Dead Silent (32 page)

He let out a moan and dropped the plastic in his hand. When it clattered onto the polished wooden floor, the old lady looked round.

‘Are you still here?’ she snapped.

He looked at the floor, his hand clasped to his forehead, damp and clammy; it seemed to sway underneath him, the grooves and grain moving together, the memories rushing through his head. But they were all vague. He remembered her smell, the Chanel perfume. He remembered the feel of the blanket under him, her bony pelvis on him, the way her hair felt soft in his fingers, but it all seemed blurred now.

He heard a name. Hazel. He hadn’t known her name. Had never asked for it.

He looked at the television again. She had gone now. Was he sure he had seen it?

The old lady was looking at him strangely. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked, more concerned now.

He nodded and scooped up the rest of his things under his arm. He had to get out.

He thought he was going to vomit as he rushed along to the front door, and sucked in the fresh air when he got outside. He looked at his car. A gold Mercedes. Distinctive,
bold. Then he remembered the policewoman from the other day. She said he was on a database. Kerb-crawlers. She would remember the car.

He looked along the street and checked for the police. He couldn’t see anything. He walked quickly to his car and threw his samples into the back before he clambered into the driver’s seat. He checked his rearview mirror. No one there, as far as he could tell. He tried shallow breathing to get his pulse down, but he could feel his heart still drumming fast in his chest, his fingers tight around the wheel.

What had happened the night before? She had been alive when he left her, he was sure of that, but then he thought of Nancy and squeezed his eyes shut and clamped his hands over his ears as the bangs and shouts came back to him again, muffled, desperate.

He had to stay calm. Maybe no one had seen him with her. She wasn’t in her usual place when he’d met her. She had been walking along the street, no other girls nearby.

He drove away slowly, not wanting to attract any attention. The journey home seemed too long, every red light against him, all the time sitting exposed at the wheel, expecting to see the flicker of blue lights behind him.

His estate loomed ahead, and he started to think of what he would say to Mary. The police would come to his house, he knew that now, and then what would he say? How could he tell Mary that he was on a database for kerb-crawlers, that the girl had been alive when he’d left her?

Had
she been alive when he’d left her? Last night had been exhilarating, confusing. Could he remember actually leaving her?

Then he slammed on his brakes, causing a horn to sound loudly behind him. An angry face shouted at him as the car drove slowly past, but something had occurred to him: DNA.
There would be traces of his all over her, and his car might still have some of hers inside. A stray hair, or the sweat from her hands on the dashboard.

He needed some thinking time. He thought about taking the car to be cleaned, but then he realised that the valets might have heard about it on the radio, and then it would look suspicious.

He reversed quickly into a nearby street, parked his car and jumped out. He was on a dead-end street not far from his own. He looked around again to check that he hadn’t been seen, and walked quickly away.

As the entrance to his street came into view, he slowed down. His house was the first one on the cul-de-sac, and so he needed to be careful. As he got closer, he saw a car on his drive, one he hadn’t seen before. Someone was there, an unexpected visitor. It was happening already. The police. They were there, looking for him.

He tried to think about where to go. Who else knew? He looked around, panicking, checking for the twitch of a curtain. He didn’t know where to go, what to do. He had lived with the gut-tearing fear of this moment for more than twenty years, that he would hear the clang of the cell door every day until his life ended, instead of the early summer birdsong that brought Nancy back to him vividly every year.

He closed his eyes as he thought of her again, but this made him sway and he felt clammy. He opened his eyes, took some deep breaths. He could hear children laughing and playing in the distance, as always. Normal life. Why couldn’t he have some of that?

But he knew why.

He started walking quickly, needing to get away.

Then he remembered the reporter. Mike Dobson knew he couldn’t go to the police, but the reporter was interested
in his story. He was a crime reporter. He might know what was going on with the murder, whether or not he was a suspect. And he could tell his side of the story. That was the deal, he remembered it now.

He drew out his wallet, rummaging among the petrol receipts and business cards, and then he found it: Jack Garrett’s card. There were phone numbers. He could make a call, get some help.

He pulled out his phone, about to make the call, but then he hesitated. What if he was overreacting? Maybe he shouldn’t rush it. He needed some thinking time.

Susie Bingham’s flat wasn’t what I expected.

Laura had called, checking whether I was with Mike Dobson. I wasn’t, but she let slip that he was wanted for Hazel’s murder. It was all coming together for Claude, and so now was the time. The story was going in, and Claude had to come out.

Susie’s flat was on the ground floor of a three-storey Victorian building on the edge of the town centre, the windows covered in dust, the white paint flaking off the rotting window frames. Telephone wires cross-crossed the street and a blue trainer hung from one, marking out some teenage territory. The cars along the street looked beaten up, old Rovers and Toyotas, and I guessed that most of the houses were owned by private landlords, charging rents as high as the state would subsidise.

Susie’s name was stuck to a doorbell but the front door opened as I pushed it. It gave into a dark hallway, and when I knocked on the first door, Susie’s face appeared behind the security chain.

‘Jack?’ she said, surprised.

‘I’ve got some news.’

Susie unhooked the security chain and opened the door. Walking in, I was taken aback by what I saw.

The flat was small and tired looking, really just two rooms, with a living room at the front containing little more than a sagging pink sofa and a small silver television perched on a rickety round table. The kitchen was in the corner of the room, just a fridge, cooker and a sink. I caught a glimpse of her bedroom through an archway, no door separating the two rooms, only an old blue curtain that hovered beside an old gas meter rooted to the floor.

‘How long have you lived here?’ I asked.

‘A few years,’ she said defensively.

As I looked around, she pulled a cigarette from her packet and lit it, as if to emphasise that I was in her home now. The ashtray on the corner of the sofa was half-filled with screwed-up cigarette butts and, gazing up, I saw the ceiling was yellowed by smoke. Then I saw something in the kitchen area that explained why her legal career had taken a dive, confirming the truth of what Rachel had said: that Susie was just a small-town boozer.

I walked over to the fridge and lifted two vodka miniatures from the small collection that Susie had there; when I glanced in the rubbish bin, I saw more of them, empty.

‘Developing a problem?’ I queried.

‘What do you mean?’ she said, coughing out smoke as she did so. ‘And what business is it of yours anyway?’

My laugh was caustic. ‘I’ve been dragged down to London to meet your boyfriend, who you just happened to see in a chance meeting, and you’ve got me selling his story, the big-money scoop. And all the time I’ve had this doubt, tapping away in the back of my head, that maybe I’ve been wrong all along—that you and your beau were going to take your share and run, once everyone realises that he isn’t Claude Gilbert and I’ll be the one left behind with a ruined reputation, all because some old soak tried to con me.’

Susie looked close to tears. ‘What do you mean, old soak?’

‘A drunk, an alcoholic.’

‘I’m not an alcoholic,’ she protested.

‘The miniature bottles,’ I said, my voice rising, waving them in the air. ‘The first refuge for the alcoholic in denial. What game do you play, Susie? Buy them as an afterthought just as you’re about to leave the shop, so that no one suspects how much you need them? After all, it’s just a small bottle or two. Just a nip here, or a nip there. Except that you do it every time, and now you’re the joke of the shop. I bet they’re already reaching for the miniatures as you turn around, waiting for you to turn back and say,
oh, and just a couple of those.’

Susie looked down and said nothing.

‘What happened to your legal career, Susie?’

She didn’t reply.

‘Did it become more about the chambers parties than the courtroom? Did you wobble your way in, one too many times?’

‘Go, please.’

‘No.’

‘Please,’ she said, and when she raised her head, I could see tears running down her cheeks.

I shook my head. ‘I want to know whether I’ve been wasting my time,’ I said, ‘and if I’m not satisfied with your answer, I walk away.’

Susie took a long draw on her cigarette, the orange tip quivering, and stared at me through the smoke.

‘Yeah, maybe I like a drink a bit too much,’ she said quietly. ‘But I’m not dishonest. Not now, not ever. The man I love is Claude Gilbert. If you don’t believe me and won’t write the story, he’ll keep on running, because he knows what will happen if he comes forward without his story being told first.’

I looked at her, trying to find the truth in her eyes but seeing only desperation. I had no idea whether or not it was just the need to get away from that flat, to have a new start with some money in her pocket, even though it would all go on vodka, or whether she truly believed that she could start a new life with a man she professed to love. I could tell one thing though: she didn’t have the look of a calculating con-artist, and that was good enough for me.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

She nodded a teary smile, and wiped her eyes. ‘You told me you had some news?’

I remembered then why I had sought her out. ‘It’s about Mike Dobson.’

Susie looked up.

‘He’s a suspect in a murder that took place last night.’

She looked surprised at that. ‘A murder?’

I nodded. ‘A young woman found with her head bashed in. A prostitute. Dobson might have been her last client.’

Susie brightened up at the news. ‘That’ll help Claude, won’t it?’ She stubbed out the cigarette and stood, some animation in her eyes now. ‘It’ll show that he wasn’t just making it up.’

‘Maybe,’ I replied.

‘So what now?’

‘I’m writing the story tonight. It’s going on the front page tomorrow.’

Susie looked surprised at that. ‘Already? I mean, does Claude know? What if he’s not ready?’

‘He’s got to be ready. It’s affecting my family now, and so I can’t wait any longer. Tell Claude he needs to come in tonight. Get him to call me.’

Susie nodded and then sat down again, biting the nail on her middle finger. ‘I need a night with him,’ she said. ‘Our
lives will never be the same again. He’ll be in the spotlight, people will want to talk to him.’

‘He might not get much further than a cell,’ I countered. ‘This isn’t just one news conference and then you both live happily ever after. The police might not believe him. Dobson might have an alibi.’

‘But it’s his best chance,’ she said. ‘I want one last night. Tomorrow, everything changes.’

‘I don’t care,’ I said, my voice firm, softened only by my guilt for the rant from a few moments before. ‘Get him to call me later, to make the arrangements. We meet tonight, and he goes public first thing. If he doesn’t call, I expose him, and I leave out everything about Mike Dobson.’

‘He’ll do it,’ she said eventually.

Although, as I left her, I couldn’t help but worry that I had just frightened away the best story of my career.

So this was it, I thought, as I looked at the blank screen in front of me. The story had to be written. I’d given Susie the ultimatum, that it was tonight or never, and I was just waiting for the phone call from Claude so I would know where to go.

It wasn’t a hard story to write. I knew how Harry would want it, blunt and sensationalist, claiming that Claude was out of hiding and protesting his innocence. That would be the hook-line for the front page, most of the story on a double-spread on the inside pages. I would write the story in the order that it unfolded: Susie’s visit and then the trip to London. Claude’s account would come next, and then Frankie’s photos would back up his story about Nancy’s affair and the child not being his.

Bobby was watching the television at the other end of the room and I was able to work without much interruption. I felt a twinge of guilt that I wasn’t paying more attention to him, that I had opted for the flat-screen babysitter, but I had to get the story in and I was feeling that buzz of writing to a major deadline.

My phone went off, the vibrations making it spin on the table. When I looked at the home screen, it showed a number I didn’t recognise. I answered and heard a slurred voice
asking, ‘Is this Jack Garrett?’ When I asked who was speaking, the voice said, ‘Mike Dobson.’

I tried to sound nonchalant, but I knew the police were looking for him, and so I reached for my notepad and pen.

‘Mr Dobson, thanks for calling. I’m putting the story together now. Have you got anything you wish to say?’

There was a pause, and for a moment I thought that I’d lost the connection, but then he said, ‘I want to tell you what happened.’

‘With what?’

‘With Nancy Gilbert.’

‘Talk away.’

‘I can’t, not here,’ he replied. ‘You need to come and get me. I’m in the park next to Nancy Gilbert’s house.’

My mouth went dry and I pressed the pen harder into the paper.

‘Just wait where you are,’ I said. ‘It’ll take me about twenty minutes to get there.’