The Sleeping and the Dead by Ann Cleeves Page B

teach him. Everyone knew Michael.’
    Roger stared into his wine. ‘Of course I remember him,’ he said in a sad, solemn voice. Then he made an excuse to go into the kitchen and when he returned he was his old self,
solicitous and funny.
    At the end of the meal they were the only people left in the dining-room. The main lights were switched off. Their table was lit by a wall lamp with an engraved glass shade, which could have
covered a gas lamp. The room had been designed to look like a Victorian parlour, with glossy-leafed pot plants, red plush, heavy furniture and silver. For Rosie it took on a nightmare quality. She
prided herself on being able to hold her drink, but Roger had filled her glass every time it was empty and by the end of the meal her head was swimming. She listened to snatches of the
women’s conversation, and the image of the white corpse from the lake caught her attention immediately and stayed with her.
    It was partly to shake off this feeling of melodrama, partly because she was so drunk that when the thought came into her head she couldn’t stop it coming out, that she interrupted their
conversation.
    ‘Oh, by the way, Chris sends his love.’
    ‘Chris?’ Her mother seemed puzzled.
    ‘The DJ.’
    Hannah looked at Sally. ‘That was Chris?’
    ‘Didn’t you recognize him?’ Sally seemed pleased. ‘He hasn’t worn very well, has he?’ Then she seemed to think Rosie deserved an explanation.
‘Chris,’ she said, ‘is my unmissed ex-husband.’
    Soon after, Rosie left them to it. Roger winked and wrapped a half-drunk bottle of wine in a napkin for her to take with her. Hannah would have objected if she’d noticed
but she was too preoccupied to see what was going on.
    In her room Rosie drew the curtains. The window was open and she heard young voices, smelled the grilling flesh of a barbecue. By the edge of the lake someone was having a party. She switched on
the television and flicked through the channels, but nothing held her interest for long.
    She poured wine into a beaker from the bathroom and wished she were outside. Leaving the set on, but with the sound turned right down, she dialled the Prom on her mobile. Frank answered.
    ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘It’s me.’
    He recognized her voice. She wondered idly if he’d know all his part-time staff by voice. ‘Good God, girl,’ he said. ‘Can’t you keep away from the place? I thought
it was your night off.’
    ‘Sad, isn’t it?’ She thought it really was sad.
    ‘You’re pissed,’ he said. It was a statement of fact.
    ‘Shit, Frank, you sound like my mum. Is anyone in?’
    ‘Can’t you hear them?’ He must have held the receiver over the bar. The roar was deafening.
    ‘Not anyone . Anyone I know.’
    ‘Nah. They were in earlier. The whole crowd.’
    ‘Except Mel and Joe.’ She thought they’d be in Portugal by now, sitting by the pool under the orange trees.
    ‘I’ve got some news about them.’ He was like an old woman about gossip. He paused, tormenting her, knowing she’d be gagging for the information.
    ‘What?’
    ‘They’re still here.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Mel refused to go, didn’t she.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘She refused to go on holiday. They called in here on their way to the airport. Bags all packed. It was supposed to be just to say goodbye. Then all of a sudden she threw a wobbly. She
said her parents wanted to get rid of her. The holiday was a trick to get her out of the country. They never intended to let her back.’
    She kept her voice flat. ‘Was Joe OK?’
    ‘He didn’t say much, but what was there to say? His girlfriend had practically accused him of kidnap. That girl needs help.’
    She switched off her phone and dialled Joe’s house. The answerphone clicked in straight away. She left a message for Joe saying she’d call him the next day. She thought then that she
should phone Mel and check that she was all right but knew that should wait until she was sober. She’d only