Dead Silent

by Neil White

  Then Thomas ran past her.

  Laura took a large breath and jogged after him. As she rounded the corner, Thomas came into view, but Laura saw that he had stopped, and the thief was heading out of the other side of the car park. Laura came to a halt next to Thomas and tried to get her breath back, her chest pumping hard in her shirt.

  ‘What happened?’ Laura asked, gasping.

  Thomas looked down, and Laura saw that he was taking deep breaths too, fear in his eyes.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

  ‘He pulled a needle out of his pocket,’ he said, between breaths. ‘He shouted he would give me AIDS.’ He looked at Laura. ‘I’m sorry. I bottled it.’ He gave a large heave of his shoulders and then kicked at the gravel. ‘My first test and I got scared.’

  Laura put her hand on his shoulder, turning him away from the shoppers who were watching them. ‘And you’ll bottle it again,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll just care less about it. Next time, just keep running and hit him as hard as you can with your baton, but remember that you may struggle to get a second shot in.’

  Thomas nodded, and then turned back the way they had just come. ‘Let’s go back to the shop, see if they’ve got it on video.’

  Laura nodded and smiled. ‘Okay, we’ll do that,’ she said, and decided that she liked Thomas.

  Frankie ducked behind the gatepost, just to check that the road was clear, and then he crept out. He wasn’t dressed properly, in jogging bottoms and a crumpled old T-shirt, his slippers making slapping noises on the tarmac as he shuffled across the road. He had to slow down as he reached the driveway of the rest home, the gravel hurting his feet through the soft soles.

  The doors to the rest home opened automatically, so he went inside and looked around anxiously, worried about who he would see, wanting to avoid the big boss. Then he saw someone he recognised wandering through one of the rooms. ‘Mrs Kydd?’ he shouted. He shuffled towards her. ‘Mrs Kydd?’

  She stopped and then turned slowly towards him. He noticed her uniform looked tight, stretched across her chest so that it pushed her breasts into a tired-looking cleavage.

  ‘Hello, Frankie,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Was he a reporter?’ Frankie asked.

  ‘Were you watching again?’

  ‘I heard the car, that’s all, and so I watched him,’ he said. ‘What’s the big deal? Why can’t you tell me?’

  She put her hands on her hips.

  ‘I saw him taking pictures,’ Frankie persisted. ‘What did he want? Was it about Claude Gilbert? What did he say?’

  ‘Slow down, Frankie,’ she said, her voice raised. ‘Yes, he was a reporter, okay, and he’s writing a story about Nancy.’

  ‘Does he think Claude killed her?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me what he thought,’ she said. ‘He just wanted to see where she died.’

  Frankie looked at her chest again until she folded her arms, aware of his gaze.

  ‘He needs to speak to me,’ he said. ‘Did you tell him about me?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t. Please go, Frankie.’

  ‘If he calls again, tell him to come to my house,’ he said, but then he flinched when he felt her hand on his arm.

  ‘Are you all right, Frankie?’ she asked. ‘Are you eating okay? You look poorly again.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

  ‘You need to look after yourself, Frankie. If your mother could see you now, she would be worried about you.’

  Frankie looked away.

  ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. He said he was called Jack Garrett. He sounded local. If you think he might want your help, call him. He might be interested in what you’ve got to say.’

  Frankie didn’t respond.

  ‘You’ve got to look after yourself though, before you go chasing him,’ she said. ‘Eat properly. Get some sleep.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, and he turned and walked out of the rest home, shuffling quickly along the drive, ignoring the pain in his feet from the sharp stones. He could sense Mrs Kydd watching him, even after the automatic doors had swished shut.

  Chapter Eleven

  I checked my notepad and looked at the scribbles I had made after Susie had gone. I had written down Maybury and Sharpe as Susie’s old law firm. If Bill Hunter was right, that Claude Gilbert had ended up as fish food in the English Channel, the story would end up being about Susie and another Claude Gilbert hoax.

  The firm’s name was well known to me. I had devoured the court reports in the local paper when I was a child, those short paragraphs of shame the only part I found interesting, and the names of the defending solicitors always stayed with me: Harry Parsons, Jon Halpern, Danny Platt—crafty lawyers who managed to find new ways to repackage remorse and excuses for their clients. Maybury and Sharpe had been one of the main players, but Susie Bingham had been talking of a time two decades earlier, and the shrinking of legal aid had seen the firm splinter into its different departments, the ambulance chasers not wanting to be weighed down by the criminal work. The new offshoot was now known simply as Sharpes, staffed by enthusiastic young clerks and a couple of ageing solicitors, who huffed and puffed their way around the Magistrates’ Court like relics from a lost era. I just hoped that someone there remembered her.

  The office front suited the firm, old-style, with frosted windows and gold leaf lettering; no neon sign at Sharpes. When I walked in, I saw that the reception area was quiet, just one client waiting, his face bearing the familiar look of heroin addiction: high cheekbones, blackened teeth and prickles of sweat on his lip. The receptionist was a young Pakistani girl, her hair sleek and long, and when she smiled at me, her eyes were bright jewels in the office gloom.

  ‘I want to have a word with Mr Halpern or Mr Platt,’ I said.

  She reached for the phone. ‘Are you due in court?’ she asked, her voice quiet, almost a mumble, just the smallest trace of the Peshwar in her Lancashire accent.

  ‘No, I’m the court reporter, Jack Garrett. I need some help with a story, and it involves this firm.’

  She considered me for a moment, and then picked up the phone and spoke to someone, her words barely audible. She pointed to the room next to reception. ‘Wait in there,’ she said.

  The waiting client didn’t pay me any attention as I went into a small square room, with just enough room for a desk and chairs on either side. I could hear a whispered conversation through the door, and then it was opened briskly as Danny Platt walked in. His hair was long and unkempt, but the grey patches that broke up its darkness gave away his age as over fifty. His face bore the scars of long hours, with lines etched deep around the eyes, and the bulge of his stomach strained against the buttons of his creased blue shirt. He looked unkempt, like legal aid work was getting tougher.

  ‘Mr Garrett,’ he boomed, as if he was delighted to see me. He was eating a sandwich though, and it was obvious that I had disturbed him. ‘Between sittings, so make it quick,’ he said, holding up his lunch. ‘What can I do for you? A quote you didn’t get?’

  As he sat down, he took a bite from his sandwich. Mayonnaise collected at the corners of his mouth.

  ‘Do you remember Susie Bingham?’ I asked. He looked quizzically at me as he searched his memory, skimming through all the thieves and prostitutes he had helped over the years. ‘She used to work for Maybury and Sharpe, about twenty years ago,’ I added, to help him out.

  I saw the beginnings of a smile.

  ‘You remember her?’ I asked.

  He nodded, grinning now. ‘Very attractive woman,’ he said, and he chuckled. ‘Great figure. It was hard to stop the eyes from following her legs upwards, if you know what I mean. Why do you ask?’

  ‘She came to me with a story, and I’m checking her out first, just to see whether I can believe her.’

  Danny put his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘Is it about this firm?’ he asked, his smile fading.
<
br />   I shook my head. ‘No. You don’t even need to be mentioned.’

  He relaxed and took another bite of the sandwich. ‘She was a real good-time girl,’ he said, chuckling again, exposing the food in his mouth. ‘Big fan of the chambers parties, so I remember, and the police ones. Always guaranteed to end up with someone.’ He leant forward, as if he was worried someone might overhear. ‘She was familiar with most of the young bar, if you get my drift,’ he said, and gave his nose a theatrical tap. ‘She was pretty generous with the police, just for the rough and ready thrill, but she liked the rich boys best, particularly the younger ones. It was the accents, I think.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘There was a Christmas party once at the court, and some rumour went round that she’d fucked one young barrister in a judge’s chair. It got plenty of giggles around the court, and she didn’t mind at first, but the judges weren’t happy. When it looked like the young man was in trouble, she stuck up for him, told everyone it had never happened.’

  ‘Maybe it didn’t.’

  ‘It happened, no worries there,’ he said, but his jokey smile came across as sleazy.

  I made some notes. It might fit into the story, if there ever was one. ‘Did you trust her?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, totally,’ Danny said. ‘A good clerk, so I remember. Left to work in a bigger firm, although I think she regretted it because they only used her for prison visits, just a flash of a leg, and she was better than that. The clients liked her and she took decent trial notes.’ Then he drifted away for a moment, enjoying some distant memory, before he said, ‘I think we almost, you know, just once, at an office party, but I was married, and so I backed off.’ He sighed at the memory. ‘She left not long after, but let me tell you something: I regretted it at times—saying no, I mean. She was an attractive woman, and the memory would be nice.’ When I raised my eyebrows, he said, ‘I don’t mean to put the woman down. She was no kid, but she was enjoying herself. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘What about Claude Gilbert?’ I asked. ‘Do you know if she ever had a relationship with him?’

  Danny Platt’s eyes widened at the mention of Gilbert’s name. ‘Why are you asking about Claude Gilbert?’

  ‘I just remembered that he was around at the same time,’ I said, trying to hide the reason for my visit. ‘He was a good-time boy. It’s not inconceivable that they got it together.’

  ‘So it’s a Claude Gilbert story,’ he grinned, revealing the bread squashed into his teeth. ‘I was wondering what story there was in Susie.’

  I decided not to deny it as he thought about his answer.

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘He did a lot of work for us, and so will have known Susie well. Claude lived in Blackley, and so he would come here for conferences, to save us the journey to his chambers. The clients liked that, and he had a way with the clients.’

  ‘I’ve been told he was arrogant.’

  ‘It depends who you ask,’ Danny said. ‘There are different types of barristers. There are the diligent ones, those who prepare everything; but most of those wouldn’t interest even their wives, let alone a jury. Then there are the charmers, those with the smile, the swagger, can play the jury, get them on their side. Claude had a bit of that but, most of all, he just got on with the punters.’

  ‘So what was his secret?’

  Danny laughed. ‘The first secret most criminal lawyers learn: cigarettes. He didn’t have to read his papers. As long as he threw his fag packet onto the desk, left open, facing the clients, they loved him, made them feel like he was on their side. And he gave the police a hard time. That’s why he didn’t do prosecution work, just to keep up the illusion. Clients don’t expect to get off, not really. All they want is to see someone put up a fight, so that they know they gave it their best shot. Claude did that, and he gave it to them straight. What their chances were, the jail term they would get. Lawyers like Gilbert are well liked.’

  ‘By criminals,’ I said.

  Danny shook his head slowly. ‘By clients,’ he responded. ‘We all make mistakes from time to time, remember that. It’s just that some of us do it more often. My clients are maybe not people you would want as neighbours, but they are human beings, and Claude Gilbert respected that.’

  ‘So Gilbert was a good guy?’ I queried.

  ‘There are plenty worse.’

  ‘But not everyone kills their wife.’

  ‘He’s not been convicted of that.’

  ‘Do you think that makes a difference?’

  ‘To me, it does,’ Danny said. ‘Innocent until proven guilty. It’s what makes us civilised. Sometimes letting a few bad ones get away is a price worth paying.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, smiling, ‘but if you’ll print it, trade might just pick up.’

  I closed my notebook and thanked him for his time. It seemed like the interview was over.

  As I went to leave, Danny put his hand on my arm. ‘If you see Susie again, pass on my regards. Maybe there’s still time for unfinished business.’ He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me.

  I looked down and saw the glimmer of his wedding ring, and then I noticed the drip of coleslaw on his shirt, and the chewed bread between his teeth.

  ‘Maybe some dreams are worth letting go,’ I said, and then as I left the room I muttered, ‘for her sake’.

  Chapter Twelve

  Frankie grunted as he pulled his Vespa onto its stand outside the Blackley Telegraph offices, the sister paper to The Valley Post. The building was all seventies glass and steel frames, with painted panels and a brightly-lit sign on the front, although one corner had cracked so that leaves and dust had blown in over time.

  Frankie remembered when it was new, when he was a boy, excited at seeing the old tramlines and cobbles exposed like skeletons from underneath the tarmac when they rebuilt the town centre, before the buses that rumbled past it every day dirtied the front.

  He looked around nervously though. He didn’t like it around the bus station. The gangs of kids used to taunt him, take his money and laugh at him, small groups of trouble dressed all in black. He had bought a scooter when his mother died—she wouldn’t let him have one when she was alive—so that he wouldn’t have to get the bus any more.

  He walked into the Telegraph building and then jumped as the entry mat emitted a buzzing sound when he stepped on it. There was a large wooden counter in front of him, with photographs from the paper pinned to the wall behind, showing people in suits holding giant cheques and a display of schoolboy football teams. That day’s edition was fanned out on a small round table. A young woman appeared out of a doorway. Her badge said she was called Jackie.

  He lifted his goggles onto his crash helmet. She looked surprised, startled almost, although he didn’t know why. He always wore them, particularly in summer. They kept the flies and fumes out of his eyes.

  He smiled. She was wearing a vest top, and he could see the outline of the lace on her bra-cup. He liked that.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she said.

  Frankie thought she sounded nervous. He watched her delicate fingers as they toyed with a pen in her hand. He wondered where she lived.

  ‘I’m Frankie,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’m looking for a reporter.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right building, Frankie.’

  He shook his head. She didn’t understand. ‘No, not any reporter. He drives a red sports car. Jack Garrett.’

  ‘Why do you want him?’

  ‘He’s writing about Claude Gilbert.’

  She raised her eyebrows at that. ‘He doesn’t work for us. He’s freelance, lives somewhere in Turners Fold.’

  ‘Do you have an address?’

  Frankie thought she was about to tell him, but she stopped and looked embarrassed. ‘I can’t give out addresses,’ she said.

  ‘But I need it,’ he said, and he leant forward onto the counter. It made her step back quickly.

  ‘Just
wait there,’ she said. ‘What’s your name again?’

  ‘Frankie.’

  ‘Just Frankie?’

  He nodded.

  She disappeared into the doorway again, and Frankie could hear her whispering to someone. They were talking about him. He felt tears prickle his eyes. He had blown it again.

  He should have found the reporter on the internet, made his own way there.

  He turned to leave, his fists clenched with frustration, and as he rushed for the door, his footsteps set off the entry buzzer again.

  He took some deep breaths and put his fingers to his cheeks when he reached the street. They felt hot. He slipped his goggles back over his eyes and then sat astride his scooter, fumbling quickly for the keys. He shouldn’t have gone there. Now they had a name. His name. He pressed down on the kickstart pedal, and then raced down the bus lane, working quickly through the gears until he was out of sight of the building.

  I sat in my car and thought about Bill Hunter. He had remembered my father’s death and, as soon as he had mentioned it, I knew I would call at the cemetery. It was quiet, and I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, wondering whether I should go in.

  I hadn’t been for a few months; visits had recently become confined to Father’s Day and Christmas and I felt bad about that. I looked along the rows of granite slabs, broken up by the occasional splash of colour from flowers left in memoriam. Our house had memories of him dotted around, his Johnny Cash records, old photographs, but I knew I should visit the grave more often, to keep the dirt from the gold-etched words: ‘Robert Garrett—Beloved Husband and Father’.

  I closed my eyes and swallowed, fought the wetness in my eyes. This was why I didn’t come often—because whenever I saw the patch of grass, I imagined him under the ground, in the box, still and cold. I fought the images, tried to see the grave as merely a marker, a focal point, because that wasn’t how I wanted to remember him. I wanted to think of the man who had been in my life, strong and quiet and caring, not the police officer who had been shot in the line of duty.