DEAD SILENT. Neil White

you asked?’ Joe said.

      Laura took a sip of her coffee to give her time to think of her answer. ‘A woman came to my home,’ she said. ‘I wanted to know who she was, but he wouldn’t say.’

      Joe watched her for a moment, and then he nodded. ‘Okay, I understand,’ he said. ‘But will you call me if you find anything out?’

      ‘Don’t make me spy on my boyfriend,’ Laura said quietly.

      He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I want you to spy on Susie Bingham.’ He got to his feet. ‘And this conversation remains confidential. If no news comes this way, then none goes the other. Is that okay?’

      Laura nodded slowly, and then gave a small laugh. ‘It will pique his interest more if I tell him.’

      Joe smiled at that, but then he added, ‘I mean around the station too. We’ll pretend we haven’t spoken.’

      ‘Why round here?’ Laura asked. ‘Who the hell is she?’

      ‘I’ll tell you one day, but not just yet.’

      Laura thought back to the early morning visit. Whatever the woman had said, it had sent Jack to London.

      ‘Is Jack in danger?’ Laura asked.

      Joe thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said, and then he walked off, his folder back under his arm, Rachel trailing behind him.

      When she was alone again, Laura glanced over towards the room she had been in before to see Thomas looking over, a concerned look on his face. As Laura turned away, she took a sip of coffee, just to occupy her mind—but her hand was shaking on the polystyrene cup.

      We turned into Lower Belgrave Street, and it seemed to immediately fall quiet, a haven so close to the bustle of Victoria. We found a pub halfway along, the Plumbers Arms, a dimly lit, one-room place with a dog-legged bar and high wooden seats, beer mats pinned up behind the bar and bright purple pansies hanging from baskets outside.

      Susie sat at one of the tables as far from the bar as she could, her eyes concealed behind dark glasses. She asked for a vodka and coke, and I settled for a pint of bitter. I watched as the froth disappeared before I had taken my first sip.

      I raised my glass. ‘To Claude Gilbert.’

      Susie nodded, although she seemed uncomfortable.

      ‘He must live around here,’ I said.

      Susie flashed a thin smile. ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘Because you’re hiding, here in the corner, behind those dark glasses,’ I replied.

      ‘It’s the clientele, that’s all,’ she said, looking down. ‘They make me uncomfortable.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, looking around. There were a couple of suits by the doorway, their shirt collars unbuttoned, their ties pulled down, and the rest looked just like normal drinkers, except better dressed. ‘They’re just like you and me, relaxing after work.’

      ‘No, they’re nothing like you and me,’ she said. ‘They’ve had all the chances, and I haven’t, and I can tell that they know that when they look at me.’

      I patted her hand. ‘You’ve been in the North too long,’ I said, and then tapped my shoulder. ‘You need to lose the chip.’

      Susie shuffled in her seat. ‘Yeah, maybe, but I know that you wouldn’t see people like that in Blackley, with that confidence, that sureness, like an arrogance, because the ones that have it leave Blackley and end up somewhere like this.’

      I didn’t pursue it. I had come to London on the promise of a long-lost murderer coming out of hiding, and it had come to very little so far, so I wasn’t in the mood for Susie’s northern neurosis. Self-deprecation was the northern default, I knew that—get the hits in yourself before someone else has a go and hits even harder. I turned the conversation instead to small talk and kept on glancing around the pub as we chatted, watching how the barman worked the bar, always polishing and talking, like he knew the customers. He waved them goodbye and called them by their first name, so he was more than just some Australian working his gap year.