by Neil White
‘Don’t worry,’ I interrupted, smiling. ‘I’m thinking of getting rid of it anyway.’
‘Why?’
‘I want someone to look after it properly, like he did. A Sunday polish, a regular service. I don’t do that.’ I tapped the dashboard. ‘I keep it because it was my father’s car, but then I think what he would say if he could see how I drive it, how I don’t wash it enough.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to sell it to someone who’ll treasure it like my father treasured it. That’s what he would have wanted.’
Tony nodded quietly to himself. He had been good friends with my father and I knew that Tony still missed him.
‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked eventually.
‘Claude Gilbert,’ I said simply.
He flashed me a look, part amusement, part curiosity. ‘What about him?’
‘If I want to find out more about him, who would I speak to?’
‘You’re two years too late with this,’ he said. ‘We did a special on the twentieth anniversary a couple of years ago.’
‘Maybe it deserves another run out.’
He looked at me, surprised. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got an angle on this,’ he said, his tone suspicious.
‘There’s always a new angle.’
He shook his head. ‘I know you, Jack. I trained you, remember? You don’t chase fairy tales.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ I said. ‘Not yet anyway. I just want to check it out first.’
He considered me for a moment, ran his finger along his lip. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘If you really are looking into it, there’s only one man to speak to: Bill Hunter. He was the plod who found the body, but he’s retired now.’
‘Still living the case?’ I queried.
Tony grinned. ‘You can see it in his eyes that it’s the one case that still keeps him awake. He follows it like a religion, keeps every piece written about it, from hoax sightings to alternative theories. He’s not Claude’s biggest fan.’
‘The one that got away?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Where will I find him?’
Tony scribbled down an address. ‘But try the allotment plot just behind your old school first. He’s always there. We used it for the photoshoot a couple of years ago. You know, retired policeman tending his plot. And of course, the digging reference was subtle too.’
‘You reckon?’ I said.
‘There’s nothing new, you know that, don’t you?’ Tony said. ‘We rehashed everything for the anniversary, so I know the Post won’t be interested.’
I looked towards the Post building. ‘Is that place still surviving?’
Tony pulled a face. ‘Not really. The internet is killing us. There are rumours that we’re going to be taken over by one of the big groups, and we’ll just turn out the free papers from there.’
‘You deserve better than that,’ I said. ‘You’re a proper journalist. You taught me my trade.’
‘And I’ve done everything,’ he replied, ‘and so it’s hard to get excited any more. I’m just looking forward to retirement.’
‘How’s Eleanor?’
‘Not looking forward to my retirement,’ he answered with a chuckle, and then he reached for the door handle. ‘If you need any help, Jack, call me. Maybe there’s time for one last crack at being a proper journo, but I won’t hold my breath.’
I smiled. ‘Will do. Take care.’
I looked down at the piece of paper with Bill Hunter’s details on, and then looked up to see Tony disappear into the Post building. I smiled to myself. Would the Claude Gilbert case stop me from ending up like Tony, churning out fillers for the local paper?
I was whistling to myself as I turned the engine over and pointed the Stag towards Blackley.
Chapter Five
Mike Dobson faltered as the customer leant towards him to place a cup of coffee on the table. It was the scent of Chanel No. 5, an air of sweet flowers that took him by surprise, rushed him back to more than twenty years earlier, to her smell, the faded Chanel, and those moments together, her hair over her face, her eyes closed, her nails dug deep into his chest. Then he grimaced as the images changed, became slashed with red, over her face, in her hair, splashed onto his hand.
He closed his eyes. He could train himself not to think about it, to live a normal life, but then a perfume would suddenly send him back, or the scent of lavender in bloom, heady and filled with summer.
‘Excuse me,’ said a distant voice, breaking into his thoughts.
Mike opened his eyes quickly and saw his customer. She looked concerned.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
He forced an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. Just a spot of toothache, that’s all,’ and he gestured towards his cheek and laughed nervously.
She winced. ‘That’s not nice. We can do this another time, if you don’t feel right.’
He shook his head. ‘No, it’s fine,’ he said. He took a deep breath. Switch on, he told himself. ‘Like my manager said, we can go half-price if you sign up today. It’s a special offer that ends tonight, so you really need to make a decision today.’
‘But I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It seems such a lot of money for something so…’ She searched for the right word as she nodded towards the sample next to him, a cross-section of white PVC fascia to replace the wooden boards that lined the roof edges.
‘Unglamorous?’ he offered, and when she smiled, he added, ‘There’s nothing glamorous about damp getting into your house, about the smell of mould in your bedroom.’ He banged the sample with his hand and tried another smile. ‘It might be just guttering, but it’s like saying that your roof is just tiles.’ He leant forward, and she leant in with him. ‘And it will stop your house being the one the neighbours talk about, the one that lets the street down, because you’ve got paint peeling off your wooden boards. You’ll never need to paint them again if you’ve got these.’
She sighed and sat back on the sofa, the movement wafting more perfume towards him. He felt nauseous, wanting to turn away, to get away from the memories, but the customer was nearly at the point of buying, he could sense it. She was falling for the sales tricks, the limited discount, the call to the manager. But something stopped him from forcing it. She distracted him, casually dressed, wearing those low-cut jeans that show off the hipbones, a sea horse tattoo visible just below her beltline.
He closed his eyes again, just for a moment, and filled his nose with the Chanel. The sale was over, he had to get away, before the other images drifted into his head. Blood. Smile. Hair. Still. Dirt.
‘Okay,’ he said, his voice faint. ‘It is a lot to pay.’ He passed over his card. ‘If you change your mind, call me.’
He felt her fingers brush his as she took the card from him and his cheeks flushed. She tapped it against her chin. ‘I will, thank you.’
He collected his samples, his breathing heavier now, and then he rushed for the door. He needed to be outdoors, where the breeze would take her scent away.
He climbed into his car, the samples thrown quickly into the boot, and took some deep breaths. Mike could sense her still watching him as he turned the key in the ignition.
Chapter Six
I followed Tony’s hint and headed for the allotments behind my old school, a collection of vegetable patches and ramshackle sheds that brought back memories of bent old men in flat caps. The allotments were mostly empty, but a man leaning on a spade pointed me towards Hunter’s plot. It was at the end of a line of bramble bushes and cane supports and, as I walked towards it, I got a close-up of my old school, two large prefabricated blocks, glass and panelling that looked out over sloping football fields, really just scrappy grass and wavy white lines. It was halfway up one of the slopes that surround Turners Fold, and I remembered how the wind used to howl across the fields, making my teenage legs raw during PE lessons.
As I got closer, I hea
rd mumbles of conversation, and then laughter, and as the allotment came into view I saw three men on deckchairs, a bottle of single malt passing between them.
I realised I had been spotted, because the smiles disappeared and the bottle was put on the floor.
‘I’m looking for Bill Hunter,’ I said.
The three men looked at each other, and then one asked, ‘Who are you?’ He was a tall man, with a beaky nose and a shiny scalp, grey hair cropped short around the ears.
‘My name is Jack Garrett, and I’m a reporter.’
He looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. I thought that I was suddenly unwelcome, but then he asked, ‘Bob Garrett’s lad?’
‘Yes,’ I said, my voice quieter now, caught by surprise.
He turned to his companions and winked. ‘I’ll speak to you boys later,’ he said, prompting them to struggle to their feet and make their way towards the rickety mesh gate. I could smell the whisky as they went past. Once they’d gone, he turned to me and said, ‘I’m Bill Hunter.’ He held out his hand to shake.
His grip was strong and he kept hold of my hand as he said, ‘I remember your father,’ his voice softer than before, some sadness in his eyes. ‘He was a good copper, and he shouldn’t have died like that.’
‘Did you work with him?’ I asked.
‘Not much,’ he said, ‘but I remember when he was killed. How many years ago is it now? Two?’
‘Three,’ I replied.
He shook his head. ‘Time goes too quickly, but I remember it. When I first started out, people didn’t carry guns like they do now. They did in the cities, I suppose, but they never brought their trouble this way.’
‘They came this way eventually though,’ I said, taking a deep breath, the memory bringing a tremble to my voice.
Hunter nodded to himself and patted me on the arm. ‘I’m glad I’m out of it. Everything is so different now, much more dangerous.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘Ask any of the new ones, and they all say that the job isn’t how they thought it would be, that it’s all about chasing targets, ticking boxes. And when they get a new problem?’ Hunter chuckled. ‘They just invent a new target. But those who are in can’t get out. They’ve got kids and mortgages.’ He gestured towards one of the deckchairs. ‘Sorry. You didn’t come here to listen to my moans. Sit down.’
I sank into the low chair as Hunter dried one of the cups with an old cloth. I reached up to collect the whisky he had poured for me, the aroma rich and pungent as it wafted out of the enamel cup.
‘So why do you want to know about Claude Gilbert?’ he asked.
I was surprised. ‘How did you guess?’
‘Jack, lad, I’ve been retired for fifteen years now. I’m almost seventy. All the criminals I’ve locked up are either dead, retired, or have given birth to the next generation. The only reason reporters ever look me up is Claude Gilbert.’ He winked at me. ‘I don’t talk to many, but seeing as though it’s you, I’ll tell you what you want to know.’
Chapter Seven
Laura McGanity looked around at the other officers in the room: they were mostly young, the ambitious ones marked out by the earnest way they sifted through their paperwork, the rest happy just to chat as they started their shift. They were in a room lined by glass walls and filled with computer screens, part of the shiny new police station on the edge of town. The windows looked out over the car park, and the glass walls gave her a view into a large atrium, where the officers ate their canteen food and gossiped.
Some of the officers had decided what they were doing that day, advice forms from the Crown Prosecution Service clutched in their hands, directing the collection of evidence to make the cases fit for court. The younger ones bustled around, anxious to get out of the station, the warm weather beckoning them outside, happy to take whatever the radio threw up that day. The older ones went through the motions, stoked up on coffee and walking round the station holding pieces of paper, their eyes already on the clock.
Laura sighed. She had gotten used to being a detective at the bottom of the pile, following the direction of experienced officers. Now she was the director, a room of young and eager faces looking to her for advice, and it felt suddenly hard. She had no stripes yet, but everyone knew why she had chosen the starched white shirts and shiny black trousers: brushing up on her community skills was the quickest route to sergeant. In return, Laura was expected to be a mentor, take on some responsibility, but a few of the old guard were just waiting for her to go wrong, happy to see another prospect fail, to justify their own lack of progress.
Her sergeant came in, a woman in her thirties with dark hair cut close to her head and a square jaw, lines starting to etch themselves around her lips from sucking on too many cigarettes. There was a young officer behind her, his cheeks fresh and flushed, eyes flitting nervously around the room. ‘Fresh meat,’ someone whispered, and Laura heard a chuckle.
The sergeant clapped her hands and barked out, ‘Can I just have everyone’s attention?’
The chatter died down.
‘Can we all keep an eye out for the Crawler?’ she shouted. ‘Two more reports last night. They might be false, it seems like any noise gets called in as a peeping Tom, but just be vigilant. He might go on to attack someone, so don’t ignore anyone suspicious. Talk to them. Get their name.’
Everyone mumbled to themselves as they went back to their work, and the sergeant made her way over to Laura.
‘I want you to do me a favour,’ the sergeant said, and she nodded to the young nervous officer in the corner of the room, his shirt hanging off his skinny shoulders. ‘Can you take Thomas with you today? It’s his first day after training school. Do the town centre circuit with him, introduce him to the store detectives, just have him feeling like a cop.’
‘No problem,’ Laura replied, knowing exactly why she had been chosen. Thomas looked young and scared. The older ones would fill him with cynicism, and the crewcut brigade would just teach him bad habits.
Laura remembered her own time as a young constable, how it was often harder for the women, the men attempting to shield her from the fights, expecting her to spend the day patting old ladies’ hands. But Laura liked the rucks, the excitement, the chases. It was why she joined, for the dirt, a different life to the one she’d had as a child in Pinner.
‘Thomas?’ said Laura, and when he looked up, Laura beckoned him over.
He tried to make himself seem big, his thumbs hooked into his belt, but Laura detected a slight quiver to his voice as he said hello.
‘I’ve got a trip into town, and I need some help. I thought you could come with me.’
Thomas smiled and nodded. ‘Good. Thanks.’
As they made their way out of the station, threading their way through the atrium that was busy with detectives, all serious and intense, Laura wondered whether making sergeant would be worth missing out on all the fun of CID. What would she do if she never got back in there, if she had to carry on wearing the uniform?
That was something she didn’t want to think about.
Chapter Eight
‘So, what do you want to know about Claude Gilbert?’ Bill Hunter asked.
I took a sip of the whisky and coughed as it went down. Beer was more my thing, wine when I was with Laura, but I didn’t want to be rude.
‘The answers to the two big questions,’ I said. ‘Did he do it, and where did he go?’
Hunter scowled. ‘Of course he did it.’
‘How can you be sure? If I remember it right, not everyone is convinced.’
‘Usually just people looking for attention,’ Hunter said. He took a sip from his cup. I could smell the whisky on his breath as he started to talk. ‘I’ll tell you something about Claude Gilbert: he was nothing but a Daddy’s boy made good.’
‘He was a barrister,’ I replied. ‘Not many of them are working-class heroes.’
‘Yeah, but a lot are decent people too,’ he snapped back. ‘They just had a better start in life than I did. Bu
t I’ve no chip on my shoulder. If people treat me well, I have no complaints, but Gilbert wasn’t like that. He was arrogant, even though he didn’t deserve to be. It wasn’t talent that put him in that big old house. It was Daddy, His Honour Judge Gilbert. He gave him what he wanted, and maybe a bit more, but I don’t think Claude saw it like that. I’ve been cross-examined by Claude, and he spoke to me like I ought to be cleaning his shoes or something. But let me tell you something: he was a loser, right up until the day he disappeared. He gambled, he played around, and most times he either lost or got caught.’
‘But why does that make him a murderer?’
‘Because it makes him desperate,’ Hunter said. ‘He should have been a better person, with his background. Educated at Stonyhurst, and part of some head-boy clique, a group of toffs who played at gangs, just an excuse to bully the new boys. They had all this blood brother nonsense, secret codes, and when they grew up, they carried it on. Gambling parties, and some sex parties, so it was whispered to me, probably drugs too—though the sort of people who were invited aren’t the sort who talk to people like me. But Gilbert was lazy, and not that gifted. He was the one who failed in the clique, ended up at one of the universities that he thought was beneath him, but his father bailed him out eventually, got him a place in chambers. Then Claude learnt how to work the system: plead guilty at the last moment, bill the state for preparing the trial, and he made a lot of money out of being average.’
‘He wasn’t alone in that,’ I said. ‘My father used to talk about how much the lawyers got paid compared to him, and he was the one made to look guilty when he got in the witness box.’
Hunter leant over to pour me some more whisky, but I put my hand over the cup. I had to drive away from there.
‘Your father was right to be cynical,’ Hunter said. ‘I was one of the good guys and I didn’t get too much.’
‘If it helps,’ I said, ‘those days are gone now. Even barristers are feeling the pinch.’