NEIL WHITE
Dead Silent
AVON
Dedication
To Thomas, Samuel and Joseph, as always
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
May 1988
Chapter OnePresent 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
May 1988
Bill Hunter looked through the wrought-iron gates as he came to a halt outside Claude Gilberts 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 didnt 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 Blackleys majesty didnt 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 wouldnt mind a piece of this though.
What about the old-fashioned stuff, like making a difference? Hunter said.
Roach nodded at the sheen on Hunters worn-out trousers and the scuffs on his shoes. Youre 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 wont 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 theyll 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.
Whats he like, Claude Gilbert? Roach asked.
Depends on which Claude you mean, Hunter said. The television Claude, the morning show legal expert, the medias favourite barristerhes a real charmer.
And the courthouse Claude? Roach said.
Like a lot of them, stars in their own universe, Hunter said. When youve been in the job longer, and youve been spat on and punched and uncovered sudden deaths, then maybe youll look at lawyers houses and wonder why they get so much when we do all the dirty work.
Its a great view though, Roach replied, looking along the lawns, and when he heard Hunter grunt his disapproval, he added: Youre 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 lets 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.
Claudes chambers dont think so. Hes halfway through an assault trial, and by disappearing theyve had to abort it.
What, you think theyve run away?
It depends on why theyve gone, Hunter replied. Bit of a gambler is Claude, so the rumours go. Maybe hes 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, shes not going to settle for nothing. They could have emptied their accounts and gone somewhere.
Roach didnt look convinced. House prices are rising. Therell 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 theyre immune, but theyre not, and theyre dealing with some real nasty people. I know judges who have been threatened, just quiet words when theyre 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. Theres a few letters on the floor, so they havent 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.
Hunter looked into the living room to his left. Nothing unusual in there. Two sofas and a television hidden away in a wooden cabinet, crystal bowls on a dresser, nothing broken. There was a room on the other side of the hallway dominated by a long mahogany table.
No sign of a disturbance, he said. What about the letters?
These go back a couple of days, Roach said, flicking through them. Bills and credit card statements mostly.
Hunter went along the hall to the kitchen. It was a long room, with high sash windows looking along the garden. There was a yellow Aga and a battered oak table, and china mugs hung from hooks underneath dusty cupboards.