The Sleeping and the Dead

‘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.’

‘What did you do after the performance?’

‘We walked into town together and bought fish and chips.’ Again to avoid her mother. So she wouldn’t have to talk to Audrey on the way home. She saw he was astonished that she had remembered a detail like that and added, ‘At least I think that’s what we did. It could have been another time.’

‘What about the props?’ he asked. ‘Did you clear them up that night?’

She thought, He knows about the knife. Felt the last of her control slipping. Held it together.

‘Some of them. While I was waiting for the others to change and take off their make up. A team of us came in on the Saturday afternoon to do the rest.’

‘What did you do with all the stuff?’

‘Packed it into boxes. I don’t know what happened to it then.’

‘Did any of the cast keep anything? A souvenir perhaps. Something to remind them of the play?’

She shook her head. She couldn’t trust herself to speak.

‘Was Michael there that afternoon?’

‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘He was the star. Too grand to muck about with props and costumes.’

Porteous smiled. ‘Well that takes us nicely to Saturday evening.’

‘There was a party,’ she said. ‘For the cast and the crew and a few of the teachers who were involved in the production.’