The Sleeping and the Dead by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ann Cleeves
do you? He wasn’t the sort
of lad I imagined at first. I don’t see him disappearing for months, moving from one squat to another, spending time inside. He was bright. He had a lot to lose. I think he was killed soon
after he was missed at school.’
Outside, the congregation had dispersed. The grandmothers were banging pots in the kitchen to show they wanted to lock up.
Stout stood up. ‘What now?’
‘Back to the station to organize a press conference. It’s time we went public. The school gave me a photo, a cutting from the local rag, but it could be anyone. Let’s see if
the paper still has the original. I know it happened nearly thirty years ago, but people round here have good memories. There’ll be friends still living in the town. And enemies. Come on,
Eddie. Let’s make you a star.’
In fact Porteous took the press conference early the following evening. There was all the media interest he could have wished for. The body had been discovered because of the
drought and the drought was a big story, so the national press was there. He had wanted to hold the conference in the high-school hall. The only certainty he had in the case was that Michael Grey
had been a pupil at Cranford Grammar. He thought it might jog a few memories. But the head teacher wasn’t keen. He seemed to think that even after all those years murder would be bad for the
school’s image. He used as an excuse the fact that the hall had already been hired out for an event in the evening. Nothing Porteous said could make him change his mind.
Instead they used the community centre next to Stout’s church. It still smelled of the lunch that had been provided for the pensioners’ club which had met earlier in the day –
steamed fish and cabbage. Porteous sat on the stage behind a trestle table hidden by a white cloth. His answers to the press emphasized his ignorance. He didn’t have an exact date of death.
He hadn’t traced the boy’s relatives. That was why he needed their help. All he had was a body that looked like a lump of lard – this he phrased more delicately – and an old
photo of a white-haired boy with a knife.
There was one moment of excitement. In the second row sat a big woman who worked for the town’s free paper. When the photo was passed round Porteous could have sworn that she recognized
the face. But when he looked for her later she had rushed away.
PART TWO
Chapter Six
It was hot again. The local news was all about the weather. A magistrate had been prosecuted for using a sprinkler at midnight. Tankers were driving the region’s water
south. The lake at Cranford was so low that flooded buildings were starting to emerge from the sludge and a body, trapped under a pier for years, had been found by a canoeist.
Hannah switched off the radio and parked her car. There was a new officer on the gate so she had to show her pass. The photograph was two years old and she saw him look at it then back at her,
squinting, unsure at first that it was the same person. He pushed it back under the glass screen and Hannah stared at it too. It didn’t look like her. The woman in the photograph was younger.
She was smiling. Not relaxed exactly – Hannah had never been that – there was a tension around the mouth. But content, complacent even. It was taken while she was still part of a
family. Before Rosie hated her. Before Jonathan left with a twenty-five-year-old PE teacher, to set up home all over again.
She had to wait for a moment in the gate room for two officers to come in through the outer door. The inner door wouldn’t open until the outer was locked. Then she stood back to let them
go ahead to collect their keys. She was in no hurry, early as usual. Punctuality had been a curse since childhood. She threw her tag into the chute and waited for the new man to find her keys.
Ahead of her the officers were talking very loudly. She recognized them but they were too engrossed in conversation to
of lad I imagined at first. I don’t see him disappearing for months, moving from one squat to another, spending time inside. He was bright. He had a lot to lose. I think he was killed soon
after he was missed at school.’
Outside, the congregation had dispersed. The grandmothers were banging pots in the kitchen to show they wanted to lock up.
Stout stood up. ‘What now?’
‘Back to the station to organize a press conference. It’s time we went public. The school gave me a photo, a cutting from the local rag, but it could be anyone. Let’s see if
the paper still has the original. I know it happened nearly thirty years ago, but people round here have good memories. There’ll be friends still living in the town. And enemies. Come on,
Eddie. Let’s make you a star.’
In fact Porteous took the press conference early the following evening. There was all the media interest he could have wished for. The body had been discovered because of the
drought and the drought was a big story, so the national press was there. He had wanted to hold the conference in the high-school hall. The only certainty he had in the case was that Michael Grey
had been a pupil at Cranford Grammar. He thought it might jog a few memories. But the head teacher wasn’t keen. He seemed to think that even after all those years murder would be bad for the
school’s image. He used as an excuse the fact that the hall had already been hired out for an event in the evening. Nothing Porteous said could make him change his mind.
Instead they used the community centre next to Stout’s church. It still smelled of the lunch that had been provided for the pensioners’ club which had met earlier in the day –
steamed fish and cabbage. Porteous sat on the stage behind a trestle table hidden by a white cloth. His answers to the press emphasized his ignorance. He didn’t have an exact date of death.
He hadn’t traced the boy’s relatives. That was why he needed their help. All he had was a body that looked like a lump of lard – this he phrased more delicately – and an old
photo of a white-haired boy with a knife.
There was one moment of excitement. In the second row sat a big woman who worked for the town’s free paper. When the photo was passed round Porteous could have sworn that she recognized
the face. But when he looked for her later she had rushed away.
PART TWO
Chapter Six
It was hot again. The local news was all about the weather. A magistrate had been prosecuted for using a sprinkler at midnight. Tankers were driving the region’s water
south. The lake at Cranford was so low that flooded buildings were starting to emerge from the sludge and a body, trapped under a pier for years, had been found by a canoeist.
Hannah switched off the radio and parked her car. There was a new officer on the gate so she had to show her pass. The photograph was two years old and she saw him look at it then back at her,
squinting, unsure at first that it was the same person. He pushed it back under the glass screen and Hannah stared at it too. It didn’t look like her. The woman in the photograph was younger.
She was smiling. Not relaxed exactly – Hannah had never been that – there was a tension around the mouth. But content, complacent even. It was taken while she was still part of a
family. Before Rosie hated her. Before Jonathan left with a twenty-five-year-old PE teacher, to set up home all over again.
She had to wait for a moment in the gate room for two officers to come in through the outer door. The inner door wouldn’t open until the outer was locked. Then she stood back to let them
go ahead to collect their keys. She was in no hurry, early as usual. Punctuality had been a curse since childhood. She threw her tag into the chute and waited for the new man to find her keys.
Ahead of her the officers were talking very loudly. She recognized them but they were too engrossed in conversation to