DEAD SILENT - Neil White

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possible,’ he said. ‘He did a lot of work for us, and so will have known Susie well. Claude lived in Blackley, and so he would come here for conferences, to save us the journey to his chambers. The clients liked that, and he had a way with the clients.’

      ‘I’ve been told he was arrogant.’

      ‘It depends who you ask,’ Danny said. ‘There are different types of barristers. There are the diligent ones, those who prepare everything; but most of those wouldn’t interest even their wives, let alone a jury. Then there are the charmers, those with the smile, the swagger, can play the jury, get them on their side. Claude had a bit of that but, most of all, he just got on with the punters.’

      ‘So what was his secret?’

      Danny laughed. ‘The first secret most criminal lawyers learn: cigarettes. He didn’t have to read his papers. As long as he threw his fag packet onto the desk, left open, facing the clients, they loved him, made them feel like he was on their side. And he gave the police a hard time. That’s why he didn’t do prosecution work, just to keep up the illusion. Clients don’t expect to get off, not really. All they want is to see someone put up a fight, so that they know they gave it their best shot. Claude did that, and he gave it to them straight. What their chances were, the jail term they would get. Lawyers like Gilbert are well liked.’

      ‘By criminals,’ I said.

      Danny shook his head slowly. ‘By clients,’ he responded. ‘We all make mistakes from time to time, remember that. It’s just that some of us do it more often. My clients are maybe not people you would want as neighbours, but they are human beings, and Claude Gilbert respected that.’

      ‘So Gilbert was a good guy?’ I queried.

      ‘There are plenty worse.’

      ‘But not everyone kills their wife.’

      ‘He’s not been convicted of that.’

      ‘Do you think that makes a difference?’

      ‘To me, it does,’ Danny said. ‘Innocent until proven guilty. It’s what makes us civilised. Sometimes letting a few bad ones get away is a price worth paying.’

      ‘Do you really believe that?’ I said.

      ‘I don’t know,’ he said, smiling, ‘but if you’ll print it, trade might just pick up.’

      I closed my notebook and thanked him for his time. It seemed like the interview was over.

      As I went to leave, Danny put his hand on my arm. ‘If you see Susie again, pass on my regards. Maybe there’s still time for unfinished business.’ He raised his eyebrows and grinned at me.

      I looked down and saw the glimmer of his wedding ring, and then I noticed the drip of coleslaw on his shirt, and the chewed bread between his teeth.

      ‘Maybe some dreams are worth letting go,’ I said, and then as I left the room I muttered, ‘for her sake’.

       Chapter Twelve

      Frankie grunted as he pulled his Vespa onto its stand outside the Blackley Telegraph offices, the sister paper to The Valley Post. The building was all seventies glass and steel frames, with painted panels and a brightly-lit sign on the front, although one corner had cracked so that leaves and dust had blown in over time.

      Frankie remembered when it was new, when he was a boy, excited at seeing the old tramlines and cobbles exposed like skeletons from underneath the tarmac when they rebuilt the town centre, before the buses that rumbled past it every day dirtied the front.

      He looked around nervously though. He didn’t like it around the bus station. The gangs of kids used to taunt him, take his money and laugh at him, small groups of trouble dressed all in black. He had bought a scooter when his mother died—she wouldn’t let him have one when she was alive—so that he wouldn’t have to get the bus any more.

      He walked into the Telegraph building and then jumped as the entry mat emitted a buzzing sound when he stepped on it. There was a large wooden counter in front of him, with photographs from the paper pinned to the wall behind, showing people in suits holding giant cheques and a display of schoolboy football teams. That day’s edition was fanned out on a small round table. A young woman appeared out of a doorway. Her badge said she was called Jackie.

      He lifted his goggles onto his crash helmet. She looked surprised, startled almost, although he didn’t know why. He always wore them, particularly in summer. They kept the flies and fumes out of his eyes.

      He smiled. She was wearing a vest top, and he could see the outline of the lace on her bra-cup. He liked that.

      ‘What can I do for you?’ she said.

      Frankie thought she sounded nervous. He watched her delicate fingers as they toyed with a pen in her hand. He wondered where she lived.

      ‘I’m Frankie,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’m looking for a reporter.’

      ‘You’ve come to the right building, Frankie.’

      He shook his head. She didn’t understand. ‘No, not any reporter. He drives a red sports car. Jack Garrett.’

      ‘Why do you want him?’

      ‘He’s writing about Claude Gilbert.’

      She raised her eyebrows at that. ‘He doesn’t work for us. He’s freelance, lives somewhere in Turners Fold.’

      ‘Do you have an address?’

      Frankie thought she was about to tell him, but she stopped and looked embarrassed. ‘I can’t give out addresses,’ she said.

      ‘But I need it,’ he said, and he leant forward onto the counter. It made her step back quickly.

      ‘Just wait there,’ she said. ‘What’s your name again?’

      ‘Frankie.’

      ‘Just Frankie?’

      He nodded.

      She disappeared into the doorway again, and Frankie could hear her whispering to someone. They were talking about him. He felt tears prickle his eyes. He had blown it again.

      He should have found the reporter on the internet, made his own way there.

      He turned to leave, his fists clenched with frustration, and as he rushed for the door, his footsteps set off the entry buzzer again.

      He took some deep breaths and put his fingers to his cheeks when he reached the street. They felt hot. He slipped his goggles back over his eyes and then sat astride his scooter, fumbling quickly for the keys. He shouldn’t have gone there. Now they had a name. His name. He pressed down on the kickstart pedal, and then raced down the bus lane, working quickly through the gears until he was out of sight of the building.

      I sat in my car and thought about Bill Hunter. He had remembered my father’s death and, as soon as he had mentioned it, I knew I would call at the cemetery. It was quiet, and I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, wondering whether I should go in.

      I hadn’t been for a few months; visits had recently become confined to Father’s Day and Christmas and I felt bad about that. I looked along the rows of granite slabs, broken up by the occasional splash of colour from flowers left in memoriam. Our house had memories of him dotted around, his Johnny Cash records, old photographs, but I knew I should visit the grave more often, to keep the dirt from the gold-etched words: ‘Robert Garrett—Beloved Husband and Father’.

      I closed my eyes and swallowed, fought the wetness in my eyes. This was why I didn’t come often—because whenever I saw the patch of grass, I imagined him under the ground, in the box, still and cold. I fought the images, tried to see the grave as merely a marker, a focal point, because that wasn’t how I wanted to remember

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