DEAD SILENT. Neil White

at her chest again until she folded her arms, aware of his gaze.

      ‘He needs to speak to me,’ he said. ‘Did you tell him about me?’

      She shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t. Please go, Frankie.’

      ‘If he calls again, tell him to come to my house,’ he said, but then he flinched when he felt her hand on his arm.

      ‘Are you all right, Frankie?’ she asked. ‘Are you eating okay? You look poorly again.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ he said.

      ‘You need to look after yourself, Frankie. If your mother could see you now, she would be worried about you.’

      Frankie looked away.

      ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. He said he was called Jack Garrett. He sounded local. If you think he might want your help, call him. He might be interested in what you’ve got to say.’

      Frankie didn’t respond.

      ‘You’ve got to look after yourself though, before you go chasing him,’ she said. ‘Eat properly. Get some sleep.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ he said, and he turned and walked out of the rest home, shuffling quickly along the drive, ignoring the pain in his feet from the sharp stones. He could sense Mrs Kydd watching him, even after the automatic doors had swished shut.

       Chapter Eleven

      I checked my notepad and looked at the scribbles I had made after Susie had gone. I had written down Maybury and Sharpe as Susie’s old law firm. If Bill Hunter was right, that Claude Gilbert had ended up as fish food in the English Channel, the story would end up being about Susie and another Claude Gilbert hoax.

      The firm’s name was well known to me. I had devoured the court reports in the local paper when I was a child, those short paragraphs of shame the only part I found interesting, and the names of the defending solicitors always stayed with me: Harry Parsons, Jon Halpern, Danny Platt—crafty lawyers who managed to find new ways to repackage remorse and excuses for their clients. Maybury and Sharpe had been one of the main players, but Susie Bingham had been talking of a time two decades earlier, and the shrinking of legal aid had seen the firm splinter into its different departments, the ambulance chasers not wanting to be weighed down by the criminal work. The new offshoot was now known simply as Sharpes, staffed by enthusiastic young clerks and a couple of ageing solicitors, who huffed and puffed their way around the Magistrates’ Court like relics from a lost era. I just hoped that someone there remembered her.

      The office front suited the firm, old-style, with frosted windows and gold leaf lettering; no neon sign at Sharpes. When I walked in, I saw that the reception area was quiet, just one client waiting, his face bearing the familiar look of heroin addiction: high cheekbones, blackened teeth and prickles of sweat on his lip. The receptionist was a young Pakistani girl, her hair sleek and long, and when she smiled at me, her eyes were bright jewels in the office gloom.

      ‘I want to have a word with Mr Halpern or Mr Platt,’ I said.

      She reached for the phone. ‘Are you due in court?’ she asked, her voice quiet, almost a mumble, just the smallest trace of the Peshwar in her Lancashire accent.

      ‘No, I’m the court reporter, Jack Garrett. I need some help with a story, and it involves this firm.’

      She considered me for a moment, and then picked up the phone and spoke to someone, her words barely audible. She pointed to the room next to reception. ‘Wait in there,’ she said.

      The waiting client didn’t pay me any attention as I went into a small square room, with just enough room for a desk and chairs on either side. I could hear a whispered conversation through the door, and then it was opened briskly as Danny Platt walked in. His hair was long and unkempt, but the grey patches that broke up its darkness gave away his age as over fifty. His face bore the scars of long hours, with lines etched deep around the eyes, and the bulge of his stomach strained against the buttons of his creased blue shirt. He looked unkempt, like legal aid work was getting tougher.

      ‘Mr Garrett,’ he boomed, as if he was delighted to see me. He was eating a sandwich though, and it was obvious that I had disturbed him. ‘Between sittings, so make it quick,’ he said, holding up his lunch. ‘What can I do for you? A quote you didn’t get?’

      As he sat down, he took a bite from his sandwich. Mayonnaise collected at the corners of his mouth.

      ‘Do you remember Susie Bingham?’ I asked. He looked quizzically at me as he searched his memory, skimming through all the thieves and prostitutes he had helped over the years. ‘She used to work for Maybury and Sharpe, about twenty years ago,’ I added, to help him out.

      I saw the beginnings of a smile.

      ‘You remember her?’ I asked.

      He nodded, grinning now. ‘Very attractive woman,’ he said, and he chuckled. ‘Great figure. It was hard to stop the eyes from following her legs upwards, if you know what I mean. Why do you ask?’

      ‘She came to me with a story, and I’m checking her out first, just to see whether I can believe her.’

      Danny put his sandwich down and wiped his mouth with his handkerchief. ‘Is it about this firm?’ he asked, his smile fading.

      I shook my head. ‘No. You don’t even need to be mentioned.’

      He relaxed and took another bite of the sandwich. ‘She was a real good-time girl,’ he said, chuckling again, exposing the food in his mouth. ‘Big fan of the chambers parties, so I remember, and the police ones. Always guaranteed to end up with someone.’ He leant forward, as if he was worried someone might overhear. ‘She was familiar with most of the young bar, if you get my drift,’ he said, and gave his nose a theatrical tap. ‘She was pretty generous with the police, just for the rough and ready thrill, but she liked the rich boys best, particularly the younger ones. It was the accents, I think.’ He gave a small laugh. ‘There was a Christmas party once at the court, and some rumour went round that she’d fucked one young barrister in a judge’s chair. It got plenty of giggles around the court, and she didn’t mind at first, but the judges weren’t happy. When it looked like the young man was in trouble, she stuck up for him, told everyone it had never happened.’

      ‘Maybe it didn’t.’

      ‘It happened, no worries there,’ he said, but his jokey smile came across as sleazy.

      I made some notes. It might fit into the story, if there ever was one. ‘Did you trust her?’ I asked.

      ‘Oh yes, totally,’ Danny said. ‘A good clerk, so I remember. Left to work in a bigger firm, although I think she regretted it because they only used her for prison visits, just a flash of a leg, and she was better than that. The clients liked her and she took decent trial notes.’ Then he drifted away for a moment, enjoying some distant memory, before he said, ‘I think we almost, you know, just once, at an office party, but I was married, and so I backed off.’ He sighed at the memory. ‘She left not long after, but let me tell you something: I regretted it at times—saying no, I mean. She was an attractive woman, and the memory would be nice.’ When I raised my eyebrows, he said, ‘I don’t mean to put the woman down. She was no kid, but she was enjoying herself. What’s wrong with that?’

      ‘What about Claude Gilbert?’ I asked. ‘Do you know if she ever had a relationship with him?’

      Danny Platt’s eyes widened at the mention of Gilbert’s name. ‘Why are you asking about Claude Gilbert?’

      ‘I just remembered that he was around at the same time,’ I said, trying to hide the reason for my visit. ‘He was a good-time boy. It’s not inconceivable that they got it together.’

      ‘So it’s a Claude Gilbert story,’ he grinned, revealing