The Sleeping and the Dead by Ann Cleeves Page B

Polo – Jonathan of course had taken the Rover when he left. Rosie got
out of the car and Hannah saw that the seam of her skirt had split at the back. She began to feel nervous, as if they had no right to be there. There was complete silence, of the sort that you find
in small Spanish towns at siesta time. It was even hotter here than on the coast and Hannah was reminded of the dense, bright heat of a Mediterranean afternoon. Although the house was close to the
main village street there was no sound of traffic or conversation. They walked through an arch and round the house to the main entrance. The front lawn was set for croquet. Two mallets lay with
balls on the grass. Beyond a green wire-mesh fence was a tennis court, freshly marked. No one was about.
    Rosie whistled and said, ‘Not bad.’ She pulled the hair back from her face, twisted it and fastened it with a comb. She looked immediately tidier. ‘I can’t see a
pool,’ she said regretfully. ‘Still, in a normal summer, when would you use it? Really, it’s not bad at all.’
    The front door was open and led to a large wood-panelled hall with a stone fireplace. There was no reception desk, no bell to ring to attract attention. They stood for a moment. It seemed very
dark after the glare outside, and wonderfully cool. Three doors led into the hall but all were shut.
    ‘Well,’ Rosie demanded. ‘Are we going to stand here like lemons?’ There were times when Hannah wondered that she had created such an assertive young woman. Rosie raised
her voice. ‘Hello,’ she shouted. ‘Anybody home?’
    ‘Ssh . . .’ Hannah felt awkward, as if she’d wandered into a private home and sworn at the hosts. She would have stood there all day.
    Rosie began to shuffle impatiently. There was a woodblock floor. She’d learned tap dancing as a child and began to tap her heels and toes to some rhythm in her head. It was an irritating
habit and came upon her whenever there was space to move. She’d never been able to stand still. In the distance a door opened and shut and they heard footsteps. Rosie continued to hop and
shimmy and click her fingers. Hannah motioned at her to stop. The middle door into the hall opened and a man appeared. Beyond him she saw a corridor, a sunny window. She didn’t at first take
him to be Sally’s husband. He was older than she would have expected, at least fifty-five, but it was more than that. He wasn’t the sort of man she thought Sally would be married to. He
wore an open-necked shirt, brown trousers with a neatly pressed crease and, despite the heat, a cardigan with pockets. His hair was thin and grey, too long at the back. Perhaps after Chris Sally
had had enough of wild men. Rosie slid to a halt.
    The man blinked in a way which Hannah found oddly familiar, smiled a thin, long smile and held out his hand.
    ‘You must be Sally’s friends.’ His voice was light, clipped, a little spinsterish, and again she felt she should recognize it. ‘Not a good day for a drive, I’m
afraid. Poor you. This weather doesn’t show any sign of breaking. I suppose we shouldn’t complain. By the time you’ve had a chance to freshen up Sally will be home. She was sorry
not to be here when you arrived, but today’s a busy one for the paper. She’s looking forward to the reunion.’
    He picked up Hannah’s holdall and directed them towards a curving staircase. Rosie went first and he stared as she walked ahead of him at the long brown legs appearing through the slit in
her skirt. Hannah wanted to hit him, but knew Rosie would probably take the attention for granted. Across the graveyard the church clock struck five. The noise seemed to shock him out of a trance
and he turned to Hannah, muttering something about the age of the tower. Their room was at the back of the house. It was large and high ceilinged with a full-length window looking over a rose
garden and across more lawn. Beyond that, dazzling in the sunlight, was the lake.
    Roger