Читать книгу DEAD SILENT - Neil White - Страница 11

I followed Tony’s hint and headed for the allotments behind my old school, a collection of vegetable patches and ramshackle sheds that brought back memories of bent old men in flat caps. The allotments were mostly empty, but a man leaning on a spade pointed me towards Hunter’s plot. It was at the end of a line of bramble bushes and cane supports and, as I walked towards it, I got a close-up of my old school, two large prefabricated blocks, glass and panelling that looked out over sloping football fields, really just scrappy grass and wavy white lines. It was halfway up one of the slopes that surround Turners Fold, and I remembered how the wind used to howl across the fields, making my teenage legs raw during PE lessons.

As I got closer, I heard mumbles of conversation, and then laughter, and as the allotment came into view I saw three men on deckchairs, a bottle of single malt passing between them.

I realised I had been spotted, because the smiles disappeared and the bottle was put on the floor.

‘I’m looking for Bill Hunter,’ I said.

The three men looked at each other, and then one asked, ‘Who are you?’ He was a tall man, with a beaky nose and a shiny scalp, grey hair cropped short around the ears.

‘My name is Jack Garrett, and I’m a reporter.’

He looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. I thought that I was suddenly unwelcome, but then he asked, ‘Bob Garrett’s lad?’

‘Yes,’ I said, my voice quieter now, caught by surprise.

He turned to his companions and winked. ‘I’ll speak to you boys later,’ he said, prompting them to struggle to their feet and make their way towards the rickety mesh gate. I could smell the whisky as they went past. Once they’d gone, he turned to me and said, ‘I’m Bill Hunter.’ He held out his hand to shake.

His grip was strong and he kept hold of my hand as he said, ‘I remember your father,’ his voice softer than before, some sadness in his eyes. ‘He was a good copper, and he shouldn’t have died like that.’

‘Did you work with him?’ I asked.

‘Not much,’ he said, ‘but I remember when he was killed. How many years ago is it now? Two?’

‘Three,’ I replied.

He shook his head. ‘Time goes too quickly, but I remember it. When I first started out, people didn’t carry guns like they do now. They did in the cities, I suppose, but they never brought their trouble this way.’

‘They came this way eventually though,’ I said, taking a deep breath, the memory bringing a tremble to my voice.

Hunter nodded to himself and patted me on the arm. ‘I’m glad I’m out of it. Everything is so different now, much more dangerous.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘Ask any of the new ones, and they all say that the job isn’t how they thought it would be, that it’s all about chasing targets, ticking boxes. And when they get a new problem?’ Hunter chuckled. ‘They just invent a new target. But those who are in can’t get out. They’ve got kids and mortgages.’ He gestured towards one of the deckchairs. ‘Sorry. You didn’t come here to listen to my moans. Sit down.’

I sank into the low chair as Hunter dried one of the cups with an old cloth. I reached up to collect the whisky he had poured for me, the aroma rich and pungent as it wafted out of the enamel cup.

‘So why do you want to know about Claude Gilbert?’ he asked.

I was surprised. ‘How did you guess?’

‘Jack, lad, I’ve been retired for fifteen years now. I’m almost seventy. All the criminals I’ve locked up are either dead, retired, or have given birth to the next generation. The only reason reporters ever look me up is Claude Gilbert.’ He winked at me. ‘I don’t talk to many, but seeing as though it’s you, I’ll tell you what you want to know.’