DEAD SILENT. Neil White

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      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ