Dead Silent (29 page)

I knew something was wrong as soon as I heard her.

I had been lying in bed, thinking about how I would get Claude’s story moving, when Laura gave a shout. I jumped out of bed and rushed downstairs. When she turned to look at me, I saw anger in her eyes.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked, and then I followed her gaze as she turned towards the front door. It was open. ‘Why is it like that?’

‘We’ve been burgled,’ she snapped at me.

I heard a noise behind me and turned to see Rachel stumbling to her feet from the sofa, her shirt and suit creased, her hair crumpled into a frizz.

‘What’s wrong?’ she croaked, and then she groaned and clutched her forehead.

‘We’ve been burgled,’ Laura repeated. ‘And you were here all along. Why didn’t you hear anything?’

Rachel looked down at herself and then her clothes, before her eyes hit on the empty glass.

‘I must have been tired,’ Rachel said. ‘I just drifted off.’

‘You were drunk,’ I barked at her, and then I looked over to the table. The laptop was still there, but the lid was open. I was sure I had closed it before I went upstairs. Then I noticed that the papers brought by Tony were missing.

‘A burglar doesn’t take papers and leave a laptop behind,’ I said. ‘Whoever was in here was after information.’

‘Assuming that someone
has
been in,’ Laura said, looking at Rachel.

Rachel understood the dig. ‘Are you saying I’ve got something to do with it?’

‘Why not?’ I said, my voice angry. ‘You want the information, you sleep on the sofa, and then the information disappears. Very convenient.’

Rachel winced and held her head as she swayed. ‘I’ve been asleep all night,’ Rachel said, and stumbled towards the stairs, heading for the bathroom.

Laura waited for her to go and then she picked up her phone and called the police. I listened as she gave her details, mentioned that she was a police officer, and then she turned to me. ‘Is there anything else missing?’

I looked around the rest of the room, expecting to see a gap under the television, where the games console was, but it was still there.

I shook my head. ‘Just my papers,’ I said. ‘Everything I had been working on.’

Laura looked at me, and then ended her call. ‘Are you sure you didn’t put them away somewhere?’

I shook my head.

‘What’s going on with this story, Jack?’

‘I don’t know,’ was my only reply. I was starting to wonder whether I was making enemies I couldn’t fight.

Then Laura looked past me, and I saw her face soften. I turned around. It was Bobby.

‘What’s happened, Mummy?’ he asked, his voice still sleepy. ‘Why are you shouting?’

I saw Laura’s face lose some of its anger. ‘Nothing,’ she
said brightly. ‘It’s nothing,’ and then she went to him and took him back upstairs.

I sat at the table, where I had been sitting the night before, and realised that I hadn’t closed the curtains. There had been a clear view from the outside. Although our position at the top of the hill didn’t make us immune from the usual urban problems, an opportunistic burglar wouldn’t waste time with copies of old newspaper articles. No, it was for some other reason, and that reason had to be connected with the Gilbert case.

And then I realised something else: if it wasn’t Rachel, then whoever had done it must have been watching me all along.

Laura could tell how busy the station would be from the state of the car park. Cars were parked along the grass verges on the road that ran past the building and so Laura had to leave hers in the car park of a nearby DIY store. As she walked in, she could hear the buzz of conversation coming from the atrium. There were clusters of officers in dark blue jump suits eating and talking—the search teams who would spend the morning on their hands and knees, combing the scene for leftovers from the murder. A cigarette butt, a broken piece of jewellery, maybe a dropped receipt. The women in the canteen bustled around as the queue for the breakfast sandwiches snaked along a wall.

As Laura walked into the briefing room, it was quieter than normal, most people having been recruited into the grunt work on the murder case. Her sergeant saw her and beckoned her over. When Laura got close, the sergeant pointed at Thomas, who was watching the hubbub through the glass wall. ‘It’s his first murder and so he’s getting twitchy,’ the sergeant whispered. ‘I’ve spoken to the crime scene manager, and she’s okay for you two to preserve the scene and keep the local interest away. You know what it’ll be like, well-wishers with flowers. Keep them back and let the search team deal with everything, but let Thomas see how a murder scene works.’

Laura nodded. ‘No problems, but can you give me ten minutes?’ she said. ‘I just need to speak to someone.’

Her sergeant checked her watch and then said, ‘Frankie Cass?’

‘Why do you say that?’ Laura said.

‘He was asking to see you before. If you go down to the cells, make it quick.’

Laura was confused as she left the briefing room. Why would Frankie Cass ask for her? How did he know anything about her? Frankie would have to wait a few minutes though. She had somewhere else to go first.

Laura weaved her way through the atrium to get to the floor above. When she arrived at the burglary team’s office, no one looked up. She was just another woman in a uniform, so she rapped hard on the door frame, in no mood to be ignored.

They were all men, young and cocky, dressed in jeans and polo shirts. The one nearest to her, small and thin, with a dark crewcut and a neck ravaged by a shaving rash, raised his eyebrows. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I was burgled this morning,’ she said. ‘Crime Scenes are coming out later, but I want to know whether you know of anyone targeting rural properties.’

He looked around the room, just to check if anyone had any ideas, then he shook his head. ‘Forget Crime Scenes today. They’ll be with the murder all day.’ When Laura turned away, frustrated, he shouted after her, ‘And we haven’t heard of anyone targeting rural houses. Not small-fry anyway.’ When Laura turned back, he added, ‘No offence. The rural houses that get done over tend to be the big ones, targeted by the big guns from Manchester or Liverpool, looking for the safe stuffed with jewels. You know how it is with the rest. They live near the burglar, just because it
means they don’t have to walk as far with the stuff. Did they take your car?’

Laura shook her head.

‘Was anything taken?’

‘Just some papers my partner was working on.’

He held his hands out in apology. ‘Then it doesn’t sound like you were burgled. Most houses that get burgled now get done for the car keys. Everything else is either too cheap for the risk or too heavy to carry—but your car?’ And he laughed. ‘Even gets them home.’

‘Okay, thanks for your help,’ Laura said sarcastically.

As she walked along the landing, she realised why there was the lack of interest. An unsolved crime looks bad, and so it’s easier to say that it isn’t a crime at all.

Laura checked her watch. She had time to see Frankie Cass, to find out what he wanted.

She made her way to the stairs and down to the cell complex, two corridors of windowless box rooms that stretched away from the custody desk.

The custody suite was accessed through two sets of large locked doors, like an air lock, usually occupied by bored-looking solicitors’ clerks waiting for their turn in the interview room. Her swipe card took her through, and she saw that the custody area was quiet. It was centred around a high desk made from polished wood, two custody sergeants behind it, responsible for a corridor of cells each. When it was busy, it seemed like it needed to be bigger, with sullen prisoners jostling the desk as their solicitors did their best to get their paperwork completed, flanked by the investigating officers, and with a holding cell next to the entrance overflowing with new arrivals. But when it was quiet, it was somewhere for the sergeants and civilian jailers to talk away the day, their eyes on the clock to make sure they didn’t miss a review or spot-check.

Laura’s eyes went straight to the custody list on the wall behind the desk, seven names written in green on a whiteboard, bold and clear so that any officer could check the board to see whether any of their own suspects were in easy reach. Most criminals either stop completely or keep getting caught. Not many got better at it.

As Laura looked at the board, she saw that Frankie was still in a cell, his name top of the list, writ large. One of the custody sergeants glanced up from his screen and then folded his arms.

Custody sergeants were a strange breed, responsible for the prisoners in the cells, not catching criminals, and so they acted more like border guards, paying close attention to who came through. Laura sensed that she was trespassing.

‘He’s asking for me,’ she said, jabbing her finger towards Frankie’s name.

‘Not for much longer,’ he said. ‘Frankie Cass is going home in a few minutes.’

‘But why?’

‘Because Kinsella didn’t pull his finger out soon enough, or pass it on.’

‘Joe got dragged into the murder last night,’ Laura said.

The sergeant pointed at the clock behind him. ‘It doesn’t stop that from ticking. Cass has stewed in there all night, and so he’s going home.’

‘Just let me see what he wants.’

The sergeant pursed his lips and seemed to think for a few seconds, though Laura sensed that he was just exercising his power, that he had already made his decision. ‘Through the hatch, and make it quick.’ He pointed. ‘Number six.’

Laura peeled away from the desk and walked down the corridor. She felt the air become oppressive as the people within sweated out the drugs and the booze, the stink of
dirty humanity seeping out from under the solid metal doors. As she got to cell number six, she lifted the metal bar that kept the hatch in place and let it drop down so that she could put her face through.

She took a deep breath as the smell of the cell hit her. It was too warm—it was always that way, to stop prisoners needing blankets, so they had one less thing to wrap around their necks—and so she got the full strength of Frankie’s smell: warm feet and dirty clothes. He was curled up on a plastic mattress on a raised platform, the wall tiled white, with an aluminium toilet in the corner. There was no seat or paper.

‘Frankie, I’m Laura McGanity,’ she said. ‘You asked for me.’

He didn’t move or give any hint that he knew she was there. He just stared at the wall opposite, his hands clamped between his legs, as if he was trying to knot himself up.

‘Is it about the night Mrs Gilbert died?’ she said.

He stirred slightly at that.

‘Who was there?’ she asked.

Laura thought he was going to stay silent, but he turned his head slowly towards her.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘For taking pictures.’

Laura was surprised at that. ‘Pictures?’

He nodded. ‘I took some pictures of you. I’m sorry.’

Laura was shocked. Then she remembered the noise in the house, the sensation of being watched, the noises outside, and tried to control her anger.

‘That was you that night, wasn’t it, Frankie?’ she said. ‘You came to my home.’

His gaze dropped. ‘I’m sorry.’

Laura thought about slamming the hatch closed, trying
not to think about what pictures might have been taken. Or, more importantly, who might have seen them.

‘Just tell me about the night Nancy Gilbert died,’ she said, cajoling, trying to keep a lid on her temper.

‘She told me not to tell the police.’

‘Your mother?’

Frankie nodded.

‘But time has passed now,’ Laura said, ‘and the man who killed Nancy still hasn’t been caught. You liked her, didn’t you, Frankie?’

He nodded and blushed.

‘So help us find out who killed her.’

‘I don’t know who killed her.’

‘But you told Jack that two people were there.’

He thought for a few seconds, and then he said, ‘She told me not to tell the police.’ He turned over to face the wall.

Laura sighed with frustration and closed the hatch, the clang echoing in the corridor. Someone in the cell next door began to kick at the door and shout for their solicitor. Laura thumped it back and walked back to the custody desk.

The sergeant barely looked at her as she left. Back in the atrium, she glanced upwards to the top floor. Joe Kinsella was there again, leaning against the rail and watching the growing crowd downstairs. Then Laura saw the stream of blonde hair behind him. Rachel had done well to make it in so early. Frankie couldn’t have been the person to break in, which made the list of suspects very short. The burglary team might be right, that no one had broken in. Maybe the thief had been in the house all along. And if that was Rachel’s game, Laura knew that she would have to play by her own rules.

Then she heard a voice behind her.

‘PC McGanity?’

Laura turned around and saw a tall man with a broad chest and deep tan, his shirt crisp and white, his decorated pips marking out his rank. Chief Inspector.

‘Sir?’

‘We need to talk,’ he said, and he directed Laura towards one of the rooms on the first floor.

Mike Dobson smiled as he lay back in his bed and looked out of his window, the curtains open, the sky blue, broken only by the occasional wisp of cloud. It felt like it had been a long time coming, this feeling of contentment, of belonging. It was another sunny day, but he hadn’t heard the knocking, or been disturbed by the feeling of someone watching him, just at the edge of his vision. Mary was cleaning downstairs, as always.

He checked his watch. He had an hour before his first appointment. He could take some time to enjoy the morning.

He looked at the ceiling, noticing that the paint looked faded, perhaps in need of a touch-up. He thought of how often he had looked at the ceiling with Mary alongside him. Years, he knew that. He knew that Mary was proud of their house, from the way that she cleaned it constantly. It was tidy, contemporary, her imprint on the world.

No, it was more than that. It was their home. He should do more to make it feel that way.