Chapter Twenty-Nine

I didn’t feel like talking much on the train heading north. I just wanted to watch the English countryside fly past through grubby windows and reflect on how I might have just walked out on the scoop of the decade, all on the promise that Claude Gilbert would wait around while I looked into Mike Dobson.

Susie seemed to have different ideas though, and she recounted her days with Gilbert all those years ago, her voice low and her head dipped towards the voice recorder on the table in front of her, her face animated as she talked of their casino evenings and trips out of town whenever a trial took him away for a few nights. I had stopped responding though, just giving the occasional nod when I sensed a pause, her voice barely a distraction. Then a pause turned into silence.

I looked at Susie and realised that she had stopped talking. She was looking at me.

‘What’s wrong, Jack?’

I looked across, eyes wide with innocence. ‘Nothing.’

‘There is,’ she said, and reached across to pat my hand. ‘Tell me.’

‘Like I said,’ my voice sterner, ‘there’s nothing wrong.’

Susie sat back in her seat and turned towards the window, although I could sense her eyes still watching me. I tried to look at the trackside golf courses and stretches of fields as we raced northwards, but I couldn’t ignore Susie’s gaze.

‘What?’ I said, trying to keep the irritation from my voice.

She smiled at me, a knowing look on her face. ‘Men like you end up killing themselves,’ she said.

I scowled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You know what I mean. Men like you, northern men, you just keep it all in, hold everything back until it turns into a poison and eats away at you. No one would laugh if you told them what was wrong.’

‘Maybe Claude was right,’ I said. When she looked confused, I added, ‘That we have turned into a nation of mourners, of emotional wrecks. What’s wrong with keeping things to ourselves? And anyway, there’s nothing to tell.’

‘No, no,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve met a lot of men like you.’ She wagged her finger at me, playfully. ‘It seems like I’ve spent most of my life trying to change them, to open them up.’

‘To like you?’ I asked, cruelly.

Susie went red at that. ‘Yes, and to like me,’ she said, traces of hurt in her voice. ‘You should try it, liking people.’

‘I do like people,’ I said. ‘That’s why I’m a reporter, so I can meet people and tell their stories.’

‘No, it’s so you can observe people and comment on them,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s nothing to do with liking them. And now you’re taking it out on me because you’re worried about losing your story, because you met Claude Gilbert and you let him go. Or is it just because you lash out when people get too close?’

I looked at her and thought that I didn’t need Susie to tell me what had been going through my mind ever since we walked out of the flat. Then I felt guilty, because Susie hadn’t gone all the way to London and back just for me to take it out on her. And because I knew she was right.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just thinking about the story.’

‘You need to think about your girlfriend too, and that little boy,’ she said. When I frowned, she added, ‘Every time I mention them, you hunch up or put your hands in your pockets, all defensive.’

‘Do I?’

Susie nodded. ‘You just need to tell her that you love her.’

I turned to look out of the window.

‘Look, you’re doing it again.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You are. The minute I said the word “love”, you turned away to avoid the subject. Have you been hurt in the past?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are your parents divorced?’

I shook my head. ‘Both of my parents are dead.’

Susie nodded slowly and reached out to take hold of my hand. ‘Don’t think that everyone will walk out on you. You won’t get hurt every time.’

I looked at the veins standing up on the back of her hands, her fingers stained nicotine-brown, before I was rescued by the ring of my phone. I pulled my hand away and checked the number. It was Harry English.

I slipped out of the seat and headed for the vestibule between the carriages before answering. It was noisier, and I knew I would be interrupted by people walking along the train, but at least I was out of Susie’s earshot.

‘Hello, Harry.’

‘How did you get on?’ he said.

I looked out of the window and saw that the view had become more northern, the brickwork darker, the horizons spoiled by industrial units, away from the greenery of the Home Counties.

‘I met him,’ I said.

Harry fell silent, and I could sense the publication figures turning over in his head.

‘So when do we meet?’ he said, eventually, his voice quieter than normal. ‘We need a big splash, a press conference.’

‘Not yet.’

‘What do you mean, not yet?’

‘I’ve got to prove his innocence,’ I said. ‘If I can, he’ll come forward.’

‘But you know where he lives. Why wait?’

‘Because I promised, Harry,’ I replied.

Harry sighed down the phone. ‘That’s why you couldn’t cut it at a desk. Too much damn honour.’

‘Yeah, and I remember yours from last night, with Dave following me.’

‘It’s called control, Jack.’

‘Whatever you say,’ I said, my voice weary. ‘If you print anything, Harry, I’ll deny it and you’ll lose the exclusive. Just be patient and it will work out.’

‘I’m just glad it wasn’t on our expense sheet,’ he growled, and then hung up.

I smiled as I looked at my phone. I knew that Harry would forget about it soon. Journalists don’t have grudges, just deadlines, and Harry would listen again when the time was right.

I glanced through the door into the carriage and I saw that Susie was on the phone as well. I realised that there was only one escape route out of this: to follow the trail set by Claude Gilbert.