Dead Silent

by Neil White

  When the clock got as far as nine fifty-five, Joe pressed play and we settled down to watch.

  There were young women in short skirts on street corners, their handbags over their shoulders, but they were mainly in darkness, so that they appeared on the screen like ghostly shadows. Whenever a car went past, they bent down to catch the driver’s eye. Some slowed down. Some sped up. I wondered how many pieces of bad luck had taken those women to the street corners of Blackley.

  Then we saw it. Mike Dobson’s gold Mercedes. It passed right in front of the camera and below the streetlight, although the angle from the bedroom window allowed us to see only the driver. I recognised Dobson from his profile, but it was the other person in the car that interested Joe. The car turned a corner and started to drive away from the camera, towards the waste ground at the top of the street, Hazel’s last resting place. There was a shadow in the passenger seat, just a head over the back of the seat, long hair visible.

  ‘He’s going to dump her,’ Joe said, his finger tapping on his lip with concentration.

  Then the car started to brake and it pulled up alongside the kerb. We exchanged looks of surprise when the passenger door opened and someone stepped out.

  ‘Is that Hazel?’ I asked.

  Joe got closer to the screen so that his face was bathed in blue light. ‘It might be.’

  We both watched as Hazel tottered along the pavement and straightened the flowery dress she was found in. She was weaving as she walked, drunk maybe, and then Mike Dobson turned back towards the town centre and sped away to his normal life, where no one knew that he patrolled those streets.

  Joe straightened and scratched his head. ‘So it wasn’t him,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Dobson was telling the truth.’

  ‘It happens sometimes,’ I said.

  Joe looked at me, and I could tell there was something on his mind, more than just Hazel.

  ‘What is it?’ I said.

  ‘If Dobson’s telling the truth about Hazel, maybe he’s telling the truth about what happened to Nancy Gilbert,’ Joe replied.

  ‘What did he say?’ I asked, and I suddenly felt cold, not sure if I was about to hear something that I wouldn’t like. My tongue ran over my lips as my mouth went dry.

  ‘He said he was there when Nancy Gilbert was killed,’ Joe said. ‘Claude hit her, and then persuaded Dobson to help him bury her. Dobson just went along with it, because he was scared.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a lie, to cover up what evidence you’ve got,’ I said, although I realised that it didn’t sound convincing.

  Joe tapped the television screen. ‘This tells me that Dobson isn’t a liar.’

  I felt the blood drain from me. My hand shot to my mouth and I started to pace, looking at Joe and then out of the window, my mind trying to process the threats flashing through my head.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Joe asked.

  ‘If Dobson is telling the truth,’ I said, ‘Claude Gilbert is a heartless murderer.’

  ‘We’ve always known that,’ Joe said. ‘Now, we’ve got a witness.’

  Then I saw something on the monitor, like a flash. Then it was there again. Headlights, two quick bursts of light, and then the beams drove slowly towards Hazel.

  ‘What do you think, a Mini?’ Joe asked as it drew closer.

  I couldn’t answer. The car pulled alongside her, and she bent down to talk to the driver, one hand resting on the roof, her chest pushed through the window. Then she walked round to the passenger door and climbed in. The Mini reversed quickly up the street and then performed a U-turn in the road to head away.

  As they reached the top of the street, the brake lights came on as the Mini slowed down so that it could drive onto the patch of concrete where she was found.

  ‘Hazel has just climbed in with her murderer,’ Joe said.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Laura thumped the metal sheet, and then kicked it again. Her fingers were raw from scraping at the soil. Dirt was jammed under her fingernails.

  She was sweating, despite the water that settled around her. Flies from Susie buzzed in her ear, so that Laura had to blow at them to keep them away from her nose.

  There was a moan, Laura jumped, and then Susie’s head banged on the metal, as if she had tried to sit up. Except that Laura knew she hadn’t, because she couldn’t.

  Laura tried to scramble away from her, but she couldn’t get far, only a foot at the most. She wished for a moment that she smoked, just so that she would have a lighter to see what there was in the hole. Or maybe it was better not to see.

  Then she remembered that Susie smoked.

  Laura closed her eyes and took deep breaths through her nose to get ready for it. Then she extended her arms.

  She recoiled when she felt Susie’s body, her arm completely solid now, the muscles tensed by rigor mortis. Laura exhaled to quell the tightness in her chest, and then she reached out once more.

  Laura was ready for the feel of Susie this time, and when her fingers brushed her skin, cold like ham, she kept on going, heading for Susie’s trousers. Susie’s hand was crooked, as if she had been holding something when she died, but Laura could find nothing between the fingers. Laura reached down to the front pocket of Susie’s jeans, but when she ran her hands over it, pressing against her hip, there was nothing there.

  Laura took another deep breath and reached across Susie’s lap to feel for her other pocket, her fingers creeping over the denim and the bump of the zip, trying to keep towards the waist. Laura’s body was pressed right up against Susie’s now, but she kept her face averted, trying not to get any more of Susie’s blood on her, although by now it had dried onto her face.

  Laura felt some dampness on the inside of Susie’s thighs. It wasn’t the water, which was now a couple of inches deep. It was piss, Laura could tell that, with no body heat to dry it out. She had been smelling that acrid stench for a few hours now.

  She groped around Susie’s lap for a lighter, not breathing, their faces too close, and then she felt the hard plastic in Susie’s pocket.

  Laura contorted herself to reach into the pocket, and she had to pull Susie closer, so that Susie’s dead face rested against hers, cold lips against her cheek. Her fingers closed around it and she felt the lighter wheel. She extracted it slowly, anxious not to drop it. When it was safely out of the pocket and in her grasp, Laura shuffled quickly away.

  Laura didn’t move for a few seconds. Was she getting out of breath quicker? Was the air getting thinner? There was a film of sweat on her forehead, despite the cold. She had to blink to keep it out of her eyes.

  She poised with her finger on the lighter wheel, pointed upwards, clasped between her bound hands, and then she flicked it, expected the flame. But all she got was a puny spark. Her hand was damp with perspiration and she worried about dropping it. She took a tighter grip and tried it again, the wheel rough on her skin, and then, finally, there was a small blue flame.

  Laura kept her thumb on the lighter button to keep the butane flowing and began to look around.

  She looked down first, saw her bare feet against the mud wall. The light was reflected in the sheen of muddy water that was seeping into the hole, and, looking upwards, her eyes were met by the brown of the rusty metal, a solid ceiling just inches from her nose, no weak points visible except for the line of rivets on a join in the centre. She couldn’t turn over, was unable to get into any position where she could use her body effectively.

  Susie’s legs were lifeless next to her. Laura tracked the lighter up her body, saw the clawed fingers, and then she almost dropped the lighter when she got to the face. Susie’s cheek and temple looked sunken, as if she had been struck with something heavy, and blood had collected below her head and was now being rinsed away by the rising water.

  Laura turned her face away and let the lighter die out. She knew she would die if she stayed where she was. And so she kicked at the metal, and her hands scraped at the soil, her elbows pushing against Susie to give
her some space.

  She heard a noise like a scream, and then she realised that it was her own voice, shouting as loud as she could and all the time her fists and feet were hitting out, seized by panic, no longer able to hold it in, trapped. She knew she was going to die.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  I ran up the drive towards Frankie’s front door. His Vespa was outside, pulled up onto its stand by the front door. I didn’t knock, just twisted on the handle and ran inside.

  ‘Frankie!’

  There was silence.

  ‘Frankie?’

  I was met by silence again, but then I heard a sound, like the creak of a door. It was coming from upstairs.

  I sprinted up the first flight, pausing when I reached the landing. I looked around, tried to work out where the sound had come from. The house seemed still. Maybe it had just been the wind in an old draughty building.

  Then I heard it again. Just the creak of a floorboard. Upstairs once more. Frankie’s room.

  I ran again, two steps at a time, onto the small landing, and then rushed into his room. Frankie was sitting in a chair, looking out of the window. He turned and smiled at me.

  ‘You are in my house,’ he said.

  ‘What you said this morning, Frankie, that you had seen Laura with someone,’ I gasped, my heart beating fast.

  He smirked. ‘I’m not sure I remember.’

  ‘Yes, you do, Frankie, and I’m not in the mood for fucking around. Tell me what you saw.’

  Frankie glanced at the bare wall. ‘I’m not sure I’m allowed. The police took away all my pictures.’

  ‘That’s because you look into people’s bedrooms,’ I said. ‘This is different. This is about saving a life.’

  Frankie seemed to like that, and he rocked faster, his teeth bared as his smile grew bigger.

  ‘I want my pictures.’

  ‘What kind of man are you?’ I said.

  ‘One who knows what he likes,’ he snapped. ‘And who has got something you want.’

  ‘I could just look at your computer.’

  He shrugged. ‘Go ahead, but it’ll take you some time to get past the passwords.’ He watched me, and then smirked again. ‘You don’t have time, do you? I can tell that, from the way you burst into my home. You’re in a panic.’

  I paced up and down quickly, losing my temper. ‘You said you liked Laura,’ I said, turning to him, pointing. ‘So help her.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’

  Frankie shook his head. ‘My pictures first.’

  I took a deep breath, and then I reached into my jacket pocket to pull out the envelope containing the photographs.

  Frankie snatched them from me and flicked through them, his cheeks flushing red.

  ‘Show me, Frankie,’ I said. ‘The pictures from last night.’

  After a few seconds, Frankie put his photographs down and wheeled towards his computer. He clicked the mouse as the cursor hovered over the ‘My Pictures’ icon and, as the folder opened, I looked at the screen and saw a collection of images, some showing my house.

  ‘You said there were passwords.’

  ‘Maybe I was wrong,’ Frankie replied.

  I tried to bite down on my anger. ‘Print them off,’ I said, and a few seconds later the printer started whirring away under his desk.

  When the printer had finished, I snatched up the pictures and studied them. They showed Claude coming out of my house, looking around. It was taken from a distance, but I recognised him.

  The other pictures made me sit down, Frankie’s bed creaking under me. They showed two people by a Mini, Laura and Claude, the latter with his unkempt beard, his hair hidden under a wide-brimmed hat, more Salvation Army hostel than eighties charmer. In each one, though, there was a good view of his face, and I recognised him. More than that, there was a number plate visible. I would call Joe with that as soon as I got outside. But it was the sight of Laura that shocked me. She was being taken to his car, bound by her wrists and feet, and her face looked swollen and bloodied.

  ‘I’m taking these,’ I said to Frankie. ‘If you remove them from your computer, I’ll burn your house down.’

  He smiled, but I could tell from the twitch in the corner of his mouth that he heeded the threat. And right then, I meant it.

  ‘We’re even,’ he said.

  ‘Not even fucking close,’ I snarled, as I slammed the door.

  Chapter Seventy

  Laura gulped at the air. It was getting harder to breathe. The freezing water had collected as high as her hips and she was shivering.

  She tried to stay calm—panic was an enemy—but it was hard. She didn’t want this to be the end. Goosebumps flashed across her arms and legs. She didn’t know if it was the cold or the thought of what lay ahead.

  Laura thought of her parents, made herself think of the happy teenage years she’d had. She had learnt to do things her own way, make her own decisions—the police, the move north—but her parents had always been there for her, supporting, loving. She tried to imagine her mother’s voice, soft and warm, and the memory lifted her for a moment.

  She turned her face away from Susie. The buzz of insects had grown louder. Or was she imagining it? There was no way of knowing in the darkness. It had got harder to hold the lighter, her fingers now too cold to grip it, and so she had dropped it into the water.

  Laura reached up to wipe the sweat from her eyes and she found herself out of breath, her chest moving in hard quick pumps. Her hands shook as she lifted them. Her clothes were getting heavier in the water and she felt tired and cold. Precious sleep would take her away from there.

  She shook her head. Don’t think like that. Stay alert. Where was Jack? He would know what to do, would have the right words.

  She kicked at the metal again, angry now, but her foot moved sluggishly, her jeans heavy with water, her muscles aching. The sound came back as a dull thud followed by a small splash as her foot went back into the water.

  Laura hit out again, and then she stopped, panting. She couldn’t last much longer, she knew that. The air was getting thin. She was wheezing, her lungs working hard for the oxygen, every deep breath replacing it with carbon dioxide, squeezing out the air that she needed.

  Would she be awake when she took that last breath, when there was no more air to be had?

  I drove quickly from Frankie’s house, my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. It was against the law, but fuck it, give me the penalty points.

  ‘Joe, it’s me, Jack,’ I shouted when he answered.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘On my way to Alan Lake’s house. Meet me there.’

  ‘Why there?’ he asked.

  ‘Because he’s the link in all of this, and he might know where Claude is,’ I said. ‘And more than that. I’ve got pictures of Claude, taken last night, getting into a green Mini, with Laura. He’s taken her.’

  ‘What’s the registration number?’

  I reached across for the photographs and balanced them on the steering wheel, flicking through. I knew I was pushing more than a mobile phone offence now, but that didn’t mean I was going to stop.

  I barked the registration number at Joe and then threw the photographs back onto the seat.

  ‘If you want a photograph of Claude to circulate, meet me at Alan Lake’s house,’ I said, and then I clicked off my phone.

  I ignored the speed limits all the way there, and there were at least two bright flashes in my rearview mirror as I went over the dashed lines on the road in front of the speed cameras. As I drove towards Alan Lake’s house, I saw another car I recognised: a red Jaguar. Chief Inspector Roach. I should have expected it. He was just leaving.

  ‘What brings you here?’ he said when he saw me.

  ‘No, Roach, what brings you here?’ I said, and then I pointed at the house. ‘I’m going to speak with Mr Lake, your business partner. Would you like to join me?’

  He paled, and
then his brow furrowed. ‘Yes, I think I ought to,’ he said, and I was aware of him following at my shoulder as I marched towards the big glass door.

  Alan Lake looked round as I entered the house, Roach just behind me. He stared at me, his face confused, and then at Roach. I saw Roach shake his head.

  ‘Do you know why I’m here?’ I said.

  ‘The same as always,’ Lake said. He pointed at Roach. ‘Look, you’ve got the scoop, another player here.’

  ‘Don’t be smart,’ I said. ‘Let me tell you what I know about you both.’

  He held out his hands and smiled. ‘By all means.’

  ‘Northern Works,’ I said, and I saw the smile disappear.

  Lake looked at Roach. ‘It’s okay, Paul, I’ll handle this.’

  I turned round. ‘No, stay, I don’t mind.’

  Lake pursed his lips. ‘No, it would be better if he wasn’t here,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’

  Roach looked at me, and then at Alan Lake, before nodding to himself. ‘Okay,’ he said, and then he turned to me. ‘Don’t make trouble.’

  ‘Trouble has already arrived, Roach, so go fuck yourself,’ I barked.

  Roach flushed for a moment, but then he turned and left. I stayed silent until the door had closed, Lake gestured towards a chair. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘I haven’t got time for pleasantries,’ I said. ‘Claude has got Laura.’

  Alan walked to a cabinet and poured himself a whisky. He raised the bottle to me to see whether I was interested, but I shook my head. He walked to the sofa and sat back, pausing to take a sip, letting out a small sigh of pleasure. My fists clenched and I focused hard on not going for him.

  ‘So, you want to know about Northern Works,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘No, I want to find Claude,’ I said, ‘and it seems like you’re pretty good at finding him somewhere to hide.’