DEAD SILENT

Chapter Four

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

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

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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