by Neil White
When they got to the edge of the field, Mike jumped down over a gnarled tree root and then put his bag on the floor. He grabbed her by the waist to lift her down, noticing how light she was.
She looked around. They were at a bend in the river, the level so low that the water shimmered over the stones in the middle, and the grass on the other bank trailed lazily over its surface.
‘It’s nice down here,’ she said.
‘It is. We used to come here,’ he said, pointing towards an old stone folly a little further along the river bank. As her gaze followed the line of his finger, he said, ‘We used to go in there when the weather was bad and watch the lightning flash over the cottages.’ He smiled, reflective and sad. ‘She used to like it in there. Nancy, that was her name. It was a special place for her.’
‘Nancy?’
He nodded. ‘Just someone I used to know.’
She walked along the river bank, towards the folly. ‘I used to go riding around here,’ she said.
‘Riding? You?’
‘Why are you surprised?’ she said. Then she looked down at herself, a hint of shame in her eyes. ‘I wasn’t born into my life. It just sort of turned out this way.’
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it,’ Mike said, and he joined her in front of the folly.
It looked different to how it had been the last time he had been here. It was just a stone shelter, three-sided, and had become somewhere for ramblers to seek refuge from bad weather, built when the land formed part of a country estate that had long since been divided up and sold off to settle death duties. Now it stood derelict. The windows had been smashed and the back wall was supported now by a large metal plate, riveted in the middle, so that the interior was dark, allowing no view of the countryside behind it. Not like it had been back when it had been special to Nancy. There were empty bottles of vodka in one corner and a couple of damp cigarette packets littered the other.
‘Come back to the river,’ he said, and he turned away. He reached into his bag and pulled out a rug. He spread it on the ground, in the shadow of the tree whose root they had climbed over before. ‘Lie down with me.’
‘How long are we going to be here?’
He sighed, tried to bite back the irritation. He wanted her to enjoy it, but the moment was being spoiled.
‘I’ll pay you more, if you want.’
She thought about that, and then lay down on the rug next to him, her hair spreading out against the red tartan. Her arms were rigid, by her side, nervous. As Mike lay next to her, he put his face to her neck and took another deep breath of the perfume before reaching into the bag once more. He pulled out two plastic wine glasses and a bottle of merlot. Her eyes went hungrily to the bottle and, when he poured her a glass, her first mouthful seemed like it had broken a drought.
He lay back and looked up at the blue sky. Small white clouds threatened to spoil the view. He heard a bird rustle the leaves above him, and he could feel the warmth of the sun on his face.
‘Kiss me,’ he said.
‘I don’t do that,’ she replied.
He closed his eyes, felt his eyelashes get damp.
‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘That’s what I wanted from this.’
There was a moment’s pause, and he heard her put her glass on the floor. He opened his eyes and saw that the blue of the sky was blotted out by the silhouette of her hair, her face hardly visible, cast into shadow. When she leant down to kiss him, his nose was filled with the perfume. He ran his hand up her back as he felt her lips on his. He tasted cigarettes and stale booze. Her kiss was soft and nervy; his was needing. The ridges in her spine were sharp against his fingers and her ribs felt brittle against his chest. His fingers found the zip on her dress, and he pulled it down slowly before lifting it over her head. Her body was outlined against the sun, her arms skinny, the bones jagged in her shoulders.
He closed his eyes. He wanted to remember the woman she was, not the stick-thin version in front of him. Nancy’s figure had been fuller, her hips rounder.
He gasped as he felt her hands on his belt. She seemed eager, excited, but then, as he opened his eyes, he saw only impatience. She pulled his trousers down and straddled him. He put his hands behind her back, and then ran his hands down to the sharpness of her hip bones. It wasn’t right, not quite the same.
‘No, you’re going too fast,’ he said, trying to pull away, but she found him, made him gasp as she started to move on him, backwards and forwards. There was no sound from her. She was efficient, passionless.
‘Please stop,’ he said. He could feel stones under his buttocks. They were distracting him. But he could smell the perfume and, as he looked at her, with her hair forward over her face, it could have been Nancy.
He pulled her face towards him so he could kiss her. He tasted the decay, old cigarettes and poor hygiene, but the perfume drifted towards him and so he carried on. As she moved, his excitement grew. He tried to stop himself, didn’t want it to end so soon, but his hands went up her back, and then to her breasts, before they moved to her neck. His hands were gentle around her throat as she rocked on him. He opened his mouth and moaned. He couldn’t hold on much longer, and he felt his grip get tighter.
Chapter Forty-Three
My mood didn’t improve as I drove up the hill to our home. I was angry with Rachel Mason, with Frankie, even with Alan Lake, but I was angry mostly with myself. Frankie had been to my house. Was he the man who had been in the house when I was in London, drinking with Dave, and Laura was there alone? From what I had seen on Frankie’s screensaver, he had spent some time watching Laura before he was caught. What if Laura had seen him? How far would he have gone?
I cursed myself for going to London. I could have done it a different way, and now I could only imagine the smirks Laura would have to endure around the police station.
I wasn’t really concentrating as I swung my car towards the parking space in front of the living-room window and I had to slam on the brakes when, just in time, I saw Tony Davies’s car parked there. At least Tony was a friendly face, and I felt like I needed to see one of them.
Before I went into the house though, I looked at the windows. They needed locks, and the curtains were open. We didn’t hide ourselves away—there was nothing overlooking the cottage, and it was a joy in spring to wake up to the sun streaming in through the window. After seeing Frankie’s photographs, all that would have to change, and some of our routines would be lost forever.
I tried to ring Claude; I had been trying all day, but he wasn’t answering. I scowled. I was furious with Frankie, and now I could feel my big story slipping away from me.
As I walked in, Tony and Laura were around the table, talking, but they stopped when they saw me.
‘Jack, how are you doing?’ Tony said, and I sensed that he was trying to lift the mood that had been in the house before I arrived.
‘I’m doing okay,’ I said, although my voice didn’t reflect that. My laptop made a clunk as I put my bag on the table next to them.
Laura jumped up and came to me, planting a kiss on my cheek.
‘I’ll leave you boys to talk,’ she said, and then headed for the stairs. I could hear Bobby upstairs in his bedroom.
‘How have you got on?’ Tony said, when we were alone.
‘Good, in some respects, but it’s all too much of a jumble to make it into a story,’ I said.
Tony nodded towards the stairs. ‘How much have you told Laura?’
‘Maybe more than I should have.’
Tony nodded as he thought this over. ‘It’s not good to have secrets,’ he said eventually. ‘And she might be able to help. You’re going to bring a murder suspect out of hiding, and she might know who to speak to first.’
I grimaced.
Tony raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’ve been calling Claude all day,’ I said, ‘and he doesn’t seem keen on answering.’
Tony let out a long breath but didn’t
say anything else as Laura came skipping back down the stairs. She smiled and blew me a kiss as she went towards the kitchen, before emerging with a bottle of wine and an empty glass. ‘I’m going for a hot soak,’ she said. ‘I may be some time.’
I let her footsteps fade upstairs, and then I went to the fridge to pop the top from a cold beer. Tony declined; he was driving. The first sip took away some of my frustrations, but I was still feeling discouraged when I joined him at the table and slumped onto a chair.
‘So, where have you been?’ Tony said.
‘I got my fingerprints all over the case today. Bill Hunter again. Frankie Cass. I even managed a meet with the police and had a visit to Alan Lake’s glass box.’
‘How did it go with Alan Lake?’ Tony asked.
‘Let’s just say that he isn’t the most willing of interviewees,’ I replied, and I recounted my visit to his house.
‘Still on your suspect list?’
‘I don’t know,’ was my answer, and it was the truth, I wasn’t sure. The guilt of a hoodlum-turned-artist would be hard to pin down.
‘And it turns out that Frankie Cass isn’t the greatest neighbour either,’ I said, and I threw the envelope of photographs onto the table.
Tony looked at me, surprised, and then he reached forward for the envelope. As he pulled out the photographs and started to thumb through them, his mouth opened, and then his eyes widened in surprise. He looked up at me.
‘Is that Nancy Gilbert?’ he asked, holding up one of the nude shots taken from Frankie’s bedroom.
I nodded. ‘Frankie was her stalker, but keep going. You haven’t got to the good stuff yet.’
I watched Tony’s face, waiting for the moment when he got beyond the peep show and on to the important shots. It didn’t take long. He looked up at me, a grin spreading across his face.
‘That’s not Claude, is it?’ he said, chuckling.
‘Not unless he changed his hair colour now and again.’
‘Does Frankie mind that you’ve got them?’
‘Right now, I don’t care what Frankie thinks,’ I said. When Tony looked confused, I added, ‘He’s been here, in the house, taking secret pictures of Laura. So even if Frankie feels angry with me, we’re nowhere near even.’
Tony’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘In here?’
I nodded. ‘When I was in London.’
He shook his head in disbelief, and then pointed at the pictures. ‘So you pinched them?’
‘And they stay that way,’ I said.
‘For how long?’
‘For as long as I need them.’
Tony smiled. ‘This is how journalism used to be, when we got out there and muscled our way into stories. You’re better staying freelance now. In the newsroom we do everything on the phone or the computer these days. So, did Frankie say who it was?’
I shook my head. ‘He was too busy throwing me out when he saw that I’d found them. But Claude told me that his wife was sleeping with Mike Dobson. It might be that she entertained the neighbourhood when he was at work, and who would blame her, but it’s a start. He’s on my go-see list for tomorrow—if I can find him.’
‘You need to be careful, Jack. In case he’s the killer. People can react differently when they’re cornered.’
‘Frankie said that he saw two people in the garden, digging late at night,’ I said. ‘That must rule out lover-boy; crimes of passion don’t generally come as a double act.’
‘So why are you going?’
‘He’s part of the story.’
‘And Alan Lake?’ Tony asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He fits in best with the two-person theory, but we’ve only got Frankie’s word for it, and I’m not sure that’s worth a great deal. I’ll keep an eye on Lake, because he’s pissed me off, and so now he’s part of the story, even if it is just to remind people what a thug he was.’
‘You’ll send his prices up,’ Tony said.
‘Maybe.’ I drained my drink. ‘I need another one of those.’ I wandered back into the kitchen. When I returned, another cold beer in my hand, I asked, ‘What brings you here?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I thought you’d been warned off, but you’re shuffling around like you’ve caught crabs or something.’
Tony smiled. ‘I’ve been asking around for you. Do you want the big news or the small news?’
‘Start with the small,’ I said. ‘Build up the excitement.’
‘It’s about Claude’s family.’
‘His Honour Judge Gilbert?’ I asked.
‘And Claude’s sisters,’ Tony replied.
‘Go on.’
‘It seems that the old judge isn’t going to enjoy too much of his judicial pension,’ Tony said. ‘Quite frail, so the reports say, and Claude’s sisters are not too keen on the idea of a third of the estate sitting in a bank just waiting for Claude to turn up.’
‘Why doesn’t Daddy just rewrite his will?’ I said.
‘Because he’s a believer in the legal process, that you are only guilty of what can be proven against you. Claude has been convicted in the eyes of the public, but never from the wrong side of a brass rail. Until that happens, or Claude turns up dead, the old fool is going to hang on to the presumption of Claude’s innocence and leave him a third of his estate.’
‘And is it a large estate?’
Tony nodded. ‘The judge used to be a QC, and so he made big money. Becoming a judge was semi-retirement for him, because it came with a pay cut, but respect from his peers was a non-taxable benefit.’
‘When was all this?’
‘A few months ago.’
I tapped my lip with my finger.
‘What is it?’ Tony said.
‘Timing,’ I said. ‘I wondered why Claude was coming forward now. He looked down on his luck, and if he’s in line for a windfall, maybe that would be enough to persuade him out of hiding. But he’s got to win his case first.’
‘That’s quite a risk.’
‘He’s a gambler,’ I said. ‘So what about the big news?’
Tony’s smile got broader. ‘This is where it gets really good,’ he said. He leant over to an old leather briefcase, brown and tatty at the corners, and pulled out a bundle of papers. ‘I looked into Josif Petrovic. I thought he might just be some Serbian conman hoping to make some quick money out of a gullible young reporter.’ When I raised my eyebrows, he said, ‘I still see myself as your mentor, Jack, and I know it would ruin your career, peddling a fraudster. So I asked an old friend who works in the tax office to put Petrovic’s name through the computer, just to look at his history. He did that, and nothing came back. As far as the government is concerned, Petrovic isn’t earning any money. So if he is Mr Invisible as far as money is concerned, how is he paying for his flat? Did he say who owned it when you spoke to him?’
I shook my head. ‘I never thought to ask.’
‘It’s a good job that I did, then,’ Tony replied, grinning now. ‘Northern Works Limited is the name of the company. The people at Companies House were very helpful. According to the company Articles of Association, they’re not a property company, but they do own a flat in Belgravia.’
‘Let me guess,’ I said.
‘No need,’ Tony said. ‘It’s Petrovic’s basement flat. The company is solvent—only ever breaks even—and it’s never paid any corporation tax.’ He raised his eyebrows, and I thought I saw excitement in his eyes. ‘But that’s not the really surprising thing.’
‘Go on,’ I said, leaning forward, eager to know what Tony had found out.
‘I’ll let you do your own research,’ he said, smiling, and patted the bundle of papers. ‘I don’t want to spoil the surprise.’ Then he stood to go, and pointed upwards. ‘But don’t forget Laura. I don’t think she was planning on drinking all that wine on her own.’
I grinned and thanked him. The shadow from the day seemed to have lifted as Tony shuffled to the door, but the room was eerily silent once he�
��d gone. I put my hand on the papers, ready to go through them. But I was tired and the beer was relaxing me. I knew I had to get the story down quickly, because I knew that Harry English would lose interest pretty soon, the need for an immediate front page more important than a passing interest in one of my scoops, but the thought of a few more beers and of Laura upstairs made Claude Gilbert slide away just for a few moments.
I went to the stereo and slipped on some Johnny Cash. It was the first American Recordings album, all about regret and redemption, the singer’s low rumble filling the silence, and I knew that none of those emotions had touched Claude Gilbert. It was all about self-pity, and I knew that I had to act soon or else he would be gone.
I took another swig of beer and let out a long sigh. Any late-night writing I did was often court write-ups, or human interest tales I’d picked up on as I listened to the court gossip, usually victims angry at soft sentences, and it was easy to capture that outrage. The readers bought into it, that all their efforts to lead a good life were in vain, even though that was rarely true. Most criminals lead wretched lives—but when did the truth ever matter?
But the Claude Gilbert story had to be about truth. I just didn’t know what the truth was. That made me think further about Frankie. His mother’s room was too different from the rest of the house, which was cluttered and dirty. What did that tell me about Frankie? He was obsessive and furtive—his photographs of the nursing home and of Laura told me that much. Did that make him a killer? How much of a leap is it from taking photographs to wanting to get a little closer? Had Frankie seen Claude walk out on his marriage all those years ago and then gone to offer a little comfort to the abandoned wife? Did it all go wrong when he got to the door?
I sighed. I was getting tired. As productive as the night can be—my best pieces have been written to the sound of the clock ticking its way past midnight—I knew also that the mind has to be bright and active to make the words spin on the page. Perhaps it was time to take some hours out and go back to it in the morning.
There was a photograph on top of Tony’s file. It was the Gilbert family picture, a minor private moment now made famous by the headlines. There was the judge at the back, laughing, his head back, skinny and tall, with a hawk-like nose, his two daughters in front of him, one giggling, her hand over her mouth, the other smiling, both pretty brunettes, young, with bright futures ahead. Claude was on the edge of the picture, smirking, a cigarette in his hand, standing casually, almost as if he wasn’t part of the joke, distant from his sisters.
