to think that Michael Grey didn’t exist at all, that he was some figment of Carver’s
imagination.

‘Of course I do. I remember all the kids. Hundreds of them. That’s what teaching’s all about. Not attainment targets. Not literacy hours. Not . . .’ He looked about him,
saw that the bulk of his audience had disappeared and lapsed in to silence.

‘Tell me about him.’

‘I didn’t teach the boy. History wasn’t one of his subjects. Shame. He’d have been an asset to the sixth-form group. Articulate, you know.’

‘So you didn’t know him well?’ Porteous felt the image of Michael Grey fade from his grasp. A ghostly apparition disappearing through a wall before it has even taken shape.

‘I didn’t say that. He was in my tutor group for nearly two years so I probably knew him better than his subject teachers.’ Westcott sat back in his chair like an elderly Billy
Bunter and shut his eyes. He continued to speak, unaware of Porteous taking notes. ‘Michael joined us at the beginning of the lower sixth, a year older than most of them. I can’t
remember where he came from. Some private place, I think. I know there was a problem getting the paperwork from them. It hadn’t even arrived by the time he left. I was never told why he resat
the lower sixth and I didn’t ask. Not my business. Some illness perhaps or emotional problem. It happens at that age. They’re very intense. That’s why they’re such a joy to
teach. I’m an old man, can’t get up to much now. So I live through them. Voraciously but second hand. Much the safest way . . .’

He paused for a moment. Porteous worried that he might have fallen asleep again, but the words continued in a low-pitched growl.

‘He was an exceptional boy. There was something about him. Charm, I suppose you’d call it. He had a way of winning people over.’

‘Did he talk about his home life?’

‘He was living with the Brices.’ He lapsed again into silence. Porteous resisted the temptation to prompt him. ‘Good people, the Brices. I didn’t really know them myself.
Met them occasionally. Parents’ dos. The school play. But that’s what everyone said. Of course they were religious.’ He snorted, as if religion was to be disapproved of, then
began to snore. He was more drunk than Porteous had first realized.

‘Did he have friends?’

‘What? Oh, bucketsful. I could give you a list. There was a girlfriend. What was her name? Shy little thing.’

‘Did he talk about his family? I mean his real family.’

‘No, but parents are an embarrassment at that age, whatever they’re like. It doesn’t mean anything. None of the kids talk about them.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me about him?’

‘He was an actor. Brilliant. I remember his Macbeth. The best production the school ever did.’ He lurched suddenly to his feet and began to quote hammily: ‘Is this a dagger
which I see before me?’

He flung out one arm and collapsed back into the chair. Then he fell into a deep sleep and Porteous found it impossible to rouse him.

Because it was the end of term the students must have been released early; as Porteous got to his car it was surrounded by a tide of screaming and dishevelled children. He was grateful to reach
the peace of the police station. It was only when Porteous was back in his office that he opened the envelope given to him by the secretary.

There was one sheet of paper and a faded photograph. The paper was a reference, handwritten by Jack Westcott, for use in the universities selection process. It described Michael Grey in the same
glowing terms he had used to Porteous. The boy’s predicted A-level grades were good. It seemed that he would have had no difficulty in securing a university place. The photograph was in fact
a cutting from the local paper and included a review of the production of
Macbeth
. A grainy figure stood centre stage. He was dressed in a costume obviously put together by the
home-economics department. In his hand he brandished a wide-bladed knife.

Porteous felt suddenly restless. He re-read Westcott’s reference for Michael and set it aside. Sometimes it happened. He’d happily sit for days going over a
mechanical task, then all at once feel that he was caged. He needed to pace up and down, to be somewhere, anywhere different. He’d discussed the problem with his doctor, who’d agreed
that it could be a side-effect of the medication he was taking. But didn’t everyone feel like that once in a while? Didn’t everyone feel the need to break free?

He wandered down the stairs to the car park and was hovering there, trying to think of a legitimate journey he could make, when Eddie Stout returned from his meeting with the solicitor
who’d handled the Brices’ affairs.

‘Any joy?’ He thought he sounded businesslike. Not like someone trying to dream up an excuse not to go inside.

‘I don’t know. More complications.’

‘We’ll talk about it over a cup of tea, shall we?’ Porteous said. ‘Not here. Not the canteen. Let’s go somewhere else.’ To his own ears he sounded hysterical,
but Stout seemed not to notice, even to be pleased by the suggestion.

‘There’s quite a nice place along by our church . . .’

The walk calmed Porteous, made him slightly less jumpy. He felt his pulse slow. The café was attached to the church and was obviously run by its members. It was called the Mustard Seed.
Besides tea and cakes it sold religious books and sentimental greetings cards. Again Porteous wondered if Stout saw him as a subject ripe for conversion. The building was new, airy, but as they
went in Porteous had a fleeting smell of damp books and old ladies’ perfume.

Perhaps Stout sensed his discomfort. He said defensively, ‘It’s run by volunteers. All the profit goes to our charities. I like to support it. Anyway it’s a quiet place to
talk.’

They were fussed over by two grey-haired grandmothers. There were frilly tablecloths and silk flowers, but the women made him Earl Grey to his exact specification and the shortbread was
excellent. The church had been built as part of a new housing development, along with shops and a community centre. They looked out on to a street. A funeral service was taking place in the church
next door. One of the undertaker’s men was standing by the hearse, smoking a cigarette. The women were interested in what was happening and kept coming out into the room to peer through the
window. At a nod from Stout they retreated behind their counter and soon became engrossed in their memories of the dead man. Porteous resisted an impulse to fidget. He wanted to arrange the sugar
cubes into towers, to straighten the birthday cards on a nearby stand.

‘I’ve finally met someone who knew Michael Grey,’ he said. ‘The social worker wasn’t much use. He decided the fostering arrangement with the Brices must have been
informal, set up between them and the parents. He’d have no record of that. But he put me in touch with the school. There’s a teacher called Jack Westcott, head of history. He
remembered Michael quite well.’

‘I’d take what Westcott said with a pinch of salt,’ Stout said tartly. ‘He’ll have been in the Percy Arms all lunchtime.’

‘Is that a regular event? I thought it was just because it was the last day of term.’

‘Regular enough. He’s retiring now, so the school hasn’t made an issue of it. He never taught Ruth but I kept an eye on what was going on.’

I bet they love you at the school, Porteous thought. He said, ‘There’s written confirmation, anyway. A reference from Westcott to help Michael get a place at university.’

Stout didn’t reply.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t know the Brices,’ Porteous went on. Thinking, You know everything about every other bugger in the place.

‘For some reason we never bumped into each other. I’ve been asking around though. Stephen Brice was an ordained priest with the Church of England. He worked in Africa before coming
back to be rector here. After he retired he still did a lot of writing and teaching. People I’ve spoken to can’t remember the lad, but they say it would be just like the Brices to take
someone in. They liked young people. Set up a youth group. Run, coincidentally, by Alec Reeves.’

‘Was it now?’

‘Unfortunately he’d already left the area before Michael went to live with them.’ Stout shrugged. ‘Like you said, I’ll have to let that go.’

‘What did you get out of the solicitor?’

‘Everything he had to give. The Brices died just over a year after Michael disappeared. There was a car crash on the A1. Stephen died immediately. Sylvia was taken to hospital but passed
away a couple of days later in intensive care. The wills were drawn up by the couple without the help of a solicitor. He said that if he’d been involved he would have worded things a bit
differently, but the intention of the couple was quite clear and he has no doubt the wills are legal documents. They were found with the rest of the Brices’ papers after their deaths. He was
one of the executors and determined to carry out their wishes as best he could.’

Stout pulled a notebook from his pocket. ‘Each of the wills was identical. The estate was to be left first to the other partner. In the event of the survivor dying it should go to
“our foster son, our gift from God, known as Michael Grey, so he can lead an independent life”. That was it, quoted word for word.’

‘No legacies to charity or to the church?’

‘No. According to the solicitor, they gave regularly in covenants while they were alive, but there was nothing in the will.’

‘Doesn’t that seem odd to you?’

‘I don’t think so. It wasn’t a huge estate. Only a small terraced house and a couple of thousand in savings. Perhaps they wanted to give as much as possible to
Michael.’

‘Their gift from God.’ Porteous tried to keep the sneer from his voice. ‘They obviously thought he was still alive at the time of their deaths or they’d have changed the
wills. And they must have believed the solicitor could trace him without too much difficulty. Didn’t they think it odd when Michael didn’t get in touch for months?’

‘The solicitor said he’d never had any other clients like them. They were unworldly, as trusting as children. They didn’t worry about things they couldn’t
change.’