Dead Silent

by Neil White

  ‘What do you think about this?’ Joe said, passing me a framed photograph through the curtain. It showed Susie and Claude relaxing together by a river. It was recent, showing Claude’s full beard and straggly hair; there was a bit of stone in the foreground suggesting that the pictures were taken using a self-timer. Claude was smiling into the camera but Susie was staring up at him, a look of devotion on her face. ‘Their special place?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said, going to the dresser. The top drawer was chaotic. Knickers and socks almost jumped out when I opened it, and I scrambled through, throwing them onto the floor before moving on to the other drawers. There was nothing of interest, just T-shirts and jeans thrown in, nothing that would help in the search for Claude Gilbert. And, more importantly, for Laura.

  The wardrobe was much the same, with white chipboard doors that didn’t match up well, filled with short skirts and lacy blouses and a shelf at the top, with boxes and old shoes. I pulled the largest box down and, opening it, I felt a burst of sadness. There was a christening outfit, billowing cream silk, perfectly folded and packed under soft tissue. I looked quickly around the room. There were a couple of photographs of a little girl, but no recent ones. It seemed as if her motherly bond had ended when the girl had grown up. Where were the more recent photographs, of the teenage girl, or graduation photographs?

  I went to the next box, and when I opened the lid, I shouted, ‘Joe!’

  He put his head around the curtain. I held up a pile of photographs. ‘More pictures of the happy couple.’

  Joe came into the room and flicked through them. I scoured through the rest of the box. There were mostly pictures of Susie, flirty and happy, laughing at the camera, blowing kisses or posing in mockingly provocative poses. Then there were some of Claude Gilbert, but he looked more serene, smiles of contentment behind the beard. There were others taken on a self-timer, with Susie draped over Claude, and I could see a blush behind the broken veins in Claude’s cheeks. They looked like they had been taken during winter, with Claude and Susie holding up hip flasks against an ice-blue sky, and there was a snow-coated river bank in some.

  ‘These photographs are mostly taken in the same place,’ I said. ‘Look at the views,’ and I pointed at the trees in the background. ‘The trees all follow the same line. It looks like they found a little hideaway. What’s so special about that place?’

  ‘We need to find out where it is first,’ Joe said. Then he thought of something. ‘Mike Dobson.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He used to go for drives to the country with Nancy,’ he said. ‘Maybe the special place for Nancy was the same for Claude, so Claude took Susie there?’

  ‘Tenuous,’ I said.

  ‘Got any better ideas?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Let’s go then,’ he said, and he ran for the door. I was right behind him.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Joe rushed into the station with me in his wake. He fumbled with his swipe card and then headed towards a door at the end of a corridor, past lockers that lined the wall and towards a bright light that shone through a glass panel in a door.

  ‘Do you really think it will be the same place?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Joe said. ‘But it’s the only quick option we have right now. You heard what was said, that Susie called it their special place. There’s a river, and in the photographs the water just bubbles over the pebbles on the river bed. That’s how Dobson described where he took Hazel, the dead girl, because it was a special place for him and Nancy. It sounds like Nancy might be speaking from the grave here, because I reckon it’s where Claude and Nancy went when they were young and in love. And then Nancy took Mike Dobson, for the same reason, because it was quiet and secluded, or maybe because she had good memories from when her husband loved her. And, because it reminded him of Nancy, Dobson took Hazel there.’

  ‘And Claude took Susie.’

  ‘Something like that,’ Joe said. ‘It’s the one place that repeats itself.’

  We crashed through into the custody area. The custody sergeant seemed initially reluctant to let us through into the cell; Mike Dobson had legal representation now. But there was something in Joe’s eyes that made him hand over the key.

  When we opened the door, Mike Dobson was lying on his bed, his hands behind his head. He looked up calmly as we entered.

  ‘The best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time,’ he said.

  Joe was surprised.

  ‘I can never get absolution, I know that,’ Mike said. ‘I helped someone die, but I can stop keeping it a secret.’

  ‘Tell us this then,’ Joe said. ‘Did Nancy have a special place?’

  Mike sat up. ‘For us? Down by the river, like I told you, where I took Hazel.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s an old fishing shelter by the Ribble. It’s on private land, used to be owned by Claude’s family, so not many people know it’s there, but the owner never goes to it, and so we would always have it to ourselves.’

  Joe passed him one of the photographs of Susie. ‘Is that it?’

  He paused as he looked at the picture, taking in the background. But then he scowled as a spark of recognition ignited him.

  ‘That’s Claude, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ Joe said. ‘Just tell me if that’s the same place you took Hazel.’

  Mike looked at the photograph for a few seconds more, the picture twitching as his hands shook, and then he looked at Joe and nodded.

  ‘I need directions,’ Joe said. ‘If you tell me exactly where it is, you might just take some weight from your conscience.’

  And so Mike did.

  The water was now over Laura’s shoulders, her head raised to keep it out of her ears. Her forehead pressed against the metal, her breasts and knees like islands, but it was hard to keep it there. Laura shivered violently. Her bones ached, her skin was numb, her teeth chattered. Each breath seemed laboured, the air squeezed out by the water, and she was starting to gulp. If help was on its way, it had to come soon.

  She closed her eyes and fought the urge to lie back, to let the water take her over, an end to the pain.

  She shook her head. She couldn’t think like that. She had to have hope until there was no hope left.

  Laura tried to shuffle sideways, just to shift her position, but it was hard to move through the water. She tried to use her hands against the metal sheet, but she couldn’t make her arms work. They were sluggish, powerless, like dead weights.

  Her head dipped back, she couldn’t stop it, and the cold water filled her ears, so that all she could hear was the rush of blood through her head. Her face was numb, but she felt the water lap against her cheeks, like soft slaps, inches from her mouth. If she left her head there, the water would rise up and gather around her lips, held back for a few seconds by the skin and tiny hairs, and then they would give way and the water would tumble over, filling her throat, her lungs, and release her from the hole.

  She lifted her head quickly. Don’t think like that. Fight it, for Bobby’s sake. He needs a mother.

  The breaths came quick and fast as she wondered how soon the end would come, when all she would see would be the film of water over her eyes as her body tried to take a breath without air. Would it hurt, or would it be blessed relief?

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  We were silent as we drove for the shelter by the Ribble, away from the shadows of Blackley and into countryside, through rolling lanes and hedgerows. I couldn’t enjoy the views though. The rain was falling harder against the windscreen, it had been going all morning, the wipers finally getting rid of the midges that had died there in the days before. I clenched and unclenched my fists.

  ‘Are we nearly there?’ I asked.

  ‘Not much further,’ Joe said, but I noticed that he sped up, and the hawthorn turned into a blur through the side windows. Then the glint of the Ribble appeared ahead, just a grey
shimmer against the green of the backdrop, the colour broken by the black and white of cows. I scanned the landscape, looking for a sign that we had reached the right place.

  Then I saw it. ‘There,’ I said.

  Joe slowed down quickly. ‘What is it?’

  ‘We just passed a track,’ I said. ‘There was a Mini parked by a gate. A green one.’

  Joe slammed his car into reverse and backed up at top speed to a gnarled old five-bar propped between stone gateposts.

  I climbed quickly out of Joe’s car. ‘He’s still here.’

  ‘And our time is running out,’ Joe said, and joined me as I scrambled over the gate.

  I ran with Joe, my fear growing. I had seen one dead body—Hazel, Claude’s work. What would I find down there? But I couldn’t think of that. I had to keep going.

  The ripple of the river got louder as we got closer, the rain drumming on the surface and the wet grass squeaked underfoot as I ran. My trousers became wet and slapped hard against my shins. The thin strip of grey turned into a wider stretch of water, but then the river bank came to me abruptly after I jumped over an old tree root. I dropped down a few feet and landed heavily on shingle, the water just a few inches from my toes. Joe landed next to me and we both looked around and tried to get our bearings. Mike Dobson had said that the fisherman’s shelter was where the river trickled over the low bed on the shallow part of the bend, but the rain had made the river rise, and so there were only slight ripples to give the site away. I looked along the bank, left and right, and then I saw it.

  ‘There it is,’ I said, pointing to a small, open-fronted stone structure in the shadow of the trees that hung over the water.

  We raced quickly towards it, our feet crunching loud on the shingle that bordered the river. As we got closer, the place looked empty, and I thought we’d guessed wrong. I was expecting three people to be in there. The front was open to the elements, and there were small windows at the side, like an ornate stone bus stop. Then I saw some feet sticking out, battered old suede shoes, brown and muddy, and light-coloured trousers. My heartbeat quickened. As he came fully into view, I saw it was Claude, fat and drunk, a bottle of supermarket whisky in his lap.

  ‘Claude,’ I said. ‘Where is she? Where’s Laura?’

  He looked up, and then waved the bottle of whisky at me.

  ‘Miss McGanity?’ he said, his voice slurring. ‘Susie told me that she was a real lovely. She was right.’

  ‘Where is Susie?’

  He laughed and shook his head, and then wagged his finger at me. ‘You don’t care about Susie,’ he said. ‘It’s Laura you want.’

  ‘So where is she?’

  Claude sniggered to himself. ‘She’s having a lie down,’ he said, and then he looked up at me. ‘More of a long sleep.’

  My stomach turned over and my lip trembled. I tried to stay calm, but I wanted to run forward and grip him, shake the truth out of him.

  ‘This was your last gamble, wasn’t it, Claude?’ I said.

  ‘Go on, superstar, what do you mean?’

  ‘Just that. You’re a gambler, have been all of your life. Cards. Casinos. But sometimes you get to the shit or bust play, don’t you, Claude, when all of your chips are down, and it’s this play or no play?’

  Claude shook his head. ‘I’m still not with you.’

  ‘Mike Dobson,’ I said.

  Claude looked at Joe Kinsella, and then back to me, before he paid attention to his whisky and then took a deep breath.

  ‘Coward to the end,’ Claude said.

  ‘What do you mean, coward?’ Joe said.

  Claude jammed the bottle into the ground and then tried to stand up, but he stumbled drunkenly in the soft soil and sat back down again.

  ‘Dobson was supposed to keep his mouth shut,’ I said, looking at Joe. ‘Claude knew he would be arrested, and he would have his trial, and he was going to give the jurors the chance to play detective, twelve little Miss Marples, all wondering whether there was a different theory, and Claude would give it to them. Michael Dobson, spurned lover, couldn’t stand the thought of Nancy staying in her marriage.’

  Joe looked at Claude. ‘Good plan, Claude. Dobson could never give evidence, because it would mean implicating himself, and no one could force him, because witnesses aren’t obliged to incriminate themselves. If you’re helping out the court, the system will stop you saying anything to put yourself in the shit.’

  Claude laughed. ‘Good old British justice. It still has a sense of fair play.’

  ‘And you had him sunk twice over, didn’t you?’ I said. ‘Because what if he tried to bluff his way out of it and deny any knowledge of Nancy? That’s where Hazel would sink him, isn’t it, Claude?’

  ‘Hazel?’

  ‘The young woman you killed the other night, just to make it worse for Dobson.’

  ‘Hazel?’ he said, and then smiled. ‘I didn’t know her name.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘She’s been rescued from her life.’

  ‘That wasn’t your choice to make, Claude,’ Joe said.

  ‘Oh, do be quiet, both of you,’ Claude said, his voice getting angrier. ‘Don’t you get it? You should be happy now. You’ve got the big man, the feather in your cap,’ and he banged his hand against his chest before he jammed his bottle into the soil. ‘Doesn’t anyone give decent legal advice any more?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, kneeling down to his level.

  He crooked his finger towards me. ‘Because, hotshot,’ he whispered at me, ‘the first rule in the police station is that you don’t admit to anything.’

  ‘Maybe some people can’t live with the guilt,’ I said. ‘Leaving a woman to stew in her own blood and piss, trapped underground. That doesn’t sit easy with some people.’

  Claude looked away.

  ‘And how did you know Dobson had talked?’ Joe asked.

  I turned to Joe. ‘Alan Lake,’ I said. ‘Chief Inspector Roach got Dobson to talk and let Lake know. Alan Lake made sure that Claude knew all about it, because he needed Claude to run again.’

  Joe looked confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Alan Lake and Roach are Claude’s landlords. They helped him because Claude knew Lake’s worst secret, and Roach was just cashing in. If Claude came out of hiding, they were both in trouble, so they made sure that Claude knew Dobson was talking, that his gamble had failed, to make him go on the run again.’

  Joe looked surprised, his eyes wide.

  ‘Have I got it right so far, Claude?’ I asked.

  He waved me away and took a sip of his whisky.

  ‘So you gambled on Dobson’s silence, the perfect red herring,’ Joe said, ‘because you took Dobson for some local small-fry who would be scared of the consequences.’ Joe stepped closer to Claude. ‘But Dobson has something you don’t have, and that’s balls, Claude, and a conscience. What he let you do has haunted him for over twenty years. He couldn’t stay quiet once he got the chance to talk.’

  Claude started a sarcastic hand clap, but stopped when Joe looked down at him and said, ‘What were you hoping for? To come home and stake a claim in your inheritance, your father on his deathbed, happy at the return of his innocent son?’

  Claude twitched slightly, and then he shrugged and took another pull out of the bottle. ‘How did you know about the inheritance?’ he said eventually.

  I watched Claude, remembering what Lake had said.

  ‘If they can get you declared dead,’ Joe said, ‘your share would go to them.’ Joe smiled. ‘They sound as greedy as you.’

  ‘Father believed in the law,’ Claude said. ‘You would have to convict me to convince him of anything.’

  Joe knelt down, so that he was next to me, his breaths hot in my ear.

  ‘It was a plant,’ Joe said, every word uttered slowly.

  Claude looked confused for a moment. ‘What do you mean, a plant?’

  ‘The story about your father,’ Joe said. ‘He is ill, that’s all true, but he isn’t in dispute with y
our sisters. He contacted the police. He did it quietly, so no one would know. A word in the Chief Constable’s ear, and so it gets delegated to me. But your father knows you, Claude. He knows what a shallow little man you really are, how only money would bring you out of hiding. He knows that his death could make you rich, if you got a share of the pot, and so he agreed that the press could publish his illness, padded with the news that your sisters were trying to get you declared dead so that they could take your slice.’

  Claude’s cheeks had gone pale behind the beard.

  ‘It was all bullshit,’ Joe said. ‘You’re already written out of your father’s will. He knows you killed Nancy, and you are an ulcer on the family name. Your sisters were dragged down by you—they were only ever your sisters, not people in their own right. Bad news, Claude, you were never going to get anything, though you didn’t know that.’ Joe straightened. ‘So this is it, Claude. You should have stuck with the cards you had, because the house didn’t even have a hand. You couldn’t resist though, and I knew that. Once a gambler, always a gambler. That’s how it works. You couldn’t resist one final turn of the cards, and you came up with twenty-two.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ Claude said.

  Joe smiled. ‘Am I? Secrets had been kept for more than twenty years. Mike Dobson wasn’t going to say anything about Nancy until you forced him. Nancy hadn’t told anyone else about the affair. We looked at her private life and we came up with virtually nothing. Mike Dobson was nothing to her. He was a stop-gap, a time-filler and, worse than that, Claude, Nancy was carrying your child.’

  Claude took a deep breath and wiped his hand across his forehead. He looked down. ‘My child?’

  Joe nodded. ‘You heard it right, Claude. Nancy was carrying your child, not his. All you had to do back then was work it out together. You were sleeping around. Nancy was sleeping around. You took the wrong choice. One whack across the back of her head and you ended her life, and ruined yours. And Dobson’s, and all those people who loved Nancy.’