DEAD SILENT

DEAD SILENT Neil White Digging for the truth can be fatal…20 years ago, Britain was rocked by the strange disappearance of Claude Gilbert, after the beaten corpse of his wife was discovered hidden in the garden. Worst of all, scratches found on her makeshift coffin signal that the unthinkable took place - Nancy was buried alive.Conspiracy theories say hotshot barrister and handsome TV presenter Gilbert murdered his wife and then killed himself, but with no body ever found, the mystery has remained unsolved. Until now…When Lancashire crime beat reporter Jack Garrett is contacted by someone claiming to be Gilbert's girlfriend, and that he needs him to write the story proving his innocence, Jack eagerly leaps on the chance to clear a decades-old enigma.But as Jack sets off on the trail of Gilbert - and the news scoop of his career - he quickly finds that the truth is stranger than the headlines. And as Jack chases the story, he and girlfriend Laura McGanity, attempting to earn her sergeant stripes in the local police force, quickly become pawns to a twisted individual with their own agenda… NEIL WHITE Dead Silent AVON Dedication (#ulink_24f5601c-31ae-58cb-b1a9-ca8f9f8666fc) To Thomas, Samuel and Joseph, as always Contents Title Page (#u3b883301-0f4d-57cd-af2a-1341edcc1bca) Dedication (#u71dc02b8-14d0-568b-8021-69b705eea8da) May 1988 (#u8cefc2f7-7262-5cb5-b066-488b51f5437a) Chapter One—Present Day (#ue656eca1-b45a-5dac-86ee-539cf8ff4f94) Chapter Two (#ub58584d5-42a9-54dc-bd22-e940c9b50d23) Chapter Three (#u49520ce8-fa1c-571e-ac3f-bb9d8e73da95) Chapter Four (#ud2f7eeb0-bbb5-5473-99f7-087e09765952) Chapter Five (#u1432505a-44ba-5397-a1de-7681e2255f9e) Chapter Six (#ucd1619fc-df9f-5f81-be26-37aacf0441fd) Chapter Seven (#udc1faf59-6c2d-525d-8b8a-35863534d8ac) Chapter Eight (#u81f1d238-66fd-5c5b-9fe0-2086b51190c2) Chapter Nine (#ucc13613f-7733-5c06-9bfc-a454cb024fc5) Chapter Ten (#u5af930d8-224a-53ad-be31-7ae064db9de0) Chapter Eleven (#uda73e28e-ce9f-5501-831f-7c9eb1836542) Chapter Twelve (#u5d0f8899-5f05-5eee-a568-c853b9fec4eb) Chapter Thirteen (#u1aea4e69-0be6-58ce-8ed7-13dec26d1036) Chapter Fourteen (#ud51b1744-ce4c-5463-ab96-8b2351356f8f) Chapter Fifteen (#u71175a1d-89f4-5eb0-988f-f2546bda677a) Chapter Sixteen (#u7443d9e6-5eb8-5f2e-acec-2a0c544d279e) Chapter Seventeen (#u53ace8dd-dbe3-529b-a3ad-e73bcaa74644) Chapter Eighteen (#u1ddddedc-b864-5efa-8831-a51b5f6a906d) Chapter Nineteen (#ue08ad1ea-d5c9-5075-b2c2-319c447a173c) Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Forty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventy-Four (#litres_trial_promo) Read on (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) Author's Note (#litres_trial_promo) Other Works (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) May 1988 (#ulink_0753d81c-20b5-5988-9751-3de3f84c24ad) Bill Hunter looked through the wrought-iron gates as he came to a halt outside Claude Gilbert’s house. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the interior of the police car heavy with the first real promise of summer, and turned to his passenger, Paul Roach, a fresh-faced young officer with scrubbed cheeks and the swagger of youth on his side. ‘Do you know why houses like this are on a hill?’ Hunter said, and pointed towards the large Edwardian property, a square block of sandstone walls and white corners, roses creeping around the edges, a wide gravel drive leading to the doors at the front. Roach didn’t seem interested, responding with a shrug. ‘It kept the professionals out of the smog when the mills were running,’ Hunter continued. ‘It was peasants like us who had to live in the valley, where the smoke from the chimneys choked us every day.’ Like Rome, Blackley had been built on seven hills, except that Blackley’s majesty didn’t go much beyond the terraced strips and large stone cotton mills that scarred the once-green slopes. ‘The clogs and machinery are long gone, old man,’ Roach said, and then he looked back to the house and smiled. ‘I wouldn’t mind a piece of this though.’ ‘What about the old-fashioned stuff, like making a difference?’ Hunter said. Roach nodded at the sheen on Hunter’s worn-out trousers and the scuffs on his shoes. ‘You’re not a great career advert,’ he said. Hunter turned off the engine and it seemed suddenly quiet, the bustle of the town centre out of earshot, just the long curve of the street in front of them, the houses bordered by ivy-covered high walls. He reached for his jacket and climbed out of the car. Roach joined him on the pavement and looked around. ‘So where has Gilbert gone?’ he said. ‘We won’t find out standing here,’ Hunter said, and he pushed at the gate, the creak from the old hinges the only sound in the street. ‘Do you think they’ll serve us strawberries on the lawn?’ Roach said. Hunter shook his head, and then, as the gates clanged against the supporting brick pillars, he stepped onto the gravel drive, the confetti of cherry blossom blowing against his shoes. ‘What’s he like, Claude Gilbert?’ Roach asked. ‘Depends on which Claude you mean,’ Hunter said. ‘The television Claude, the morning show legal expert, the media’s favourite barrister—he’s a real charmer.’ ‘And the courthouse Claude?’ Roach said. ‘Like a lot of them, stars in their own universe,’ Hunter said. ‘When you’ve been in the job longer, and you’ve been spat on and punched and uncovered sudden deaths, then maybe you’ll look at lawyers’ houses and wonder why they get so much when we do all the dirty work.’ ‘It’s a great view though,’ Roach replied, looking along the lawns, and when he heard Hunter grunt his disapproval, he added: ‘You’re a dinosaur, Bill. The miners’ strike ended the class war. Do you remember them all marching back? That was the end of the revolution, so let’s cut out the working-class hero stuff. Thatcher won.’ Hunter scowled as he watched Roach march towards the double doors at the front of the house. ‘When were they last seen?’ Roach shouted over his shoulder. ‘About a week ago,’ Hunter replied. ‘So it could be a holiday.’ ‘Claude’s chambers don’t think so. He’s halfway through an assault trial, and by disappearing they’ve had to abort it.’ ‘What, you think they’ve run away?’ ‘It depends on why they’ve gone,’ Hunter replied. ‘Bit of a gambler is Claude, so the rumours go. Maybe he’s had that big loss that always comes along eventually. If Mrs Gilbert is used to all of this, the fancy furniture, the dinner parties, the cash, she’s not going to settle for nothing. They could have emptied their accounts and gone somewhere.’ Roach didn’t look convinced. ‘House prices are rising. There’ll be plenty of money tied up in this place.’ Hunter took a step back and looked up at the house. The curtains were drawn in every window. ‘Maybe he got too involved in a case? Lawyers think they’re immune, but they’re not, and they’re dealing with some real nasty people. I know judges who have been threatened, just quiet words when they’re out with their wives, thinking that no one knows who they are.’ He stepped forward and pressed his face against one of the stained glass panels. ‘There’s a few letters on the floor, so they haven’t been here for a while.’ ‘What do we do?’ Roach asked, looking around. Hunter followed his gaze. There was someone watching them from the other side of the road, a teenager, a newspape delivery bag on his shoulder. ‘Go ask him if he knows anything.’ Roach paused for a moment, and then he shrugged and walked away. Hunter watched him until he was a few yards away, and then he rammed his elbow into the glass in the door. When Roach whirled around at the noise, Hunter shrugged and said, ‘Slipped,’ before he reached in and turned the Yale lock. Roach pulled a face before heading back to the house. The pile of letters scraped along the tiled floor as Hunter pushed open the door. He pointed at the envelopes. ‘See how far back the postmarks go.’ Hunter squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. The hallway stretched ahead of them, with stairs leading upwards, the stained glass around the doors casting red and blue shadows along the wall. They both crinkled their noses. The house smelled stale. Hunter looked into the living room to his left. Nothing unusual in there. Two sofas and a television hidden away in a wooden cabinet, crystal bowls on a dresser, nothing broken. There was a room on the other side of the hallway dominated by a long mahogany table. ‘No sign of a disturbance,’ he said. ‘What about the letters?’ ‘These go back a couple of days,’ Roach said, flicking through them. ‘Bills and credit card statements mostly.’ Hunter went along the hall to the kitchen. It was a long room, with high sash windows looking along the garden. There was a yellow Aga and a battered oak table, and china mugs hung from hooks underneath dusty cupboards. ‘They hadn’t planned to leave,’ Roach said. When Hunter turned around, Roach was bathed in the light of the open fridge door, holding a half-empty milk bottle. ‘This is turning into yoghurt. They would have thrown it away.’ Hunter scratched his head. He ambled over to the window and looked out at the two lawns, green and lush, separated by a gravel path. There was an elaborate fountain in one corner of the garden, with a wide stone basin and a Grecian statue of a woman holding an urn, with a steel and glass summer house in the other. Hunter could see the bright fronds of plants. Hunter looked downwards, at the floor and the walls, and then out at the garden again. He was about to say something when something drew his eye, a detail in the garden that didn’t seem quite right. He looked closer, wondering what he’d seen that had grabbed his attention, his eyes working faster than his mind, when he realised that it was the lawn itself. It was flat all the way along, green and even, but there was a patch near the back wall where it looked churned up, as if soil had been newly piled up on it. ‘What do you think to that?’ Hunter said, before turning around to see Roach kneeling down, examining the skirting and the wall. ‘What is it?’ Roach looked up, his brow furrowed, his cockiness gone. ‘It looks like dried blood,’ he said. ‘And there’s some more on the wall.’ Hunter followed his gaze; he saw it too. Just specks, and some faint brown smears on the white wall tiles, as if someone had tried to clean it away. ‘What do we do?’ Roach said. Hunter pursed his lips, knowing that he was in a lawyer’s home, and lawyers can make trouble. But blood was blood. ‘You can forget about your strawberries,’ Hunter said, and headed for the garden. As Roach joined him, Hunter lit a cigarette and made for the path that ran between the lawns. ‘Where are you going?’ Roach shouted. ‘Gardening,’ was the reply. Hunter walked quickly down the path, towards the disturbed patch of grass at the end of the garden. He stopped next to the soil beds beside the high garden wall, just before the path wound round towards the summer house. Hunter pointed. ‘Can you see that?’ Roach looked and shrugged. ‘Can I see what?’ ‘Soil,’ Hunter replied. ‘On the grass, and there on the path.’ He pointed at some more dark patches. ‘Someone’s been doing some digging round here.’ ‘It’s a garden,’ Roach said. ‘It’s what people do.’ Hunter ignored him and strode onto the soil beds, dragging his foot along the ground, his face stern with concentration. Then he stopped. He looked at Roach, and then pointed downwards. ‘It’s looser here,’ he said. ‘Crumblier, less dense. And there’s soil on the lawn and the path. Perhaps they thought it would be rained away, but it’s been hot all week.’ Hunter pointed to an old wooden shed, painted green, on the other side of the garden. ‘Get some spades.’ Roach looked aghast. ‘We can’t rip up a barrister’s house just because we’ve found some old blood.’ ‘Is that because he’s a barrister?’ ‘Yes,’ Roach answered, exasperated, ‘because he can make trouble for us if we get it wrong.’ Hunter drew on his cigarette. ‘We can wait for the rest of the squad to arrive, and they can get the excavators in here because you saw spilled gravy.’ Roach looked uncertain. ‘Or we could dig a hole and then fill it back in again,’ Hunter said. Roach waved his hand to show that he had relented. ‘Just the flower bed,’ he said, his voice wary, and then he walked over to the shed. When he returned, he was holding two spades. He rejoined Hunter by the soil bed and said, ‘Someone’s been ripping that shed apart.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just that,’ Roach replied. ‘All the slats from the back are gone.’ ‘We’ll dig first before we worry about vandals,’ Hunter said, and thrust the spade into the dirt. It was hot work: after twenty minutes of digging their shirts were soaked and they had wiped dirty sweat trails across their foreheads. They were about two feet down when Roach cried out in disgust, ‘What the fuck is all that?’ Hunter looked down. There was movement in the soil. Flies started to appear out of the dirt, their tiny wings making a soft hum around Hunter’s head. Roach scraped again at the soil, and then Hunter heard the soft thud of spade on wood. He looked at Roach and saw that he had gone pale, his sleeve over his mouth. ‘It stinks,’ Roach muttered, and that’s when Hunter caught the stench; it was one he recognised, like gone-off meat, beef left on a warm shelf. Hunter grimaced and started to move the soil from whatever it was that Roach’s spade had hit. Another swarm of flies buzzed around Hunter’s spade; as the soil was removed, the thudding sounds from his spade became louder, acquiring an echo. They looked at each other, both sensing that they were about to find something they didn’t want to see. When they had finished, Roach climbed out of the hole and looked down. ‘It’s the same wood as on the shed,’ he said. Hunter took a deep breath. Their digging had exposed wooden planks, painted green, wedged into the hole. The planks had supported the soil, and the hollow sounds that came from beneath told Hunter that there was a cavity. ‘Who’s going to look first?’ Roach asked. ‘It might be a dog,’ Hunter said. Roach shook his head. ‘That’s more than a dog.’ Hunter grimaced and then lay down on his chest so that he could reach into the hole. He moved the remnants of dirt from the end of the planks with his fingers, breathing through his mouth all the time to avoid the stink of whatever was in there and shaking his head to swat away the flies. He managed to ease his fingers under one of the pieces of wood and pulled at it, until he felt it move and was able to shove it to one side. Sunlight streamed into the hole and he heard Roach step away quickly before his lunch splashed onto the path nearby. Hunter clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, the smell making him gag. The sunlight caught a body, naked, a woman with long dark hair. Hunter pulled at another plank, and then one more, laying them on the lawn next to the hole, and then he stood up, taking deep breaths. Roach turned back to the hole. ‘Fuck me,’ he whispered, wiping his mouth. In the hole was a woman, crammed into the space, curled up on her side, her face green, her dark hair over her face, with blood on her shoulders and dirt on her bare legs. The hole was small, barely enough space to contain her, not enough room to stretch out. As Hunter looked, he noticed something else. He lay on the floor again, just to have a closer look, and then he struggled to his feet. He looked at Roach. ‘It’s worse than that,’ he said, his face pale. ‘How can it be worse?’ Roach said. ‘Look at her hands,’ Hunter said, his face ashen. ‘Can you see her fingers, all bloodied and shredded?’ Roach didn’t answer, quiet now. Hunter pulled the boards towards them and turned them over. ‘Look at the underside.’ Roach looked. ‘There are scratchmarks.’ ‘I see them,’ replied Roach. Hunter turned to Roach. ‘Do you know what that means?’ Roach nodded slowly, his face pale too. ‘She was buried alive.’ Chapter One—Present Day (#ulink_8b2ccb49-810f-551a-b2ee-5a35d6de9965) Standing at the door, I stretched and gazed at the view outside my cottage. Clear skies and rolling Lancashire fields. I could see the grey of Turners Fold in the valley below me, but the sunlight turned the tired old cotton town into quaint Victoriana, the canal twinkling soft blue, bringing the summer barges from nearby Blackley as it wound its way towards Yorkshire. Turners Fold was my home, had always been that way—or so it seemed. I’d spent a few years in London as a reporter at one of the nationals, a small-town boy lost in the bright lights, but home kept calling me, and so when the rush of the city wore me down, I headed back north. I used to enjoy walking the London streets, feeling the bump of the crowd, just another anonymous face, but the excitement faded in the end. It didn’t take me long to pick up the northern rhythms again, the slower pace, the bluntness of the people, the lack of any real noise. And I liked it that way. It seemed simpler somehow, not as much of a race. The summers made the move worthwhile. The heat didn’t hang between the buildings like it did in London, trapped by exhaust fumes, the only respite being a trip to a park, packed out by tourists. The tourists don’t visit Turners Fold, so it felt like I had the hills to myself, a private view of gentle slopes and snaking ribbons of drystone walls, the town just a blip in the landscape. But it has character, this tough little town of millstone grit. My mind flashed back to the London rush, the wrestle onto the underground, and I smiled as the breeze ruffled my hair and I felt the first warmth of the day, ready for a perfect June afternoon. I heard a noise behind me, the shuffle of slippers on the stone step. I didn’t need to look round. I felt sleepy lips brush my neck as Laura wrapped her arms around my waist. ‘I thought you were staying in bed,’ I said. ‘I want to take Bobby to school,’ she replied, her voice hoarse from sleep. ‘Early shift next week, so I won’t get a chance then, and I need to start revising.’ ‘Sergeant McGanity. It has a good ring to it,’ I said. ‘But I need to get through the exams first,’ she said. ‘What are you doing, Jack?’ ‘Just enjoying the view.’ Laura rested her head on my shoulder and let her hair fall onto my chest. She had grown it over the winter, dark and sleek, past her shoulders now. I looked down and smiled. Cotton pyjamas and fluffy slippers. ‘What about later?’ she asked. ‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘I might take a look at the coroner’s court, see if there’s an inquest.’ ‘Morbid,’ she said, and gave me a playful squeeze. ‘Where there’s grief, there’s news,’ I said. ‘And the Crawler has been quiet as well, so the paper needs to be filled somehow.’ Laura grimaced at that. Blackley had been plagued for a couple of years by a peeping Tom, loitering outside houses in a balaclava, taking photographs. Some thought that he had even gone into people’s homes. There had been no attack yet, but everyone knew it was just a matter of time, and so the local press had attached a tag and criticised the police. The name made for great headlines, and sales went up whenever his name went on display. ‘He has lean patches,’ Laura said. ‘The surveillance must take time.’ ‘So no suspect yet?’ Laura gave me a jab in the ribs. ‘You know I wouldn’t tell you anyway.’ I turned around, moved her hair from her face and kissed her, tasting sleep on her lips, stale and warm. ‘I hate a discreet copper.’ Laura’s green eyes shone up at me, her dimples flickering in her cheeks. ‘I’ve learnt to avoid trouble, because it follows you around,’ she said, and then she slipped out from under my arm to go back into the house. I listened as she grabbed Bobby when he skipped past, his yelp turning to a giggle. He was seven now, getting taller, his face longer, the nursery cheeks gone. It seemed like the morning was just about perfect. We’d settled for drifting along, now the buzz of new love had worn off, and there were more carefree mornings like this: Laura happy, Bobby laughing. He was Laura’s son from her now-defunct marriage, but he was starting to feel like my own, and I knew how much he brightened up the house, except for those fortnightly trips to see his father, when the house seemed too quiet. My thoughts drifted back to work. I’m a freelance reporter, and I write the court stories, because crime keeps the local newspaper happy. People like to know what other people are doing. But if I was going to get the stories, I knew I had to go to court. It was enthusiasm I was lacking, not work, because it was harder to get paid these days. The recession had hit the local papers hard, with estate agents and car showrooms no longer paying for the double-page adverts and people increasingly turning to the internet. The paper needed me to fill the pages, but wanted to pay less and less for each story, and so it felt like I had to run faster just to stay in the same place. I turned to go inside and was about to shut the door, when I heard a noise. I paused and listened. It was the steady click-click of high heels. I was curious. There were no other houses near mine, and the shoes didn’t sound like they were made for walking. Unexpected visitors made me wary. Working the crime stories can upset people—names spread through the local rag, reputations ruined. The truth doesn’t matter when court hearings are written up. The only thing that matters is whether someone in court said it. The clicks got closer, and then she appeared in the gateway in front of me. She was middle aged, bingo-blonde, dressed in a long, black leather coat, too hot for the weather, and high-heeled ankle boots. ‘You look like you’re a long way from wherever you need to be,’ I said. She took a few deep breaths, the hill climb taking it out of her, her hands on her knees. She stubbed out a cigarette on the floor. ‘There are no buses up here,’ she said, and then she straightened herself. Her breasts tried to burst out of her jumper, her cleavage ravaged by lines and too much sun, and her thighs were squeezed into a strip of cloth three decades too young for her. Before I could say anything, she looked at me and asked, ‘Are you Jack Garrett?’ Her accent was local, but it sounded like she was trying to soften it. ‘You’ve come to my door,’ I replied, wary. ‘You go first.’ She paused at first, seemed edgy, and then she said, ‘My name is Susie Bingham, and I’m looking for Jack Garrett.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I’ve got a story for him.’ I nodded politely, but I wasn’t excited yet. The promise of hot news was the line I heard most, but usually it turned out to be some neighbour dispute, or a problem with a boss, someone using the press to win a private fight. Sex, violence and fame sell the nationals, the papers wanting the headline, the grabline, not the story. Local papers are different. Delayed roadworks and court stories fill those pages. But I had learnt one other thing: it pays to listen first before I turn people away, because just as many people don’t realise how good a story can be, who see a rough-cut diamond as cheap quartz. I opened the door and stepped aside. ‘Come in.’ Susie nodded and then clomped past. Bobby went quiet as Susie entered, suddenly shy. As I followed her in, I nodded towards the stairs. ‘Can you tell Mummy I’ve got a visitor?’ As Bobby trotted off on his errand, I gestured for Susie to sit down. She put her coat onto the back of the sofa. ‘I like your house,’ she said, looking around. ‘I’ve always wanted a house like this. Cosy and dark.’ I smiled to show that I knew what she meant. The windows to the cottage were small, like jail views, the sunlight not penetrating far into the room, only enough to catch the dust-swirls and light up the table in the corner where I write up my stories. ‘We like it,’ I said, putting a pad of paper on my knee, a pen in my hand. ‘And if we’re talking home life, where do you live?’ ‘Just a small flat in Blackley,’ she said. ‘Nothing special.’ She went to get another cigarette out of her packet, and I noticed a tremble to her fingers. I gave a small shake of my head, and so she put the cigarette away. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude, but I’m a bit nervous.’ ‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘Just tell me why you’re here.’ Susie smiled and looked embarrassed. The powder on her face creased and, as she showed her teeth, I saw a smudge of pink lipstick on the yellowed enamel. I’d guessed Susie’s age at over sixty when she’d first arrived, but she seemed younger now that she was out of the sunlight. She sat forward and put her bag on her knee. She looked like she was unsure how to start. I raised my eyebrows. Just say it, that was the hint. ‘It’s about Claude Gilbert,’ she blurted out. I opened my mouth to say something, and then I stopped. I looked at her. She didn’t laugh or give any hint that it was a joke. ‘I’ve met Claude Gilbert,’ she said. ‘The Claude Gilbert?’ I asked, and I couldn’t stop the smile. Susie nodded, and her hands tightened around the handles on her handbag. ‘You don’t look like you believe me.’ And I didn’t. Blackley was famous for three things: cotton, football, and for being the home of Claude Gilbert, a barrister and part-time television pundit who murdered his pregnant wife and then disappeared. It was the way he did it that caught the public imagination: a blow to the head and then buried alive. ‘Claude Gilbert? I haven’t heard that name in a while,’ I said, and then I tried to let her down gently. ‘There are Claude Gilbert sightings all the time. And do you know what the tabloids do with them? They store them, that’s what, just waiting for the quiet news days, when a false sighting will fill a page, the same old speculation trotted out. Newspaper offices are full of stories like that, guaranteed headlines, most of it padding. Ex-girlfriends of Ian Huntley, old lodgers of Fred West, all just waiting for the newspaper rainy day.’ ‘But this isn’t just a sighting,’ she said, frustration creeping into her voice. ‘This is a message from him.’ ‘A message?’ She nodded. That surprised me. From Claude Gilbert? I looked at her, saw the blush to her cheeks. I wasn’t sure if it was shame or the walk up the hill. The Claude Gilbert story attracted attention-seekers, those after the front-page spot, but Susie seemed different. Most people thought Claude was dead, but no one really knew for sure. If he was alive, he had to come out eventually or be caught. And anyway, perhaps the truth didn’t matter as much with the Claude Gilbert story. A good hoax sighting will still fill half a page somewhere, even if it was only in one of the weekly gossip magazines. ‘Wait there,’ I said, and shot off to get my voice recorder. Chapter Two (#ulink_9475b08e-396e-5cc7-92fd-f2b993ebaf57) Mike Dobson peered into the bathroom, the door slightly ajar. The shower had been running for a long time, and he could see Mary through the steam, her head hanging down under the jets, her shoulders slumped, the water running down her body until it streamed from the ends of her fingers. He looked away quickly, not wanting to be caught, and leant back against the door frame. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He glanced towards the bed, too large, cold and empty. Was middle-age meant to be this lonely? But he fought the feeling, tried not to think about it. He knew it would end like it always did: a drive to the back streets, always looking out for the police, then over in an instant, a grope in his back seat, the crinkle of the condom, then quick release; forty pounds gone and just the shameful churn in his stomach as a reminder. His wife must have sensed his presence, because she shouted out: ‘Close the door.’ He clicked it shut and then returned to the large mirror in the bedroom, a mock-gothic oval. There was a spotlight over it and he stepped back to button his shirt, a white collar over red pinstripe, and put on his tie, not fond of what he saw in the glare. His cheeks were sagging into jowls and the lines around his eyes no longer disappeared when he stopped smiling. He flicked at his hair. It was creeping backwards, showing more forehead than a year ago, and some more colour was needed—the grey roots were showing through. He looked towards the window as the water stopped and waited for the bathroom door to open. He could see the houses just outside his cul-de-sac, local authority housing, dark red brick and double-glazing, most of the gardens overgrown, with beaten-up cars parked outside and a satellite dish on every house. He had grown up on that estate, but it had been different back then. He wasn’t sure when it had changed. Maybe the eighties, when a generation had got left behind and had to watch as everyone else got richer. Mike enjoyed the view normally. His house was different, a large newbuild, five bedrooms, the showhome of an estate built on the site of a former warehouse, but they’d had no children, and so four of the bedrooms were either empty or used for storage. The bathroom door opened. Mary appeared, a large towel wrapped around her body, her face flushed, her hair flat and darkened by the water. She looked down as she walked over to the dresser and started to rummage through her drawers, looking for underwear. ‘Don’t watch me,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I’m not watching.’ ‘You do,’ she said, her voice flat, emotionless. ‘You do it all the time.’ He felt the burn of his cheeks. She had made him feel dirty again. ‘I’m going downstairs,’ he said. She looked at the floor, her hands still, her body tense, and he could tell that she was waiting for him to leave the room. ‘I’ll make you breakfast,’ he said. Mary shook her head. ‘I’ve set the table already. I’ll eat when you’ve gone.’ Mike took a deep breath and left the bedroom. The house was quiet as he walked downstairs. There was a window open and the curtains fluttered as he walked into the living room. Pristine cream carpets, lilies in vases, pale-coloured potpourri in a white dish. The breakfast table was immaculate, as always, with a jug of juice in the centre of the table, cereal in plastic containers and napkins in silver rings; his dining room looked like a seaside guest house. He heard a noise outside and saw a group of smiling children going to school, their mothers exchanging small talk or pushing small toddlers in prams. His house seemed suddenly quiet and empty. He checked his watch. His first appointment was getting closer. What would Mary do? Another empty day. It had been easier when they were younger, clinging to the hope of children, a family, but that had faded as each month brought bad news. As they’d got older, all her friends had had children and built lives of their own. But they had remained as they were and every day the house seemed to get a little quieter. How had his life got to this? But he knew why. It seemed like it all came back to that day, when everything had changed for him. Don’t think about it, he said to himself. He closed his eyes for a moment as the memories filtered back, the familiar kick to the stomach, the reminder. Then he thought he saw her, just for a second, like someone disappearing round a corner. A quick flick of her hair, and that laugh, muffled, her hand over her mouth, like she had been caught out, her delight in her eyes. He opened his eyes and looked down at his hands. His fingers had bunched up into a fist, just as they always did when he thought of her. He shook his head, angry with himself. He reached for his briefcase; it was by the front door, as always, next to the samples of PVC guttering. Another day of persuasion ahead of him, of sales patter and tricks. Mike faltered when he saw someone approach his front door. He felt that rush of blood, part fear, part relief, and he thought he heard a giggle, and turned to see the flick of brunette hair disappear just out of sight. He peered through the glass pane and saw a blue shirt. His heartbeat slowed down. Unexpected visitors always made him nervous, never sure if the moment he dreaded had just arrived: the heavy knock of the police, the cold metal of the cuffs around his wrists. It wasn’t that. It was just a parcel, some ornament for the house Mary had ordered. He smiled his thanks and took the parcel, his hand trembling, his sweat leaving fingermarks on the cardboard. He checked his watch. It was time to go. Chapter Three (#ulink_1933767a-1f3f-534b-a5f6-36ac0f52987b) I bolted up the stairs to fetch my voice recorder. I had started to write a novel, a modern-day tale about life and love’s lost chances, but I had got only as far as the first two chapters before I realised that I didn’t know what to write next. The voice recorder was next to my bed for the inspiration that would come in the middle of the night, but it had been elusive so far. Laura stopped drying her hair when I went in. ‘Who is it?’ she asked. ‘Someone with a story,’ I said. ‘We’ve all got a story.’ ‘This one’s a little different,’ I replied. Laura gave me a suspicious look, and then turned the hairdryer back on. I got the impression that she didn’t want to hear any more. I picked up the voice recorder and went back downstairs. Susie was standing by the oak sideboard underneath one of the windows, looking at our family photographs. ‘Your boy is cute,’ she said. I smiled. ‘He gets his good looks from his mother,’ I replied, skirting the issue. I waved the voice recorder. ‘I’m ready for your story.’ Susie sat down again, her bag going on the seat next to her. ‘Where do you want me to start?’ ‘The beginning,’ I said. ‘Tell me how you know Claude Gilbert.’ Susie blushed slightly. ‘I’m an ex-girlfriend of his.’ That surprised me. I knew some of the background to Claude Gilbert’s story, most people did. He was local legal aristocracy, with a judge for a father and two lawyers for sisters. He had started to make forays into television, invited onto discussion shows back when there were actual discussions—so different to the American imitations of today, where people with no morals fight about morality. But it was his wife’s death and his disappearance that turned him into headline news: the missing top lawyer, the old school cad, dashing good looks and a touch of cut glass about his accent. Susie struck me as too different to Gilbert, too earthy somehow. ‘Were you his girlfriend before or after his wedding?’ I said. Susie looked away. ‘It wasn’t like that.’ That meant after, I thought to myself. And I’d heard about Gilbert, read the rumours, the tabloid gossip. ‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘You were a law clerk.’ ‘How did you know?’ she asked, gazing back at me in surprise. ‘An educated guess,’ I said, and gave her a rueful smile. ‘What legal experience did you have?’ ‘Not much. I used to be one of the typists.’ ‘And don’t tell me: you had the best legs.’ ‘No, that’s not fair, I worked hard,’ Susie replied, offended. ‘I’ve hung around enough Crown Courts to know how it works,’ I said. ‘The local law firms employ glamorous young women to carry the file and bill by the hour, just to pat the hands of criminals and soften the blows with a sweet smile.’ ‘You make it sound dirty.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s good marketing, that’s all, and don’t knock it. Do you think your social life would have been what it was if you had stayed in the typing pool? Would you have been wined and dined by the barristers, invited to the chambers parties or taken to the best wine bars, just as a small thank you for the work?’ ‘It was more than marketing,’ she said, blushing. ‘We got on, Claude and me.’ ‘Or maybe he was just touting for work, or flirting, or maybe even a mix of the two?’ Susie looked down, deflated. ‘You’re not interested, I can tell.’ ‘Oh, I’m interested all right,’ I said, smiling. ‘You say you’ve got a message from Claude Gilbert. Well, that’s one out of the blue and so if you want me to write a story about it, I have to prove that it was from him, and not from some chancer hoping for a quick pound. The first question people will ask is why the message comes through you, and so how well you knew him is part of the story. Someone who once shared drunken fumbles at chambers parties is not enough. Were you ever a couple, a proper couple, seen out together, things like that?’ Susie shook her head slowly, and when she looked back up again, she seemed embarrassed. ‘You guessed right, it was when he was married. Before, you know, Nancy was found. We saw each other when we could, but it was hard. He was a busy man.’ ‘And a married one,’ I said. Susie reached into her bag. ‘Here,’ she said, and thrust an old photograph towards me. ‘That’s me with Claude.’ The photograph was faded, and a white line ran across one corner where it had been folded over, but it was easy to recognise Susie. The woman in front of me was just a worn-down version of the one in the picture, now with redness to her eyes and the blush of broken veins in her cheeks. The photograph had been taken in a nightclub or wine bar, to judge by the purple neon strips at the top of the picture. The man next to her was unmistakably Claude Gilbert, the handsome face that had adorned a thousand front pages, the eighties-styled thick locks that flowed in dark waves from his parting to his collar. His arm was around Susie’s shoulders, his jacket pulled to one side to reveal the bright red braces over the brilliant white shirt. He leered towards the camera, a cigarette wedged into his grin. ‘Okay, so you met him once,’ I said. ‘He was on television. How do I know that this isn’t just a shot you took when you were out one night, a souvenir of meeting a star?’ ‘You don’t,’ Susie replied. ‘All you can do is trust me. I know where Claude Gilbert is, and he wants to come home.’ Wants to come home. My mind saw the front pages for a moment, the bold print under the red banner of whichever national wrote the biggest cheque. I exhaled and tapped the photograph on my knee. ‘So, are you interested?’ she asked. I flashed my best smile. ‘Of course I’m interested,’ I said. ‘It’s the story of the year, if it’s true.’ Susie looked happier with that, and she settled back in the sofa. ‘But I need to know more,’ I said. ‘Where has he been, and where is he now?’ ‘London.’ ‘That’s not very specific. How long have you been in contact with him?’ ‘A few months,’ Susie said. ‘I saw him, purely by chance, and since then, we’ve sort of rekindled things, and I’ve persuaded him to come forward.’ I watched her, tried to detect whether I was being conned. I let the silence hang, but there was no response from Susie. Liars fill the gaps to persuade the listener of the truth. Susie sat there and looked at me, waiting for my next question. ‘But why does he want to use me to come forward?’ I asked. ‘Because if he turns up at a police station, they’ll lock him up.’ ‘They still will,’ I said. ‘The paper won’t shield him.’ ‘Claude told me that any jury will have convicted him before he stands trial, because there have been twenty years of lies told about his case. He wants to give his version first, to make people wonder about his guilt. It will go in the paper on the day he surrenders himself, that’s the deal. If not, he won’t come forward.’ I thought about that and saw how it made sense. If he could have his trial with the doubt already there, he might have a chance. But I wasn’t interested in the trial. I wanted the story before his arrest. Someone else could cover the court case. ‘So tell me your story then,’ I prompted. Susie nodded and straightened her skirt. ‘I saw him in London, like I said. I had been to see an old friend. She lives in Brighton, so we meet up in London. We went to a show, the usual stuff. I went down on the bus and I was waiting to come home, just hanging around Victoria coach station, having a smoke, when I saw him.’ ‘How could you be sure it was Claude Gilbert?’ I said. ‘He’s been on the run for more than twenty years, and there are a lot of people in London. It takes just one to recognise him and his life is over.’ ‘One did,’ she said. ‘Me. But no one else would have recognised him, or at least only someone who really knew him. It was just the way he walked, sort of upright, as if he thought the whole street should step to one side.’ Susie must have seen the doubt in my eyes. ‘And it wasn’t just his walk,’ she added quickly. ‘What else?’ ‘Oh, it was just everything. I knew Claude Gilbert well, and I knew it was him.’ Susie thought for a moment. ‘He does look a lot different though. He’s fat now, has a bushy beard, all grey, with big glasses, and his hair is long and wild, pulled into a ponytail.’ ‘Not quite the dashing gent he used to be?’ Susie laughed. ‘No, not really, but I knew it was him straight away. I shouted “Gilly”, because that’s what I used to call him. No one else called him Gilly, and when I shouted it, he looked straight at me, recognised me straight off. He looked shocked, even scared, and just as I started walking towards him, he marched off really quickly.’ ‘Did you think about calling the police?’ I said. Susie looked less comfortable and shifted around on the sofa. ‘Why would I do that?’ ‘So they could catch him. He’s a murderer on the run.’ Susie flashed me a thin smile. ‘He didn’t do it,’ she said quietly. ‘The murder, I mean.’ ‘Because he told you? He’s had more than twenty years to get his story straight.’ ‘Because I know him, that’s all,’ she said. ‘I know what people thought of him—that he was a show-off—but in private he was a gentle man, tender, not the person he was in public. He couldn’t have murdered his wife.’ ‘But he lied to her by sleeping with you,’ I said, before I could stop myself. ‘Being an old flirt doesn’t make him a murderer,’ she said tersely, her face flushing quickly. ‘It wasn’t like that anyway.’ ‘What was it like?’ She sighed, and I saw regret in her eyes. ‘He dazzled me, I suppose,’ she said. ‘He took me to places I couldn’t afford, wouldn’t think about going to. I was flattered. People like Claude Gilbert didn’t go out with people like me. He went to public school and spoke properly. I was just a silly girl from Blackley who went to the local comp and who wanted to be a typist.’ ‘But he was married.’ ‘Yes, he was,’ she replied, her voice stronger now, ‘and so, yes, he lied to his wife. He told me he loved me, and I suppose that was a lie too, back then. But that doesn’t make him a killer.’ ‘Was it going on when his wife was killed?’ Susie shook her head. ‘It had ended a few months before.’ ‘And were you a couple for long?’ ‘Just a few weeks.’ ‘Were there others for Claude?’ Susie looked down. ‘Yes, a few. I didn’t know back then, but he’s told me about them now.’ She took a deep breath and looked back up again. ‘This is why I trust him,’ she said. ‘He’s being honest now, because he wants to get his life back.’ I thought about what she said, how she was so certain. I heard Laura’s hairdryer switch off upstairs, Bobby’s chatter filling the gap. I looked back at Susie. ‘There’s a flaw to your thinking.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because if he didn’t do it, why did he run?’ I said. ‘Some people think he was killed as well, buried somewhere and they just haven’t found the body. That’s the only scenario that doesn’t make him a killer. But if he is alive, then he ran, and he made sure he wasn’t found again. That, in most people’s eyes, makes him guilty.’ ‘I can only tell you what I know, Mr Garrett,’ Susie said. ‘He is alive, I have met him, and he wants to come home.’ I paused to pull at my lip, just a way of hiding my excitement. But I knew not to get excited. This could be a con-trick, or a delusion. ‘I’m not asking you anything the papers won’t ask,’ I said. ‘Claude Gilbert gets more sightings than Bigfoot, but he still hasn’t been caught. Whoever runs the exclusive will have their rival papers mocking the story.’ ‘If Claude comes forward, there’ll be no mocking,’ Susie said. I couldn’t disagree with that. ‘So, until I turned up today, what do you think had happened to him?’ Susie asked. I thought back through the stories I’d read, the debunked sightings, the endless speculation. ‘The smart money says that he is living in some exotic country, protected by powerful friends, but people always prefer the exciting versions. That’s why we get rumours about shadowy men on grassy knolls, or secret agents killing princesses in Parisian road tunnels. He hit his pregnant wife and buried her in the garden, alive. He was a criminal lawyer, and so he knew what he faced if he was caught. He emptied his bank account and he ran.’ ‘But what if I’m telling the truth, that he didn’t kill Nancy?’ I leant forward. ‘To be honest with you, it doesn’t make a damn jot of difference.’ When she looked surprised, I added, ‘Whatever Claude says, an editor will shape it into ifs and maybes, just to protect the paper, because that’s the editor’s job. Mine will simply be to write the story.’ ‘So you will write the story?’ she asked, her eyes brightening for a moment. I felt the smile creep onto my face, couldn’t stop it. ‘Provided that your story with Claude Gilbert comes out too,’ I said. ‘Full disclosure. Everything about your relationship.’ ‘But I thought it would all be about Claude,’ she said, suddenly wary. ‘Everyone will hate me. I was sleeping with a murdered woman’s husband.’ ‘Full story or no story,’ I replied. ‘You’ve told me that Claude Gilbert wants to come out of hiding. But what if he chokes and disappears, or if it turns out that I’m being conned, that this person isn’t Claude Gilbert? You’re my back-up story, and I’m not going into this without one.’ Susie put her bag back onto her knees and gripped the handles as she thought about it, then she slowly nodded her agreement. ‘Good,’ I said. ‘We’ll talk in more detail now.’ ‘And then what?’ ‘By the sound of it, we do whatever Claude wants us to do.’ Susie was about to say something when she looked towards the stairs. As I looked around, I saw that Laura had come into the room. Bobby stood behind her, uncertain. Susie gave Laura a nervous smile. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for coming so early.’ Laura smiled back. ‘It’s okay. Are you here with a story?’ Susie leant forward and was about to say something when she caught my small shake of the head, a warning not to say anything. She looked troubled for a moment, but then she sat back and remained silent. Laura glanced at me curiously as Bobby ran across the room, pulling on his school coat and grabbing his bag. ‘I’m taking him to school, Jack. I won’t be long.’ I waved as they went, and when we were alone in the house once more, Susie looked at me and asked, ‘Do you keep secrets from her?’ ‘Don’t you think I should keep this secret, for your benefit?’ Susie thought about that, and then she nodded her agreement. My motive wasn’t to protect Susie though. It was to protect Laura, because she is a police officer, a damn good one, honourable and honest. If she heard the story, she would see it as her duty to pass it on. And what if Susie was lying? It would make Laura look stupid. But, as I looked at Susie and took in the determination in her eyes, I was starting to believe her, and I felt a tremble of excitement at the prospect of the story. Chapter Four (#ulink_bb310639-6049-5d7d-a35c-d626610ff26c) Susie refused my offer of a lift back to Blackley, and so I took her into Turners Fold to catch her bus. As I watched her clatter along the pavement in her heels, a freshly-lit cigarette glowing in her fingers, walking into what counted as rush hour around here—pensioners shuffling to the post office and young mothers meandering home after the school run—I could tell that the big meet-up was going to be on her and Claude Gilbert’s terms. I wasn’t happy about that, but sometimes you’ve just got to roll with the early blows, because in the end the story will come out on my terms. Once Susie was out of sight, I dialled the number of an old friend, Tony Davies. He had been my mentor when I was a young reporter on The Valley Post, at the start of my career before the bright London lights pulled me in, and was now seeing out his days writing features for the weekend edition. ‘I need help on something,’ I said when he answered. ‘But I need to keep this quiet. Can you come to me? I’m outside. It won’t take long.’ ‘Are you still in that red Stag?’ I looked at the dashboard. A 1973 Triumph Stag in Calypso Red. Nothing special in the history of cars, but it had once been my father’s pride and joy, the sports car for the working man. ‘For now,’ I said. Tony’s phone went dead. I watched the people go by and waited for him to appear. Turners Fold isn’t large, just a collection of terraced streets and old mill buildings, some derelict, some converted into business units, disused chimneys pointing out of the valley. The town is cut in half by a canal and criss-crossed by metal bridges, and the predominant colour of the town is grey, built from millstone grit blocks, the modern shop fronts squeezed into buildings designed for Victorian England, when the town had hummed to the sound of cotton and was smothered in smoke, the air clean only when the mills shut down for a week in summer and the railway took everyone to the coast. But it was where I grew up, for better or worse, the town that gave me flattened vowels and a dose of northern cynicism. It seemed to me that Turners Fold deserved better than its lot, its life and character crumbling year by year, because it seemed like the only way to succeed was to leave. Just for a moment, I sensed the shadow of my father. He’d been a policeman in Turners Fold before he died, and he had walked these streets, known everybody’s name, or so it had seemed. What would he have made of Susie Bingham? Not much, was my guess. He had been absorbed by my mother, who was all curls and dark eyes, a natural beauty—although I have to fight to keep that memory, her final year tainted by the cancer that took her away. I had been back in Turners Fold a couple of years now, but I didn’t feel rooted there. Sometimes I looked for old faces whenever I was in town, old school friends or sweethearts, just to find out where they had gone with their lives, but it seemed like most of the people I saw were just worn down and wondering why their lives had turned out like they had. Then I saw Tony, a shuffle to his walk and a shiny pink scalp heading out of the Post building. He saw me and waved. I leant across the passenger seat to let him in. ‘You’re wearing a jumper, for Christ’s sake,’ I said to him. ‘It’s a bloody heatwave.’ ‘Fashion is all about consistency,’ he replied, grinning, showing his buckled front teeth, the result of a bad rugby tackle many years before. ‘Like you, in this car. If you’re trying to remain incognito, this car isn’t the best way.’ ‘My father cherished this car,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean—’ ‘Don’t worry,’ I interrupted, smiling. ‘I’m thinking of getting rid of it anyway.’ ‘Why?’ ‘I want someone to look after it properly, like he did. A Sunday polish, a regular service. I don’t do that.’ I tapped the dashboard. ‘I keep it because it was my father’s car, but then I think what he would say if he could see how I drive it, how I don’t wash it enough.’ ‘So what are you going to do?’ ‘I’m going to sell it to someone who’ll treasure it like my father treasured it. That’s what he would have wanted.’ Tony nodded quietly to himself. He had been good friends with my father and I knew that Tony still missed him. ‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked eventually. ‘Claude Gilbert,’ I said simply. He flashed me a look, part amusement, part curiosity. ‘What about him?’ ‘If I want to find out more about him, who would I speak to?’ ‘You’re two years too late with this,’ he said. ‘We did a special on the twentieth anniversary a couple of years ago.’ ‘Maybe it deserves another run out.’ He looked at me, surprised. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got an angle on this,’ he said, his tone suspicious. ‘There’s always a new angle.’ He shook his head. ‘I know you, Jack. I trained you, remember? You don’t chase fairy tales.’ ‘I can’t tell you,’ I said. ‘Not yet anyway. I just want to check it out first.’ He considered me for a moment, ran his finger along his lip. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘If you really are looking into it, there’s only one man to speak to: Bill Hunter. He was the plod who found the body, but he’s retired now.’ ‘Still living the case?’ I queried. Tony grinned. ‘You can see it in his eyes that it’s the one case that still keeps him awake. He follows it like a religion, keeps every piece written about it, from hoax sightings to alternative theories. He’s not Claude’s biggest fan.’ ‘The one that got away?’ ‘Something like that.’ ‘Where will I find him?’ Tony scribbled down an address. ‘But try the allotment plot just behind your old school first. He’s always there. We used it for the photoshoot a couple of years ago. You know, retired policeman tending his plot. And of course, the digging reference was subtle too.’ ‘You reckon?’ I said. ‘There’s nothing new, you know that, don’t you?’ Tony said. ‘We rehashed everything for the anniversary, so I know the Post won’t be interested.’ I looked towards the Post building. ‘Is that place still surviving?’ Tony pulled a face. ‘Not really. The internet is killing us. There are rumours that we’re going to be taken over by one of the big groups, and we’ll just turn out the free papers from there.’ ‘You deserve better than that,’ I said. ‘You’re a proper journalist. You taught me my trade.’ ‘And I’ve done everything,’ he replied, ‘and so it’s hard to get excited any more. I’m just looking forward to retirement.’ ‘How’s Eleanor?’ ‘Not looking forward to my retirement,’ he answered with a chuckle, and then he reached for the door handle. ‘If you need any help, Jack, call me. Maybe there’s time for one last crack at being a proper journo, but I won’t hold my breath.’ I smiled. ‘Will do. Take care.’ I looked down at the piece of paper with Bill Hunter’s details on, and then looked up to see Tony disappear into the Post building. I smiled to myself. Would the Claude Gilbert case stop me from ending up like Tony, churning out fillers for the local paper? I was whistling to myself as I turned the engine over and pointed the Stag towards Blackley. Chapter Five (#ulink_f2de2fc4-52ae-586c-aeb1-da012616bb41) Mike Dobson faltered as the customer leant towards him to place a cup of coffee on the table. It was the scent of Chanel No. 5, an air of sweet flowers that took him by surprise, rushed him back to more than twenty years earlier, to her smell, the faded Chanel, and those moments together, her hair over her face, her eyes closed, her nails dug deep into his chest. Then he grimaced as the images changed, became slashed with red, over her face, in her hair, splashed onto his hand. He closed his eyes. He could train himself not to think about it, to live a normal life, but then a perfume would suddenly send him back, or the scent of lavender in bloom, heady and filled with summer. ‘Excuse me,’ said a distant voice, breaking into his thoughts. Mike opened his eyes quickly and saw his customer. She looked concerned. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked. He forced an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. Just a spot of toothache, that’s all,’ and he gestured towards his cheek and laughed nervously. She winced. ‘That’s not nice. We can do this another time, if you don’t feel right.’ He shook his head. ‘No, it’s fine,’ he said. He took a deep breath. Switch on, he told himself. ‘Like my manager said, we can go half-price if you sign up today. It’s a special offer that ends tonight, so you really need to make a decision today.’ ‘But I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It seems such a lot of money for something so…’ She searched for the right word as she nodded towards the sample next to him, a cross-section of white PVC fascia to replace the wooden boards that lined the roof edges. ‘Unglamorous?’ he offered, and when she smiled, he added, ‘There’s nothing glamorous about damp getting into your house, about the smell of mould in your bedroom.’ He banged the sample with his hand and tried another smile. ‘It might be just guttering, but it’s like saying that your roof is just tiles.’ He leant forward, and she leant in with him. ‘And it will stop your house being the one the neighbours talk about, the one that lets the street down, because you’ve got paint peeling off your wooden boards. You’ll never need to paint them again if you’ve got these.’ She sighed and sat back on the sofa, the movement wafting more perfume towards him. He felt nauseous, wanting to turn away, to get away from the memories, but the customer was nearly at the point of buying, he could sense it. She was falling for the sales tricks, the limited discount, the call to the manager. But something stopped him from forcing it. She distracted him, casually dressed, wearing those low-cut jeans that show off the hipbones, a sea horse tattoo visible just below her beltline. He closed his eyes again, just for a moment, and filled his nose with the Chanel. The sale was over, he had to get away, before the other images drifted into his head. Blood. Smile. Hair. Still. Dirt. ‘Okay,’ he said, his voice faint. ‘It is a lot to pay.’ He passed over his card. ‘If you change your mind, call me.’ He felt her fingers brush his as she took the card from him and his cheeks flushed. She tapped it against her chin. ‘I will, thank you.’ He collected his samples, his breathing heavier now, and then he rushed for the door. He needed to be outdoors, where the breeze would take her scent away. He climbed into his car, the samples thrown quickly into the boot, and took some deep breaths. Mike could sense her still watching him as he turned the key in the ignition. Chapter Six (#ulink_2bfbda16-50df-5cdf-9f66-a85e2c4ddc4f) I followed Tony’s hint and headed for the allotments behind my old school, a collection of vegetable patches and ramshackle sheds that brought back memories of bent old men in flat caps. The allotments were mostly empty, but a man leaning on a spade pointed me towards Hunter’s plot. It was at the end of a line of bramble bushes and cane supports and, as I walked towards it, I got a close-up of my old school, two large prefabricated blocks, glass and panelling that looked out over sloping football fields, really just scrappy grass and wavy white lines. It was halfway up one of the slopes that surround Turners Fold, and I remembered how the wind used to howl across the fields, making my teenage legs raw during PE lessons. As I got closer, I heard mumbles of conversation, and then laughter, and as the allotment came into view I saw three men on deckchairs, a bottle of single malt passing between them. I realised I had been spotted, because the smiles disappeared and the bottle was put on the floor. ‘I’m looking for Bill Hunter,’ I said. The three men looked at each other, and then one asked, ‘Who are you?’ He was a tall man, with a beaky nose and a shiny scalp, grey hair cropped short around the ears. ‘My name is Jack Garrett, and I’m a reporter.’ He looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. I thought that I was suddenly unwelcome, but then he asked, ‘Bob Garrett’s lad?’ ‘Yes,’ I said, my voice quieter now, caught by surprise. He turned to his companions and winked. ‘I’ll speak to you boys later,’ he said, prompting them to struggle to their feet and make their way towards the rickety mesh gate. I could smell the whisky as they went past. Once they’d gone, he turned to me and said, ‘I’m Bill Hunter.’ He held out his hand to shake. His grip was strong and he kept hold of my hand as he said, ‘I remember your father,’ his voice softer than before, some sadness in his eyes. ‘He was a good copper, and he shouldn’t have died like that.’ ‘Did you work with him?’ I asked. ‘Not much,’ he said, ‘but I remember when he was killed. How many years ago is it now? Two?’ ‘Three,’ I replied. He shook his head. ‘Time goes too quickly, but I remember it. When I first started out, people didn’t carry guns like they do now. They did in the cities, I suppose, but they never brought their trouble this way.’ ‘They came this way eventually though,’ I said, taking a deep breath, the memory bringing a tremble to my voice. Hunter nodded to himself and patted me on the arm. ‘I’m glad I’m out of it. Everything is so different now, much more dangerous.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘Ask any of the new ones, and they all say that the job isn’t how they thought it would be, that it’s all about chasing targets, ticking boxes. And when they get a new problem?’ Hunter chuckled. ‘They just invent a new target. But those who are in can’t get out. They’ve got kids and mortgages.’ He gestured towards one of the deckchairs. ‘Sorry. You didn’t come here to listen to my moans. Sit down.’ I sank into the low chair as Hunter dried one of the cups with an old cloth. I reached up to collect the whisky he had poured for me, the aroma rich and pungent as it wafted out of the enamel cup. ‘So why do you want to know about Claude Gilbert?’ he asked. I was surprised. ‘How did you guess?’ ‘Jack, lad, I’ve been retired for fifteen years now. I’m almost seventy. All the criminals I’ve locked up are either dead, retired, or have given birth to the next generation. The only reason reporters ever look me up is Claude Gilbert.’ He winked at me. ‘I don’t talk to many, but seeing as though it’s you, I’ll tell you what you want to know.’ Chapter Seven (#ulink_2b3bcef3-3537-5333-b3f7-77815fcdb635) Laura McGanity looked around at the other officers in the room: they were mostly young, the ambitious ones marked out by the earnest way they sifted through their paperwork, the rest happy just to chat as they started their shift. They were in a room lined by glass walls and filled with computer screens, part of the shiny new police station on the edge of town. The windows looked out over the car park, and the glass walls gave her a view into a large atrium, where the officers ate their canteen food and gossiped. Some of the officers had decided what they were doing that day, advice forms from the Crown Prosecution Service clutched in their hands, directing the collection of evidence to make the cases fit for court. The younger ones bustled around, anxious to get out of the station, the warm weather beckoning them outside, happy to take whatever the radio threw up that day. The older ones went through the motions, stoked up on coffee and walking round the station holding pieces of paper, their eyes already on the clock. Laura sighed. She had gotten used to being a detective at the bottom of the pile, following the direction of experienced officers. Now she was the director, a room of young and eager faces looking to her for advice, and it felt suddenly hard. She had no stripes yet, but everyone knew why she had chosen the starched white shirts and shiny black trousers: brushing up on her community skills was the quickest route to sergeant. In return, Laura was expected to be a mentor, take on some responsibility, but a few of the old guard were just waiting for her to go wrong, happy to see another prospect fail, to justify their own lack of progress. Her sergeant came in, a woman in her thirties with dark hair cut close to her head and a square jaw, lines starting to etch themselves around her lips from sucking on too many cigarettes. There was a young officer behind her, his cheeks fresh and flushed, eyes flitting nervously around the room. ‘Fresh meat,’ someone whispered, and Laura heard a chuckle. The sergeant clapped her hands and barked out, ‘Can I just have everyone’s attention?’ The chatter died down. ‘Can we all keep an eye out for the Crawler?’ she shouted. ‘Two more reports last night. They might be false, it seems like any noise gets called in as a peeping Tom, but just be vigilant. He might go on to attack someone, so don’t ignore anyone suspicious. Talk to them. Get their name.’ Everyone mumbled to themselves as they went back to their work, and the sergeant made her way over to Laura. ‘I want you to do me a favour,’ the sergeant said, and she nodded to the young nervous officer in the corner of the room, his shirt hanging off his skinny shoulders. ‘Can you take Thomas with you today? It’s his first day after training school. Do the town centre circuit with him, introduce him to the store detectives, just have him feeling like a cop.’ ‘No problem,’ Laura replied, knowing exactly why she had been chosen. Thomas looked young and scared. The older ones would fill him with cynicism, and the crewcut brigade would just teach him bad habits. Laura remembered her own time as a young constable, how it was often harder for the women, the men attempting to shield her from the fights, expecting her to spend the day patting old ladies’ hands. But Laura liked the rucks, the excitement, the chases. It was why she joined, for the dirt, a different life to the one she’d had as a child in Pinner. ‘Thomas?’ said Laura, and when he looked up, Laura beckoned him over. He tried to make himself seem big, his thumbs hooked into his belt, but Laura detected a slight quiver to his voice as he said hello. ‘I’ve got a trip into town, and I need some help. I thought you could come with me.’ Thomas smiled and nodded. ‘Good. Thanks.’ As they made their way out of the station, threading their way through the atrium that was busy with detectives, all serious and intense, Laura wondered whether making sergeant would be worth missing out on all the fun of CID. What would she do if she never got back in there, if she had to carry on wearing the uniform? That was something she didn’t want to think about. Chapter Eight (#ulink_94c95e0d-2e4a-5253-889d-9865891d45b8) ‘So, what do you want to know about Claude Gilbert?’ Bill Hunter asked. I took a sip of the whisky and coughed as it went down. Beer was more my thing, wine when I was with Laura, but I didn’t want to be rude. ‘The answers to the two big questions,’ I said. ‘Did he do it, and where did he go?’ Hunter scowled. ‘Of course he did it.’ ‘How can you be sure? If I remember it right, not everyone is convinced.’ ‘Usually just people looking for attention,’ Hunter said. He took a sip from his cup. I could smell the whisky on his breath as he started to talk. ‘I’ll tell you something about Claude Gilbert: he was nothing but a Daddy’s boy made good.’ ‘He was a barrister,’ I replied. ‘Not many of them are working-class heroes.’ ‘Yeah, but a lot are decent people too,’ he snapped back. ‘They just had a better start in life than I did. But I’ve no chip on my shoulder. If people treat me well, I have no complaints, but Gilbert wasn’t like that. He was arrogant, even though he didn’t deserve to be. It wasn’t talent that put him in that big old house. It was Daddy, His Honour Judge Gilbert. He gave him what he wanted, and maybe a bit more, but I don’t think Claude saw it like that. I’ve been cross-examined by Claude, and he spoke to me like I ought to be cleaning his shoes or something. But let me tell you something: he was a loser, right up until the day he disappeared. He gambled, he played around, and most times he either lost or got caught.’ ‘But why does that make him a murderer?’ ‘Because it makes him desperate,’ Hunter said. ‘He should have been a better person, with his background. Educated at Stonyhurst, and part of some head-boy clique, a group of toffs who played at gangs, just an excuse to bully the new boys. They had all this blood brother nonsense, secret codes, and when they grew up, they carried it on. Gambling parties, and some sex parties, so it was whispered to me, probably drugs too—though the sort of people who were invited aren’t the sort who talk to people like me. But Gilbert was lazy, and not that gifted. He was the one who failed in the clique, ended up at one of the universities that he thought was beneath him, but his father bailed him out eventually, got him a place in chambers. Then Claude learnt how to work the system: plead guilty at the last moment, bill the state for preparing the trial, and he made a lot of money out of being average.’ ‘He wasn’t alone in that,’ I said. ‘My father used to talk about how much the lawyers got paid compared to him, and he was the one made to look guilty when he got in the witness box.’ Hunter leant over to pour me some more whisky, but I put my hand over the cup. I had to drive away from there. ‘Your father was right to be cynical,’ Hunter said. ‘I was one of the good guys and I didn’t get too much.’ ‘If it helps,’ I said, ‘those days are gone now. Even barristers are feeling the pinch.’ ‘What’s wrong?’ Hunter replied. ‘No more sports cars, no second homes in France?’ He scoffed. ‘I’ll hold back the tears. And anyway, even all the money Gilbert had wasn’t good enough for him.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘Because he tried to get more by throwing it away in casinos,’ Hunter said. ‘His old school friends had gone to work in the City. This was the eighties, and they were making big money. Claude was stuck on the northern circuit, but he couldn’t say no to the high life when it was there to be had. Claude was richer than most of us, but he was the pauper in his crowd. Even when he started doing television, you know, one of those awful debate programmes, it didn’t change things. It just took him away from home more often, gave him another chat-up line, and he had some big debts by the time he disappeared.’ ‘Didn’t everyone live the high life back then?’ I asked. ‘It was the boom before the bust.’ Hunter smiled ruefully. ‘My life didn’t change much. The only change I saw around here was the mills closing down. And maybe that’s what sucked him in: that all around him he saw people losing their jobs, but he had the house and the sports car, and so he thought he was still the high-roller, the big man. There were rumours around court that Claude had talked about giving up the law to become a professional gambler, that he thought he had the knack of the skill games, had even tried counting cards at the blackjack tables, but he didn’t have the brain for it and started to lose money.’ ‘Maybe he owed money to the wrong people,’ I said. ‘Lawyers find out things that they shouldn’t know, and gambling debts made him liable to be blackmailed. Maybe he had to pass on information that he was supposed to keep secret.’ ‘What, are you saying that Nancy was killed by gangsters?’ Hunter said. ‘Maybe him too,’ I suggested. Hunter shook his head. ‘I’ve thought about that, but why get rid of the bodies separately? Why be so cruel to Nancy?’ ‘If Nancy was buried alive, Gilbert knew he was on a timer,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he had to say what he knew before she died.’ ‘I’ve heard that theory, but I don’t believe it,’ Hunter said. ‘They found his car at Newhaven, abandoned. That’s the other end of the country. What gangster would dump the car so far away, as some kind of red herring?’ ‘So why do you think the car was there?’ I asked. ‘Because he jumped on a ferry,’ he replied. I smiled. ‘Maybe that’s why a gangster would dump the car all the way down there, to make you think that.’ ‘That would be good in a detective novel, but real criminals don’t work like that,’ Hunter said. ‘Why go all the way down there? Why not the airport?’ He shook his head. ‘Gangsters wouldn’t set up a false trail. They would get rid of the body and leave no trail.’ ‘So what about all the sightings?’ I said. ‘Do you think any might be true?’ Hunter leant in. ‘They’ve either been unconfirmed or proved to be false. Any tall, suave stranger in a foreign land was thought to be Claude Gilbert. There was a sighting a couple of years ago, some hobo in New Zealand living out of his car. Someone hawked a photograph around the papers and the media went crazy. But all the locals knew him; he had been there all his life. And there was a man in Goa. A book was even written about him, naming him as Gilbert, but people from England knew him. He was just some busker from Birmingham who had moved out to Goa to get spiritual.’ ‘I was told that you never really let go of the case,’ I said. He looked sheepish for a moment. ‘He’s guilty of a cruel murder, but he was able to just walk away from it,’ he said. ‘I suppose it got to me.’ ‘So what do you think happened to him?’ I asked. Hunter smiled, and I could tell that he was enjoying the audience, that his theory was one he had gone over in his head countless times. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ he said. ‘He got on the ferry, but he had a head start on us by a few days, and life was different then. You paid by cash and so were harder to track. You didn’t have to give up an email address or do it on a computer. All he would have needed was his passport, or any passport, and he would be in Europe straight away. What happened after that is something we’ll never know. Perhaps he had friends who helped him out.’ ‘His old school friends? The head-boy clique?’ ‘I don’t know, and you would be a brave man to print it; those people have got the money to ruin you,’ Hunter said. ‘But if you want my theory, I’ll tell you: Claude Gilbert is dead.’ I raised my eyebrows. ‘You sound pretty certain,’ I said, and hoped that he wasn’t, because that would be the end of my story, apart from some human interest piece on a female hoaxer. ‘He boarded a ferry, I’m certain of it, and that’s why his car was left behind,’ Hunter said. ‘Remember that he wouldn’t know his wife’s body would be found. It’s a long voyage from Newhaven to France, plenty of time to think about things. Where was he going? How would he live? How much had he left behind?’ Hunter shrugged. ‘So he jumped.’ ‘Killed himself?’ I queried. Hunter nodded. ‘Gilbert was a cowardly man. He hid behind his father, and then behind his wig and gown. He buried his wife because he couldn’t cope with the killing part, and so he let Mother Nature do the job. But when it came to it, to the thought of life on his own, maybe even some guilt, he couldn’t cope.’ He raised his cup in salute. ‘I think he ended up in the English Channel somewhere, drowned by his own misery.’ But if that was true, I thought to myself, who was in London trying to get me to broker a newspaper exclusive? Chapter Nine (#ulink_92c09889-f275-5607-8bb0-14bcafe6820a) Frankie Cass was looking out of his window, as always. In winter, the hills that overlooked Blackley glistened like sugar when it was cold, the parallel strips of stone terraces like slashes in the ice, but he preferred it like this, in the summer, when it was warm enough to open his window and let the sounds from outside waft into his room. Birds sometimes rested in the sycamore and horse chestnut trees outside his window, and in spring he watched the gardens around come alive with flowers. He checked his watch. It would be change of shift soon at the rest home across the road. There had been some new staff members, pretty young girls. Polish, he thought, or Romanian, judging from their accents as they walked past his house, laughing and talking, their speech fast and clipped. Sometimes they didn’t bother to close the curtains when they got changed in or out of their white uniforms. If it was hot, they showered. His tongue flicked to his lips as his binocular lenses crawled along the wall, looking for a glimpse, a flash of skin. He heard the car before he saw it. It was the way the engine strained that caught his attention as it battled to climb the steep hill. He swung the binoculars to the road and smiled. A convertible, bright red, a seventies relic, the number plate showing white on black. He scribbled down the number and made a note of the time, before watching as the driver climbed out. He saw the camera and notebook and made another note: reporter. He raised the binoculars to his eyes again. He would keep watch. It’s what he did. Claude Gilbert’s house wasn’t what I expected. I had always known of the story—most people did around Blackley and Turners Fold—but I’d never had cause to visit the house. It was on a road that climbed a steep crescent away from the town centre, the houses large and imposing, shielded by trees and bushes, just the high slate roofs visible and the occasional bay window. The Stag didn’t enjoy the climb though; I could hear every rattle with the roof down, every scream of the engine. But it made it, and once I’d switched it off, the only thing I could hear was the ticking of the engine as it cooled down. There was no one else around, and as I looked over my shoulder, I realised that Blackley had disappeared behind the high walls and the trees. I looked over at Claude Gilbert’s house. The walls were taller than me, with ivy creeping along the top and only the tips of conifers visible from where I had parked. I took a few pictures and then I walked towards the gates, but I was surprised when I got there. I had expected some closed-off shell of a house, the centre of national notoriety, but from the sign on the gate I saw that time had moved on and the house had a new life: Blackley View Residential Care. I looked around again, and I noticed signs on other gates or fixed between trees. Accountants. Surveyors. A housing association. It seemed like no one lived on the street any more, all the grand old houses of Blackley given up for business use. The good money must have moved out of town, to the rolling fields and old stone hamlets of the Ribble Valley. I gave the gate a push and it swung open slowly, screeching on its hinges and coming to a halt as it brushed against the gravel on the drive. The Gilbert house was different to the others on the street. Rather than blackened millstone, it was painted in a sandstone colour, the corners picked out in white, just like in the photographs I had seen whenever the story had been reported. The paint looked jaded though, the windows flaky and worn out. As I got closer to the house, I saw the alterations. There was a ramp to the modern front doors, which swished open as I approached them. As I stepped inside, I saw that a grand old hallway had been transformed into an entrance lobby, laid out with plain chairs and low tables on a thick flower-patterned carpet. Stairs swept imposingly up to the next floor, the balustrade thick and strong with twisted spines, but the elegance was undermined by the stair-lift that ran along the wall and disappeared around the bend at the top. I heard movement, and when I looked, I saw a woman walking briskly towards me, middle aged, her hair dyed dark brown and her figure trim in a tight white tunic. She smiled and asked if she could help. I checked out her name badge, and I saw that she was the assistant manager. ‘Hello, Mrs Kydd. My name is Jack Garrett. I’m a reporter.’ Her smile faded. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Garrett?’ ‘I’m doing a piece on Claude Gilbert,’ I said, and gave her an apologetic smile. ‘I know you’ll get this a lot, but the story starts here.’ ‘We do get this a lot,’ she said, her tone brusque. ‘We can’t just keep on giving up our time to show reporters around.’ ‘I know that,’ I replied, trying to be conciliatory, ‘but I promise I’ll include a picture of the sign. Call it free advertising.’ ‘They all say that too,’ she said, and then she shook her head in resignation. ‘C’mon on then. I’m on a break, so let’s get rid of you.’ She set off towards a room just off the hallway. As I followed her in, I saw that the edges were crowded with high-backed chairs, all centred around a large television against one wall. There were a few old people in them, wrapped up in cardigans despite the stifling heat generated by large radiators. A couple of them watched the television, the volume almost deafening, but the others just looked down at their laps. I smiled a greeting, and one old lady glanced at me, a twinkle in her eyes, but no one else seemed to notice I was there. Or perhaps they didn’t care. Mrs Kydd led me to a corner of the room that overlooked the garden, visible through a large conservatory that ran the full width of the house. I could see two long lawns outside, a wide path between, and a glass and steel summer house in the corner of the garden. ‘This is where Mrs Gilbert was attacked,’ Mrs Kydd said, pointing to a spot by an old cast-iron radiator. ‘How did they know?’ ‘There was blood on the skirting boards and walls. There wasn’t much, as if he had tried to cover his tracks, but there were a few small spots and streaks that he missed.’ ‘It sounds like you know the story,’ I said. ‘I work here, and so I’ve read about it,’ she replied. ‘And writers turn up. They all like to talk about it, all of them thinking they’ve got a new theory.’ I raised my eyebrows at the dig, and she smiled at me, pleased that I’d spotted it. I took some pictures, trying to get the garden in the background, to show the route to her death. ‘Does it bother the residents, you know, what happened here?’ I asked. Mrs Kydd shook her head. ‘Our residents get well looked after, and it’s a nice home. They know about it, but to most of them it is just another news story. They were all middle aged and older when it happened, so maybe it doesn’t hold the attention like it does with the younger ones.’ She smiled. ‘And it’s only the fact that he got away that makes the story interesting.’ I didn’t disagree, because that was the interest that would sell the story. I looked back towards the garden. ‘Is that where the body was found?’ Mrs Kydd looked over her shoulder. ‘You might as well see that as well,’ she said. I followed her outside, through the conservatory and then down another ramp, relieved to be in the natural warmth of summer rather than the suffocating artificial heat inside. As we walked along the garden path, I looked around, tried to imagine how it must have been back then. Although I could see the chimneys and roofs of the nearby buildings, I saw that the height of the boundary wall just about stopped anyone from seeing into the garden. The road ran along one side, and on the other the land dropped away to a park, so that the house stood proudly on a hill. Claude Gilbert would have been able to drag his wife all the way down here without being spotted. ‘What happened to the house after Gilbert disappeared?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know much about that,’ she replied, turning towards me. ‘Only what I’ve read in the papers.’ ‘Like what?’ ‘That it was repossessed by the bank when the mortgage didn’t get paid.’ ‘Do you get many people coming round to take a look?’ ‘We did a couple of years ago, for the twentieth anniversary, but it’s been quiet since then.’ ‘What about his family? Are they ever in touch?’ ‘There was somebody once,’ she said. ‘He said he was Claude Gilbert’s father.’ ‘The judge?’ I said, surprised. ‘That’s what he said. He was a nice old man, seemed sad about it all, and not just for Claude. He just wanted to pay his respects.’ ‘How long ago was this?’ Mrs Kydd thought for a few seconds, and then she said, ‘Springtime last year. And he brought that.’ She pointed to a single rose bush, kept trimmed and neat. ‘He asked us if we could plant it there, where Nancy was found, as a tribute.’ I looked at her, and then back at the flower bed. ‘It’s just a patch of dirt,’ I said, and then looked at Mrs Kydd. ‘It seems strange that it looks so ordinary.’ ‘I’ve thought the same thing a few times, when I’ve been able to snatch a quiet moment in the garden,’ she replied. ‘That’s why he wanted the rose bush there, as a marker, so we don’t forget what happened here.’ I thanked her for her time and strolled through the garden to make my way back to my car. I stopped a few times to take pictures, trying to show how ordinary it looked, but when I got back onto the street, I looked back towards the house, gripped by the sensation that I was being watched. I couldn’t see anyone, but I sensed it, from the gentle shiver at the back of my neck to the way the hairs stood up on my arms. I climbed into my car, wary now. Chapter Ten (#ulink_4d1d1888-2e61-5bef-ae2a-9e1d78bc57a4) Thomas and Laura walked through the town centre in a slow, rolling police stroll, past the old wooden shop fronts and then the glass windows of the chain stores on the precinct, fast-food wrappers overflowing from rubbish bins. Laura felt self-conscious in her uniform, still getting used to the feel of it again after the years spent in plainclothes. Both of them were in short sleeves, but they were warm in their stab vests, their belts heavy with equipment, the radio squawking constantly on their chests. She could feel her backside straining against her black trousers, the cut doing little to flatter her figure. Thomas seemed quiet, and his body language defensive, as if he was wary of the first spot of action. ‘You okay?’ Laura asked. ‘Just looking around, observing,’ Thomas said, his voice quiet, and then he gave a laugh, the first time Laura had heard it. ‘It’s easier at the training centre, because you’re expected to get it wrong, just so you can be told how to get it right, but this is it, right now,’ and he pointed at the floor. ‘I’m not here to get it wrong though.’ Laura smiled. ‘Don’t be hard on yourself before you start. We all make mistakes. Just be courteous to people, be firm with those who deserve it, and don’t tell lies. It’s better to say sorry than tell a lie. And for the rest of it? Just use common sense and follow your instincts. That’s all the job is about.’ Thomas nodded and looked down. They walked for a few minutes in silence, until Laura asked, ‘Are you enjoying the job so far?’ Thomas looked up. ‘What, do you mean today?’ ‘Just generally,’ Laura said. ‘When you walked into the briefing room, how did you feel?’ Thomas blushed, his cheeks pink behind only a hint of stubble. ‘Honestly?’ he said, and then he laughed again. ‘Scared rigid. Maybe tomorrow will feel different.’ ‘It will,’ Laura said. ‘Every day feels different. That’s what’s great about the job.’ Before either of them could say anything else, they heard a shout. Laura looked up and saw a young man twenty yards away in a green polo shirt, the uniform of one of the music chain stores, trying to hold on to a gaunt man in a scruffy blue puffa coat, his eyes encircled by black shadows, his cheeks pale and sweaty, a games console under one arm. Laura started running, Thomas a step behind. Then the man pulled away, the sight of the sprinting uniforms giving him the push to make a break. The games console fell to the floor as he ran. Laura’s equipment jangled against her hips, her breaths loud in her ear, the adrenalin of the pursuit pushing her on. She could hear a couple of cheers from some college kids, and then she was panting: her detective years hadn’t involved many foot-chases, and motherhood had made her heavier than when she had last worn the uniform. As the thief went around a corner and into one of the open car parks, Laura guessed that it would turn out to be his day. Her chest began to ache, her throat dry, sweat across her forehead, and her legs slowed. She stopped running and reached for her radio, sucking in air as she tried to make her voice fit for broadcast. Then Thomas ran past her. Laura took a large breath and jogged after him. As she rounded the corner, Thomas came into view, but Laura saw that he had stopped, and the thief was heading out of the other side of the car park. Laura came to a halt next to Thomas and tried to get her breath back, her chest pumping hard in her shirt. ‘What happened?’ Laura asked, gasping. Thomas looked down, and Laura saw that he was taking deep breaths too, fear in his eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said. ‘He pulled a needle out of his pocket,’ he said, between breaths. ‘He shouted he would give me AIDS.’ He looked at Laura. ‘I’m sorry. I bottled it.’ He gave a large heave of his shoulders and then kicked at the gravel. ‘My first test and I got scared.’ Laura put her hand on his shoulder, turning him away from the shoppers who were watching them. ‘And you’ll bottle it again,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll just care less about it. Next time, just keep running and hit him as hard as you can with your baton, but remember that you may struggle to get a second shot in.’ Thomas nodded, and then turned back the way they had just come. ‘Let’s go back to the shop, see if they’ve got it on video.’ Laura nodded and smiled. ‘Okay, we’ll do that,’ she said, and decided that she liked Thomas. Frankie ducked behind the gatepost, just to check that the road was clear, and then he crept out. He wasn’t dressed properly, in jogging bottoms and a crumpled old T-shirt, his slippers making slapping noises on the tarmac as he shuffled across the road. He had to slow down as he reached the driveway of the rest home, the gravel hurting his feet through the soft soles. The doors to the rest home opened automatically, so he went inside and looked around anxiously, worried about who he would see, wanting to avoid the big boss. Then he saw someone he recognised wandering through one of the rooms. ‘Mrs Kydd?’ he shouted. He shuffled towards her. ‘Mrs Kydd?’ She stopped and then turned slowly towards him. He noticed her uniform looked tight, stretched across her chest so that it pushed her breasts into a tired-looking cleavage. ‘Hello, Frankie,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’ ‘Was he a reporter?’ Frankie asked. ‘Were you watching again?’ ‘I heard the car, that’s all, and so I watched him,’ he said. ‘What’s the big deal? Why can’t you tell me?’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘I saw him taking pictures,’ Frankie persisted. ‘What did he want? Was it about Claude Gilbert? What did he say?’ ‘Slow down, Frankie,’ she said, her voice raised. ‘Yes, he was a reporter, okay, and he’s writing a story about Nancy.’ ‘Does he think Claude killed her?’ ‘He didn’t tell me what he thought,’ she said. ‘He just wanted to see where she died.’ Frankie looked at her chest again until she folded her arms, aware of his gaze. ‘He needs to speak to me,’ he said. ‘Did you tell him about me?’ She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t. Please go, Frankie.’ ‘If he calls again, tell him to come to my house,’ he said, but then he flinched when he felt her hand on his arm. ‘Are you all right, Frankie?’ she asked. ‘Are you eating okay? You look poorly again.’ ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘You need to look after yourself, Frankie. If your mother could see you now, she would be worried about you.’ Frankie looked away. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. He said he was called Jack Garrett. He sounded local. If you think he might want your help, call him. He might be interested in what you’ve got to say.’ Frankie didn’t respond. ‘You’ve got to look after yourself though, before you go chasing him,’ she said. ‘Eat properly. Get some sleep.’ ‘I’m fine,’ he said, and he turned and walked out of the rest home, shuffling quickly along the drive, ignoring the pain in his feet from the sharp stones. He could sense Mrs Kydd watching him, even after the automatic doors had swished shut. Chapter Eleven (#ulink_587982d2-0fb9-5571-8d22-ac7c4e5daaf2) I checked my notepad and looked at the scribbles I had made after Susie had gone. I had written down Maybury and Sharpe as Susie’s old law firm. If Bill Hunter was right, that Claude Gilbert had ended up as fish food in the English Channel, the story would end up being about Susie and another Claude Gilbert hoax. The firm’s name was well known to me. I had devoured the court reports in the local paper when I was a child, those short paragraphs of shame the only part I found interesting, and the names of the defending solicitors always stayed with me: Harry Parsons, Jon Halpern, Danny Platt—crafty lawyers who managed to find new ways to repackage remorse and excuses for their clients. Maybury and Sharpe had been one of the main players, but Susie Bingham had been talking of a time two decades earlier, and the shrinking of legal aid had seen the firm splinter into its different departments, the ambulance chasers not wanting to be weighed down by the criminal work. The new offshoot was now known simply as Sharpes, staffed by enthusiastic young clerks and a couple of ageing solicitors, who huffed and puffed their way around the Magistrates’ Court like relics from a lost era. I just hoped that someone there remembered her. The office front suited the firm, old-style, with frosted windows and gold leaf lettering; no neon sign at Sharpes. When I walked in, I saw that the reception area was quiet, just one client waiting, his face bearing the familiar look of heroin addiction: high cheekbones, blackened teeth and prickles of sweat on his lip. The receptionist was a young Pakistani girl, her hair sleek and long, and when she smiled at me, her eyes were bright jewels in the office gloom. ‘I want to have a word with Mr Halpern or Mr Platt,’ I said. She reached for the phone. ‘Are you due in court?’ she asked, her voice quiet, almost a mumble, just the smallest trace of the Peshwar in her Lancashire accent. ‘No, I’m the court reporter, Jack Garrett. I need some help with a story, and it involves this firm.’ She considered me for a moment, and then picked up the phone and spoke to someone, her words barely audible. She pointed to the room next to reception. ‘Wait in there,’ she said. The waiting client didn’t pay me any attention as I went into a small square room, with just enough room for a desk and chairs on either side. I could hear a whispered conversation through the door, and then it was opened briskly as Danny Platt walked in. His hair was long and unkempt, but the grey patches that broke up its darkness gave away his age as over fifty. His face bore the scars of long hours, with lines etched deep around the eyes, and the bulge of his stomach strained against the buttons of his creased blue shirt. He looked unkempt, like legal aid work was getting tougher. ‘Mr Garrett,’ he boomed, as if he was delighted to see me. He was eating a sandwich though, and it was obvious that I had disturbed him. ‘Between sittings, so make it quick,’ he said, holding up his lunch. ‘What can I do for you? A quote you didn’t get?’ As he sat down, he took a bite from his sandwich. Mayonnaise collected at the corners of his mouth. ‘Do you remember Susie Bingham?’ I asked. He looked quizzically at me as he searched his memory, skimming through all the thieves and prostitutes he had helped over the years. ‘She used to work for Maybury and Sharpe, about twenty years ago,’ I added, to help him out. I saw the beginnings of a smile. ‘You remember her?’ I asked. He nodded, grinning now. ‘Very attractive woman,’ he said, and he chuckled. ‘Great figure. It was hard to stop the eyes from following her legs upwards, if you know what I mean. Why do you ask?’ ‘She came to me with a story, and I’m checking her out first, just to see whether I can believe her.’ Danny put his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘Is it about this firm?’ he asked, his smile fading. I shook my head. ‘No. You don’t even need to be mentioned.’ He relaxed and took another bite of the sandwich. ‘She was a real good-time girl,’ he said, chuckling again, exposing the food in his mouth. ‘Big fan of the chambers parties, so I remember, and the police ones. Always guaranteed to end up with someone.’ He leant forward, as if he was worried someone might overhear. ‘She was familiar with most of the young bar, if you get my drift,’ he said, and gave his nose a theatrical tap. ‘She was pretty generous with the police, just for the rough and ready thrill, but she liked the rich boys best, particularly the younger ones. It was the accents, I think.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘There was a Christmas party once at the court, and some rumour went round that she’d fucked one young barrister in a judge’s chair. It got plenty of giggles around the court, and she didn’t mind at first, but the judges weren’t happy. When it looked like the young man was in trouble, she stuck up for him, told everyone it had never happened.’ ‘Maybe it didn’t.’ ‘It happened, no worries there,’ he said, but his jokey smile came across as sleazy. I made some notes. It might fit into the story, if there ever was one. ‘Did you trust her?’ I asked. ‘Oh yes, totally,’ Danny said. ‘A good clerk, so I remember. Left to work in a bigger firm, although I think she regretted it because they only used her for prison visits, just a flash of a leg, and she was better than that. The clients liked her and she took decent trial notes.’ Then he drifted away for a moment, enjoying some distant memory, before he said, ‘I think we almost, you know, just once, at an office party, but I was married, and so I backed off.’ He sighed at the memory. ‘She left not long after, but let me tell you something: I regretted it at times—saying no, I mean. She was an attractive woman, and the memory would be nice.’ When I raised my eyebrows, he said, ‘I don’t mean to put the woman down. She was no kid, but she was enjoying herself. What’s wrong with that?’ ‘What about Claude Gilbert?’ I asked. ‘Do you know if she ever had a relationship with him?’ Danny Platt’s eyes widened at the mention of Gilbert’s name. ‘Why are you asking about Claude Gilbert?’ ‘I just remembered that he was around at the same time,’ I said, trying to hide the reason for my visit. ‘He was a good-time boy. It’s not inconceivable that they got it together.’ ‘So it’s a Claude Gilbert story,’ he grinned, revealing the bread squashed into his teeth. ‘I was wondering what story there was in Susie.’ I decided not to deny it as he thought about his answer. ‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘He did a lot of work for us, and so will have known Susie well. Claude lived in Blackley, and so he would come here for conferences, to save us the journey to his chambers. The clients liked that, and he had a way with the clients.’ ‘I’ve been told he was arrogant.’ ‘It depends who you ask,’ Danny said. ‘There are different types of barristers. There are the diligent ones, those who prepare everything; but most of those wouldn’t interest even their wives, let alone a jury. Then there are the charmers, those with the smile, the swagger, can play the jury, get them on their side. Claude had a bit of that but, most of all, he just got on with the punters.’ ‘So what was his secret?’ Danny laughed. ‘The first secret most criminal lawyers learn: cigarettes. He didn’t have to read his papers. As long as he threw his fag packet onto the desk, left open, facing the clients, they loved him, made them feel like he was on their side. And he gave the police a hard time. That’s why he didn’t do prosecution work, just to keep up the illusion. Clients don’t expect to get off, not really. All they want is to see someone put up a fight, so that they know they gave it their best shot. Claude did that, and he gave it to them straight. What their chances were, the jail term they would get. Lawyers like Gilbert are well liked.’ ‘By criminals,’ I said. Danny shook his head slowly. ‘By clients,’ he responded. ‘We all make mistakes from time to time, remember that. It’s just that some of us do it more often. My clients are maybe not people you would want as neighbours, but they are human beings, and Claude Gilbert respected that.’ ‘So Gilbert was a good guy?’ I queried. ‘There are plenty worse.’ ‘But not everyone kills their wife.’ ‘He’s not been convicted of that.’ ‘Do you think that makes a difference?’ ‘To me, it does,’ Danny said. ‘Innocent until proven guilty. It’s what makes us civilised. Sometimes letting a few bad ones get away is a price worth paying.’ ‘Do you really believe that?’ I said. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, smiling, ‘but if you’ll print it, trade might just pick up.’ I closed my notebook and thanked him for his time. It seemed like the interview was over. As I went to leave, Danny put his hand on my arm. ‘If you see Susie again, pass on my regards. Maybe there’s still time for unfinished business.’ He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me. I looked down and saw the glimmer of his wedding ring, and then I noticed the drip of coleslaw on his shirt, and the chewed bread between his teeth. ‘Maybe some dreams are worth letting go,’ I said, and then as I left the room I muttered, ‘for her sake’. Chapter Twelve (#ulink_3305c328-ed40-5b3e-91d7-305effbed5c1) Frankie grunted as he pulled his Vespa onto its stand outside the Blackley Telegraph offices, the sister paper to The Valley Post. The building was all seventies glass and steel frames, with painted panels and a brightly-lit sign on the front, although one corner had cracked so that leaves and dust had blown in over time. Frankie remembered when it was new, when he was a boy, excited at seeing the old tramlines and cobbles exposed like skeletons from underneath the tarmac when they rebuilt the town centre, before the buses that rumbled past it every day dirtied the front. He looked around nervously though. He didn’t like it around the bus station. The gangs of kids used to taunt him, take his money and laugh at him, small groups of trouble dressed all in black. He had bought a scooter when his mother died—she wouldn’t let him have one when she was alive—so that he wouldn’t have to get the bus any more. He walked into the Telegraph building and then jumped as the entry mat emitted a buzzing sound when he stepped on it. There was a large wooden counter in front of him, with photographs from the paper pinned to the wall behind, showing people in suits holding giant cheques and a display of schoolboy football teams. That day’s edition was fanned out on a small round table. A young woman appeared out of a doorway. Her badge said she was called Jackie. He lifted his goggles onto his crash helmet. She looked surprised, startled almost, although he didn’t know why. He always wore them, particularly in summer. They kept the flies and fumes out of his eyes. He smiled. She was wearing a vest top, and he could see the outline of the lace on her bra-cup. He liked that. ‘What can I do for you?’ she said. Frankie thought she sounded nervous. He watched her delicate fingers as they toyed with a pen in her hand. He wondered where she lived. ‘I’m Frankie,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’m looking for a reporter.’ ‘You’ve come to the right building, Frankie.’ He shook his head. She didn’t understand. ‘No, not any reporter. He drives a red sports car. Jack Garrett.’ ‘Why do you want him?’ ‘He’s writing about Claude Gilbert.’ She raised her eyebrows at that. ‘He doesn’t work for us. He’s freelance, lives somewhere in Turners Fold.’ ‘Do you have an address?’ Frankie thought she was about to tell him, but she stopped and looked embarrassed. ‘I can’t give out addresses,’ she said. ‘But I need it,’ he said, and he leant forward onto the counter. It made her step back quickly. ‘Just wait there,’ she said. ‘What’s your name again?’ ‘Frankie.’ ‘Just Frankie?’ He nodded. She disappeared into the doorway again, and Frankie could hear her whispering to someone. They were talking about him. He felt tears prickle his eyes. He had blown it again. He should have found the reporter on the internet, made his own way there. He turned to leave, his fists clenched with frustration, and as he rushed for the door, his footsteps set off the entry buzzer again. He took some deep breaths and put his fingers to his cheeks when he reached the street. They felt hot. He slipped his goggles back over his eyes and then sat astride his scooter, fumbling quickly for the keys. He shouldn’t have gone there. Now they had a name. His name. He pressed down on the kickstart pedal, and then raced down the bus lane, working quickly through the gears until he was out of sight of the building. I sat in my car and thought about Bill Hunter. He had remembered my father’s death and, as soon as he had mentioned it, I knew I would call at the cemetery. It was quiet, and I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, wondering whether I should go in. I hadn’t been for a few months; visits had recently become confined to Father’s Day and Christmas and I felt bad about that. I looked along the rows of granite slabs, broken up by the occasional splash of colour from flowers left in memoriam. Our house had memories of him dotted around, his Johnny Cash records, old photographs, but I knew I should visit the grave more often, to keep the dirt from the gold-etched words: ‘Robert Garrett—Beloved Husband and Father’. I closed my eyes and swallowed, fought the wetness in my eyes. This was why I didn’t come often—because whenever I saw the patch of grass, I imagined him under the ground, in the box, still and cold. I fought the images, tried to see the grave as merely a marker, a focal point, because that wasn’t how I wanted to remember him. I wanted to think of the man who had been in my life, strong and quiet and caring, not the police officer who had been shot in the line of duty. Losing both parents had toughened me up, perhaps too much. When I looked at Laura, saw her smile or heard her laugh, or whenever I caught her in an unguarded moment, vulnerable and soft, unlike the tough cop I knew she could be, I felt a need to hold her, to be the strong man. But most times I stopped myself; something inside of me held me back, as if I was waiting for the rejection. So maybe losing both parents hadn’t toughened me up at all. Maybe it had made me too fragile, so that I was scared of the knockbacks. I turned the key in the ignition. ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I whispered, ‘but I’m going to have to sell the car.’ Then I laughed at myself. Not really for talking to myself, but because it was about something as trivial as a car. It wasn’t that simple though. My father had owned that car throughout my childhood. It was how I remembered Sunday mornings, my father with a sponge in his hand, washing it down. I had friends at school whose fathers owned better cars than a 1973 Triumph Stag in Calypso Red, but to my father it was a reward for his police work, the drives on sunny days his escape from the humdrum of family life. I let my words hang there for a minute or so, just giving him a chance to hear them, to know that I wasn’t being disrespectful. It was my last real connection with my father and somehow I wanted him to know that I was doing it for the right reason, not because I was trying to dim his memory. My thoughts were interrupted by my phone ringing. I took a couple of deep breaths before I answered. ‘Hello?’ ‘I’ve got some material for you.’ I smiled. It was Tony Davies. ‘What like?’ ‘Just the archive stuff we used for the Gilbert anniversary edition. I’ve done you copies. I’ll drop them off later.’ I thanked him and hung up. I gave a quick salute to the lines of headstones. At least I was making progress. Chapter Thirteen (#ulink_fd51a04f-ba6c-52e9-84b8-34e8912f6522) Mike Dobson closed his eyes as he lay back on the sofa. It was one of those summer evenings when the heat never really disappears and the neighbourhood children seem to play too late, the laughs and shrieks drifting in through the open windows. The television was on in the corner of the room, but he couldn’t concentrate. Why was it that the memories came back to him so strongly? He could go for months when there was nothing, but then it took just a small thing, like the sight of his naked wife, frigid and cold, or the flowery sweetness of the scent of Chanel. He was swept more than two decades back, and the images assaulted him, mixed up the past with the present, as if she was in the room with him. Summer nights like these were the worst, when the sun took all evening to set over the lavender bushes in the garden, their delicate smell drifting in through the open window. And with the smells came the sounds, the sensations. He felt her touch for a moment, that spark, that excitement, her hand in his, her fingers soft and light, sitting together in the park. Then he remembered those other moments. His mouth on her breast, soft murmurs, loud moans, two bodies together. But then came the blood, as always. He could feel it on his hands, and his eyes shot open as he heard the thumps, the knocking, like a desperate drumbeat, the shouts, the muffled cries. Mary was watching him. He glanced over quickly and he thought he saw a shadow behind her, someone moving through the door. He blinked and it was gone, and all he could see were Mary’s cold eyes. He clambered to his feet to go to the fridge. When he got there, he leant against the door for a moment, his forehead damp, before reaching for a beer. When he walked back into the room, Mary looked pointedly at the bottle. ‘Do you think you should?’ she said. ‘I feel like I want to,’ he replied, taking a long swig. When she shot a stern look at him, he added, ‘I’ve had a long day. No one’s buying, and I’m hot.’ He went outside, to wait for the sun to drop lazily behind the houses, catching the duck and dive of evening birds and the buzz of midges over the laurel bush in the corner of his garden. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the scents creep back in again, and he was taken back to stolen hours, a country drive, the weight of her in his arms, laughing, his mouth on hers, the caress of her fingers in his chest hairs, the summer of innocence. He heard a sound, like a thump on wood; as he looked up, he saw Mary step away from the window. She had been watching. He took another pull on his beer. He knew he shouldn’t think of it, but then he felt that burn, that familiar need. He went back into the house and took his car keys from the hook by the door. ‘I’m going for a drive,’ he said, and he was met by silence as he slammed the door. Chapter Fourteen (#ulink_99477ae4-50f9-5bfd-aa6e-c1a88d1c2b24) I was sitting in my garden as I flicked through the newspaper articles Tony had dropped through my door. I had views over Turners Fold to distract me, the strips of grey terraced houses and small fingers of chimneys sitting between the slopes, and towards the jagged lines of drystone walls dividing up the hills, black and white dots of cattle sprinkled as far as I could see. I took a sip from my wine glass and noticed how Claude Gilbert’s house looked different in the old black and white photographs, the garden slightly overgrown, less formal. I smiled as I held up a photograph of Claude, the one that had spread to the nationals, his dark hair thick, a superior smirk. Did he really want to come home? I plucked an article from the bottom of the pile and saw that the picture used was the full photograph, with Nancy Gilbert sitting next to him, an austere look on her face. The photographs used later were more relaxed shots, showing her laughing and happy, as if they were meant to prick the general conscience—the public wouldn’t warm to the hunt if she was some uptight rich bitch. As I read the articles, I saw nothing new, just stuff that had been rehashed countless times since. I slipped the cuttings back into the envelope when I heard the hum of car tyres and watched as Laura’s charcoal-grey Golf crunched onto the gravel outside our gate. As she stepped out of the car, her white shirt open at the neck, I raised my wine glass. ‘It’s open,’ I said. ‘So I see,’ she replied, and gave me a weary smile. When she joined me at the table, a glass in one hand, she put her arm around my neck and her head on my shoulder. I could feel the collar of her stiff white shirt, and, as I reached behind and felt her legs, my hands brushed over the coarse regulation black trousers and my fingers crackled with static. ‘It still seems strange, seeing you in your uniform,’ I said, as I got the waft of her perfume mixed in with the sweat of the cells. I had put Bobby to bed, but from the shouting I could hear drifting through the open window he must have heard the car. ‘I’ll go say goodnight in a minute,’ she said sleepily. ‘I just need to slow down for five minutes.’ ‘Life tough at the top?’ ‘I’ll tell you when I get there,’ she said, and stretched out a yawn. ‘I’ll need to do some revision soon though. It feels like I’ve forgotten how to study. I wasn’t the best at it in university, but I must have done it at some point.’ ‘I was a crammer,’ I said. ‘Go out until Easter, and then just rush it through at the end.’ ‘But you were younger then. So was I. This is a sergeant’s exam. I’m supposed to know the stuff already.’ ‘You’ll do it easily,’ I said. ‘It’s just about staying cool enough to remember what you already know.’ She sighed. ‘I’m already the old stager.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I was holding the hand of a new one today,’ Laura said. ‘He didn’t look old enough to be crossing the road on his own.’ ‘I’m sure someone said that about you once,’ I said. Laura grimaced. ‘That’s why I don’t like it. It just feels like it’s all slipping by too fast.’ She squeezed me and then murmured in my ear, ‘Will you still love me when I pass my exams?’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘I’ll have to stay in this uniform for a while longer,’ she said, ‘at least until I can go back into CID.’ I turned to face her, and sneaked a soft kiss. ‘I like it,’ I said, and then I raised my eyebrows mischievously. ‘Could we, you know, just once, in the uniform?’ ‘And the handcuffs?’ She tapped my nose playfully. ‘I’ll try not to make them too tight,’ she said, and then she peeled away from me. ‘I’m going to say goodnight to Bobby.’ I grabbed her hand. ‘Before you go, I’ve got a scenario for you,’ I said. ‘Think of it as revision.’ Laura turned and looked at me. ‘Go on.’ ‘Someone is wanted by the police. If there was a sighting of him, would I be obliged to report it?’ ‘Who is it?’ I shook my head. ‘No names.’ She paused at that and tapped her lip with her finger. ‘I’m trying to think of what crime it would be if you didn’t.’ After a few more seconds, she said: ‘It would depend on what you did with the information. If you alerted him to help him get away, or gave him shelter, then yes, but if you just failed to report it, I’m not sure we could do much.’ I nodded to myself. ‘That’s what I thought,’ I said quietly, and let go of her hand. As I took a sip of wine, I realised that Laura was staring at me. ‘Is it something to do with the woman who was here this morning?’ she said. ‘I don’t reveal my sources, you know that,’ I replied. ‘I don’t need to pass my sergeant’s exam to work out that she’s connected,’ she said. ‘But is it anything that will get you into trouble?’ I raised my glass and smiled. ‘I’ll tell you when I find out more. There is one thing I have to do though.’ ‘Which is what?’ ‘Go to London,’ I said. ‘And what will you do when you get there?’ Laura looked at me strangely when I said, ‘Hopefully, make us rich.’ Frankie stared through his binoculars from behind a stone wall, his knees in long grass. He had ridden into Turners Fold and asked questions about the reporter in the old red sports car. He got lucky, because the third person he asked knew where Jack Garrett lived. It had been a long time since he had been in Turners Fold. It had once been on his cycle route, the long pull out of Blackley, and then a fast green run into Turners Fold, freewheeling along a road bordered by straggly grass verges and drystone walls until he hit the fringes of the town, as the country views turned into small-town huddles. He used to like sitting by the canal and eating ice cream as the barges drifted past, and the people on board always waved back at him as he sat by the bridge, dipping his feet into the water as he rested his legs. But that had been a long time ago, when his mother had been alive. She would run him a bath for when he got back, sweaty and tired, always hungry, and he would tell her what he had seen. He missed that more than anything. It was all part of her being around, more than just someone to clean for him or make his meals. He’d had someone to share his secrets with, the things he could see from his window, who wouldn’t laugh at him for thinking like he did. It was an easier ride now. His Vespa purred up the hills, and so he was able to take in the views as he got higher and the air became fresher. Frankie had seen the car before he reached the house, the red Triumph parked on a small patch of pink gravel at the front of a grey cottage, its stones large and worn, the old slates on the roof jagged and uneven. He had pulled into a small track by a farm gate and then switched off the scooter’s engine and clambered over the gate, binoculars in his hand. He had walked along the wall until he could get a good view of the house, to see who else was there before he spoke to the reporter. He knelt down so that the lenses just peeked over the wall. He saw the reporter, a glass of wine in his hand, but then Frankie was jolted when he saw who else was there. He ducked down quickly. She was a police officer—he could tell that from the stiff trousers and the white shirt—and that scared him. He didn’t want the police at his house. But she had looked pretty, and so he got to his knees and looked again towards the house. He liked the way she smiled as she leant over the reporter and then gave a giggle. She was just back from work and it had been a warm day. She would be taking a shower soon. He scanned the house with his binoculars, looking for the bathroom, and then he found it. There was frosted glass in the window, but the top pane was partly open and he could see the clear glass of a shower cubicle. His hand scrambled around in his bag as he nudged the notepads and yesterday’s newspapers aside, until he found his camera. It felt hot in his hand. He closed his eyes for a moment and apologised. To his mother. To the policewoman at the cottage. And to himself. He knew he shouldn’t, that it was wrong to look at naked women, his mother had told him that. But he wanted to see her. As long as she didn’t know he was there, where was the harm in that? He watched as she went inside and then, as the light went on in the bathroom, he trained his camera on the window, waiting. Chapter Fifteen (#ulink_0e504fe5-1579-5f1f-b3bb-3b8f922ede16) Mike Dobson drove slowly around the Mill Bank area of Blackley, an eye on his mirror for the police. The streets ran through mainly open spaces now, from which rows of terraces had long since been cleared, ready for the urban regeneration that had never happened. The grass grew long and wild, nature reclaiming the land, fluttering through those piles of bricks and grit that hadn’t been taken away by the diggers, security fences stretching along their edges, protecting the tyre-fitters and builders’ merchants with jagged silver spikes. There were still some rows of houses, but the windows were mostly blocked by steel shutters, awaiting the attention of the bulldozers. Water trickled onto the street from one, the pipes ripped away by scrappers, and the walls hosted the garish scrawls of graffiti artists. The streets were busy with women though, the balmy weather making it easier to work, but the roads were quiet, traffic still too light. Mike’s car bounced into the potholes as he crawled along and the women peered into his car, smiling, their teeth browned by drug use and decay. But he didn’t want them. He was looking for someone else. He did a couple of circuits before he saw her, standing on a corner, well away from the other girls. He felt a small tremor of anticipation. It had been a couple of months now, but whenever he went looking she was the one he sought out. She was different from the rest—nicely spoken, almost polite, a couple of wrong turns in her life bringing her to this point—but it was her looks that drew him. Her hair was long and dark and she had an easy smile, but it wasn’t just that. She looked like Nancy and, whenever Mike saw her, it was like Nancy was back, from the way she tossed her hair as she walked, to the provocative rise of her eyebrows when she smiled. He slowed down as he reached her. She bent down to peer into his car and he leant across the passenger seat, puffing slightly as his stomach strained against the seatbelt. ‘Looking for business?’ she drawled, as she pulled her hair back over her ears. Nancy used to do that. ‘Don’t you remember me?’ he said. She shook her head. ‘That’s okay,’ he said, and then opened the car door. ‘Get in.’ She climbed in and put her bag on her knees. It was gaping open and Mike could see the packet of cigarettes squeezed in next to the baby wipes, her tools for the evening. As he set off towards his usual place, the site of an old factory, now reduced to a concrete patch and dark shadows by the redbrick viaduct that overshadowed the town, he said, ‘I just thought you might remember me, that’s all.’ ‘Why would I?’ ‘Because I treated you nicely,’ he said. She paused for a few seconds, and then she asked, ‘How many times?’ ‘With you?’ He blushed. ‘Not many.’ She didn’t respond to that, and he guessed that she wasn’t interested in idle talk. As the car crunched slowly to a halt, just the dark walls ahead of him, she asked, ‘What do you want?’ ‘Something more than this,’ he said quietly. ‘What do you mean?’ He shook his head. ‘Nothing, it doesn’t matter.’ And then, ‘Who are your regulars?’ ‘Taxi drivers mainly,’ she said. ‘And men like you, who don’t like their wives any more.’ He looked down at that, suddenly ashamed, and picked at his fingers. ‘Take off your top,’ he said quietly. ‘An extra fiver for that.’ He nodded. ‘I know.’ ‘Full sex?’ He nodded again, his cheeks red. ‘Thirty quid,’ she said. ‘It was forty last time.’ ‘Call it a loyalty discount,’ she drawled. He got out of the car to sit in the back. She clambered in there with him, climbing between the gap in the front seats, and slipped off her T-shirt. She looked thin and pale, her skin mottled, her bones too visible in her shoulders. Her fingers were grubby and her nails bitten short. The leather car seat was cold on his backside as he pulled down his trousers. He felt ridiculous, exposed, his eyes darting around, watching out for the police. The car was filled with the noise of the condom wrapper being torn open, and then he gasped and closed his eyes as her hands worked it onto him. She climbed on top of him and tears squeezed out between his eyelids, part shame, part relief. Then she started to move up and down quickly, functional, passionless, getting him from start to finish, her hair brushing against his face, the seat creaking beneath him. He ran his hands along her back, felt her naked skin under his fingers, the ridge of her spine, the fine hairs in the small of her back, and then he leant forward to kiss her. She moved her mouth out of the way and shook her head, going faster, and then it came at him in a rush…just a release, nothing more. She climbed off him too quickly and stepped out of the car to put her knickers and T-shirt back on. He pulled at his trousers and then tossed the condom and wrapper out of the car window. As he clambered out of the back seat, puffing and wheezing from the exertion, he went towards her, to touch her hair, but she pulled away and smoothed her skirt instead. ‘I need to go back,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk if you don’t want to take me.’ ‘No, I’ll take you,’ he said. ‘I’d like to spend more time with you.’ She looked wary. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘It isn’t just about this,’ he said, and he gestured around him, at the car, at his lap. ‘I want something more.’ She looked away and thought for a few seconds. ‘I’m not going to your house.’ ‘No, it’s not that,’ he said, and then he sighed. ‘This will sound stupid, but it’s about feeling someone in my arms, someone who will hold me. I can make it better for you, more than this.’ She folded her arms and looked at him. ‘That would be expensive.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I know, I know. I’ll come and find you when I can arrange it.’ She didn’t say anything for a few moments, and then she said, ‘I’ll walk back, it’s okay.’ And then he was alone again. His breathing returned to normal, and he climbed back into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the noise loud in the shadows around him. Chapter Sixteen (#ulink_18375eec-d0c3-5fae-9eea-1433df920157) The early morning train to London was busy, filled with pensioners on cheap advance bookings. The journey was shorter than it used to be, just a couple of hours from Lancashire to the bright lights, and the aisles were busy as people tottered to the buffet car to relieve the monotony. A group of Scottish students swapped boyfriend-talk on the opposite table and the air was filled with the smell of sandwiches. I looked up as I saw Susie making her way towards me, two coffees in her hands, a magazine tucked under her arm. ‘I thought we might have gone first class,’ she said as she lowered herself into her seat. ‘We’re going to make some big money from this.’ ‘You wouldn’t like first class,’ I said. ‘You get free coffee, but you’ll also get businessmen trying to impress the rest of the carriage.’ Susie smiled and slid one of the coffees over to me. ‘When do I get to meet Claude?’ I asked. Susie didn’t answer at first, as she fiddled with the lid on her coffee. ‘Whenever he calls,’ she replied eventually. ‘But you know where he lives. Why can’t we just go there?’ ‘Like I told you, he needs to know that you’re on your own, that he can trust you,’ Susie said. ‘You can vouch for that.’ ‘How do I know someone hasn’t been following us since we met this morning?’ When I didn’t answer, she said, ‘We just go to where I’ve been told to go and we hang around. Claude will find us, don’t worry.’ I thought about the prospect of meeting Claude Gilbert, and it was hard not to smile. I took a drink of coffee, and then said, ‘Claude comes second though. I need to see someone first.’ ‘How do I know you’re not speaking to the police?’ she said, shocked. ‘You don’t,’ I replied. ‘But these stories don’t sell themselves. I’m trusting you, and so you’ve got to trust me.’ Susie considered this before saying, ‘But will they let you write it up how Claude wants it?’ I looked out of the window as I thought about that. The truthful answer was that they would go with what they think will sell papers and they wouldn’t give a damn about Claude, but maybe it was too early for a lesson in the cold world of journalism. Fugitives don’t get copy approval. ‘If it is Claude, then yes,’ I lied, ‘but the story might change if he goes to prison.’ ‘But he won’t,’ Susie said. ‘He didn’t kill Nancy.’ I turned away again and looked at the reflection of my cup in mid-air, a ghost against the backyards of some Midlands town that we were racing through, the landscape getting brighter. I could see Susie in the reflection too, but as London got closer, the cold reality of having to sell her story to a ruthless press started to sink in, and so I began to wonder whether her story really made sense, that Claude Gilbert could have been undiscovered all these years—but I was willing to gamble my reputation on the chance that I was about to write the best story of my career. Mike Dobson lay alone in bed while Mary cleaned the kitchen downstairs. He thought he could still smell the night before on him, the latex on his fingers, her cigarette smoke in his hair. And it seemed like Mary knew. He didn’t know how, but she always seemed different after he went for a drive. Maybe it was the way that he no longer pawed her or tried to tease out a response, hoping that their sex life would reignite just once and become something more than it had been for most of their marriage. Or perhaps the flush to his cheeks gave him away. Mary always cleaned the house afterwards. At least that’s how it seemed. He turned over and looked towards the window. He could see the tops of the sycamore trees in the park nearby, giving the roofs a frame, and birds swirled overhead. It felt like freedom out there. In here, it was stifling. He closed his eyes. It had once been good with Mary, but they had been younger then. She had been the quiet girl who worked on the tills when he had his first job in a supermarket. He had loved her the first moment he saw her, from the nervous way she toyed with her hair to the way she blushed when he tried to make a joke. But their sex life had always been the same, all shy and coy, as if, for Mary, it had only ever been about the closeness afterwards. They should have had children, and maybe that would have changed things, but they had found it difficult. For a while it became all about producing children, so the fertile days turned into an obligation, and as they failed, as all Mary’s friends got families, Mary became colder. It was just the way it was, he knew that, but Mary hadn’t seen it that way. He hadn’t meant to look outside of the marriage, but it had come along when he wasn’t expecting it. He put the pillow around his ears and tried to stop himself thinking of it. It had gone on too long now. He prayed for the day when he could get through a summer and not see her face, red, bloody, or hear her shouts. But the memories hit him like a punch each time. He heard a car pull up outside, and he wondered again whether it was a police car, that gnawing dread of discovery back again, but then he heard the loud chatter of his neighbour. He threw back the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. As he looked around the room he saw a shadow just disappear from view, like someone skipping through the doorway. He ran his hand across his forehead. He had the sweats again. He always got them at this time of year, when the scents brought everything back. He needed to get out of the house. He had to sell things, it was what he did, but the fake smiles were wearing grooves into his cheeks. To make money he had to overprice, but the internet and lack of credit made people shop around. Maybe it wouldn’t matter, he told himself. So what if he lost all of this? He could go abroad, sell cold beers and hot pies to expat Brits in a Spanish seafront bar; for a moment, as he thought of it, his life seemed to have a point. But then his mood darkened again. He knew that he couldn’t. He felt tied to Blackley, as if events beyond his control would occur if he went elsewhere and the life he wanted to leave behind would just drag him straight back. He climbed out of bed and went to the shower. He had to start another day. Chapter Seventeen (#ulink_69c60706-8604-5cdd-b679-f93c72868f1e) Lancashire felt like another country as I rode the underground to Canary Wharf, squashed into the carriage and making snake-shapes with my body to find a space between the suits. This had once been my life, working at the London Star, my first break in the city before I went freelance. I had travelled to London with my head filled with tales of long lunches in Fleet Street, deadlines met through the fog of flat beer; Tony Davies was to blame for all these stories. When I had arrived there, it was the glass and steel of Canary Wharf that had been my playground instead, most of my journalism done on the telephone. That’s why I went freelance, just so I could feel the big city more, to try and find its heartbeat. And it had worked for a while, the fun of getting to drug raids first, and cultivating police sources. Laura had been one of those sources, before the move to the North. The good times in London had waned eventually. I struggled to get to the underbelly because I didn’t really know the city. I knew the landmarks, the geography, but the people constantly surprised me. They had a confidence, almost an arrogance, and I realised that I had never stopped being the northern boy, a long way from home. Canary Wharf looked just as I remembered it when I emerged from the cavernous underground station—flash and fast and all about the money. But the real London was not far away, the ethnic mix of Poplar, from the window boxes of the London pubs to the takeaways and noise of the East India Dock Road. In the Wharf I brushed past dark suits and good skin, the strong jaws of the successful who I guessed would know nothing of the real Docklands, the hard work replaced by flipcharts and bullshit. But I wasn’t there for a tourist trip or to wallow in the memories. I was there to meet my old editor, Harry English, still head of the news desk at the London Star. I’d given him a wake-up call before I left Lancashire, promised him the first feel of the story, just to get an idea of its value. He was waiting for me on the marble seats opposite the tube station exit. To reach him I had to weave through the crowds of young professionals enjoying their lunch break and a group of salesgirls trying to persuade people to test-drive a Volvo. Times must be hard. It had been a Porsche the last time I had been down there. Harry grinned when he saw me and then coughed as he clambered to his feet. ‘Jack Garrett,’ he said. ‘Good to see you again.’ He grabbed my hand warmly to give it a firm pump. ‘What have you been up to?’ I patted my stomach. ‘Enjoying more of the high life than you. You look well, Harry,’ I said, and I meant it. He was tall, six feet and more, but he used to be fat, his chest straining his shirts and his face a permanent purple as he cursed his way around the newsroom. He’d shed some of that fat and settled for stocky, and it suited him. ‘I had a heart attack last year,’ he said, his smile waning. ‘I didn’t know,’ I said, shocked. ‘I would have come down.’ ‘It’s not the sort of thing that you send postcards about,’ he replied, and then he looked around and curled his lip in disdain. ‘And so I have to eat out here now, box salads, sometimes that sushi stuff, but that’s just rice as far as I can tell.’ ‘Beats dying, Harry.’ He grimaced. ‘Just about,’ he said, and then straightened himself. ‘So what hot story have you got? If it’s about a footballer, forget it. They can get injunctions quicker than I can type the story. Sell their weddings for thousands and then bleat about privacy when they break the vows.’ ‘No, it’s not about footballers,’ I said. ‘It’s about Claude Gilbert.’ Harry looked surprised for a moment, and then he chuckled. ‘Not that old has-been,’ he said. ‘The internet ruined that story. We could run a hoax sighting for a couple of days a few years ago, but now some distant relative on the other side of the world can wreck the story before lunchtime on the first day, and it gets splashed all over the rival websites. Unless you can dig him up, no one will bite any more.’ My expression didn’t change, but he must have seen the amusement in my eyes. ‘What have you got on him?’ he asked, his face more serious now. ‘Someone’s told me that she’s involved with him, romantically, and that he wants to come forward.’ He laughed. ‘Do you believe her?’ I shrugged. I wasn’t sure. ‘But you’ve come all the way to London to check it out,’ Harry said, his laughter fading. He watched people going past for a few seconds, and then he asked, ‘Why now? It’s not another Ronnie Biggs, is it, going to jail to die—because I don’t think Claude will get out again like Ronnie did?’ I shook my head. ‘He wants to tell his story before the police come for him. The press decided he was guilty twenty years ago, and so he wants to give his version before he goes before a jury, just to give himself a fighting chance.’ Harry wasn’t laughing any more. ‘And what if you decide not to go along with his plan?’ he said. ‘You could just expose him and be the man who caught Claude Gilbert.’ ‘I’ll see how good his story is first,’ I said. ‘I’m still not sure it’s really him.’ ‘And if it isn’t?’ ‘The story runs as another hoax,’ I said, ‘and you get a bit of northern brass for your city readers to snigger at. She’s an ex-lover of Gilbert who was seeing him a few months before his wife was buried alive, and she says they’ve rekindled the romance.’ I could see Harry’s mind race through the sales figures, the syndication rights. ‘I can see that there’s an angle, but the hoax is page eight at best, not the front,’ he said. ‘You might just get your train fare back. We need Gilbert himself for the banner headline.’ I smiled. Harry hadn’t yet said anything I hadn’t expected. ‘So, where are you meeting him?’ he asked. I shook my head. ‘She hasn’t told me yet,’ I said, and I patted Harry on the arm. ‘I’ll keep my movements quiet for now.’ ‘What, you don’t trust me?’ he said, feigning a hurt look. ‘You’re an editor,’ I said. ‘You would shit in your grandmother’s shoes if you thought it would get you good circulation figures, and Claude isn’t going to come forward if there’s someone with a big lens hiding behind a tree.’ ‘Okay,’ he said, chuckling again, holding his hands up in submission. ‘What do you want?’ ‘An expression of interest,’ I replied. ‘Six-figure sum if it’s true. Exclusive rights.’ ‘And picture rights?’ ‘That depends on the big number.’ Harry nodded. ‘If you get Claude Gilbert, I’m sure we can sort something out.’ ‘Good,’ I said. ‘We’ve got a deal.’ ‘So what next?’ Harry asked, and he looked pleased with himself. ‘I find Claude Gilbert,’ I replied, and started walking back to the arched entrance of the underground station, the excitement of a guaranteed front page putting a smile on my face. Chapter Eighteen (#ulink_095d2702-598e-526d-af17-76f25cfcc4b9) Frankie parked his scooter in the same place as he had the day before, near the cottage outside Turners Fold, his helmet chained and padlocked to the footboards. He clambered over the gate again and set off along the two-rut track, looking around as he went, checking that no one could see him. When he got close to where he had been the night before, the spot marked by a stick jammed into the ground, he crawled along the floor to make sure that he couldn’t be seen, his knees swishing through the long grass that gathered against the wall. He peeped over the wall and smiled when he saw he had the same view, that he’d got it right. The bathroom window was closed now but the curtains to the bedroom were open, like they had been the night before, when he had caught her as she went in after her shower, a towel around her body. He wanted to get closer now. He had taken a few pictures the night before. He had trained his camera on her but then turned away as her towel slipped down her body. His camera had carried on clicking though, because he knew it was different that way. He wasn’t looking at her body, he knew it was wrong to do that, but his pictures were different. They were just photographs, not really her. Not really any of them. His photographs. Just scrambles of colour. He reached into his bag and produced his water bottle. He knew he could be there for a long time. Then he noticed that her car wasn’t there. There was the red sports car, but the house looked dark. It was time to get closer. I found Susie waiting for me under the vast timetable at Victoria station as we’d arranged, conspicuous in her heels and short skirt among the backpackers and metropols. I weaved through the travellers; when I caught Susie’s eye, she rushed towards me and grabbed me by the arm. ‘About time,’ she said, her voice tetchy. ‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Why the urgency?’ ‘Because I can’t smoke in here,’ she said, and she set off towards the exit. ‘Slow down,’ I said, laughing. ‘Don’t you want to know how I’ve got on?’ ‘Walk and talk,’ she said. Once we got outside, she pulled a cigarette packet from her handbag and lit up quickly. She blew smoke past me and sighed. ‘Go on, what’s the news?’ she said, suppressing a cough but seeming calmer now. ‘I went to speak to my old editor.’ Susie looked suspicious. ‘You told me that much, but why couldn’t I come along?’ ‘Because I didn’t want you to be annoyed if he wasn’t interested.’ ‘And is he interested?’ I nodded and smiled. ‘Oh yeah, he’s buying,’ I said, although when a smile broke across her face too, I added quickly, ‘but Claude’s got to come forward. Without him, you are the story, and if it’s just you, you won’t get much more than a new handbag out of it. And it could ruin your life.’ Susie took another long pull on her cigarette, a determined look in her eyes. ‘He’ll come forward,’ she said. ‘Follow me. I know where we need to be.’ She walked off ahead of me, towards the jukebox rumble that drifted onto the street from the Shakespeare, a red-fronted pub opposite the station, though the music couldn’t compete with the constant roar of diesel engines from the stream of buses and taxis. It was a busy corner of London and right now it seemed like everyone—suits and shoppers, groups of old ladies—was leaving, heading for the trains or coach station. Susie pointed ahead, past a double-decker heading to Brixton. ‘That’s where I first saw him, crossing the road there,’ she said. ‘He was carrying a Sainsbury’s bag, with a newspaper under his arm.’ ‘So he was living around here, not just passing through,’ I said. Susie smiled. ‘You’re sharp.’ ‘So why don’t we just go to where he is, if he’s not far away?’ I said, trying hard to keep the frustration out of my voice. ‘Because this is how he wants it.’ ‘And how long do we wait?’ ‘Until he feels the time is right,’ Susie said. ‘Is he watching us now?’ I asked, looking around. Susie shrugged. ‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘Probably, even.’ She brandished her phone. ‘He’ll call me, when the time is right.’ I sighed, impatient. I pointed to a small park nearby, really just a triangle of grass behind black railings. ‘We’ll go in there and wait.’ We crossed over and stepped up to the gate, but it was locked. Instead, we had to settle on the wall near to a statue of some old soldier. I tried to give myself a good view down the street towards where Susie had said she’d first seen him, but I couldn’t help wondering again whether this was some elaborate hoax. And for what purpose? Susie looked ill at ease as she sat on the wall. It was low down, really just a base for the railings, and so she had to position her legs side-saddle to protect her modesty. She kicked away an old sandwich carton and then slipped off her coat. I saw her tattoo, barbed wire wrapped around her arm, the black now faded to grey, the sharp outlines made jagged by time. ‘He must have friends down here, someone sheltering him,’ I said. ‘A person couldn’t stay hidden for this long without someone helping him.’ Susie didn’t answer. Instead, she blew smoke into the air as she lit another cigarette. ‘Do you think it might have worked out for you and Claude if he hadn’t been married?’ I asked. Susie looked up at that, and the sunlight caught the makeup on her face, the powder dry in her creases. ‘Maybe,’ she said, and then she smiled, lost for a moment in some old nostalgic thought. ‘They were good times, you know. He was an old romantic really, despite what you might think of him.’ ‘I don’t think anything of him,’ I replied. ‘I just don’t buy that image, that’s all, not when he was a married man.’ ‘You make it sound dirty. It wasn’t like that.’ ‘Whatever it was like, he was betrothed to someone else.’ ‘You don’t strike me as a man high on morals.’ ‘Neither are many newspaper editors,’ I said, ‘but their readers might be, and so they’ll write it up to suit. Especially the papers that don’t get the exclusive. You’ll make some money, sure, but the cash will be tarnished, and your life will stop being your own.’ Susie nodded as if she understood, but then she said, ‘It’s not about the money. It’s about Claude getting his life back. We’ll need the money, and that’s why we’re doing it like this, but people will be interested in him, not me.’ Then she sighed, and for the first time I saw a trace of regret flicker into her eyes. ‘If Nancy hadn’t died, do you think our little fling would have mattered?’ she said. ‘So he was a bit of a rat. Most men are, but the person I knew was also tender and caring. That was the memory of Claude Gilbert I carried through the years.’ ‘And now?’ ‘Just the same. He seems sadder, that’s all, worn out, but still a good man.’ I held up my hand in apology. ‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just don’t like having my time wasted, that’s all.’ ‘I can only tell you it from my side,’ she said quietly, and then we both returned to watching the stream of passers-by. ‘Will Claude be able to answer the main question people will ask?’ I said. Susie looked up. ‘Which is?’ ‘If he didn’t kill Nancy, who did?’ Susie let out a breath at that and scratched the side of her mouth with a varnished nail. ‘I’ll let him tell you that.’ We stayed there for over two hours, watching the traffic get busier as time crawled towards the evening rush hour. I scanned the pavements, looking for a glimpse of someone that might be Claude Gilbert, but I couldn’t spot him. Susie smoked incessantly, and the ground around her feet became a collection of brown dog-ends as we made small talk. ‘Why don’t you just ring him?’ I said eventually. Susie shook her head. ‘That’s not how he wants it. It has to be on his terms.’ She must have spotted my scowl, because she added, ‘I need a drink. I’m sorry it’s not worked out yet, so let me make it my round.’ When I looked at her, she smiled. ‘It’s the least I could do.’ I felt a stab of guilt. Susie knew that, for as long as Claude Gilbert didn’t appear, the story would become about her, the northern girl who loved her murderer on the run, maybe the last mistress before the murder; I knew how much her life would change. ‘No, don’t worry,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘It’s on me.’ Susie looked pleased with that, and we moved away from the rush of Victoria to the peace and quiet of Belgravia. Chapter Nineteen (#ulink_e12eccd7-4ee2-54ea-a630-503b71034be0) Back at the police station, Laura was showing Thomas how to watch the CCTV from one of the local supermarkets. It was never a case of click and play, Laura knew that, with every system needing different software. It showed nine different views, like a grainy Celebrity Squares, and isolating one camera view seemed more difficult than it needed to be, just to catch the pensioner dropping the bottle of cheap sherry into the tartan trolley. She turned as she heard a cough from the doorway and saw a face she hadn’t seen for a few months, his hair cropped army-short, a folder under his arm. Laura felt her cheeks flush red. ‘DC McGanity,’ he said, and then he looked down at her uniform. ‘Sorry, is it plain old constable now?’ ‘Joe Kinsella,’ she said, laughing, and her eyes followed his glance downwards, to the shine on her black trousers and her stumpy black boots. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to move sideways to find the route up,’ she said. ‘Enough about me. What are you doing in Blackley?’ ‘Looking for you,’ he said. Laura raised her eyebrows. ‘This sounds ominous,’ she said. ‘Where’s the rest of the squad?’ Joe worked on the Major Incident Team, based at headquarters a few miles away. Whenever there was a death that seemed too much for the local police, they descended on Blackley and took over the station. But Laura hadn’t heard of any recent murders. ‘It’s just me and Rachel,’ Joe said, indicating the woman standing behind him. ‘This is Rachel Mason,’ and he gestured towards Laura. ‘This is Laura McGanity. We worked a case together recently.’ Laura straightened herself as Rachel looked her up and down, just a quick glance and a smile, but the warmth didn’t make it to the eyes. Rachel was trim in a smart grey suit, cut closely to her body, with a shirt that gaped open at the breast. Her hair was Abba-blonde, sleek and straight and over her shoulders, her skin pale and smooth. Her ice-cold, blue-eyed stare told Laura that Rachel Mason had little interest in Joe catching up with old friends. ‘So the rest of the pressed-shirts have stayed at headquarters,’ Laura said. ‘For now,’ he said, and then he raised his file. ‘I’m here for a cold case review, so I’ll be hanging around for a while. I want to ask your advice though.’ Laura was surprised. ‘Me?’ Joe nodded. ‘Especially you.’ Laura turned to Thomas and told him that the footage needed to be on a watchable disk before the prosecution would use it, then followed Joe and Rachel out of the room, heading for the canteen. Joe didn’t say much and Laura sensed that he was avoiding her gaze. He bought three coffees and they all sat down. ‘I’m not sure what I can advise you on,’ Laura said, as she took a drink. ‘I’m off the big stuff now.’ Joe stirred his coffee and looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘It’s about Jack,’ he said. Laura was taken aback. ‘Jack?’ she said. ‘What’s he been doing now?’ Joe put his folder on the table and leant forward, speaking in a whisper. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Laura, but we need to know what he’s doing.’ ‘You’re talking in riddles,’ Laura replied. ‘Who is we? Do you mean you and Rachel, or is there a bigger we?’ ‘There are others who are interested too,’ Joe said. ‘Tell me about the woman who went to your house yesterday morning.’ Laura had raised her cup to her mouth, but now her hand paused in mid-air. ‘Have you been watching us?’ she said, her voice indignant. Rachel smiled, but it was sneering. ‘We haven’t been watching you,’ Joe said solemnly. ‘Or Jack.’ ‘So it’s her,’ Laura said, almost to herself, and then she sat back and folded her arms. ‘Who is she?’ ‘If she said she was called Susie Bingham, then she is exactly who she said she was,’ he replied. ‘But why was she at your house?’ ‘To see Jack.’ ‘Has he mentioned why?’ Laura paused and closed her eyes for a second. It was the same old story, Jack’s reporting career causing problems for her, once more torn between her duties as a police officer and her loyalty to Jack. ‘No, he won’t tell me,’ she said. ‘So you asked?’ Joe said. Laura took a sip of her coffee to give her time to think of her answer. ‘A woman came to my home,’ she said. ‘I wanted to know who she was, but he wouldn’t say.’ Joe watched her for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘Okay, I understand,’ he said. ‘But will you call me if you find anything out?’ ‘Don’t make me spy on my boyfriend,’ Laura said quietly. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you to spy on Susie Bingham.’ He got to his feet. ‘And this conversation remains confidential. If no news comes this way, then none goes the other. Is that okay?’ Laura nodded slowly, and then gave a small laugh. ‘It will pique his interest more if I tell him.’ Joe smiled at that, but then he added, ‘I mean around the station too. We’ll pretend we haven’t spoken.’ ‘Why round here?’ Laura asked. ‘Who the hell is she?’ ‘I’ll tell you one day, but not just yet.’ Laura thought back to the early morning visit. Whatever the woman had said, it had sent Jack to London. ‘Is Jack in danger?’ Laura asked. Joe thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and then he walked off, his folder back under his arm, Rachel trailing behind him. When she was alone again, Laura glanced over towards the room she had been in before to see Thomas looking over, a concerned look on his face. As Laura turned away, she took a sip of coffee, just to occupy her mind—but her hand was shaking on the polystyrene cup. We turned into Lower Belgrave Street, and it seemed to immediately fall quiet, a haven so close to the bustle of Victoria. We found a pub halfway along, the Plumbers Arms, a dimly lit, one-room place with a dog-legged bar and high wooden seats, beer mats pinned up behind the bar and bright purple pansies hanging from baskets outside. Susie sat at one of the tables as far from the bar as she could, her eyes concealed behind dark glasses. She asked for a vodka and coke, and I settled for a pint of bitter. I watched as the froth disappeared before I had taken my first sip. I raised my glass. ‘To Claude Gilbert.’ Susie nodded, although she seemed uncomfortable. ‘He must live around here,’ I said. Susie flashed a thin smile. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Because you’re hiding, here in the corner, behind those dark glasses,’ I replied. ‘It’s the clientele, that’s all,’ she said, looking down. ‘They make me uncomfortable.’ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, looking around. There were a couple of suits by the doorway, their shirt collars unbuttoned, their ties pulled down, and the rest looked just like normal drinkers, except better dressed. ‘They’re just like you and me, relaxing after work.’ ‘No, they’re nothing like you and me,’ she said. ‘They’ve had all the chances, and I haven’t, and I can tell that they know that when they look at me.’ I patted her hand. ‘You’ve been in the North too long,’ I said, and then tapped my shoulder. ‘You need to lose the chip.’ Susie shuffled in her seat. ‘Yeah, maybe, but I know that you wouldn’t see people like that in Blackley, with that confidence, that sureness, like an arrogance, because the ones that have it leave Blackley and end up somewhere like this.’ I didn’t pursue it. I had come to London on the promise of a long-lost murderer coming out of hiding, and it had come to very little so far, so I wasn’t in the mood for Susie’s northern neurosis. Self-deprecation was the northern default, I knew that—get the hits in yourself before someone else has a go and hits even harder. I turned the conversation instead to small talk and kept on glancing around the pub as we chatted, watching how the barman worked the bar, always polishing and talking, like he knew the customers. He waved them goodbye and called them by their first name, so he was more than just some Australian working his gap year. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/neil-white/dead-silent/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.