Eddie was waiting in the kitchen of Reeves’s house, subdued. ‘I had another look,’ he said. ‘Just from the door. You’re right. It’s the way that stool’s lying. If he’d kicked it away it would be further from him.’
‘The old lady didn’t see anything.’
‘The local lads are on their way,’ Eddie said. ‘We’ve made their day. It’s two years since they had a murder.’
‘Do you mind waiting for them?’
‘Nah. Where are you off to?’
‘I want to talk to Alice Cornish. I don’t think we got it all wrong. Redwood’s still the place that links the killings together.’
‘You think she knows something?’
‘I want to talk to her.’ He thought, I don’t want to be waiting here when they cut down Alec Reeves. I don’t want to see Eddie realize it’s partly his fault. He hounded Alec out of Cranford because he was lonely man who only felt comfortable in the company of kids. I want this over, with no more drama.
It was the last thought that stuck with him on the drive to Alice Cornish’s cottage. It made him take the bends too quickly and hit his horn at a slow, elderly driver hogging the middle of the road. He felt the pressure and when he saw a café by the side of the road just before the turn-off into Alice’s lane, he forced himself to stop. It was an ordinary living-room with two tables covered with gingham cloths; a jolly middle-aged woman brought him Earl Grey and a home-made scone with jam which she said she’d bought at the WI market. He ate it and told her how good it was, but he couldn’t face waiting for her to bring him change, so he stuck a five-pound note under the plate when she was out of the room and he left.
He hadn’t phoned Alice Cornish in advance. Partly superstition. If he phoned she wouldn’t be there. Partly because he needed to get out of Reeves’s immaculate bungalow even if it were on a wild-goose chase.
She was there. The cottage door was open. Her briefcase and an overnight bag stood just inside. When she came to greet him she was dressed for a meeting – a smart trouser suit with a loose silk jacket. Her grey fringe was ruler straight. She was wearing lipstick.
‘Inspector, I haven’t time to talk to you now. I’m expecting a taxi to the station.’
‘Alec Reeves is dead.’
‘What happened?’ The colour had drained from her face but her voice was even.
‘I think he was murdered. It could have been suicide.’
‘No. Alec wouldn’t have killed himself. He’d have seen it as an act of cowardice.’
‘Is there anything you have to tell me?’
She looked directly at him. ‘Nothing.’
‘I need to look at your book again. The book with the children’s names inside.’
She hesitated. Down the track came a red Mondeo. It sounded as though the exhaust had a hole in it. He was aware that he’d been listening to it approaching for some time.
‘My taxi. I’m appearing before a select committee. Not something I can put off.’
‘Please.’
She paused again. ‘All right. But you’ll have to see to yourself. Just shut the door behind you when you leave. It’s a Yale lock.’
She picked up her bags and went out to meet the taxi. He stood, watching her. She turned back before getting into the car.
‘Inspector?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s some coffee in the kitchen. It should still be hot.’
He smiled and waved his thanks.
He poured himself a mug of lukewarm coffee and took it to the study. He opened the big book with its scribbled signatures, its jokes and its drawings, turning the pages slowly, looking for anything he’d missed the first time round. Anyone else would have given up, but this was the only thing he was good at, this persistence, this love of the detail. When he found nothing the first time, he worked through it all again. And this time he saw it, wondered how he could have been so blind not to have picked it up earlier.
He shut the cottage door carefully and sat in his car to call Eddie and then the office. It was late afternoon. The car window was open and he could hear woodpigeons calling beyond the meadow. The ginger cat was back in its favourite spot on the window-sill. In the office he spoke to Charlie Luke.
‘The pathologist’s report has finally come through,’ Luke said. ‘Melanie Gillespie’s never been pregnant. And we traced that kiddie you were interested in. Emma Leese. It all seems like the Gillespies said. Melanie used to babysit for her. But the baby died. Cot death. No wonder she was upset.’
That was it then, Porteous thought. The final piece of information. The tag line to the joke. The final connection.
PART FOUR
Chapter Thirty-Four
The afternoon the police came to talk to Rosie and Joe in the Prom, it was hotter than ever. Rosie thought that was why the conversation seemed so unreal. The heat seemed to shimmer, even inside the building, stopping her from thinking clearly.
When they walked in she was behind the bar. It had been one of those quiet afternoons she spent daydreaming. She’d look at the big clock in its heavy wooden frame and see that an hour had gone by and she knew she must have served half a dozen customers but she couldn’t remember any of them. Then Joe had bounced in, excited somehow despite his grief, shaking her out of her reverie, and soon after that, the policemen. She’d never met them but she guessed at once who they were. Hannah had described them as a double act and Rosie knew what she meant. It was hard to imagine them working apart. But she couldn’t work out why her mother had been so scared of them. They looked like two ordinary, middle-aged men. Out of place in here. They were dressed for the office, not the seaside in a heatwave. Doughy faces covered with a sheen of sweat.
They stood for a moment just inside the door and then the younger man came to the bar. He introduced himself and ordered orange juice. He was pleasant enough, but she couldn’t forget he’d upset her mother and found it hard to be polite. Joe took a beer off him then they sat round one of the tables in the corner, staring at each other, not sure how to start.
‘This isn’t official,’ the inspector said. ‘Nothing formal. We just want to talk about Mel.’
Somehow that started them off, so he didn’t have to ask any questions. It was like a real conversation, friends chatting. Frank wasn’t there – he was minding the bar – but the rest of them did what Porteous wanted. They just talked about Mel.
But right from the beginning Rosie couldn’t recognize who they were going on about. Slow down, she wanted to say. I mean, what is going on here? It was as if the person who’d been her best friend throughout the sixth form had disappeared to be replaced in their collective memories by a total stranger. Joe was worse than any of them. Really she wished he wasn’t there. She felt constrained. While he was going on about how delicate Mel had been, how fragile, she wanted to yell at him: No, she was more than that, stronger than that. You know what she was like. She could be a manipulative cow. Ruthless. She had to get her own way. She wasn’t the victim you’re all making out.
But she couldn’t do it to him. Not yet. Someone would have to put him straight, but it couldn’t be her. She had too much to lose. What if he never forgave her? So she sat quiet while they warbled on, pussyfooting around the subject.
‘What about you, Rosie?’ Porteous said at last, leaning across the table, giving her a seriously deep and meaningful look, as if he expected her to give them the truth. ‘What have you got to tell us about Mel?’
‘Nothing new. Nothing that’s not already been said.’
She could tell he was disappointed. They went on to talk about Mel’s music, how talented she was and how she’d already got a confirmed university place at Edinburgh, the same old gushing stuff.
‘They were so impressed,’ Joe said, ‘that they’d have taken her even if she’d failed all her A levels.’