Dead Silent (41 page)

‘But you did,’ I said.

Lake scowled. ‘This runner of mine, he admitted that he was the driver. He went to the police voluntarily, told them how he couldn’t remember much about the accident, he was in shock, but he remembered hitting her, and then he panicked when he saw her, and so he left her at the scene.’

‘What happened?’

‘He got two months in jail for not stopping at the accident, and a ban from driving.’

‘Not much for a girl’s life.’

Lake nodded, still not looking at me. ‘No, it’s not, and most people thought the same. The poor fucker was chased off the estate, couldn’t go see his parents or anything. You see, it wasn’t that he knocked her over, because these things happen, but that she was left to die on her own, in the street, sweets all over the fucking road, no one to hold her, to tell her that she would be all right.’

‘And so his girlfriend came to see you, because she was angry with you, because it was your car,’ I said. ‘So you shoved a glass in her face.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ he said, looking up at last. ‘She came into the pub mouthing off, screaming how she was going to get him to talk, how it was all my fault, that I was nothing but a coward, that I had killed that girl. She just twisted my buttons, and I fucking lost it. I had been drinking, was holding a glass, and I just threw things, my fists, whatever I could get my hands on. I would have fucking killed her if I hadn’t been held back.’

As I looked at him, I guessed the truth, and realised that the look in his eyes that I couldn’t work out was guilt, and remorse, something that haunted him for more than twenty years.

‘You were the one driving the car, weren’t you?’

Lake didn’t say anything at first, just swirled his drink some more, and then he put his head back on the sofa and took some deep breaths.

‘All I saw was her hair,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s what I remember, her fucking hair. I was driving along, a tape in the player, singing along. And why not? Life was fucking good. I was the man, someone people looked up to. The next thing
I know I’ve got this girl right in front of my car, her face scared, and then it’s like slow motion. It was her hair, you see, all blonde and long and sort of frizzy. It was coming towards me, and then it hit the windscreen, the worst sound you could ever hear, like dropping a melon. Fucking blonde hair everywhere, flying through the air, and then stuck into the windscreen, blood dripping through the cracks, and then she slid off.’

‘You left her?’

Lake nodded slowly, his lips pursed. ‘I can’t explain it. But I was untouchable, or so I thought, and there I was, reduced to some fucking clown, with a kid’s brains all over my car windscreen. It didn’t seem real. So I played the big man for a bit longer. I backed up and turned the car around, left her in the road.’

‘And when the police tracked you down, you got one of your runners to take the blame,’ I said, failing to hide the disgust in my voice.

Lake nodded. ‘I thought I could deal with it, thought that the police would lose interest, and then my life would go back to normal. My runner owed me some money, and so he went to jail, the pay-off, the debt gone, and I carried on as normal. Except that I couldn’t carry on. I saw her all the time, the girl, like a flurry of hair coming at me fast. I started to hang around the graveyard, and I would see her parents putting flowers on her grave, sobbing and wailing. I wanted to say something, but there was no point. What could I say? And then that mouthy little bitch came into the club, shouting that I didn’t care. But I did care. I had made a mistake, and nothing I could do would make it better, and she just hit the spot.’ He sighed. ‘That was it for me. I decided when I was inside that I was starting again. I learnt a bit of sculpture, and when I came out I carried it on. It helped me move on, gave me something to think about.’

‘And why does this have anything to do with Claude Gilbert?’ I asked.

‘Because he knew about the girl. Claude didn’t tell me how he found out, because he thought it made him powerful, that he knew people who knew things, but it wasn’t too hard to work out. The girlfriend told the police, but she didn’t put it in writing in case it got her boyfriend in more trouble. If the police knew, they might have mentioned it to the prosecution, and so the prosecuting barrister found out, and you know what barristers are like, most of them working in the same building. It doesn’t matter normally, because they play by the rules, but what happens when they don’t? So Claude called me, out of the blue. It had been ten fucking years, but he was heading back to England. He told me that he’d seen how well I’d done and that if I didn’t help him he would make sure everyone knew about the girl. My dirty little fucking secret.’ Lake took another sip of whisky. ‘It was just somewhere to live, that’s all. He sorted his own cash out, but I let him live in my place. He paid me rent, but it wasn’t much. Below the fucking market price, but property was going up and he was keeping it maintained.’

‘And that was it?’

Lake nodded.

‘So where does Chief Inspector Roach fit into all this?’ I asked.

Lake laughed and shook his head. ‘Fucking nowhere, at first. He’s a hanger-on. Just because he wrote some trashy cash-in book on Claude Gilbert, he thinks he’s in with the arty set, so he turns up at my exhibitions, flashing his cheque book. But he buys my pieces, the fucking mug, and so one day we end up talking about Claude Gilbert. Or, rather, he does, because that’s his party piece, his attention grabber, that he once dug up a corpse. Not exactly an achievement. What did it take,
one spade and thirty minutes? Anyhow, he starts to hint that he knows about Claude living in my flat.’

‘How did he know?’

‘He was writing a follow-up book, reckoned there was a demand for it, and he was looking at me for the same reason you were,’ he said. ‘He investigated my assets and found out about the flat, and so he took a trip down there.’

‘What made him go to London?’

‘Just to be thorough,’ he said. ‘He was going to paint me as the rich northern wide boy, with properties in Belgravia. He went to the flat, and who should answer the door but fucking Claude Gilbert.’

‘So why wasn’t he arrested?’

‘Because Roach saw the pound signs slipping away. The interest in the Gilbert story was the mystery, not the story. If Gilbert ends up in a cell, people might lose interest, so he called me, told me what he’d seen. He gave me an ultimatum: money or Claude. For me, it was an easy decision. I gave him a hundred grand, a gift, tax free, and a forty per cent share in the company. He thought he was sitting on a gold mine, a Belgravia property.’

‘So now Claude wants to come home, Roach is nervous,’ I said.

‘Very, but then you helped us out.’

‘How so?’

‘You helped to get Mike Dobson in a cell, so that he could tell his story.’

I was confused now. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘We knew the story, Claude had told me, and we guessed that you had met Claude. Once Dobson was brought in, we knew what Claude was doing.’

‘Explain.’

‘Dobson was supposed to stay quiet, to protect himself.
Claude thought Dobson was weak and a coward, and so he wouldn’t say anything about what happened to Nancy, because if he stayed silent, there would be no evidence against him. Dobson was a red herring, nothing more, his silence just more proof that he must be the real killer, letting Claude off the hook. But Claude’s gamble on Dobson’s silence failed, because Dobson talked, and that was down to Roach tweaking his conscience. So Claude has got to run again, and for as long as he keeps running, our dirty little secrets stay that way, as secrets. Except that you’ve done his dirty work for him, because you’re going to write about us anyway.’

‘But Claude took his gamble a step further,’ I said. ‘He killed a woman to blame Dobson.’

Lake shook his head. ‘That’s his problem: he’s over-elaborate.’

‘So where is Claude now?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lake said. ‘I know he’s left London, because he turned up here, demanding to be accommodated. He told me that he won’t be going back.’

‘And did he stay here?’

‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ Lake said. ‘Claude Gilbert in my spare room would be hard to hide.’

‘How do I know you aren’t lying?’ I said. ‘You don’t want Claude found.’

Lake pointed at me. ‘You’re the reason.’ When I looked confused, he said, ‘My secret is out now. I’ve nothing to gain any more.’

‘Does Northern Works own any other buildings he might be able to use?’ I said.

Lake raised his glass to me. ‘You know the answer to that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The company search you did, left on your table, next to your computer.’

I took a deep breath, my anger building now. ‘You went into my house.’

‘I had to know how much you’d found out,’ he said.

I looked towards the high windows, at the rain running down the panes. ‘You’re just full of grubby little secrets, aren’t you, Lake?’ I said. ‘Dead girls, fugitive murderers, bent coppers. You never really moved on.’

‘I don’t need your approval,’ he said. ‘Look at yourself, at how you were taken in by a conman, too greedy for the big story. The big question was not why he came forward, but why now, and if you had worked that out earlier, you wouldn’t be in this mess, trying to find your missing girlfriend.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

‘The inheritance,’ he said. ‘Claude’s father on his deathbed and his sisters trying to get a declaration of death, so that Claude’s share goes to them. Like you, he’s greedy, just after the money, gambling on Dobson’s silence so that he can grab his share of the estate.’

I sat back and ran my fingers through my hair, frustrated. I knew more now, but I was no nearer to finding Laura.

‘Why would Claude take Laura?’ I said.

‘Greedy people don’t like losing out, and so it’s just plain old revenge,’ Lake said. ‘I’ve spoiled his great plan, and so he’s lashing out, like he lashed out at Nancy when he found out she had been sleeping around.’ He sat forward. ‘You need to find Laura quickly though, because if you think of what happened to Nancy, you know just how nasty he gets when he strikes back.’

I closed my eyes, knowing just how true that sounded.

I was back outside Susie’s house, with Joe this time, who was waiting for me outside, trying to shelter from the rain under a shop awning.

‘This is a shitty part of town to end up in,’ Joe said.

‘I’ve been here before,’ I said, and looked along the street. There was no sign of a green Mini, and the house was quiet.

Joe went into the shop next door as I pressed my face up against Susie’s window. The curtains were drawn so it was impossible to see inside, and I couldn’t hear any movement.

Joe came out of the shop. ‘Claude’s been here for a couple of days,’ he said. ‘The shopkeeper recognised the description. He hasn’t seen him today though, or Susie. She wasn’t here last night either.’

‘How does he know?’

‘Because she plays her music too loud when she gets drunk, and he didn’t hear it last night. She bought some booze yesterday, and so he expected a noisy night, but he doesn’t complain. She’s good for trade.’

I pushed open the communal front door and rapped hard on Susie’s door. No answer. I knocked again. Still no reply. Then I heard a door open on the landing above and a face appeared over the rail.

‘Are you the police?’ It was a man in his thirties, with long
dark hair trailing over the railing, the words coming out in a drawl. The sickly scent of cannabis wafted down the stairs.

Joe looked up. ‘Yes. We’re looking for Susie Bingham. Have you seen her?’

He shook his head in response, his hair swaying from side to side. Joe turned away, but then the man said, ‘I heard her though.’

Joe looked up again. ‘What did you hear?’

‘Just like a row, man. Shouting, and something got broken, and then it went quiet, like eerie.’

‘When?’

‘Last night.’

Joe went upstairs and showed him Frankie’s photograph of Claude, his hand over Laura. ‘Do you recognise him?’

The man pulled his hair to one side and then nodded. ‘He stays here sometimes. Funny dude. Doesn’t speak. Keeps out of the way. She’s sweet though.’

‘Do you and Susie talk much?’ Joe said.

‘Yeah, like all the time, man,’ he said. ‘She comes up for a smoke sometimes.’

‘Does she talk about her love life?’

‘Sometimes. She told me that she was all loved up, that she would go for drives with a man, that kind of thing.’

‘Did she say where?’

He shook his head. ‘Just in the country somewhere. Said it was their special place.’

Joe came back down the stairs and aimed a kick at the door. It took three sharp kicks to the lock area to splinter the wood, and then a fourth to make the door swing open.

Joe and I exchanged glances and then entered. The flat was empty and even messier than when I had been in before. Papers were scattered on the floor and a bottle had been knocked over. Then I saw a dark patch by the fire.

‘Is that blood?’

Joe got to his knees to look closer. ‘That would be my guess,’ he said, and pointed me towards the bedroom. ‘Find some clue about her life with Claude. We need to know more.’

I went through the archway, pulled aside the old blue curtain, the one concession to privacy. I hadn’t got a good look before, and so I was surprised by how different the bedroom was to the rest of the flat. It was chintzy and bright, with a white silky four-poster and pink heart-shaped cushions, clean and tidy. There was a white dresser, with a mirror surrounded by lights, like something from an end-of-pier dressing room, and the curtains were shiny and pink, to match the cushions. The bedroom seemed like a haven, somewhere for Susie to escape the failures elsewhere in her life, and there was a doorway to a bathroom.

‘What do you think about this?’ Joe said, passing me a framed photograph through the curtain. It showed Susie and Claude relaxing together by a river. It was recent, showing Claude’s full beard and straggly hair; there was a bit of stone in the foreground suggesting that the pictures were taken using a self-timer. Claude was smiling into the camera but Susie was staring up at him, a look of devotion on her face. ‘Their special place?’