Dead Silent (17 page)

‘Come on, Jack. You don’t really believe him, do you?’

‘I’ve met him, and he convinced me.’

‘So what name is he using?’ Tony asked.

‘Josif Petrovic.’

‘What kind of name is that?’

‘A Serbian name,’ I replied. ‘He was disguised as some kind of Serbian mystic. He said that he fled there first because the authorities were less inclined to help the West in checking out the truth of his past. When the Balkan Wars started, things got a little trickier, so he came back to England.’

Tony sighed. ‘You’ve been taken in by a Serbian conman.’

‘But Susie knows him from back then in the eighties.’

‘So she tells you.’

‘She checks out.’

‘So it’s the perfect con,’ Tony said. ‘She gets her Serbian boyfriend to pretend to be Claude Gilbert, and she knows enough about the case to make it realistic. The papers buy the story, pay you, and she gets her cut. Then somebody comes up with proof that he really is Josif Petrovic, and the story dies. The paper won’t care too much about Petrovic because they sold papers that day, but every time you try and pitch another big story to the nationals, they’ll laugh down the phone at you, just before they slam it down.’

‘But if that’s what he was doing, why did he send me away on some pointless search?’

‘To increase the price. There’ll be leaks, anticipation, the cheque books start to appear. They cash in as your story goes around the world, and then disappear when the debunking starts.’

I blew out. ‘You think I’ve been twirled?’

‘Definitely,’ he said. When I looked disappointed, he added, ‘Don’t worry. I know someone who wants to fill in some of the gaps.’

‘Who?’

‘Frankie Says.’

I was puzzled. ‘What kind of name is that?’

‘Not his real one, but I got a call from Jackie at the
Telegraph.
He was in their office the other day, looking for you, talking about Claude Gilbert.’

‘How did he know, and who is he?’

‘He lives across the road from the Gilbert house. He must have seen you snooping around, because he did the same with us when we did that nostalgia piece. Reckoned he knew some big secret, but he would only pass it on if we wrote
him a hefty cheque. We told him that it wasn’t that sort of piece and so he slunk back across the road.’

‘And do you think he had a big secret?’ I said.

‘If he has, he’s sat on it for more than twenty years,’ he said. ‘No, he’s just some oddball who fancied a moment in the spotlight.’

‘Why the name, Frankie Says?’

‘It was an eighties piece,’ Tony said, ‘and you remember those T-shirts, with the big lettering? “Frankie Says Relax”, and all that? Joking around in the office ended up with him getting that name.’

I tugged on my lip as I thought about him, and I remembered what Bobby said, that someone had been in the house. ‘It means he tracked me down,’ I said. ‘Is he dangerous?’

Tony shook his head. ‘He’s harmless.’

‘Okay,’ I said nodding, unconvinced. ‘I’ll check him out tomorrow. Just to add some interest to the story.’ Then I looked towards the bag on the table. ‘Is that all the major parts of the story?’

‘Most of what I could find that was useful,’ he said, pushing it towards me.

‘Plenty about her unborn child?’

He grimaced again. ‘That’s the final tragedy of the case.’

‘Does it say anywhere that the baby wasn’t Gilbert’s?’

Tony paused and then looked at me. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said slowly, and then, ‘Should it?’

I smiled. ‘You know it doesn’t, because it’s the first I’ve heard of it too. And if I was faking it as Gilbert, I wouldn’t start with that revelation. It’s too easy to disprove.’

‘But it certainly gets a headline,’ Tony said, still sounding sceptical, but then he stroked his chin. ‘So Petrovic is saying that Nancy Gilbert was having an affair?’

‘With a man called Mike Dobson.’

Tony gasped. ‘You’ve got a name?’ he said, incredulous.

‘Straight from the mouth of our Serbian conman,’ I said. ‘Now, do you still think he’s fake?’

Tony shook his head slowly. ‘Unless it’s a distraction. You’ll now look at that and not him.’

‘But he’s making me put off his payday. If it was a con, he’d just want the quick exposé, the cheque in the bank.’ I patted Tony’s bag. ‘So show me what you’ve got.’

Tony reached in and pulled out a bundle of clippings, fanning them out over the table, just photocopies, something we could write on.

‘This is the report the day after the body was found,’ he said.

I picked it up and read.
Barrister’s wife found dead.
A simple headline, giving the facts that had since spawned hundreds of pages of newsprint.

‘What have you got that hints at Gilbert being innocent?’ I said.

‘Nothing,’ he said, and then he paused, before delving into the pile of papers. ‘This is a different angle though.’ He pulled out a piece of paper with a bold headline:
Lake trial collapses after Gilbert disappearance.

‘Alan Lake?’ I queried.

‘The one and the same.’

I whistled. That made it more interesting.

Alan Lake was a well-known figure on the northern arts circuit, a beloved sculpture artist, famed for being a reformed criminal who discovered his talent for art while in prison. It rescued him, gave him an outlet for his aggression, and his work sold well, his name now the cachet.

But he was like a pet to the air-kissing classes. I had seen some of his sculptures: a reclining woman portrayed by sweeping lines of smooth white stone, or a kissing couple,
the stone carved so that thin columns curved around each other. Although they were pretty in their own way, they were nothing special, but the social glitterati liked the danger of the work of a violent criminal in their homes. So now he did the dinner party circuit, where he fine-dined on hints of gangland, tough talk from the back streets of Manchester, but no specifics. I wasn’t sure whether it was because there were bad things he couldn’t confess, or whether the hint of it, genuine or not, just made his prices higher.

‘So what had he done?’ I asked, skim-reading the article.

‘Glassed a girl during a pub fight.’

‘Hardly the stuff of gangsters,’ I said. ‘How did Lake get implicated?’

‘Eye witnesses. The victim seemed keen on her day in court, and one of the barmen was giving evidence.’

I winced. ‘Did he have a death wish?’

Tony could only shrug. ‘The trial was going okay, by all accounts. People had shown up in court, given their evidence well. It was looking bad for Alan Lake.’

‘And Gilbert was his defence lawyer,’ I said, looking at the paper.

‘That’s right, but when Gilbert went missing, the trial had to start again a couple of months later. New counsel, new jury, but the same old witnesses. But the witnesses weren’t so keen second time around. Some changed their stories, and the main man, the barman from the club, he said the police had threatened him and put words into his mouth, that he had been told what to say. Remember, this was the eighties. The years before had been filled with tales of the police beating confessions out of people. Remember the campaigns for the Birmingham Six, the Guildford Four? They were still in prison then, but it was in the public consciousness, and so the jurors lapped it up. The barman did a runner to Spain
afterwards, with rumours of a cash windfall, if you get my drift. So the case collapsed.’

‘And Alan Lake walked free.’

Tony nodded. ‘And it seemed like Alan Lake got his artistic conversion when he was inside, waiting for his trial.’

‘So Gilbert’s disappearance was very convenient for Alan Lake,’ I said.

‘Yes, it was, but putting pressure on a barman is in a different league to burying alive the wife of your barrister, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Maybe he wasn’t in control?’ I said. ‘He was facing a few years in prison, and then suddenly his barrister goes missing. Perhaps he just got some of his heavies to put some pressure on Mrs Gilbert to find out where he’d gone and they went too far. Perhaps it was Mrs Gilbert’s death that led to Lake’s conversion into one of the good guys.’

‘But if you are going to run an exposé on Alan Lake and accuse him of murder, you’ll need good evidence,’ he said. ‘Stick to the adulterer for now, Mike Dobson.’

I started to shuffle through the papers, glancing at the headlines, looking for something I hadn’t heard of before.

‘How much did you tell Laura?’ Tony asked.

I looked up. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think it was fair on her.’

‘Why?’

‘Because she’s a policewoman. How will it look if it comes out that she had access to the location of the most wanted man in Lancashire?’

‘Whether she knows or not,’ Tony said, his eyebrows raised, ‘it will look like that anyway.’

‘I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it. For now, it’s a press secret, and part of my story will have to be that I didn’t even tell my police sergeant girlfriend.’

‘Sergeant?’

‘That’s what she’s going for.’

Tony nodded. ‘Good on her,’ he said. ‘So what now?’

‘It’s getting complicated,’ I said. ‘Alan Lake is something new into the mix. I’ll look into that, and then I’ll try and find out about this Mike Dobson. But there’s one other thing first: I need to find out who was in my house last night, and whether it’s got anything to do with me going after Claude Gilbert.’

Tony had gone and Bobby was in bed by the time Laura walked through the door, her dark hair pulled into a clasp at the back of her head, showing her pale skin, the pallor of the Irish, Laura’s lineage. Her crisp white shirt and stiff black trousers gave her a stern appearance that didn’t fit the gleam in her eyes.

She came behind me and wrapped her arms around my neck. When I turned round to kiss her, she pulled away, her smile filled with tease and her cheeks creased into dimples.

‘I’m beat,’ she said, and slipped off her coat and threw it over the sofa, before walking through to the kitchen. Then I heard her stop. She put her head around the door.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice softer now, holding the flowers I’d bought at the station. ‘I’m glad you’re back.’

‘It’s good to be back,’ I said.

‘No, not just because of these,’ she said, holding up the flowers before going back into the kitchen to make herself a drink. I followed her.

‘Bobby told me about the man who was here last night,’ I said, concerned.

Laura was leaning against the worktop and her smile had gone. She took a deep breath and her hand went to her eyes to wipe them. When she looked at me again, I thought she looked tired.

‘I was scared, Jack,’ she said. ‘It’s too quiet up here.’

‘Who was it?’

‘I don’t know. I just heard something upstairs, and then the window was open. By the time I got there, he’d gone.’

‘Are you sure there was someone there?’

Laura nodded. ‘You’ve been making waves, Jack.’

I didn’t like the sound of that. Late-night visits to the house just when we had been talking about Alan Lake.

‘What do you mean, waves?’

‘Joe Kinsella wants to know what you’re doing. He knew about that woman’s visit to the house the other morning, although I’m not supposed to tell you this.’

Then I remembered what Tony had told me, about the man who was looking for me. Frankie Says.

‘I’ll be careful,’ I said. ‘People being interested tells me that there is a story to tell, but I won’t put you in danger, or Bobby.’

‘So what
is
the story?’ she said. ‘You have to remember us in all of this. That should mean more than a story. I know it’s important to you, but someone was in my home last night, and it makes me scared.’

I put my arms around her and pulled her into me. Her shirt collar jabbed me in the neck, stiff and starched. ‘It does mean more,’ I said.

Laura looked up and her lips brushed mine. ‘I hope so,’ she said softly. ‘Don’t go away again.’

‘Do you really want to know about the story?’ I said.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Have you heard of Claude Gilbert?’ I said.

Laura looked surprised. ‘Everyone has heard of Claude Gilbert,’ she said. ‘What about him?’

‘He wants to come home.’

She looked confused for a moment. ‘What do you mean, home?’

‘To Blackley. That’s why Susie was here the other morning. She’s in contact with him.’

‘Claude Gilbert?’ she said, bewildered, and then she laughed. ‘That would be one hell of a story, if he did. Are you sure it’s not a hoax?’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

Laura looked at the papers on the table. ‘Claude Gilbert?’ she said, still disbelieving.

I started to smile. ‘Good, isn’t it?’

‘And that’s why you asked me, the other night, about knowing about a wanted criminal?’ she said.

I nodded. There was no point in denying it.

‘If you’ve got access to Claude Gilbert, you’ve got to write the story,’ she said, grinning now. She walked towards the stairs.

I went back to the table as Laura went to get changed and began to sift through the papers again. I had hardly made a dent in them since Tony had gone, though it was mostly just recaps of what I already knew anyway. I saw a younger Bill Hunter staring out from one of the pages, the bitter ex-policeman who discovered the body.

I was still reading the article when Laura came back down the stairs.

‘You can tell me all about Claude Gilbert after,’ she said.

‘After what?’ I said, and then I looked up. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘After that.’

Laura was on the bottom step, dressed in her police shirt, her checked black and white tie done neatly to her neck. But her legs were bare, and from what else I could see as the shirt flapped open, I could tell that she wasn’t thinking about work.

She smiled and held up her handcuffs. ‘Like I said the other day, I promise I won’t make them too tight.’

I put my papers down. Claude Gilbert could wait for a bit longer.

Mike Dobson was frustrated now. He had done three circuits of his usual drive around Blackley’s darkest corners, but where was she? He had slowed down at every corner, at every cluster of women underneath the streetlights, but she wasn’t there. Just old prossers who had spent their lives on the streets, hard women with ruined lives, or single mothers in tracksuits, trading handjobs for a ten-pound bag, fully signed up for the H-plan diet, hoping one day to get away from the street.