DEAD SILENT. Neil White

did a couple of years ago, for the twentieth anniversary, but it’s been quiet since then.’

      ‘What about his family? Are they ever in touch?’

      ‘There was somebody once,’ she said. ‘He said he was Claude Gilbert’s father.’

      ‘The judge?’ I said, surprised.

      ‘That’s what he said. He was a nice old man, seemed sad about it all, and not just for Claude. He just wanted to pay his respects.’

      ‘How long ago was this?’

      Mrs Kydd thought for a few seconds, and then she said, ‘Springtime last year. And he brought that.’ She pointed to a single rose bush, kept trimmed and neat. ‘He asked us if we could plant it there, where Nancy was found, as a tribute.’

      I looked at her, and then back at the flower bed. ‘It’s just a patch of dirt,’ I said, and then looked at Mrs Kydd. ‘It seems strange that it looks so ordinary.’

      ‘I’ve thought the same thing a few times, when I’ve been able to snatch a quiet moment in the garden,’ she replied. ‘That’s why he wanted the rose bush there, as a marker, so we don’t forget what happened here.’

      I thanked her for her time and strolled through the garden to make my way back to my car. I stopped a few times to take pictures, trying to show how ordinary it looked, but when I got back onto the street, I looked back towards the house, gripped by the sensation that I was being watched. I couldn’t see anyone, but I sensed it, from the gentle shiver at the back of my neck to the way the hairs stood up on my arms.

      I climbed into my car, wary now.

       Chapter Ten

      Thomas and Laura walked through the town centre in a slow, rolling police stroll, past the old wooden shop fronts and then the glass windows of the chain stores on the precinct, fast-food wrappers overflowing from rubbish bins. Laura felt self-conscious in her uniform, still getting used to the feel of it again after the years spent in plainclothes. Both of them were in short sleeves, but they were warm in their stab vests, their belts heavy with equipment, the radio squawking constantly on their chests. She could feel her backside straining against her black trousers, the cut doing little to flatter her figure.

      Thomas seemed quiet, and his body language defensive, as if he was wary of the first spot of action.

      ‘You okay?’ Laura asked.

      ‘Just looking around, observing,’ Thomas said, his voice quiet, and then he gave a laugh, the first time Laura had heard it. ‘It’s easier at the training centre, because you’re expected to get it wrong, just so you can be told how to get it right, but this is it, right now,’ and he pointed at the floor. ‘I’m not here to get it wrong though.’

      Laura smiled. ‘Don’t be hard on yourself before you start. We all make mistakes. Just be courteous to people, be firm with those who deserve it, and don’t tell lies. It’s better to say sorry than tell a lie. And for the rest of it? Just use common sense and follow your instincts. That’s all the job is about.’

      Thomas nodded and looked down.

      They walked for a few minutes in silence, until Laura asked, ‘Are you enjoying the job so far?’

      Thomas looked up. ‘What, do you mean today?’

      ‘Just generally,’ Laura said. ‘When you walked into the briefing room, how did you feel?’

      Thomas blushed, his cheeks pink behind only a hint of stubble. ‘Honestly?’ he said, and then he laughed again. ‘Scared rigid. Maybe tomorrow will feel different.’

      ‘It will,’ Laura said. ‘Every day feels different. That’s what’s great about the job.’

      Before either of them could say anything else, they heard a shout. Laura looked up and saw a young man twenty yards away in a green polo shirt, the uniform of one of the music chain stores, trying to hold on to a gaunt man in a scruffy blue puffa coat, his eyes encircled by black shadows, his cheeks pale and sweaty, a games console under one arm.

      Laura started running, Thomas a step behind. Then the man pulled away, the sight of the sprinting uniforms giving him the push to make a break. The games console fell to the floor as he ran.

      Laura’s equipment jangled against her hips, her breaths loud in her ear, the adrenalin of the pursuit pushing her on. She could hear a couple of cheers from some college kids, and then she was panting: her detective years hadn’t involved many foot-chases, and motherhood had made her heavier than when she had last worn the uniform. As the thief went around a corner and into one of the open car parks, Laura guessed that it would turn out to be his day. Her chest began to ache, her throat dry, sweat across her forehead, and her legs slowed. She stopped running and reached for her radio, sucking in air as she tried to make her voice fit for broadcast.

      Then Thomas ran past her.

      Laura took a large breath and jogged after him. As she rounded the corner, Thomas came into view, but Laura saw that he had stopped, and the thief was heading out of the other side of the car park. Laura came to a halt next to Thomas and tried to get her breath back, her chest pumping hard in her shirt.

      ‘What happened?’ Laura asked, gasping.

      Thomas looked down, and Laura saw that he was taking deep breaths too, fear in his eyes.

      ‘What’s wrong?’ she said.

      ‘He pulled a needle out of his pocket,’ he said, between breaths. ‘He shouted he would give me AIDS.’ He looked at Laura. ‘I’m sorry. I bottled it.’ He gave a large heave of his shoulders and then kicked at the gravel. ‘My first test and I got scared.’

      Laura put her hand on his shoulder, turning him away from the shoppers who were watching them. ‘And you’ll bottle it again,’ she whispered. ‘You’ll just care less about it. Next time, just keep running and hit him as hard as you can with your baton, but remember that you may struggle to get a second shot in.’

      Thomas nodded, and then turned back the way they had just come. ‘Let’s go back to the shop, see if they’ve got it on video.’

      Laura nodded and smiled. ‘Okay, we’ll do that,’ she said, and decided that she liked Thomas.

      Frankie ducked behind the gatepost, just to check that the road was clear, and then he crept out. He wasn’t dressed properly, in jogging bottoms and a crumpled old T-shirt, his slippers making slapping noises on the tarmac as he shuffled across the road. He had to slow down as he reached the driveway of the rest home, the gravel hurting his feet through the soft soles.

      The doors to the rest home opened automatically, so he went inside and looked around anxiously, worried about who he would see, wanting to avoid the big boss. Then he saw someone he recognised wandering through one of the rooms. ‘Mrs Kydd?’ he shouted. He shuffled towards her. ‘Mrs Kydd?’

      She stopped and then turned slowly towards him. He noticed her uniform looked tight, stretched across her chest so that it pushed her breasts into a tired-looking cleavage.

      ‘Hello, Frankie,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

      ‘Was he a reporter?’ Frankie asked.

      ‘Were you watching again?’

      ‘I heard the car, that’s all, and so I watched him,’ he said. ‘What’s the big deal? Why can’t you tell me?’

      She put her hands on her hips.

      ‘I saw him taking pictures,’ Frankie persisted. ‘What did he want? Was it about Claude Gilbert? What did he say?’

      ‘Slow down, Frankie,’ she said, her voice raised. ‘Yes, he was a reporter, okay, and he’s writing a story about Nancy.’

      ‘Does