Dead Silent by Neil White Page A

radiator.
    ‘How did they know?’
    ‘There was blood on the skirting boards and walls. There wasn’t much, as if he had tried to cover his tracks, but there were a few small spots and streaks that he missed.’
    ‘It sounds like you know the story,’ I said.
    ‘I work here, and so I’ve read about it,’ she replied. ‘And writers turn up. They all like to talk about it, all of them thinking they’ve got a new theory.’
    I raised my eyebrows at the dig, and she smiled at me, pleased that I’d spotted it. I took some pictures, trying to get the garden in the background, to show the route to her death.
    ‘Does it bother the residents, you know, what happened here?’ I asked.
    Mrs Kydd shook her head. ‘Our residents get well looked after, and it’s a nice home. They know about it, but to most of them it is just another news story. They were all middle aged and older when it happened, so maybe it doesn’t hold the attention like it does with the younger ones.’ She smiled. ‘And it’s only the fact that he got away that makes the story interesting.’
    I didn’t disagree, because that was the interest that would sell the story.
    I looked back towards the garden. ‘Is that where the body was found?’
    Mrs Kydd looked over her shoulder. ‘You might as well see that as well,’ she said.
    I followed her outside, through the conservatory and then down another ramp, relieved to be in the natural warmth of summer rather than the suffocating artificial heat inside.
    As we walked along the garden path, I looked around, tried to imagine how it must have been back then. Although I could see the chimneys and roofs of the nearby buildings, I saw that the height of the boundary wall just about stopped anyone from seeing into the garden. The road ran along one side, and on the other the land dropped away to a park, so that the house stood proudly on a hill. Claude Gilbert would have been able to drag his wife all the way down here without being spotted.
    ‘What happened to the house after Gilbert disappeared?’ I asked.
    ‘I don’t know much about that,’ she replied, turning towards me. ‘Only what I’ve read in the papers.’
    ‘Like what?’
    ‘That it was repossessed by the bank when the mortgage didn’t get paid.’
    ‘Do you get many people coming round to take a look?’
    ‘We 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