Dead Silent Read Online Free PDF Page B

coast.
    But it was where I grew up, for better or worse, the town that gave me flattened vowels and a dose of northern cynicism. It seemed to me that Turners Fold deserved better than its lot, its life and character crumbling year by year, because it seemed like the only way to succeed was to leave. Just for a moment, I sensed the shadow of my father. He’d been a policeman in Turners Fold before he died, and he had walked these streets, known everybody’s name, or so it had seemed. What would he have made of Susie Bingham? Not much, was my guess. He had been absorbed by my mother, who was all curls and dark eyes, a natural beauty—although I have to fight to keep that memory, her final year tainted by the cancer that took her away.
    I had been back in Turners Fold a couple of years now, but I didn’t feel rooted there. Sometimes I looked for old faces whenever I was in town, old school friends or sweethearts, just to find out where they had gone with their lives, but it seemed like most of the people I saw were just worn down and wondering why their lives had turned out like they had. Then I saw Tony, a shuffle to his walk and a shinypink scalp heading out of the
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building. He saw me and waved. I leant across the passenger seat to let him in.
    ‘You’re wearing a jumper, for Christ’s sake,’ I said to him. ‘It’s a bloody heatwave.’
    ‘Fashion is all about consistency,’ he replied, grinning, showing his buckled front teeth, the result of a bad rugby tackle many years before. ‘Like you, in this car. If you’re trying to remain incognito, this car isn’t the best way.’
    ‘My father cherished this car,’ I said.
    ‘I’m sorry, Jack, I didn’t mean—’
    ‘Don’t worry,’ I interrupted, smiling. ‘I’m thinking of getting rid of it anyway.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I want someone to look after it properly, like he did. A Sunday polish, a regular service. I don’t do that.’ I tapped the dashboard. ‘I keep it because it was my father’s car, but then I think what he would say if he could see how I drive it, how I don’t wash it enough.’
    ‘So what are you going to do?’
    ‘I’m going to sell it to someone who’ll treasure it like my father treasured it. That’s what he would have wanted.’
    Tony nodded quietly to himself. He had been good friends with my father and I knew that Tony still missed him.
    ‘So, what can I do for you?’ he asked eventually.
    ‘Claude Gilbert,’ I said simply.
    He flashed me a look, part amusement, part curiosity. ‘What about him?’
    ‘If I want to find out more about him, who would I speak to?’
    ‘You’re two years too late with this,’ he said. ‘We did a special on the twentieth anniversary a couple of years ago.’
    ‘Maybe it deserves another run out.’
    He 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,