DEAD SILENT. Neil White
looked at me, surprised. Then his eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve got an angle on this,’ he said, his tone suspicious.
‘There’s always a new angle.’
He shook his head. ‘I know you, Jack. I trained you, remember? You don’t chase fairy tales.’
‘I can’t tell you,’ I said. ‘Not yet anyway. I just want to check it out first.’
He considered me for a moment, ran his finger along his lip. ‘All right,’ he said eventually. ‘If you really are looking into it, there’s only one man to speak to: Bill Hunter. He was the plod who found the body, but he’s retired now.’
‘Still living the case?’ I queried.
Tony grinned. ‘You can see it in his eyes that it’s the one case that still keeps him awake. He follows it like a religion, keeps every piece written about it, from hoax sightings to alternative theories. He’s not Claude’s biggest fan.’
‘The one that got away?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Where will I find him?’
Tony scribbled down an address. ‘But try the allotment plot just behind your old school first. He’s always there. We used it for the photoshoot a couple of years ago. You know, retired policeman tending his plot. And of course, the digging reference was subtle too.’
‘You reckon?’ I said.
‘There’s nothing new, you know that, don’t you?’ Tony said. ‘We rehashed everything for the anniversary, so I know the Post won’t be interested.’
I looked towards the Post building. ‘Is that place still surviving?’
Tony pulled a face. ‘Not really. The internet is killing us. There are rumours that we’re going to be taken over by one of the big groups, and we’ll just turn out the free papers from there.’
‘You deserve better than that,’ I said. ‘You’re a proper journalist. You taught me my trade.’
‘And I’ve done everything,’ he replied, ‘and so it’s hard to get excited any more. I’m just looking forward to retirement.’
‘How’s Eleanor?’
‘Not looking forward to my retirement,’ he answered with a chuckle, and then he reached for the door handle. ‘If you need any help, Jack, call me. Maybe there’s time for one last crack at being a proper journo, but I won’t hold my breath.’
I smiled. ‘Will do. Take care.’
I looked down at the piece of paper with Bill Hunter’s details on, and then looked up to see Tony disappear into the Post building. I smiled to myself. Would the Claude Gilbert case stop me from ending up like Tony, churning out fillers for the local paper?
I was whistling to myself as I turned the engine over and pointed the Stag towards Blackley.
Mike Dobson faltered as the customer leant towards him to place a cup of coffee on the table. It was the scent of Chanel No. 5, an air of sweet flowers that took him by surprise, rushed him back to more than twenty years earlier, to her smell, the faded Chanel, and those moments together, her hair over her face, her eyes closed, her nails dug deep into his chest. Then he grimaced as the images changed, became slashed with red, over her face, in her hair, splashed onto his hand.
He closed his eyes. He could train himself not to think about it, to live a normal life, but then a perfume would suddenly send him back, or the scent of lavender in bloom, heady and filled with summer.
‘Excuse me,’ said a distant voice, breaking into his thoughts.
Mike opened his eyes quickly and saw his customer. She looked concerned.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
He forced an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. Just a spot of toothache, that’s all,’ and he gestured towards his cheek and laughed nervously.
She winced. ‘That’s not nice. We can do this another time, if you don’t feel right.’
He shook his head. ‘No, it’s fine,’ he said. He took a deep breath. Switch on, he told himself. ‘Like my manager said, we can go half-price if you sign up today. It’s a special offer that ends tonight, so you really need to make a decision today.’
‘But I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It seems such a lot of money for something so…’ She searched for the right word as she nodded towards the sample next to him, a cross-section of white PVC fascia to replace the wooden boards that lined the roof edges.
‘Unglamorous?’ he offered, and when she smiled, he added, ‘There’s nothing glamorous about damp getting into your house, about the smell of mould in your bedroom.’ He banged the sample with his hand and tried another smile. ‘It might be just guttering, but it’s like saying that your roof is just tiles.’ He leant forward, and she leant in with him. ‘And it will stop your house being the one the neighbours talk about, the one that lets the street down, because you’ve got paint peeling off your wooden boards. You’ll never need to paint them again if you’ve got these.’
She sighed and sat back on the sofa, the movement wafting more perfume towards him. He felt nauseous, wanting to turn away, to get away from the memories, but the customer was nearly at the point of buying, he could sense it. She was falling for the sales tricks, the limited discount, the call to the manager. But something stopped him from forcing it. She distracted him, casually dressed, wearing those low-cut jeans that show off the hipbones, a sea horse tattoo visible just below her beltline.
He closed his eyes again, just for a moment, and filled his nose with the Chanel. The sale was over, he had to get away, before the other images drifted into his head. Blood. Smile. Hair. Still. Dirt.
‘Okay,’ he said, his voice faint. ‘It is a lot to pay.’ He passed over his card. ‘If you change your mind, call me.’
He felt her fingers brush his as she took the card from him and his cheeks flushed. She tapped it against her chin. ‘I will, thank you.’
He collected his samples, his breathing heavier now, and then he rushed for the door. He needed to be outdoors, where the breeze would take her scent away.
He climbed into his car, the samples thrown quickly into the boot, and took some deep breaths. Mike could sense her still watching him as he turned the key in the ignition.
I followed Tony’s hint and headed for the allotments behind my old school, a collection of vegetable patches and ramshackle sheds that brought back memories of bent old men in flat caps. The allotments were mostly empty, but a man leaning on a spade pointed me towards Hunter’s plot. It was at the end of a line of bramble bushes and cane supports and, as I walked towards it, I got a close-up of my old school, two large prefabricated blocks, glass and panelling that looked out over sloping football fields, really just scrappy grass and wavy white lines. It was halfway up one of the slopes that surround Turners Fold, and I remembered how the wind used to howl across the fields, making my teenage legs raw during PE lessons.
As I got closer, I heard mumbles of conversation, and then laughter, and as the allotment came into view I saw three men on deckchairs, a bottle of single malt passing between them.
I realised I had been spotted, because the smiles disappeared and the bottle was put on the floor.
‘I’m looking for Bill Hunter,’ I said.
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