The Sleeping and the Dead

She’d reached the first floor when she heard him come after her, bellowing and stumbling as if he’d wakened suddenly and was still half asleep. She thought then that all the flats must be empty, because there was no response to the noise. She’d have to get out. There was just enough light to see where she was going, some dim, emergency lamp high on the wall. She carried on down, pumping her legs, one step after another, keeping the movements small and tight, saving her energy for when she reached the bottom. Her shadow danced ahead of her.

At the bottom the steel-plated double door was open. She supposed it had been left like that the day before when they’d come in. Outside it was warm and dusty and she thought she could smell the dry mud of the river. She paused for a moment. She didn’t think the boy was gaining on her but in the distance there was muffled, amplified rock music – some sort of festival or outdoor show – and she wasn’t sure she would have heard his footsteps anyway. She needed a main road, lots of people. The music was too far away. There was a general hum of traffic and she got her bearings. She saw the lights of speeding cars in the distance beyond the building site. She started to run towards them, moving awkwardly because her tied hands threw her off balance. In the distance there was a bang and the splatter of fireworks from the festival. No sign of the boy.

The scene was lit suddenly by car headlights. They shone on the animals in the children’s playground behind its wire-mesh fence, a nightmare zoo.

He’s fetched his van to head me off, she thought. Then: I underestimated him. Not such a charvie after all.

She heard the engine revving and sensed it coming towards her, but blinded by the lights after the gloom of the flats she was paralysed. She couldn’t decide which way to run. At the last minute she twisted and started to move, but knew it was too late.

Then there was a shout. She felt the soft thud of another body, pain as she was thrown to the ground, winded and battered. Then came the movement of the vehicle past them, air on her face, and an enormous crash as it swung, out of control, into a wall.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Hannah sat by the living-room window, counting the cars go past, telling herself, When I’ve counted ten more, Arthur will arrive with Rosie. But Arthur didn’t arrive, so she counted twenty, then thirty, then fifty. She’d wanted to go with him to the estate by the river, Hunter’s last known address, but he’d said she’d be better there, next to the phone, and he’d suddenly seemed to inspire confidence so she’d done what she was told. When the car did stop she thought it was a mirage, her imagination playing tricks. But the first person she saw, the only one that mattered then, was Rosie, who got out of the back seat. And she looked dishevelled and shocked, her white work shirt stained. Too solid to be a dream.

Hannah ran to the door and held her. She felt herself crying and wiped her eyes on her sleeve, because Rosie always said she was soppy, that she cried at the drop of a hat. When she looked up she saw Porteous and Stout coming up the path. No one else was with them.

‘Where’s Arthur?’

‘They’ll explain,’ Rosie said. ‘Is there anything to eat?’

‘He’s in hospital,’ Porteous said.

‘Shouldn’t Rosie be too? For a check-up at least.’

‘Nah.’ Rosie shook her head and went to the kitchen to forage for food.

‘Is Arthur badly hurt?’

‘Serious but stable, they say.’

Like Marty, she thought.

Rosie wandered back in. She was drinking from the glass of wine Arthur had poured for himself earlier. In the other hand she held a slice of the cheesecake Hannah had finally decided on for pudding. Crumbs from the biscuit base were dribbling on to the floor. ‘Any phone calls?’ It was what she always asked. It was as if she’d only come back from a four-hour shift at the Prom.

She doesn’t want a fuss, Hannah thought. ‘Joe,’ she said. ‘Several times. He’s been frantic.’

‘I’d better phone him.’ She drifted away upstairs.

Hannah watched her then turned to Porteous. She wondered what he was still doing there, hovering just inside the door like a Jehovah’s Witness or a Kleeneze salesman. Shouldn’t he be taking statements?

‘Arthur is all right?’ she asked. ‘If it’s serious, perhaps I should go to the hospital.’

Then Porteous and Stout walked in, flanking her on each side, so she thought for a crazy minute that they intended to arrest her after all. They sat beside her on the sofa.

‘I don’t think you should do that,’ Porteous said. Hannah saw that both men looked exhausted, much worse than Rosie. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Arthur Lee’s under arrest. He’s been charged with the murders of Theo Randle, Melanie Gillespie and Alec Reeves. And the attempted murder of Rosie.’

‘No.’ Again Hannah thought she was going mad. ‘Rosie was abducted by a youth called Hunter. He phoned here for money. Arthur went to rescue her. I asked him to.’