Neil White: DEAD SILENT

Hunter pulled the boards towards them and turned them over. ‘Look at the underside.’ Roach looked. ‘There are scratchmarks.’

‘I see them,’ replied Roach.

Hunter turned to Roach. ‘Do you know what that means?’

Roach nodded slowly, his face pale too.

‘She was buried alive.’

Standing at the door, I stretched and gazed at the view outside my cottage. Clear skies and rolling Lancashire fields. I could see the grey of Turners Fold in the valley below me, but the sunlight turned the tired old cotton town into quaint Victoriana, the canal twinkling soft blue, bringing the summer barges from nearby Blackley as it wound its way towards Yorkshire.

Turners Fold was my home, had always been that way—or so it seemed. I’d spent a few years in London as a reporter at one of the nationals, a small-town boy lost in the bright lights, but home kept calling me, and so when the rush of the city wore me down, I headed back north. I used to enjoy walking the London streets, feeling the bump of the crowd, just another anonymous face, but the excitement faded in the end. It didn’t take me long to pick up the northern rhythms again, the slower pace, the bluntness of the people, the lack of any real noise. And I liked it that way. It seemed simpler somehow, not as much of a race.

The summers made the move worthwhile. The heat didn’t hang between the buildings like it did in London, trapped by exhaust fumes, the only respite being a trip to a park, packed out by tourists.

The tourists don’t visit Turners Fold, so it felt like I had the hills to myself, a private view of gentle slopes and snaking ribbons of drystone walls, the town just a blip in the landscape.

But it has character, this tough little town of millstone grit. My mind flashed back to the London rush, the wrestle onto the underground, and I smiled as the breeze ruffled my hair and I felt the first warmth of the day, ready for a perfect June afternoon. I heard a noise behind me, the shuffle of slippers on the stone step. I didn’t need to look round. I felt sleepy lips brush my neck as Laura wrapped her arms around my waist.

‘I thought you were staying in bed,’ I said.

‘I want to take Bobby to school,’ she replied, her voice hoarse from sleep. ‘Early shift next week, so I won’t get a chance then, and I need to start revising.’

‘Sergeant McGanity. It has a good ring to it,’ I said.

‘But I need to get through the exams first,’ she said. ‘What are you doing, Jack?’

‘Just enjoying the view.’

Laura rested her head on my shoulder and let her hair fall onto my chest. She had grown it over the winter, dark and sleek, past her shoulders now. I looked down and smiled. Cotton pyjamas and fluffy slippers.

‘What about later?’ she asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ I replied. ‘I might take a look at the coroner’s court, see if there’s an inquest.’

‘Morbid,’ she said, and gave me a playful squeeze.

‘Where there’s grief, there’s news,’ I said. ‘And the Crawler has been quiet as well, so the paper needs to be filled somehow.’

Laura grimaced at that. Blackley had been plagued for a couple of years by a peeping Tom, loitering outside houses in a balaclava, taking photographs. Some thought that he had even gone into people’s homes. There had been no attack yet, but everyone knew it was just a matter of time, and so the local press had attached a tag and criticised the police. The name made for great headlines, and sales went up whenever his name went on display.

‘He has lean patches,’ Laura said. ‘The surveillance must take time.’

‘So no suspect yet?’

Laura gave me a jab in the ribs. ‘You know I wouldn’t tell you anyway.’

I turned around, moved her hair from her face and kissed her, tasting sleep on her lips, stale and warm. ‘I hate a discreet copper.’

Laura’s green eyes shone up at me, her dimples flickering in her cheeks. ‘I’ve learnt to avoid trouble, because it follows you around,’ she said, and then she slipped out from under my arm to go back into the house.

I listened as she grabbed Bobby when he skipped past, his yelp turning to a giggle. He was seven now, getting taller, his face longer, the nursery cheeks gone. It seemed like the morning was just about perfect. We’d settled for drifting along, now the buzz of new love had worn off, and there were more carefree mornings like this: Laura happy, Bobby laughing. He was Laura’s son from her now-defunct marriage, but he was starting to feel like my own, and I knew how much he brightened up the house, except for those fortnightly trips to see his father, when the house seemed too quiet.

My thoughts drifted back to work. I’m a freelance reporter, and I write the court stories, because crime keeps the local newspaper happy. People like to know what other people are doing.

But if I was going to get the stories, I knew I had to go to court. It was enthusiasm I was lacking, not work, because it was harder to get paid these days. The recession had hit the local papers hard, with estate agents and car showrooms no longer paying for the double-page adverts and people increasingly turning to the internet. The paper needed me to fill the pages, but wanted to pay less and less for each story, and so it felt like I had to run faster just to stay in the same place.

I turned to go inside and was about to shut the door, when I heard a noise. I paused and listened. It was the steady click-click of high heels.

I was curious. There were no other houses near mine, and the shoes didn’t sound like they were made for walking. Unexpected visitors made me wary. Working the crime stories can upset people—names spread through the local rag, reputations ruined. The truth doesn’t matter when court hearings are written up. The only thing that matters is whether someone in court said it.

The clicks got closer, and then she appeared in the gateway in front of me.

She was middle aged, bingo-blonde, dressed in a long, black leather coat, too hot for the weather, and high-heeled ankle boots.

‘You look like you’re a long way from wherever you need to be,’ I said.

She took a few deep breaths, the hill climb taking it out of her, her hands on her knees. She stubbed out a cigarette on the floor.

‘There are no buses up here,’ she said, and then she straightened herself. Her breasts tried to burst out of her jumper, her cleavage ravaged by lines and too much sun, and her thighs were squeezed into a strip of cloth three decades too young for her.

Before I could say anything, she looked at me and asked, ‘Are you Jack Garrett?’ Her accent was local, but it sounded like she was trying to soften it.

‘You’ve come to my door,’ I replied, wary. ‘You go first.’

She paused at first, seemed edgy, and then she said, ‘My name is Susie Bingham, and I’m looking for Jack Garrett.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got a story for him.’

I nodded politely, but I wasn’t excited yet. The promise of hot news was the line I heard most, but usually it turned out to be some neighbour dispute, or a problem with a boss, someone using the press to win a private fight. Sex, violence and fame sell the nationals, the papers wanting the headline, the grabline, not the story. Local papers are different. Delayed roadworks and court stories fill those pages.

But I had learnt one other thing: it pays to listen first before I turn people away, because just as many people don’t realise how good a story can be, who see a rough-cut diamond as cheap quartz.

I opened the door and stepped aside. ‘Come in.’

Susie nodded and then clomped past.

Bobby went quiet as Susie entered, suddenly shy. As I followed her in, I nodded towards the stairs. ‘Can you tell Mummy I’ve got a visitor?’ As Bobby trotted off on his errand, I gestured for Susie to sit down.