Neil White - DEAD SILENT

NEIL WHITE

Dead Silent

AVON

To Thomas, Samuel and Joseph, as always

Title Page

Dedication

May 1988

Chapter One—Present Day

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Read on

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

About the Author

Author's Note

Other Works

Copyright

About the Publisher

Bill Hunter looked through the wrought-iron gates as he came to a halt outside Claude Gilbert’s house. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the interior of the police car heavy with the first real promise of summer, and turned to his passenger, Paul Roach, a fresh-faced young officer with scrubbed cheeks and the swagger of youth on his side.

‘Do you know why houses like this are on a hill?’ Hunter said, and pointed towards the large Edwardian property, a square block of sandstone walls and white corners, roses creeping around the edges, a wide gravel drive leading to the doors at the front.

Roach didn’t seem interested, responding with a shrug.

‘It kept the professionals out of the smog when the mills were running,’ Hunter continued. ‘It was peasants like us who had to live in the valley, where the smoke from the chimneys choked us every day.’

Like Rome, Blackley had been built on seven hills, except that Blackley’s majesty didn’t go much beyond the terraced strips and large stone cotton mills that scarred the once-green slopes.

‘The clogs and machinery are long gone, old man,’ Roach said, and then he looked back to the house and smiled. ‘I wouldn’t mind a piece of this though.’

‘What about the old-fashioned stuff, like making a difference?’ Hunter said.

Roach nodded at the sheen on Hunter’s worn-out trousers and the scuffs on his shoes. ‘You’re not a great career advert,’ he said.

Hunter turned off the engine and it seemed suddenly quiet, the bustle of the town centre out of earshot, just the long curve of the street in front of them, the houses bordered by ivy-covered high walls. He reached for his jacket and climbed out of the car.

Roach joined him on the pavement and looked around. ‘So where has Gilbert gone?’ he said.

‘We won’t find out standing here,’ Hunter said, and he pushed at the gate, the creak from the old hinges the only sound in the street.

‘Do you think they’ll serve us strawberries on the lawn?’ Roach said.

Hunter shook his head, and then, as the gates clanged against the supporting brick pillars, he stepped onto the gravel drive, the confetti of cherry blossom blowing against his shoes.

‘What’s he like, Claude Gilbert?’ Roach asked.

‘Depends on which Claude you mean,’ Hunter said. ‘The television Claude, the morning show legal expert, the media’s favourite barrister—he’s a real charmer.’

‘And the courthouse Claude?’ Roach said.

‘Like a lot of them, stars in their own universe,’ Hunter said. ‘When you’ve been in the job longer, and you’ve been spat on and punched and uncovered sudden deaths, then maybe you’ll look at lawyers’ houses and wonder why they get so much when we do all the dirty work.’

‘It’s a great view though,’ Roach replied, looking along the lawns, and when he heard Hunter grunt his disapproval, he added: ‘You’re a dinosaur, Bill. The miners’ strike ended the class war. Do you remember them all marching back? That was the end of the revolution, so let’s cut out the working-class hero stuff. Thatcher won.’

Hunter scowled as he watched Roach march towards the double doors at the front of the house.

‘When were they last seen?’ Roach shouted over his shoulder.

‘About a week ago,’ Hunter replied.

‘So it could be a holiday.’

‘Claude’s chambers don’t think so. He’s halfway through an assault trial, and by disappearing they’ve had to abort it.’

‘What, you think they’ve run away?’

‘It depends on why they’ve gone,’ Hunter replied. ‘Bit of a gambler is Claude, so the rumours go. Maybe he’s had that big loss that always comes along eventually. If Mrs Gilbert is used to all of this, the fancy furniture, the dinner parties, the cash, she’s not going to settle for nothing. They could have emptied their accounts and gone somewhere.’

Roach didn’t look convinced. ‘House prices are rising. There’ll be plenty of money tied up in this place.’

Hunter took a step back and looked up at the house. The curtains were drawn in every window. ‘Maybe he got too involved in a case? Lawyers think they’re immune, but they’re not, and they’re dealing with some real nasty people. I know judges who have been threatened, just quiet words when they’re out with their wives, thinking that no one knows who they are.’ He stepped forward and pressed his face against one of the stained glass panels. ‘There’s a few letters on the floor, so they haven’t been here for a while.’

‘What do we do?’ Roach asked, looking around.

Hunter followed his gaze. There was someone watching them from the other side of the road, a teenager, a newspape delivery bag on his shoulder. ‘Go ask him if he knows anything.’

Roach paused for a moment, and then he shrugged and walked away. Hunter watched him until he was a few yards away, and then he rammed his elbow into the glass in the door. When Roach whirled around at the noise, Hunter shrugged and said, ‘Slipped,’ before he reached in and turned the Yale lock. Roach pulled a face before heading back to the house.

The pile of letters scraped along the tiled floor as Hunter pushed open the door. He pointed at the envelopes. ‘See how far back the postmarks go.’

Hunter squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. The hallway stretched ahead of them, with stairs leading upwards, the stained glass around the doors casting red and blue shadows along the wall. They both crinkled their noses. The house smelled stale.