Книга - 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 (#u02d691f9-6f6d-524c-8e23-8530dfa3a86a)

Chapter Twenty-One (#uedc7454f-7387-503a-b2b9-1cce6069e177)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#u724d59ce-5f30-55d1-96d1-3c9a58c4f5f5)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#ua76d8adf-d35f-5a7c-9e6b-202fcdb5772d)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#udd324452-6136-58c2-938c-fe98c3fa34fc)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#u1c723b3b-a5f1-547f-af5b-42e34dde53f9)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#u308a9ef6-3e5f-5a1a-9c0b-b42bf83e8242)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#uba5bc82e-90ab-551b-95ab-1947040a7c43)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u03faf7f9-157c-5580-bcde-d0c014fe960a)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u90e7c9b0-6ffc-5272-8b9d-dc3c2f329586)

Chapter Thirty (#u5945d711-b0ef-55bb-84a2-f4b45eb3e656)

Chapter Thirty-One (#u597c5fb4-59fa-5dda-aaa9-0d76a7f845f7)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#u48a3f9df-9942-5a84-bd18-e7db80d8be86)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#u184260a6-b86a-5319-9ee8-cd7d6016e80e)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#u9890dfd4-74dc-572b-8123-ec708b280789)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#uc0cc215f-929f-5a0f-a7c0-05f37907e601)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#u68d1e064-9d1b-5c77-902a-37c0d414477c)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#u43c25f87-dd3c-504a-872c-d16d44b8898c)

Chapter Thirty-Eight (#u426fea7d-6a07-5f29-9911-79016d697cc7)

Chapter Thirty-Nine (#ud6ff4c10-be17-5988-afe7-e637cf108ba5)

Chapter Forty (#uce56f6e8-1249-5709-a159-9aede8d726ea)

Chapter Forty-One (#u41367ba7-4219-5c0b-8956-a486ff956684)

Chapter Forty-Two (#ua79f6202-c2a3-5dbe-bae8-5f4f26a34e8e)

Chapter Forty-Three (#u04d0531f-1a10-53b6-a1d3-13141ba2114d)

Chapter Forty-Four (#u46333e43-f6fc-5754-98c5-a2a543bbeb58)

Chapter Forty-Five (#u0329af38-e8c4-5f6f-9a95-1139d4c4c78f)

Chapter Forty-Six (#u902d1af3-f317-5530-9a23-288b12c087cd)

Chapter Forty-Seven (#ud7f929ea-06e0-5b91-b765-7bad3295fac6)

Chapter Forty-Eight (#u7e327d5d-a723-594f-9256-16373f371526)

Chapter Forty-Nine (#u9e7f8e7d-ccfc-5273-ba88-ad0860dac325)

Chapter Fifty (#uf5a768ef-1632-5783-a967-2ce78e4ed293)

Chapter Fifty-One (#u4253b78c-4fba-59ea-a041-a617d2071a07)

Chapter Fifty-Two (#u9c2c7621-0ed3-5eb9-81f4-e5b1123aefa2)

Chapter Fifty-Three (#uff172e13-31a3-5e7e-b1c6-e1fce2b1eb77)

Chapter Fifty-Four (#ubd258af4-487a-5433-aa95-0dbeb97970b4)

Chapter Fifty-Five (#ue882cac1-8a47-5846-b267-2a3c8eb08221)

Chapter Fifty-Six (#udda698ce-521c-5f28-91ff-2b5ac43a7cd6)

Chapter Fifty-Seven (#uc41ae84b-831a-56f3-8b16-0d846728e8bf)

Chapter Fifty-Eight (#ude6af353-0288-5454-afce-3446257292ad)

Chapter Fifty-Nine (#ud82d5cc3-269f-58eb-bdd5-d495cdd7e3d2)

Chapter Sixty (#u112bb56d-2114-51c8-83ff-2e1529ee7aa9)

Chapter Sixty-One (#u7f2e68b0-26fb-5b55-adbd-5e6bb42f1392)

Chapter Sixty-Two (#uda1726b9-c6c6-5cc9-90a5-3bb4b9a1b088)

Chapter Sixty-Three (#u307f5e0b-a688-55c3-aac6-fb5d729f1378)

Chapter Sixty-Four (#u3ae06aca-4716-5375-a86a-6fbd94e98e17)

Chapter Sixty-Five (#u2f6a81ec-a5bd-5803-9b9d-bc317fbe1023)

Chapter Sixty-Six (#ue9ccb539-34b9-5c81-bd94-4863a237069e)

Chapter Sixty-Seven (#u0fd571e3-2e98-5929-8f21-6e6157caaeea)

Chapter Sixty-Eight (#u0a07d99e-8e1f-538b-93b6-5ed0e0f5563b)

Chapter Sixty-Nine (#u0b8c5ae6-757e-55b3-9c87-39697488d74c)

Chapter Seventy (#u6144ab3f-69f0-5dd0-a578-0c3031a0f55a)

Chapter Seventy-One (#u9b61db09-359c-5ca6-9938-0a7f955fc0aa)

Chapter Seventy-Two (#ub650b88c-20d6-58f2-98ad-82c7214f2499)

Chapter Seventy-Three (#u2a7d280a-1d6d-52fa-aa0b-922b1095e5a4)

Chapter Seventy-Four (#ud2c44d0e-69d5-53fc-9448-561a4e8b4988)

Read on (#ulink_a7f2610e-33a2-5f7c-8b84-1de1fc840da3)

Chapter One (#u417cac9f-915c-5689-aaa3-a1b0011c7db2)

Chapter Two (#u0957c4ad-7170-55b0-be65-02b147eaf910)

Chapter Three (#ucdcb22cd-3ac6-55b4-88bf-28dcdd81b541)

Chapter Four (#ua9c30ea8-d9d1-50a2-8d64-8c2db8f0501d)

About the Author (#uc7cce675-91a7-52d4-969d-5d77a47b3c86)

Author's Note (#u06526ebe-ac29-5ccd-9dfd-3615b1b38f21)

Other Works (#ue722cb66-b8ba-53fc-936c-b4a1f413cffb)

Copyright (#u6e636836-475b-5528-a1a9-ad9f5d74128d)

About the Publisher (#u9c341032-73e3-5138-a03f-b01166a361b9)




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.’





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