Dead Silent (20 page)

I went to the window and looked out. The view into the Gilbert garden was good. There were some trees in the way now, but they didn’t look as well grown on the photographs on the wall. As I looked at the photographs of Nancy Gilbert, something occurred to me.

I looked down to my car in the street and then back to Frankie. I pulled my car keys out of my pocket. ‘I just need to think about this,’ I said. ‘It’s pretty big stuff.’ I sat down on the bed next to Frankie and held up the keys. ‘Will you get my notebook out of my car? It’s in the glove compartment.’

He looked up at me and wiped his eyes. ‘Are you in the red one?’

I nodded.

A smile spread on his lips. ‘I like that car. Can I sit in it?’

I smiled back. ‘Of course you can. Take as long as you want. Just don’t drive it.’

Frankie grabbed my keys and went out of the room.

I listened for the rumble of his feet down the stairs and then I stood quickly and went to the drawers on the dresser. It was the windows in the photographs that made me think of something, because it seemed like Frankie tracked Nancy with his camera, and so he might have taken some that he kept just for himself, for those lonely nights in.

The dresser was scuffed mahogany, dusty on top, with a mirror and five wide drawers underneath. There was a keyhole in each drawer but they opened easily as I pulled. I whistled when I saw the contents. More newspapers, some going back twenty years or more, the front pages yellow, the print faded to grey. The next drawers down were just the same. I lifted some of the papers up, just to check underneath, but there were no photographs.

I went to the window and saw that Frankie was still outside.

I looked around the room. There wasn’t really anywhere else. Then I noticed the gap under his bed. I smiled to myself. Where else?

I went to the floor and looked under. It was all in shadow, and so I swept my hand underneath, almost at full stretch, and then my fingers brushed something, pushed to the back.

I jumped up and pulled the bed away from the wall. There was a red hatbox. It was dusty, but I could see trails in the dust, as if someone had lifted the lid a few times. I lifted the box up and shoved the bed back against the wall. My nose itched from the dust as I removed the lid carefully, but then I gasped when I saw what was inside.

It was filled with photographs, just like the ones pinned
to the wall, but the colours were fresher. I lifted one out. It was the Gilbert house, but I could only tell that from the angle of the picture. The photograph of someone in a window was zoomed in, a young woman changing into a white tunic, but it wasn’t anyone I recognised. I glanced out of the window and towards the rest home. Frankie had been spying on the nurses. I flicked through and it showed the same woman in her underwear, and then in her normal clothes before leaving the room.

I shook my head. These were too recent. Frankie had spied on Nancy Gilbert more than twenty years ago, and it looked like the habit had continued, but I was looking for older photographs, from before she died. The box was filled with photograph envelopes, and so I pushed the newer-looking ones to one side and looked for the faded ones, the ones in dated styling. I found one and grinned as I pulled out the photographs. I had them. It was Nancy Gilbert, but in these she was naked, getting changed, drying herself with a towel, and then putting on her clothes, knickers first, then the bra.

I felt grubby, like I was part of the voyeurism, but it was compelling just the same, staring into the secret life of the story’s forgotten character—Nancy Gilbert in her own home, perhaps not long before she was murdered. I was engrossed in shuffling through that set, and then I reached in for another envelope. The photos were the same, Nancy Gilbert getting undressed this time. I turned one over, and I saw that there was a date written on the back. Twentieth of February 1988. Three months before she died. I reached for another envelope. It was just the same. Nancy Gilbert through her bedroom window, naked.

I flicked through, embarrassed now, but then I saw something in one of the photographs. I stopped and looked closer.
It was hard to see so I lifted it towards the window, trying to cast some light onto it. It was a head, a patch of red hair.

I put it down for a moment. Claude Gilbert had dark hair and so it couldn’t be him. I went to the next photograph. Nancy Gilbert still naked, but there was the hair again. Someone was in the room with her. The next photograph was similar, but they were closer.

My hands flicked through the photographs until I got to the last few, and I felt a tremble in my hand when I saw two naked bodies on the bed, making love.

Tabloid gold.

Then I heard the door click shut. When I looked up, Frankie was looking down at me, his eyes screwed up with rage, his fists clenched tightly.

‘Those are private,’ Frankie growled, his voice angry, moving towards me.

I stood up and stepped away, making sure that I didn’t turn my back to him.

‘You need to come forward with these,’ I said, holding up the pictures.

‘They’re not for sale.’

‘Come on, Frankie, everyone has a price.’

Frankie shook his head. ‘Not those, Mr Garrett.’ He moved closer to me, but I backed away again, so that we were both moving around the room, me walking backwards. ‘Why were you looking under my bed?’ he asked.

I gestured to the walls. ‘Don’t be offended, Frankie, but to an impartial observer, you look a little fucking obsessed with Mrs Gilbert. I figured that you must have had more than pictures of Mrs Gilbert climbing out of her car.’ I held up the pictures again. ‘Is this your wank stash?’

Frankie shook his head, his face purple with embarrassment. ‘It’s not like that.’

‘It is exactly like that, Frankie,’ I said, and I sensed him becoming defensive. ‘Do the nurses know that you spy on them?’

Frankie took some deep breaths, and I could see that
he looked frightened. He turned away, his hands over his face.

‘You’ve been warned, haven’t you, Frankie?’ I said, stepping closer to him. ‘They caught you with your camera, and you’re not supposed to have these any more, are you, Frankie?’

‘Please go, Mr Garrett,’ he said, his voice muffled through his hands.

‘Frankie, you need to show these,’ I pleaded, changing tack. ‘They could prove that Claude Gilbert didn’t kill his wife.’

He didn’t move. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘if that’s how you want it,’ and I threw some of the photograph envelopes onto the bed and headed for the door. I didn’t want to look at him as I left, because I felt the churn of guilt; I had tucked a bundle of photographs into the back of my jeans when I didn’t think he could see me. But a man’s liberty was at stake, and that was more important than a man’s private porn collection. As I left the room, I heard the rustle of paper as Frankie picked up the photographs I had left behind.

I walked down the stairs quickly, wanting to get to my car before Frankie noticed that the photographs were missing. The landing on the next floor down was dark, and I was hoping for a quick getaway, but then I noticed a soft pink glow from underneath one of the doors. I hadn’t noticed it on the way up, and it didn’t fit with the grime and scuffed old wood of the rest of the house.

I glanced back towards the stairs to make sure that Frankie hadn’t followed me, but I could still hear him upstairs, banging about under the bed. I put my hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly, hoping that it wouldn’t squeak, and when I saw the room, I felt a shiver.

It was feminine and pristine, with a high double bed and a crocheted pink quilt dominating the space. There was a white dresser against one wall with small jewellery boxes and a mirror on top. In a corner of the room was a rocking chair with a pink satin cushion. On the wall was a large framed picture of a man in a seaman’s outfit, his chin strong, his smile stiff and formal, and photographs on a small table next to the bed, of a small child, and the same man as before. There was a faint look of Frankie in his eyes, in the way he frowned, the bold eyebrows making his eyes seem shadowy and sinister. I looked down. The carpet was pink and spotless, the bed immaculately made up. The soft glow under the door had been from the sunlight trying to break through the pink curtains in the window. It was Frankie’s mother’s room, I could tell that, and it looked like it hadn’t been disturbed or used in years.

Or maybe it had been used, but it was the one room that Frankie looked after, a shrine to his long-dead mother.

I heard a noise above me and realised that Frankie was leaving his room. I backed out of the room, making sure that the door closed quietly, and then trotted back down the stairs, squinting as I got back into the sunshine.

Laura and Thomas were sitting in the squad car when they got the call from Mike Dobson. They were just down the hill from Claude Gilbert’s house, underneath a stone archway at the entrance to a park, flowers and lawns and a duck pond visible on the other side. Laura realised that this all looked like too much effort for a kerb-crawler’s warning, but Thomas hadn’t commented. Maybe he thought it was an excuse to avoid doing the paperwork on a bright summer morning.

Then Laura saw Mike Dobson arrive from a distance, the gold Mercedes bright against the grey background. There
was something purposeful about the way he drove. As he pulled up behind them, Laura got out of the car, Thomas just behind her.

Laura wasn’t surprised by Mike Dobson’s appearance. His house was pristine and showy, and the car seemed all about image, so she expected him to look like success. Grey double-breasted suit, shiny black shoes, and a pink tie that contrasted vividly with his white shirt. He was in his early fifties, his neck starting to take over his chin and the crown of his head slowly emerging through the hair. It was dyed, Laura could tell that from the caramel colour, trying to reclaim the hair he’d once had. As he approached her, he gave her a flash of the salesman’s smile. Laura smiled back, but it was as insincere as Dobson’s. She wanted to catch him off-guard.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

‘Let’s walk in the park,’ she said. ‘More discreet that way.’

Dobson nodded and shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said, and strolled alongside Laura as they went under the stone arch, Thomas just behind them, listening.

‘I’m sorry about this, Mr Dobson,’ she said, ‘but we’re doing some chase-ups on cars that have been spotted driving around the red light areas.’

His smile twitched, and his cheeks flushed. He stopped walking. ‘Red light areas? I didn’t know Blackley had them.’

Laura smiled again, trying not to alienate him. ‘It’s okay, you’re not going to court, but we’re trying to advise people away from their homes, you know, to make it less embarrassing.’

‘But you went to my home,’ he said. ‘What did you say to my wife?’

Laura shook her head. ‘Nothing. Just that we wanted to speak to you.’

‘She’ll ask me what you wanted. What am I supposed to say?’

‘You’ll think of something, Mr Dobson,’ Laura said.

Dobson nodded, looking down, chewing on his lip.

‘Your wife seemed very nice,’ Laura said. ‘Why would you want to go to a prostitute?’

Dobson looked horrified, and there was a tremble to his lip. ‘I do not use prostitutes,’ he said, stressing every word, staring into Laura’s eyes.

Laura looked away and towards the road that ran alongside the park. She let her gaze climb steadily towards the houses further up, the towering grey blocks of stone. Laura could see the chimneys of Claude Gilbert’s house through the trees. Dobson didn’t follow her gaze.

‘I thought it would be nicer around here,’ she said, ‘where no one would hear us.’ She fixed him with a stern look. ‘Just call it a warning, Mr Dobson.’

Dobson stayed silent, not wanting to admit anything.

‘Although it’s a funny area around here,’ Laura added, with a half-laugh. ‘Maybe it’s not so nice.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The red light areas are at the crappy end of town,’ Laura said, ‘where people survive by stealing and dealing. But around here, someone was buried alive, just up that hill.’ And Laura pointed in the direction of Gilbert’s house.

Dobson paled and pursed his lips, then the grin came back, just a little more forced than before.

‘That was a long time ago,’ he said.

Laura raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, so you know which murder I’m talking about?’

Dobson’s grin widened but his cheeks paled even more. ‘Everyone in Blackley knows about that,’ he said. ‘Are we finished now? I’ve got an appointment.’

Laura nodded and smiled. ‘Okay, Mr Dobson,’ she said. ‘Just be careful where you drive, or else next time we have this conversation in front of your wife.’

He turned and walked back to his car. Laura watched him as he opened the door and climbed in. As he gripped the wheel and took a couple of deep breaths, Laura knew she had the answer she needed.

‘Do you think he was going to prostitutes?’ Thomas asked.

Laura turned to him. ‘Without a doubt,’ she said. ‘Although I wonder whether he’s got a lot on his mind right now.’

With that, Laura turned to go, Thomas walking fast to keep up. Now was the time to speak to Joe Kinsella.

I sat in my car and looked at Bill Hunter’s house, a redbrick bungalow with rose bushes overgrowing the path and clematis blossoming out from the walls. I had something new with Frankie’s photographs—the internet would have made them resurface if they’d been found before—but the story was over twenty years old. How many other times had Frankie told people about the other man, the one he had seen? Tony knew about Frankie, so his obsession was well known to the local press. And I knew that there was only one person who could tell me: Bill Hunter. So I was outside his house, having guessed that he would be at home when I found his allotment plot empty.

I climbed out of my car and bent down to open the small metal gate in the middle of the low brick wall. Hunter must have seen me because as I approached the door his face appeared at the window. He opened the door quickly, took a quick furtive look along the road, and then ushered me inside.