Dead Silent

by Neil White

  ‘He’s at work,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Why do you want to speak to him?’

  ‘I can’t discuss that,’ Laura said.

  Mrs Dobson paused for a moment, and then said, ‘I do think it would be better if I got him to call you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I’ll do it straight away, officer,’ she said.

  Laura dug into her pocket and handed her one of her business cards. ‘If he could do it today, we’d be most grateful,’ Laura said.

  Mrs Dobson looked down at the card, and then back at Laura. For a few seconds, her face remained passive. Then she smiled, although Laura could tell that it was forced.

  ‘Will do,’ she said, just a touch too jauntily, and then went to close the door.

  As they went back down the drive, Thomas glanced back and then said, ‘Why would a man go with a heroin addict on a back street when someone like her waits for him at home?’

  ‘If a man is the straying type, having Miss World waiting for him won’t stop it,’ Laura said.

  I turned around in Frankie’s room, amazed at the walls.

  The room was small, maybe ten feet square, with a single bed against one wall, the covers dishevelled, and a dresser against another. There was a computer on a desk, wires coming out of the back in a tangled mess, but it was the walls that drew the eye. They were covered in pictures and clippings, some of the headlines I’d seen myself, brought over by Tony the day before, screaming out the search for Gilbert in bold, black letters. There were photographs pinned on top of them, hundreds of them, the scene the same in most—a view from Frankie’s room towards the Gilbert house.

  I looked back at Frankie, who was looking at the pictures himself now, and I detected a greater focus, his eyes more alive now, a soft smile on his lips.

  ‘Do you save everything connected to the Gilbert case?’ I asked him.

  When he turned to me and nodded, he looked proud, and for the first time I saw his teeth as he smiled, bright white against the flush of his cheeks.

  ‘I saw what happened,’ he said, his gaze earnest, waiting on my response.

  ‘So why didn’t you tell the police?’ I asked.

  He shrank back at that, thrust his hands into the pockets of his jogging bottoms. ‘I couldn’t,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  He stepped away from me and looked at the wall. I could see his shoulders moving as he took some deep breaths.

  ‘Frankie?’

  When he turned back, I saw that his excitement had been replaced by something else. Wariness? No, it was something more than that. Fear. Frankie was scared.

  ‘Why are you frightened?’ I said.

  He dropped his eyes to the floor before he spoke. ‘Mother told me to keep it quiet,’ he said. ‘She said it would just make trouble for me.’

  ‘But if it was the truth, why worry?’

  I thought Frankie had tears in his eyes. ‘Mother said they would accuse me,’ he said.

  ‘Why would they accuse you?’ I said, but I knew as soon as he said it that he was right. I remembered Colin Stagg, the London man wrongly accused of a brutal murder based on not much more than being the local misfit, and here was Frankie, with a view of the Gilbert house and his walls turned into a montage of the Nancy Gilbert murder.

  I stepped towards the walls and I looked through the stories. I was able to read some, Frankie breathing over my shoulder, his breath stale on my cheek. At first, they were the usual collection of theories, about Gilbert’s gambling, his whereabouts, but then I noticed something for the first time—that the stories were never about Mrs Gilbert, the murder victim. Claude was the story, the celebrity lawyer, the dashing murderer who disappeared into history. The poor woman buried under a collection of planks and half a ton of soil barely got a mention.

  And then I looked closer at the photographs pinned to the wall. The clippings were about Claude, but the pictures were different. They were mainly of a woman, her raven hair tied onto her head, stepping out of a car. As I looked along the wall, there were more pictures of her. Cleaning the car. Bending down in the garden, tending to a flower bed. Carrying bags. Walking with a dog. Hanging out washing.

  I recognised her. Nancy Gilbert, the forgotten victim.

  I turned to Frankie, who was no longer focused on me, but was staring at the photographs, the intensity back in his gaze.

  ‘You liked her, didn’t you, Frankie?’ I said softly.

  He looked at me and then shook his head, stepping away from the wall.

  ‘I thought you wanted to know about the murder,’ he said, his voice an angry rumble.

  ‘I do, but I want to know about you and her,’ and I tapped one of the photographs. ‘You were spying on her.’

  ‘I take a lot of photographs,’ he said, his voice getting defensive.

  ‘But mainly of Mrs Gilbert,’ I stressed. Then I tried to be more conciliatory. ‘C’mon, Frankie, don’t be shy, we’ve all liked someone, maybe just from afar. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘I’m not ashamed.’

  ‘You seem it.’

  He put the heel of his palms to his forehead, as if he had been struck by a pain in his head, his eyes closed.

  ‘Are you going to pay me for the story or not?’ he said quietly, his eyes still shut.

  ‘Just tell me what you know.’

  He turned quickly away and sat down on his bed with a slump. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have looked for you. It’s starting again.’

  ‘What’s starting again?’

  ‘This!’ he shouted, making me jump, and he waved his hand at the wall. ‘All of this. Claude Gilbert. Nancy Gilbert. I know what happened but no one wants to listen to me.’ He banged his chest with his hand.

  I bent down to try and meet his gaze. ‘Tell me, Frankie, and I’ll print it.’

  He looked down, his chin in his chest, and I could sense him thinking it through, his need to tell the story weighed against what he saw as the risk. I left him alone for those moments, allowing him to come to his own decision, then I saw him nod to himself.

  ‘There were two of them,’ Frankie said.

  That surprised me. ‘When?’

  ‘In the garden,’ he said. ‘I saw them.’

  ‘Who was in the garden?’

  ‘The murderers.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’

  He gave a noncommittal shrug.

  ‘You can’t remember telling them?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘They wouldn’t have believed me.’

  ‘So why should I?’

  ‘Because it’s true.’

  I watched him as he stared hard at me, his glare intense, his brow furrowed. I pulled my voice recorder out of my pocket and showed it to him. ‘If you tell me about it, I’ll record what you say. Is that all right?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Can I sit down?’ I asked, and went to sit down on the end of the bed. There was something about him that troubled me, an edginess that made him unpredictable. He didn’t answer, but I settled down anyway.

  ‘Tell me what you saw,’ I said.

  He looked at me. ‘In the garden. I saw them. There were two of them.’

  ‘Two people?’

  Frankie nodded solemnly. I got the feeling I always had when I sensed some life was being breathed into a story. It was like a tingle in my cheeks, a flutter in my stomach; I was feeling it right now. I nodded at him to continue, my teeth just lightly chewing at my lip.

  ‘I like looking out of my window,’ he said. ‘I could see into their garden, Claude’s garden, and I can remember that night. I had my window open and I heard voices, but they were too far away. When I looked, I saw two people digging.’

  ‘Did you take any photographs?’ I asked, my words coming out in rapid fire, excited now.

  Frankie shook his head. ‘It was too dark, and they wouldn’t have come out. But I saw them. Two people digging, right where the
y found her.’

  Frankie’s gaze flicked towards the photographs again, and I realised then why he hadn’t told the police anything.

  ‘You’d been warned off, hadn’t you?’ I said. I stood up and crossed to the wall and tapped one of the photographs. ‘Nancy had complained about you, about your camera looking at her from your window. Is that right?’

  Frankie looked down and nodded. I saw a tear appear on his eyelash.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset her,’ he said, his voice breaking. ‘But when they found her, I knew they wouldn’t believe me, and so Mother told me to stay quiet, not to say anything.’

  I went to the window and looked out. The view into the Gilbert garden was good. There were some trees in the way now, but they didn’t look as well grown on the photographs on the wall. As I looked at the photographs of Nancy Gilbert, something occurred to me.

  I looked down to my car in the street and then back to Frankie. I pulled my car keys out of my pocket. ‘I just need to think about this,’ I said. ‘It’s pretty big stuff.’ I sat down on the bed next to Frankie and held up the keys. ‘Will you get my notebook out of my car? It’s in the glove compartment.’

  He looked up at me and wiped his eyes. ‘Are you in the red one?’

  I nodded.

  A smile spread on his lips. ‘I like that car. Can I sit in it?’

  I smiled back. ‘Of course you can. Take as long as you want. Just don’t drive it.’

  Frankie grabbed my keys and went out of the room.

  I listened for the rumble of his feet down the stairs and then I stood quickly and went to the drawers on the dresser. It was the windows in the photographs that made me think of something, because it seemed like Frankie tracked Nancy with his camera, and so he might have taken some that he kept just for himself, for those lonely nights in.

  The dresser was scuffed mahogany, dusty on top, with a mirror and five wide drawers underneath. There was a keyhole in each drawer but they opened easily as I pulled. I whistled when I saw the contents. More newspapers, some going back twenty years or more, the front pages yellow, the print faded to grey. The next drawers down were just the same. I lifted some of the papers up, just to check underneath, but there were no photographs.

  I went to the window and saw that Frankie was still outside.

  I looked around the room. There wasn’t really anywhere else. Then I noticed the gap under his bed. I smiled to myself. Where else?

  I went to the floor and looked under. It was all in shadow, and so I swept my hand underneath, almost at full stretch, and then my fingers brushed something, pushed to the back.

  I jumped up and pulled the bed away from the wall. There was a red hatbox. It was dusty, but I could see trails in the dust, as if someone had lifted the lid a few times. I lifted the box up and shoved the bed back against the wall. My nose itched from the dust as I removed the lid carefully, but then I gasped when I saw what was inside.

  It was filled with photographs, just like the ones pinned to the wall, but the colours were fresher. I lifted one out. It was the Gilbert house, but I could only tell that from the angle of the picture. The photograph of someone in a window was zoomed in, a young woman changing into a white tunic, but it wasn’t anyone I recognised. I glanced out of the window and towards the rest home. Frankie had been spying on the nurses. I flicked through and it showed the same woman in her underwear, and then in her normal clothes before leaving the room.

  I shook my head. These were too recent. Frankie had spied on Nancy Gilbert more than twenty years ago, and it looked like the habit had continued, but I was looking for older photographs, from before she died. The box was filled with photograph envelopes, and so I pushed the newer-looking ones to one side and looked for the faded ones, the ones in dated styling. I found one and grinned as I pulled out the photographs. I had them. It was Nancy Gilbert, but in these she was naked, getting changed, drying herself with a towel, and then putting on her clothes, knickers first, then the bra.

  I felt grubby, like I was part of the voyeurism, but it was compelling just the same, staring into the secret life of the story’s forgotten character—Nancy Gilbert in her own home, perhaps not long before she was murdered. I was engrossed in shuffling through that set, and then I reached in for another envelope. The photos were the same, Nancy Gilbert getting undressed this time. I turned one over, and I saw that there was a date written on the back. Twentieth of February 1988. Three months before she died. I reached for another envelope. It was just the same. Nancy Gilbert through her bedroom window, naked.

  I flicked through, embarrassed now, but then I saw something in one of the photographs. I stopped and looked closer. It was hard to see so I lifted it towards the window, trying to cast some light onto it. It was a head, a patch of red hair.

  I put it down for a moment. Claude Gilbert had dark hair and so it couldn’t be him. I went to the next photograph. Nancy Gilbert still naked, but there was the hair again. Someone was in the room with her. The next photograph was similar, but they were closer.

  My hands flicked through the photographs until I got to the last few, and I felt a tremble in my hand when I saw two naked bodies on the bed, making love.

  Tabloid gold.

  Then I heard the door click shut. When I looked up, Frankie was looking down at me, his eyes screwed up with rage, his fists clenched tightly.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  ‘Those are private,’ Frankie growled, his voice angry, moving towards me.

  I stood up and stepped away, making sure that I didn’t turn my back to him.

  ‘You need to come forward with these,’ I said, holding up the pictures.

  ‘They’re not for sale.’

  ‘Come on, Frankie, everyone has a price.’

  Frankie shook his head. ‘Not those, Mr Garrett.’ He moved closer to me, but I backed away again, so that we were both moving around the room, me walking backwards. ‘Why were you looking under my bed?’ he asked.

  I gestured to the walls. ‘Don’t be offended, Frankie, but to an impartial observer, you look a little fucking obsessed with Mrs Gilbert. I figured that you must have had more than pictures of Mrs Gilbert climbing out of her car.’ I held up the pictures again. ‘Is this your wank stash?’

  Frankie shook his head, his face purple with embarrassment. ‘It’s not like that.’

  ‘It is exactly like that, Frankie,’ I said, and I sensed him becoming defensive. ‘Do the nurses know that you spy on them?’

  Frankie took some deep breaths, and I could see that he looked frightened. He turned away, his hands over his face.

  ‘You’ve been warned, haven’t you, Frankie?’ I said, stepping closer to him. ‘They caught you with your camera, and you’re not supposed to have these any more, are you, Frankie?’

  ‘Please go, Mr Garrett,’ he said, his voice muffled through his hands.

  ‘Frankie, you need to show these,’ I pleaded, changing tack. ‘They could prove that Claude Gilbert didn’t kill his wife.’

  He didn’t move. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘if that’s how you want it,’ and I threw some of the photograph envelopes onto the bed and headed for the door. I didn’t want to look at him as I left, because I felt the churn of guilt; I had tucked a bundle of photographs into the back of my jeans when I didn’t think he could see me. But a man’s liberty was at stake, and that was more important than a man’s private porn collection. As I left the room, I heard the rustle of paper as Frankie picked up the photographs I had left behind.

  I walked down the stairs quickly, wanting to get to my car before Frankie noticed that the photographs were missing. The landing on the next floor down was dark, and I was hoping for a quick getaway, but then I noticed a soft pink glow from underneath one of the doors. I hadn’t noticed it on the way up, and it didn’t fit with the grime and scuffed old wood of the rest of the house.

  I glanced back towards the stairs to make sure that Frank
ie hadn’t followed me, but I could still hear him upstairs, banging about under the bed. I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly, hoping that it wouldn’t squeak, and when I saw the room, I felt a shiver.

  It was feminine and pristine, with a high double bed and a crocheted pink quilt dominating the space. There was a white dresser against one wall with small jewellery boxes and a mirror on top. In a corner of the room was a rocking chair with a pink satin cushion. On the wall was a large framed picture of a man in a seaman’s outfit, his chin strong, his smile stiff and formal, and photographs on a small table next to the bed, of a small child, and the same man as before. There was a faint look of Frankie in his eyes, in the way he frowned, the bold eyebrows making his eyes seem shadowy and sinister. I looked down. The carpet was pink and spotless, the bed immaculately made up. The soft glow under the door had been from the sunlight trying to break through the pink curtains in the window. It was Frankie’s mother’s room, I could tell that, and it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed or used in years.

  Or maybe it had been used, but it was the one room that Frankie looked after, a shrine to his long-dead mother.

  I heard a noise above me and realised that Frankie was leaving his room. I backed out of the room, making sure that the door closed quietly, and then trotted back down the stairs, squinting as I got back into the sunshine.

  Laura and Thomas were sitting in the squad car when they got the call from Mike Dobson. They were just down the hill from Claude Gilbert’s house, underneath a stone archway at the entrance to a park, flowers and lawns and a duck pond visible on the other side. Laura realised that this all looked like too much effort for a kerb-crawler’s warning, but Thomas hadn’t commented. Maybe he thought it was an excuse to avoid doing the paperwork on a bright summer morning.

  Then Laura saw Mike Dobson arrive from a distance, the gold Mercedes bright against the grey background. There was something purposeful about the way he drove. As he pulled up behind them, Laura got out of the car, Thomas just behind her.

  Laura wasn’t surprised by Mike Dobson’s appearance. His house was pristine and showy, and the car seemed all about image, so she expected him to look like success. Grey double-breasted suit, shiny black shoes, and a pink tie that contrasted vividly with his white shirt. He was in his early fifties, his neck starting to take over his chin and the crown of his head slowly emerging through the hair. It was dyed, Laura could tell that from the caramel colour, trying to reclaim the hair he’d once had. As he approached her, he gave her a flash of the salesman’s smile. Laura smiled back, but it was as insincere as Dobson’s. She wanted to catch him off-guard.