White - Dead Silent

Bill Hunter looked through the wrought-iron gates as he came to a halt outside Claude Gilberts house. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the interior of the police car heavy with the first real promise of summer, and turned to his passenger, Paul Roach, a fresh-faced young officer with scrubbed cheeks and the swagger of youth on his side.

Do you know why houses like this are on a hill? Hunter said, and pointed towards the large Edwardian property, a square block of sandstone walls and white corners, roses creeping around the edges, a wide gravel drive leading to the doors at the front.

Roach didnt seem interested, responding with a shrug.

It kept the professionals out of the smog when the mills were running, Hunter continued. It was peasants like us who had to live in the valley, where the smoke from the chimneys choked us every day.

Like Rome, Blackley had been built on seven hills, except that Blackleys majesty didnt go much beyond the terraced strips and large stone cotton mills that scarred the once-green slopes.

The clogs and machinery are long gone, old man, Roach said, and then he looked back to the house and smiled. I wouldnt mind a piece of this though.

What about the old-fashioned stuff, like making a difference? Hunter said.

Roach nodded at the sheen on Hunters worn-out trousers and the scuffs on his shoes. Youre not a great career advert, he said.

Hunter turned off the engine and it seemed suddenly quiet, the bustle of the town centre out of earshot, just the long curve of the street in front of them, the houses bordered by ivy-covered high walls. He reached for his jacket and climbed out of the car.

Roach joined him on the pavement and looked around. So where has Gilbert gone? he said.

We wont find out standing here, Hunter said, and he pushed at the gate, the creak from the old hinges the only sound in the street.

Do you think theyll serve us strawberries on the lawn? Roach said.

Hunter shook his head, and then, as the gates clanged against the supporting brick pillars, he stepped onto the gravel drive, the confetti of cherry blossom blowing against his shoes.

Whats he like, Claude Gilbert? Roach asked.

Depends on which Claude you mean, Hunter said. The television Claude, the morning show legal expert, the medias favourite barristerhes a real charmer.

And the courthouse Claude? Roach said.

Like a lot of them, stars in their own universe, Hunter said. When youve been in the job longer, and youve been spat on and punched and uncovered sudden deaths, then maybe youll look at lawyers houses and wonder why they get so much when we do all the dirty work.

Its a great view though, Roach replied, looking along the lawns, and when he heard Hunter grunt his disapproval, he added: Youre a dinosaur, Bill. The miners strike ended the class war. Do you remember them all marching back? That was the end of the revolution, so lets cut out the working-class hero stuff. Thatcher won.

Hunter scowled as he watched Roach march towards the double doors at the front of the house.

When were they last seen? Roach shouted over his shoulder.

About a week ago, Hunter replied.

So it could be a holiday.

Claudes chambers dont think so. Hes halfway through an assault trial, and by disappearing theyve had to abort it.

What, you think theyve run away?

It depends on why theyve gone, Hunter replied. Bit of a gambler is Claude, so the rumours go. Maybe hes had that big loss that always comes along eventually. If Mrs Gilbert is used to all of this, the fancy furniture, the dinner parties, the cash, shes not going to settle for nothing. They could have emptied their accounts and gone somewhere.

Roach didnt look convinced. House prices are rising. Therell be plenty of money tied up in this place.

Hunter took a step back and looked up at the house. The curtains were drawn in every window. Maybe he got too involved in a case? Lawyers think theyre immune, but theyre not, and theyre dealing with some real nasty people. I know judges who have been threatened, just quiet words when theyre out with their wives, thinking that no one knows who they are. He stepped forward and pressed his face against one of the stained glass panels. Theres a few letters on the floor, so they havent been here for a while.

What do we do? Roach asked, looking around.

Hunter followed his gaze. There was someone watching them from the other side of the road, a teenager, a newspape delivery bag on his shoulder. Go ask him if he knows anything.

Roach paused for a moment, and then he shrugged and walked away. Hunter watched him until he was a few yards away, and then he rammed his elbow into the glass in the door. When Roach whirled around at the noise, Hunter shrugged and said, Slipped, before he reached in and turned the Yale lock. Roach pulled a face before heading back to the house.

The pile of letters scraped along the tiled floor as Hunter pushed open the door. He pointed at the envelopes. See how far back the postmarks go.

Hunter squinted as his eyes adjusted to the darkness inside. The hallway stretched ahead of them, with stairs leading upwards, the stained glass around the doors casting red and blue shadows along the wall. They both crinkled their noses. The house smelled stale.

Hunter looked into the living room to his left. Nothing unusual in there. Two sofas and a television hidden away in a wooden cabinet, crystal bowls on a dresser, nothing broken. There was a room on the other side of the hallway dominated by a long mahogany table.

No sign of a disturbance, he said. What about the letters?

These go back a couple of days, Roach said, flicking through them. Bills and credit card statements mostly.

Hunter went along the hall to the kitchen. It was a long room, with high sash windows looking along the garden. There was a yellow Aga and a battered oak table, and china mugs hung from hooks underneath dusty cupboards.

They hadnt planned to leave, Roach said. When Hunter turned around, Roach was bathed in the light of the open fridge door, holding a half-empty milk bottle. This is turning into yoghurt. They would have thrown it away.

Hunter scratched his head. He ambled over to the window and looked out at the two lawns, green and lush, separated by a gravel path. There was an elaborate fountain in one corner of the garden, with a wide stone basin and a Grecian statue of a woman holding an urn, with a steel and glass summer house in the other. Hunter could see the bright fronds of plants.

Hunter looked downwards, at the floor and the walls, and then out at the garden again. He was about to say something when something drew his eye, a detail in the garden that didnt seem quite right. He looked closer, wondering what hed seen that had grabbed his attention, his eyes working faster than his mind, when he realised that it was the lawn itself. It was flat all the way along, green and even, but there was a patch near the back wall where it looked churned up, as if soil had been newly piled up on it.