The Sleeping and the Dead by Ann Cleeves Page A

mum.’
    ‘Who was she, then?’ Now he did turn to eye her up. ‘I might know her.’
    ‘Did you come to this school too?’ For some reason it seemed unlikely. He looked too different from the smartly dressed men and women. She thought he must be a refugee from the
city.
    ‘No, not bright enough. I was at the secondary modern. But I used to hang around with some of them.’
    ‘Hannah Meek,’ she said. ‘That was what my mother was called then.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I can see.’
    ‘Can you?’ She had seen the occasional photo of her mother as a young woman and saw no resemblance. Her mother was so reined in. Her features were small and sharp.
    ‘She was skinnier of course.’
    She felt her face colour. Most people were skinnier than her. Hannah said she was over sensitive. ‘Carry on like that and you’ll end up like Melanie Gillespie.’ As if she
wouldn’t have adored to be the same weight as Mel.
    ‘But you’re bonnier,’ the DJ said after some consideration. Rosie could have kissed him.
    ‘Can you recognize her?’ she said, falling into the joky, flirty voice she used with the older punters at the Prom. She didn’t have to shout. Someone had moaned about the music
being too loud and he’d turned it down. He scanned the room but so briefly that she thought he wasn’t really bothered.
    ‘Can’t see much at all in this light,’ he said.
    There was a bit of a scuffle at the door as Sally came in. She pushed her way through the blackout curtain and was silhouetted briefly against the light outside. The woman behind the table knew
her and tried to offer her a badge but Sally ignored her. The DJ was watching the scene too, with the same detached amusement as when he’d been looking at the dancing.
    ‘That’s Sally Spence,’ Rosie said, wanting his attention again. ‘She’s my mum’s best mate. We’re staying at her hotel tonight.’
    ‘Oh, I know Sal very well. When you see her say Chris sends his love.’
    The track he was playing came to an end. He murmured a few words into the microphone. No one seemed to be listening. Hannah was deep in conversation with a tall man, dressed in black. He had
more style than the rest of them and Rosie might have fancied him if he’d been twenty years younger. Suddenly Sally broke in on the couple. She said a few words to Hannah then steered her
away from him. From her position on the stage Rosie watched. Caught in a livid green spotlight, with Roxy Music in the background, she saw her mother’s face crumple. The normally sharp
features fell in on themselves. Sally led her out of the room and Rosie followed. At the door she stopped and looked up at the stage. Chris, the DJ, gave her a little wave and a knowing grin.
    Outside it was still light, and at The Old Rectory four guests sat on the flagged terrace having drinks before a late dinner. Sally had driven them back from the reunion
immediately. Rosie thought it was a fuss about nothing. Sally playing the drama queen. An old body dragged out of the lake. What could that have to do with her mother?
    Roger insisted that they shouldn’t decide anything until after dinner and Sally had deferred to him. Hannah seemed to think she had no right to express an opinion. Rosie thought Roger had
been transformed. That afternoon he’d been a crabby and grey old Latin teacher. Now, talking to his guests, dressed in a brocade waistcoat and floppy bow-tie, he was in his element. When they
arrived he was taking a tray of drinks to a couple in the lounge and he sat beside them for a moment to chat. He flattered the woman without annoying her husband, camping it up a little to make
himself harmless. Rosie, who was no mean actor herself, appreciated the show. She knew the effort which went into a performance.
    Over dinner Sally and her mother talked in a series of elliptical comments which made little sense to her. At one point Sally said to Roger, ‘But you must remember Michael Grey, even if
you didn’t