‘They wouldn’t have done that.’
‘So it was a story they believed, even if it wasn’t told to them by Michael himself. Let me explain. You were all sitting A levels. Michael’s first exam was art. We know because we’ve spoken to the school. It hasn’t been easy but we’ve chased up some of his subject teachers. The art teacher is retired but still living in the area. Michael didn’t turn up for the exam. He was one of the few pupils in the class predicted to get a top grade. It was a subject he enjoyed, so it wasn’t a case of last-minute nerves. The teacher was frantic – perhaps Michael had made a mistake about dates. He phoned the number on the school record and got through to Stephen Brice, who was perfectly calm, who seemed bewildered by all the fuss. “Didn’t Michael tell you?” he said to the art teacher. “He’s gone back to his father.”
‘If there was any other information given during the conversation the teacher can’t remember it. He assumed it was a case of family illness or bereavement. It must have been something serious, he said, because Michael had been working hard for the exam and was determined to do well.’
Oh yes, thought Hannah, remembering lunchtimes in the art room, watching Michael, smudged with paint, working on his display. He was certainly determined.
Porteous set his teacup carefully on the coffee table. ‘You never heard that story?’
She shook her head. ‘I didn’t see anyone much at that time. I went in for the exams and straight home. As soon as the A levels were finished I left the area. I’d found a summer job in a hotel in Devon. I didn’t even come back for the results. They were posted on to me.’
‘You must have noticed that Michael wasn’t around?’
‘Yes. I realized he’d gone. Back to his family, I thought. Dramatically. The way that he’d come.’
‘But you didn’t go to see the Brices, to ask what had happened, to get a forwarding address?’ Porteous was faintly incredulous.
‘No.’ She hesitated, unsure how much to say. ‘It was a bit embarrassing. We’d stopped going out with each other actually. I suppose I didn’t want them to think I was chasing him. Pride, you know.’
‘A row, was there?’ Stout asked. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’
He said it casually enough, but then they both looked at her in a way that made her realize the answer was important to them. She sensed the danger just in time. Sally hadn’t just told them how much in love she’d been.
Hannah matched her voice to his. Kept it light. Implying, You know what dizzy things teenage girls are. ‘I suppose so, but I’m blessed if I can remember what it was all about. Not wanting to face the details, even after all this time.’
‘Serious though, at that age.’
‘Not as serious as passing the exams. That was our priority at the time. That was probably why we fell out.’
‘You were jealous of the time he spent studying?’
‘I think it was more likely the other way round.’
They looked at her. They were still sitting side by side on the sofa. It was leather. One of Jonathan’s affectations. It didn’t go in the room at all. Hannah thought of Michael’s audition for Macbeth – Jack Westcott and Spooky Spence sitting in judgement on the red plastic chairs at the front of the hall. Porteous and Stout were sitting in judgement too. They thought she was lying but they were trying to decide if it was because Michael had dumped her and she didn’t want to admit it, or because she had killed him. It was impossible to tell if they’d reached a conclusion.
‘Why don’t you take us through the last couple of days of his life?’ Porteous said.
‘Is that possible? Do you know when he died? Exactly?’
‘Perhaps not,’ he admitted. ‘But we know when he disappeared. If we can believe the Brices.’
She was starting to panic. Incoherent thoughts pitched one after another into her brain. She forced out a reasonable voice. ‘It’s a long time ago. I’m not sure how much I’ll remember.’
‘We can help you.’ Porteous leaned forwards so his elbows were on his knees. He clasped his hands. More like a priest than a cop. Or a counsellor. Not very different in tone from Arthur. ‘There was a school play. Macbeth. I’ve seen an old programme. Mr Westcott has kept them all over the years. There was a photograph of Michael – we’ll call him Michael for now, shall we? It’s different from the one which was in the paper. It’s rather faded and grainy, but it gives an impression. He was a striking boy.’ He stopped, miming a man who’s had a sudden thought. ‘I don’t suppose you kept a photograph, did you?’
She shook her head. She’d always regretted not having one.
‘No? Pity. Still…’ He seemed lost in a thought of his own, then ditched all the make-believe vagueness. ‘The final performance of Macbeth was on the Friday night. You were prompting and looking after the props?’
She nodded, remembered like a slow-motion replay the Brices rising in their seats to cheer.
‘Did you talk to him that evening? In the interval perhaps, or afterwards?’
‘I’m not sure. Probably.’
‘So you were still going out with him on the Friday then. So far as you’re aware. The disagreement between you must have happened on the Saturday or the Sunday.’
‘The Saturday,’ she said. She felt she was being boxed in, tricked. She should have claimed not to remember. How could she be expected to have perfect recall of that sort of detail after so many years? But she did remember. She had played the scene over and over in her head ever since.
‘You’re absolutely certain about that?’
She nodded. She wished suddenly that Arthur were there. So much for pride. They wouldn’t push so hard if another person were present. They’d be more circumspect. She wondered if she should refuse to answer their questions, demand to have a solicitor there. But she’d never been much good at demanding. Besides, then they’d assume that she was guilty, that she had something to hide.
Porteous straightened his back and looked satisfied as if it were just as he had supposed. He was taking the lead in the questions. Stout had taken out a soft, thick pencil and was making notes on a shorthand pad. As Porteous had waited for her answer Hannah had heard the lead move over the paper.
‘We’ll come back to Saturday later,’ Porteous continued. ‘If you could cast your mind back to the Friday.’ He paused, gave her a look of reluctant admiration. ‘You do have a most remarkable memory, Mrs Morton. It was the same during our previous conversation. So tell us what happened in the interval. Did all the actors remain backstage?’
‘Yes.’ An easy question. ‘Mr Spence, the producer, was strict about that. There was to be no running around the hall. The PTA organized refreshments for the audience and took juice and biscuits for the actors and crew.’
‘But you were prompting, I understand, from the front of the audience. It wasn’t a traditional stage with wings.’
‘That’s right.’ Good God, she thought. He’s a magician. How can he know all this?
He closed his eyes as if he were picturing the scene. ‘Did you go backstage in the interval or stay where you were?’
‘I stayed in my seat. Mr and Mrs Brice came to speak to me.’ That had been a relief. Her mother had been in the audience too, a gesture of support which she should have welcomed. Hannah wouldn’t have known what to say to her and the Brices kept her away. Hannah had seen Audrey from the corner of her eye, circling at a distance.
‘Did they mention that Michael might be leaving the area?’
‘Definitely not. They talked about the play.’
‘Of course. So either they didn’t know about his plans at that stage – if indeed there were any plans – or Michael had asked them to keep a secret. Otherwise they would have discussed his leaving with you.’
‘Yes, I’m sure they would.’