by Neil White
Susie pointed ahead, past a double-decker heading to Brixton. ‘That’s where I first saw him, crossing the road there,’ she said. ‘He was carrying a Sainsbury’s bag, with a newspaper under his arm.’
‘So he was living around here, not just passing through,’ I said.
Susie smiled. ‘You’re sharp.’
‘So why don’t we just go to where he is, if he’s not far away?’ I said, trying hard to keep the frustration out of my voice.
‘Because this is how he wants it.’
‘And how long do we wait?’
‘Until he feels the time is right,’ Susie said.
‘Is he watching us now?’ I asked, looking around.
Susie shrugged. ‘Possibly,’ she said. ‘Probably, even.’ She brandished her phone. ‘He’ll call me, when the time is right.’
I sighed, impatient. I pointed to a small park nearby, really just a triangle of grass behind black railings. ‘We’ll go in there and wait.’
We crossed over and stepped up to the gate, but it was locked. Instead, we had to settle on the wall near to a statue of some old soldier. I tried to give myself a good view down the street towards where Susie had said she’d first seen him, but I couldn’t help wondering again whether this was some elaborate hoax. And for what purpose? Susie looked ill at ease as she sat on the wall. It was low down, really just a base for the railings, and so she had to position her legs side-saddle to protect her modesty. She kicked away an old sandwich carton and then slipped off her coat. I saw her tattoo, barbed wire wrapped around her arm, the black now faded to grey, the sharp outlines made jagged by time.
‘He must have friends down here, someone sheltering him,’ I said. ‘A person couldn’t stay hidden for this long without someone helping him.’
Susie didn’t answer. Instead, she blew smoke into the air as she lit another cigarette.
‘Do you think it might have worked out for you and Claude if he hadn’t been married?’ I asked.
Susie looked up at that, and the sunlight caught the makeup on her face, the powder dry in her creases. ‘Maybe,’ she said, and then she smiled, lost for a moment in some old nostalgic thought. ‘They were good times, you know. He was an old romantic really, despite what you might think of him.’
‘I don’t think anything of him,’ I replied. ‘I just don’t buy that image, that’s all, not when he was a married man.’
‘You make it sound dirty. It wasn’t like that.’
‘Whatever it was like, he was betrothed to someone else.’
‘You don’t strike me as a man high on morals.’
‘Neither are many newspaper editors,’ I said, ‘but their readers might be, and so they’ll write it up to suit. Especially the papers that don’t get the exclusive. You’ll make some money, sure, but the cash will be tarnished, and your life will stop being your own.’
Susie nodded as if she understood, but then she said, ‘It’s not about the money. It’s about Claude getting his life back. We’ll need the money, and that’s why we’re doing it like this, but people will be interested in him, not me.’ Then she sighed, and for the first time I saw a trace of regret flicker into her eyes. ‘If Nancy hadn’t died, do you think our little fling would have mattered?’ she said. ‘So he was a bit of a rat. Most men are, but the person I knew was also tender and caring. That was the memory of Claude Gilbert I carried through the years.’
‘And now?’
‘Just the same. He seems sadder, that’s all, worn out, but still a good man.’
I held up my hand in apology. ‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just don’t like having my time wasted, that’s all.’
‘I can only tell you it from my side,’ she said quietly, and then we both returned to watching the stream of passers-by.
‘Will Claude be able to answer the main question people will ask?’ I said.
Susie looked up. ‘Which is?’
‘If he didn’t kill Nancy, who did?’
Susie let out a breath at that and scratched the side of her mouth with a varnished nail. ‘I’ll let him tell you that.’
We stayed there for over two hours, watching the traffic get busier as time crawled towards the evening rush hour. I scanned the pavements, looking for a glimpse of someone that might be Claude Gilbert, but I couldn’t spot him. Susie smoked incessantly, and the ground around her feet became a collection of brown dog-ends as we made small talk.
‘Why don’t you just ring him?’ I said eventually.
Susie shook her head. ‘That’s not how he wants it. It has to be on his terms.’ She must have spotted my scowl, because she added, ‘I need a drink. I’m sorry it’s not worked out yet, so let me make it my round.’ When I looked at her, she smiled. ‘It’s the least I could do.’
I felt a stab of guilt. Susie knew that, for as long as Claude Gilbert didn’t appear, the story would become about her, the northern girl who loved her murderer on the run, maybe the last mistress before the murder; I knew how much her life would change.
‘No, don’t worry,’ I said, returning the smile. ‘It’s on me.’
Susie looked pleased with that, and we moved away from the rush of Victoria to the peace and quiet of Belgravia.
Chapter Nineteen
Back at the police station, Laura was showing Thomas how to watch the CCTV from one of the local supermarkets. It was never a case of click and play, Laura knew that, with every system needing different software. It showed nine different views, like a grainy Celebrity Squares, and isolating one camera view seemed more difficult than it needed to be, just to catch the pensioner dropping the bottle of cheap sherry into the tartan trolley.
She turned as she heard a cough from the doorway and saw a face she hadn’t seen for a few months, his hair cropped army-short, a folder under his arm. Laura felt her cheeks flush red.
‘DC McGanity,’ he said, and then he looked down at her uniform. ‘Sorry, is it plain old constable now?’
‘Joe Kinsella,’ she said, laughing, and her eyes followed his glance downwards, to the shine on her black trousers and her stumpy black boots. ‘Sometimes you’ve got to move sideways to find the route up,’ she said. ‘Enough about me. What are you doing in Blackley?’
‘Looking for you,’ he said.
Laura raised her eyebrows. ‘This sounds ominous,’ she said. ‘Where’s the rest of the squad?’
Joe worked on the Major Incident Team, based at headquarters a few miles away. Whenever there was a death that seemed too much for the local police, they descended on Blackley and took over the station. But Laura hadn’t heard of any recent murders.
‘It’s just me and Rachel,’ Joe said, indicating the woman standing behind him. ‘This is Rachel Mason,’ and he gestured towards Laura. ‘This is Laura McGanity. We worked a case together recently.’
Laura straightened herself as Rachel looked her up and down, just a quick glance and a smile, but the warmth didn’t make it to the eyes. Rachel was trim in a smart grey suit, cut closely to her body, with a shirt that gaped open at the breast. Her hair was Abba-blonde, sleek and straight and over her shoulders, her skin pale and smooth. Her ice-cold, blue-eyed stare told Laura that Rachel Mason had little interest in Joe catching up with old friends.
‘So the rest of the pressed-shirts have stayed at headquarters,’ Laura said.
‘For now,’ he said, and then he raised his file. ‘I’m here for a cold case review, so I’ll be hanging around for a while. I want to ask your advice though.’
Laura was surprised. ‘Me?’
Joe nodded. ‘Especially you.’
Laura turned to Thomas and told him that the footage needed to be on a watchable disk before the prosecution would use it, then followed Joe and Rachel out of the room, heading for the canteen. Joe didn’t say much and Laura sensed that he was avoiding her gaze. He bought three coffees and they all sat down.
‘I’m not sure what I can advise you on,’ Laura said, as she took a drink. ‘I’m off the big stuff now.�
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Joe stirred his coffee and looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘It’s about Jack,’ he said.
Laura was taken aback. ‘Jack?’ she said. ‘What’s he been doing now?’
Joe put his folder on the table and leant forward, speaking in a whisper. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, Laura, but we need to know what he’s doing.’
‘You’re talking in riddles,’ Laura replied. ‘Who is we? Do you mean you and Rachel, or is there a bigger we?’
‘There are others who are interested too,’ Joe said. ‘Tell me about the woman who went to your house yesterday morning.’
Laura had raised her cup to her mouth, but now her hand paused in mid-air. ‘Have you been watching us?’ she said, her voice indignant.
Rachel smiled, but it was sneering.
‘We haven’t been watching you,’ Joe said solemnly. ‘Or Jack.’
‘So it’s her,’ Laura said, almost to herself, and then she sat back and folded her arms. ‘Who is she?’
‘If she said she was called Susie Bingham, then she is exactly who she said she was,’ he replied. ‘But why was she at your house?’
‘To see Jack.’
‘Has he mentioned why?’
Laura paused and closed her eyes for a second. It was the same old story, Jack’s reporting career causing problems for her, once more torn between her duties as a police officer and her loyalty to Jack.
‘No, he won’t tell me,’ she said.
‘So you asked?’ Joe said.
Laura took a sip of her coffee to give her time to think of her answer. ‘A woman came to my home,’ she said. ‘I wanted to know who she was, but he wouldn’t say.’
Joe watched her for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘Okay, I understand,’ he said. ‘But will you call me if you find anything out?’
‘Don’t make me spy on my boyfriend,’ Laura said quietly.
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you to spy on Susie Bingham.’ He got to his feet. ‘And this conversation remains confidential. If no news comes this way, then none goes the other. Is that okay?’
Laura nodded slowly, and then gave a small laugh. ‘It will pique his interest more if I tell him.’
Joe smiled at that, but then he added, ‘I mean around the station too. We’ll pretend we haven’t spoken.’
‘Why round here?’ Laura asked. ‘Who the hell is she?’
‘I’ll tell you one day, but not just yet.’
Laura thought back to the early morning visit. Whatever the woman had said, it had sent Jack to London.
‘Is Jack in danger?’ Laura asked.
Joe thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and then he walked off, his folder back under his arm, Rachel trailing behind him.
When she was alone again, Laura glanced over towards the room she had been in before to see Thomas looking over, a concerned look on his face. As Laura turned away, she took a sip of coffee, just to occupy her mind—but her hand was shaking on the polystyrene cup.
We turned into Lower Belgrave Street, and it seemed to immediately fall quiet, a haven so close to the bustle of Victoria. We found a pub halfway along, the Plumbers Arms, a dimly lit, one-room place with a dog-legged bar and high wooden seats, beer mats pinned up behind the bar and bright purple pansies hanging from baskets outside.
Susie sat at one of the tables as far from the bar as she could, her eyes concealed behind dark glasses. She asked for a vodka and coke, and I settled for a pint of bitter. I watched as the froth disappeared before I had taken my first sip.
I raised my glass. ‘To Claude Gilbert.’
Susie nodded, although she seemed uncomfortable.
‘He must live around here,’ I said.
Susie flashed a thin smile. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because you’re hiding, here in the corner, behind those dark glasses,’ I replied.
‘It’s the clientele, that’s all,’ she said, looking down. ‘They make me uncomfortable.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked, looking around. There were a couple of suits by the doorway, their shirt collars unbuttoned, their ties pulled down, and the rest looked just like normal drinkers, except better dressed. ‘They’re just like you and me, relaxing after work.’
‘No, they’re nothing like you and me,’ she said. ‘They’ve had all the chances, and I haven’t, and I can tell that they know that when they look at me.’
I patted her hand. ‘You’ve been in the North too long,’ I said, and then tapped my shoulder. ‘You need to lose the chip.’
Susie shuffled in her seat. ‘Yeah, maybe, but I know that you wouldn’t see people like that in Blackley, with that confidence, that sureness, like an arrogance, because the ones that have it leave Blackley and end up somewhere like this.’
I didn’t pursue it. I had come to London on the promise of a long-lost murderer coming out of hiding, and it had come to very little so far, so I wasn’t in the mood for Susie’s northern neurosis. Self-deprecation was the northern default, I knew that—get the hits in yourself before someone else has a go and hits even harder. I turned the conversation instead to small talk and kept on glancing around the pub as we chatted, watching how the barman worked the bar, always polishing and talking, like he knew the customers. He waved them goodbye and called them by their first name, so he was more than just some Australian working his gap year.
Susie grabbed her cigarette packet. ‘I’m going outside,’ she said, leaving me alone at the table. The barman walked over to me, collecting glasses on his way.
‘Does the lady want another vodka?’
I shook my head. ‘Not yet,’ I replied. I looked towards the door and saw a small plume of smoke drifting away from her; she had her phone clamped to her ear. ‘Does she come in here much?’ I asked the barman.
He shrugged. ‘Ask her.’
‘She might lie to me,’ I said.
‘And I’m not going to get between you both,’ he said, before walking back to the bar, glasses in his hand.
Susie came back into the bar, pocketing her phone as she came to the table. She glanced at the barman walking away. ‘What were you talking about?’ she said.
‘Nothing, just taproom chit-chat,’ I said. ‘He asked me where I was from, that’s all.’ It was a lie, but Claude was in control at the moment, and I didn’t like that. ‘So where is he?’ I asked.
‘He’s not ready,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, he’s not ready?’ I said, slamming my glass down on the table, making everyone in the pub turn round. ‘He better get ready, because I’ve come a long way for this. I’ve set it up with an editor. If he pisses me around, I write what I’ve got, which is you.’
‘This is a big deal for him,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘He’s scared. He’s giving up his freedom on a gamble that people will believe him. Just be patient. He’s booked us into a hotel. You’ll meet him tomorrow.’
I closed my eyes for a moment to keep my temper in check, and I thought of Victoria station, just around the corner. I could hop on the Victoria Line and be at Euston within fifteen minutes. I could catch the next train north and cuddle in behind Laura instead of spending the night in whatever fleapit London hotel Claude had found for us. But then the headline came back to me, front-page exclusive.
‘If there’s no sign of Claude before lunchtime tomorrow,’ I said, ‘I go home and the story dies.’
Susie nodded. She understood.
‘And I tell the police all you’ve told me.’
Susie didn’t reply to that.
Chapter Twenty
Frankie left the cover of the wall and headed towards the house. He had been watching through his binoculars and had seen no sign of life inside. He crossed the field in front of the cottage, and then checked up and down the road to make sure he hadn’t been spotted.
He went to the front door first. It was solid wood, painted red, with a brass knocker. He always had a cover story. Looking for a relative, unsur
e of the house number. This time he could use the journalist as cover. He banged loudly on the door, but the sound came back as echo. He waited a few more seconds, until he was certain that the house was empty.
He checked up and down the road once more, and then went to the side of the house, slipping on his gloves, his camera in his pocket, small screwdrivers in a pouch in the small rucksack on his back. He pulled on a ski mask, and he felt his excitement rise at the familiar itch of the fabric on his face. The path around the house was blocked by a waist-high gate and so he hopped over that and went into the back garden, not much more than a paved courtyard overlooked by a field that rose in front of him. Frankie smiled. No one could see the back of the house.
Frankie looked up. People took care on the ground floor, but he knew that it was higher up that people got sloppy. Then he saw it, a window slightly ajar, with superhero curtains and stickers on the glass. A child’s bedroom. The window must have been left open to let out some of the warmth and then not closed properly.
He took a deep breath and climbed onto the ground-floor window sill, using the wall for grip. Once there, he was able to reach up to the window sill above, and then, by scrambling, he was able to work his way upwards until he had one foot on the upper sill, his gloved fingers feeling through the gap in the window. When the window lock popped off its latch, Frankie clambered inside.
He looked around. It was a child’s bedroom. He didn’t want that. He took a drink from the water bottle that he always carried in his bag. He was used to waiting, and so he came prepared.
He went onto the landing and saw that there were only two other rooms upstairs, one of them a bathroom.
He went there first. It was where he got to know someone best, where they hid all their secrets.
The bathroom was small, with a bath under the window and a shower cubicle opposite. He sneaked a look into the glass-fronted cabinet over the sink but there was nothing of interest. Some painkillers, a spare tube of toothpaste.
