DEAD SILENT

NEIL WHITE

Dead Silent

AVON

Dedication

To Thomas, Samuel and Joseph, as always

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

May 1988

Chapter One—Present Day

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Read on

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

About the Author

Author's Note

Other Works

Copyright

About the Publisher

May 1988

Bill Hunter looked through the wrought-iron gates as he came to a halt outside Claude Gilbert’s house. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the interior of the police car heavy with the first real promise of summer, and turned to his passenger, Paul Roach, a fresh-faced young officer with scrubbed cheeks and the swagger of youth on his side.

‘Do you know why houses like this are on a hill?’ Hunter said, and pointed towards the large Edwardian property, a square block of sandstone walls and white corners, roses creeping around the edges, a wide gravel drive leading to the doors at the front.

Roach didn’t seem interested, responding with a shrug.

‘It kept the professionals out of the smog when the mills were running,’ Hunter continued. ‘It was peasants like us who had to live in the valley, where the smoke from the chimneys choked us every day.’

Like Rome, Blackley had been built on seven hills, except that Blackley’s majesty didn’t go much beyond the terraced strips and large stone cotton mills that scarred the once-green slopes.

‘The clogs and machinery are long gone, old man,’ Roach said, and then he looked back to the house and smiled. ‘I wouldn’t mind a piece of this though.’

‘What about the old-fashioned stuff, like making a difference?’ Hunter said.

Roach nodded at the sheen on Hunter’s worn-out trousers and the scuffs on his shoes. ‘You’re not a great career advert,’ he said.

Hunter turned off the engine and it seemed suddenly quiet, the bustle of the town centre out of earshot, just the long curve of the street in front of them, the houses bordered by ivy-covered high walls. He reached for his jacket and climbed out of the car.

Roach joined him on the pavement and looked around. ‘So where has Gilbert gone?’ he said.

‘We won’t find out standing here,’ Hunter said, and he pushed at the gate, the creak from the old hinges the only sound in the street.

‘Do you think they’ll serve us strawberries on the lawn?’ Roach said.

Hunter shook his head, and then, as the gates clanged against the supporting brick pillars, he stepped onto the gravel drive, the confetti of cherry blossom blowing against his shoes.

‘What’s he like, Claude Gilbert?’ Roach asked.

‘Depends on which Claude you mean,’ Hunter said. ‘The television Claude, the morning show legal expert, the media’s favourite barrister—he’s a real charmer.’

‘And the courthouse Claude?’ Roach said.

‘Like a lot of them, stars in their own universe,’ Hunter said. ‘When you’ve been in the job longer, and you’ve been spat on and punched and uncovered sudden deaths, then maybe you’ll look at lawyers’ houses and wonder why they get so much when we do all the dirty work.’

‘It’s a great view though,’ Roach replied, looking along the lawns, and when he heard Hunter grunt his disapproval, he added: ‘You’re a dinosaur, Bill. The miners’ strike ended the class war. Do you remember them all marching back? That was the end of the revolution, so let’s cut out the working-class hero stuff. Thatcher won.’

Hunter scowled as he watched Roach march towards the double doors at the front of the house.

‘When were they last seen?’ Roach shouted over his shoulder.

‘About a week ago,’ Hunter replied.

‘So it could be a holiday.’

‘Claude’s chambers don’t think so. He’s halfway through an assault trial, and by disappearing they’ve had to abort it.’

‘What, you think they’ve run away?’

‘It depends on why they’ve gone,’ Hunter replied. ‘Bit of a gambler is Claude, so the rumours go. Maybe he’s had that big loss that always comes along eventually. If Mrs Gilbert is used to all of this, the fancy furniture, the dinner parties, the cash, she’s not going to settle for nothing. They could have emptied their accounts and gone somewhere.’

Roach didn’t look convinced. ‘House prices are rising. There’ll be plenty of money tied up in this place.’

Hunter took a step back and looked up at the house. The curtains were drawn in every window. ‘Maybe he got too involved in a case? Lawyers think they’re immune, but they’re not, and they’re dealing with some real nasty people. I know judges who have been threatened, just quiet words when they’re out with their wives, thinking that no one knows who they are.’ He stepped forward and pressed his face against one of the stained glass panels. ‘There’s a few letters on the floor, so they haven’t been here for a while.’

‘What do we do?’ Roach asked, looking around.

Hunter followed his gaze. There was someone watching them from the other side of the road, a teenager, a newspape delivery bag on his shoulder. ‘Go ask him if he knows anything.’

Roach paused for a moment, and then he shrugged and walked away. Hunter watched him until he was a few yards away, and then he rammed his elbow into the glass in the door. When Roach whirled around at the noise, Hunter shrugged and said, ‘Slipped,’ before he reached in and turned the Yale lock. Roach pulled a face before heading back to the house.

The pile of letters scraped along the tiled floor as Hunter pushed open the door. He pointed at the envelopes. ‘See how far back the postmarks go.’

Hunter squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. The hallway stretched ahead of them, with stairs leading upwards, the stained glass around the doors casting red and blue shadows along the wall. They both crinkled their noses. The house smelled stale.

Hunter looked into the living room to his left. Nothing unusual in there. Two sofas and a television hidden away in a wooden cabinet, crystal bowls on a dresser, nothing broken. There was a room on the other side of the hallway dominated by a long mahogany table.

‘No sign of a disturbance,’ he said. ‘What about the letters?’

‘These go back a couple of days,’ Roach said, flicking through them. ‘Bills and credit card statements mostly.’

Hunter went along the hall to the kitchen. It was a long room, with high sash windows looking along the garden. There was a yellow Aga and a battered oak table, and china mugs hung from hooks underneath dusty cupboards.

‘They hadn’t planned to leave,’ Roach said. When Hunter turned around, Roach was bathed in the light of the open fridge door, holding a half-empty milk bottle. ‘This is turning into yoghurt. They would have thrown it away.’

Hunter scratched his head. He ambled over to the window and looked out at the two lawns, green and lush, separated by a gravel path. There was an elaborate fountain in one corner of the garden, with a wide stone basin and a Grecian statue of a woman holding an urn, with a steel and glass summer house in the other. Hunter could see the bright fronds of plants.

Hunter looked downwards, at the floor and the walls, and then out at the garden again. He was about to say something when something drew his eye, a detail in the garden that didn’t seem quite right. He looked closer, wondering what he’d seen that had grabbed his attention, his eyes working faster than his mind, when he realised that it was the lawn itself. It was flat all the way along, green and even, but there was a patch near the back wall where it looked churned up, as if soil had been newly piled up on it.

‘What do you think to that?’ Hunter said, before turning around to see Roach kneeling down, examining the skirting and the wall. ‘What is it?’

Roach looked up, his brow furrowed, his cockiness gone. ‘It looks like dried blood,’ he said. ‘And there’s some more on the wall.’

Hunter followed his gaze; he saw it too. Just specks, and some faint brown smears on the white wall tiles, as if someone had tried to clean it away.

‘What do we do?’ Roach said.

Hunter pursed his lips, knowing that he was in a lawyer’s home, and lawyers can make trouble.

But blood was blood.

‘You can forget about your strawberries,’ Hunter said, and headed for the garden. As Roach joined him, Hunter lit a cigarette and made for the path that ran between the lawns.

‘Where are you going?’ Roach shouted.

‘Gardening,’ was the reply.

Hunter walked quickly down the path, towards the disturbed patch of grass at the end of the garden. He stopped next to the soil beds beside the high garden wall, just before the path wound round towards the summer house. Hunter pointed. ‘Can you see that?’

Roach looked and shrugged. ‘Can I see what?’

‘Soil,’ Hunter replied. ‘On the grass, and there on the path.’ He pointed at some more dark patches. ‘Someone’s been doing some digging round here.’

‘It’s a garden,’ Roach said. ‘It’s what people do.’

Hunter ignored him and strode onto the soil beds, dragging his foot along the ground, his face stern with concentration. Then he stopped. He looked at Roach, and then pointed downwards.

‘It’s looser here,’ he said. ‘Crumblier, less dense. And there’s soil on the lawn and the path. Perhaps they thought it would be rained away, but it’s been hot all week.’ Hunter pointed to an old wooden shed, painted green, on the other side of the garden. ‘Get some spades.’

Roach looked aghast. ‘We can’t rip up a barrister’s house just because we’ve found some old blood.’

‘Is that because he’s a barrister?’

‘Yes,’ Roach answered, exasperated, ‘because he can make trouble for us if we get it wrong.’

Hunter drew on his cigarette. ‘We can wait for the rest of the squad to arrive, and they can get the excavators in here because you saw spilled gravy.’

Roach looked uncertain.

‘Or we could dig a hole and then fill it back in again,’ Hunter said.

Roach waved his hand to show that he had relented. ‘Just the flower bed,’ he said, his voice wary, and then he walked over to the shed. When he returned, he was holding two spades. He rejoined Hunter by the soil bed and said, ‘Someone’s been ripping that shed apart.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just that,’ Roach replied. ‘All the slats from the back are gone.’

‘We’ll dig first before we worry about vandals,’ Hunter said, and thrust the spade into the dirt.

It was hot work: after twenty minutes of digging their shirts were soaked and they had wiped dirty sweat trails across their foreheads. They were about two feet down when Roach cried out in disgust, ‘What the fuck is all that?’

Hunter looked down. There was movement in the soil. Flies started to appear out of the dirt, their tiny wings making a soft hum around Hunter’s head. Roach scraped again at the soil, and then Hunter heard the soft thud of spade on wood. He looked at Roach and saw that he had gone pale, his sleeve over his mouth.

‘It stinks,’ Roach muttered, and that’s when Hunter caught the stench; it was one he recognised, like gone-off meat, beef left on a warm shelf.

Hunter grimaced and started to move the soil from whatever it was that Roach’s spade had hit. Another swarm of flies buzzed around Hunter’s spade; as the soil was removed, the thudding sounds from his spade became louder, acquiring an echo. They looked at each other, both sensing that they were about to find something they didn’t want to see.

When they had finished, Roach climbed out of the hole and looked down. ‘It’s the same wood as on the shed,’ he said.

Hunter took a deep breath. Their digging had exposed wooden planks, painted green, wedged into the hole. The planks had supported the soil, and the hollow sounds that came from beneath told Hunter that there was a cavity.

‘Who’s going to look first?’ Roach asked.

‘It might be a dog,’ Hunter said.

Roach shook his head. ‘That’s more than a dog.’

Hunter grimaced and then lay down on his chest so that he could reach into the hole. He moved the remnants of dirt from the end of the planks with his fingers, breathing through his mouth all the time to avoid the stink of whatever was in there and shaking his head to swat away the flies. He managed to ease his fingers under one of the pieces of wood and pulled at it, until he felt it move and was able to shove it to one side. Sunlight streamed into the hole and he heard Roach step away quickly before his lunch splashed onto the path nearby. Hunter clenched his jaw and swallowed hard, the smell making him gag.

The sunlight caught a body, naked, a woman with long dark hair.

Hunter pulled at another plank, and then one more, laying them on the lawn next to the hole, and then he stood up, taking deep breaths.

Roach turned back to the hole. ‘Fuck me,’ he whispered, wiping his mouth.

In the hole was a woman, crammed into the space, curled up on her side, her face green, her dark hair over her face, with blood on her shoulders and dirt on her bare legs. The hole was small, barely enough space to contain her, not enough room to stretch out.

As Hunter looked, he noticed something else. He lay on the floor again, just to have a closer look, and then he struggled to his feet. He looked at Roach. ‘It’s worse than that,’ he said, his face pale.

‘How can it be worse?’ Roach said.

‘Look at her hands,’ Hunter said, his face ashen. ‘Can you see her fingers, all bloodied and shredded?’

Roach didn’t answer, quiet now.

Hunter pulled the boards towards them and turned them over. ‘Look at the underside.’ Roach looked. ‘There are scratchmarks.’

‘I see them,’ replied Roach.

Hunter turned to Roach. ‘Do you know what that means?’

Roach nodded slowly, his face pale too.

‘She was buried alive.’

Chapter One—Present Day

Standing at the door, I stretched and gazed at the view outside my cottage. Clear skies and rolling Lancashire fields. I could see the grey of Turners Fold in the valley below me, but the sunlight turned the tired old cotton town into quaint Victoriana, the canal twinkling soft blue, bringing the summer barges from nearby Blackley as it wound its way towards Yorkshire.

Turners Fold was my home, had always been that way—or so it seemed. I’d spent a few years in London as a reporter at one of the nationals, a small-town boy lost in the bright lights, but home kept calling me, and so when the rush of the city wore me down, I headed back north. I used to enjoy walking the London streets, feeling the bump of the crowd, just another anonymous face, but the excitement faded in the end. It didn’t take me long to pick up the northern rhythms again, the slower pace, the bluntness of the people, the lack of any real noise. And I liked it that way. It seemed simpler somehow, not as much of a race.

The summers made the move worthwhile. The heat didn’t hang between the buildings like it did in London, trapped by exhaust fumes, the only respite being a trip to a park, packed out by tourists.

The tourists don’t visit Turners Fold, so it felt like I had the hills to myself, a private view of gentle slopes and snaking ribbons of drystone walls, the town just a blip in the landscape.

But it has character, this tough little town of millstone grit. My mind flashed back to the London rush, the wrestle onto the underground, and I smiled as the breeze ruffled my hair and I felt the first warmth of the day, ready for a perfect June afternoon. I heard a noise behind me, the shuffle of slippers on the stone step. I didn’t need to look round. I felt sleepy lips brush my neck as Laura wrapped her arms around my waist.

‘I thought you were staying in bed,’ I said.

‘I want to take Bobby to school,’ she replied, her voice hoarse from sleep. ‘Early shift next week, so I won’t get a chance then, and I need to start revising.’

‘Sergeant McGanity. It has a good ring to it,’ I said.

‘But I need to get through the exams first,’ she said. ‘What are you doing, Jack?’

‘Just enjoying the view.’

Laura rested her head on my shoulder and let her hair fall onto my chest. She had grown it over the winter, dark and sleek, past her shoulders now. I looked down and smiled. Cotton pyjamas and fluffy slippers.

‘What about later?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘I might take a look at the coroner’s court, see if there’s an inquest.’

‘Morbid,’ she said, and gave me a playful squeeze.

‘Where there’s grief, there’s news,’ I said. ‘And the Crawler has been quiet as well, so the paper needs to be filled somehow.’

Laura grimaced at that. Blackley had been plagued for a couple of years by a peeping Tom, loitering outside houses in a balaclava, taking photographs. Some thought that he had even gone into people’s homes. There had been no attack yet, but everyone knew it was just a matter of time, and so the local press had attached a tag and criticised the police. The name made for great headlines, and sales went up whenever his name went on display.

‘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 trotted out. Newspaper offices are full of stories like that, guaranteed headlines, most of it padding. Ex-girlfriends of Ian Huntley, old lodgers of Fred West, all just waiting for the newspaper rainy day.’

‘But this isn’t just a sighting,’ she said, frustration creeping into her voice. ‘This is a message from him.’

‘A message?’

She nodded.

That surprised me. From Claude Gilbert? I looked at her, saw the blush to her cheeks. I wasn’t sure if it was shame or the walk up the hill. The Claude Gilbert story attracted attention-seekers, those after the front-page spot, but Susie seemed different. Most people thought Claude was dead, but no one really knew for sure. If he was alive, he had to come out eventually or be caught. And anyway, perhaps the truth didn’t matter as much with the Claude Gilbert story. A good hoax sighting will still fill half a page somewhere, even if it was only in one of the weekly gossip magazines.

‘Wait there,’ I said, and shot off to get my voice recorder.