DEAD SILENT - Neil White

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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,’

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