DI Nattrass made her way to the centre of the stage. Heptonstall stepped back. Jack watched them both. Heptonstall, he noticed now that the man had stopped speaking, looked visibly shocked. Nattrass stepped up to the podium. She was dressed in usual plainclothes cop uniform, thought Jack. Cheap suit, shoes with sensible heels, no-nonsense haircut. She looked round the packed hall. Jack could feel the mistrust and animosity directed towards her. He was sure she could feel it too. As he watched she sighed, looked slightly sad. The action made her seem more human. But Jack wasn’t fooled. And neither, he imagined, would anyone else be.
‘When something like this happens,’ Nattrass said, eyes roving round the hall, ‘it’s tragic. Not just for Calvin but for his family and friends. For everyone. All of you.’ She gestured at the teachers behind her. ‘Even the teachers up here.’ She smiled. ‘Because teachers are human too.’
‘Fuckin’ social worker,’ someone close to Jack muttered under his breath. Someone else stifled an explosive giggle. It threatened to get out of hand until Heptonstall walked to the front of the stage and stared out. The giggling stopped but the silence that replaced it was more like an unspoken threat. Heptonstall sat down. Nattrass continued.
‘Calvin Bell was killed last night on the Hancock Estate. He was stabbed to death.’
A girl sobbed. Eyes darted towards her, telling her not to show weakness in front of the filth. She didn’t sob again.
‘Now. One of the things I have to do is make sure whoever did this gets caught. Because if they don’t they may well do it again. And it could be one of you next time.’ Another scope of the room with her eyes. ‘But I can’t do it alone. I need help. Your help. So if anyone knows anything, please come and see me. I’m going to be in the school with my team all day today. We’re setting up a mobile station on the estate near to where it happened. Please …’ Her voice sounded desperate, like there was real emotion behind her words. ‘Please, if you do know anything, or even if you think you know everything then come and talk to me or one of my team. We’re not the enemy. We’re not here to hurt anyone. We just want to catch whoever killed Calvin. So they can’t do it again.’ She gave a small, sad smile, thanked them, thanked Heptonstall then stepped away from the podium.
Heptonstall spoke for a while longer but everyone was getting restless. Eventually the assembly was broken up and the pupils, including Jack, were told to return to normal lessons.
The children were still buzzing but there was a weary edge to it, like they were all coming down after a collective adrenalin high. Jack followed the rest of them out. The boy who had stared at him earlier walked past him, made a show of bumping into Jack’s shoulder, the smaller boy following behind. Jack didn’t rise to it. He was the new kid, the one who spoke funny, the one who had to find his place in the pecking order. Again. But he didn’t want to think about that now. Because he was thinking of the murdered boy. Of the policewoman. But most of all, of his mother. Her hands covered in blood, crying in the flat. Again.
He tried not to think of her, to focus on getting through the day, trying to fit in, make friends, attempt to put down roots. But all he could think of was his mother and her hands.
The image upset him. The more he thought about it, the more it became some kind of snapshot, printed not on paper but on stone or concrete, weighing him down every time he picked it up to look at it.
With an effort, he tried to push it out of his mind, get on with his day.
Hoped he could.
The girl stood outside the building, checked the address again on the piece of paper in her hand. Summerhill Terrace, just off Westgate Road. Behind the second-hand stores and motorbike shops. This was it, no doubt about it.
Except it wasn’t. The building was lying dark, empty. Weeds grew freely in the small front garden, junk mail stuck out of the letterbox. An estate agent’s board attached to the front gate: FOR SALE.
Albion had gone.
She looked round as if someone passing by might be able to help her, tell her where Albion had moved to, where she could go next. But there were no passers-by, and she doubted that they would know.
Rage and helplessness built up inside her. It was a stupid idea coming here. Really stupid. She had spent a night on a coach, staring out of the window, scared of everyone around her. Especially the creepy guy who had sat behind her. She was sure she had seen him since she got off the bus. Was he following her? She hoped she was imagining it.
She had spent the morning walking round Newcastle, avoiding unwanted attention, trying to get her bearings, and all for nothing. But she couldn’t go back. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. So she had to do something about it, find a way out.
She hefted the bag on her shoulder, wondered if she had enough money for some food. And maybe a hotel for the night. No problem, just use an ATM. But she couldn’t. Because that would give her location away. Oh God. She sat on a stone and brick wall and felt tears well up inside her, impotent, helpless tears that she couldn’t allow out. Because once she had, like a genie uncorked from a bottle, she would lose all control.
Oh God, if she had just thought first, not said anything. If he hadn’t responded in that way. If she had just kept it in …
Stop it, she told herself. Don’t give in. It won’t help. Think. Think.
She stared at the property, her mind fighting to be rational, constructive.
She could phone them. If they had moved premises they might have taken the same phone number with them. It was a possibility. But then he might answer. And she didn’t want that. Didn’t want any warning.
There must be another way …
The board. The estate agent’s board. They might know. If they were selling the place they would know where they had moved to. Worth a try. She took her notepad and pen from her bag, wrote the address down then stood up, pulling the bag back on to her shoulder. It seemed to have doubled in weight since she left London.
Sighing, she went back on to Westgate Road and headed towards the city centre, hoping that she was walking towards a happy ending but somehow doubting it.
Unaware of the figure watching her from inside a rundown sex-shop doorway. He waited until she had gone far enough down Westgate Road, then stepped out, following her from a discreet distance.
‘Fenton Hall was the last time I was happy. Well, until Jack was born.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I’ve said. It was this big old house in Hertfordshire. Mr and Mrs Everett ran it. And it was like they were family, you know? We’d all eat round this big old kitchen table and they’d even let us make the meals, teach us to cook to take responsibility for ourselves.’
‘So you’re a good cook, then?’
Another draw on another cigarette. ‘Used to be. But if you don’t keep workin’ at somethin’ you stop bein’ good at it. Like a lot of things.’
He gives a smile. ‘Very wise.’
She looks at him, unsure whether he’s laughing at her or not. Just ‘cos I’ve been in prison most of my life doesn’t make me thick, you know.’
‘I know’, he says. ‘I’ve seen your report. I know how high your IQ is.’
She sits back, pleased with this.
‘So,’ he says, ‘Fenton Hall. What kind of activities did they do there?’
‘There were lessons. But some of the boys couldn’t read or write so they were pretty basic. I’d always liked books so they just used to give me somethin’ to read while the rest were catchin’ up and I’d be away. Loved it. Especially if it was summer, then I could sit outside and read. Just perfect. Felt really alone and at peace then. Really safe.’
‘What kind of things did you like to read?’
‘Well, there wasn’t much choice. Most of the books were for the boys, and the boys, like I said, couldn’t read very well. So I used to read Mr and Mrs Everett’s stuff. They didn’t mind. I read Graham Greene but he could be a bit complicated. Agatha Christie. Loved Agatha Christie.’ She smiles.
‘What was i
t about her that got to you?’
She thinks. ‘There was murder. But that didn’t really matter, it was only there to get things goin’. And they always happened somewhere like Fenton Hall, so I could relate to it like that, you know? But the thing I really loved about them was, that no matter how bad things got, there’d always be someone there to sort it out. Make the world safe and everything would be all right again at the end. That’s what Mr and Mrs Everett did. That’s what Fenton Hall did. And that’s all I ever wanted. Someone to make it all right at the end. But it didn’t last. Nothin’ good ever does in this life.’
‘What happened?’
She sighs. Stubs out her cigarette.
‘I got moved to prison. And that’s when things really went bad.’
5
Jack Smeaton sat on the wall outside the school canteen, looked around again. Police were onsite and journalists were camped outside. Floral tributes at the huge metal gates were increasing. News of the dead boy had gone round the school like several Mexican waves, each time with a different aspect. From initial shock, horror and loss, to a desperate need for news of the killer being caught, then, when no news was forthcoming, filling the void with prurient, lurid speculation. Some of the kids seemed to enjoy that part of the process the most. That and hurling abuse at the police. But lessons had been suspended and counsellors brought in. All over the school, children from all years were coming together, talking in little groups. They would talk so much, get so involved they would be overcome with emotion and then the counsellors would have to step in.
Jack just tried to keep his head down, concentrate on getting through the day. He hadn’t made many friends yet so, although he had joined in with some of the others on the only topic of conversation, he spent his breaktimes alone. He didn’t like a lot of the other kids and the feeling seemed to be mutual so far. He was sensitive to emotions and environments and this place was no exception. He could feel fear in the school round the estate. Even without the events of the day. And where there was fear, violence wasn’t far behind.
So engrossed was he in his own thoughts, he didn’t hear them until they were on him.
‘Where’d you get them from then?’
Jack looked up. The boy who had stared at him that morning was standing in front of him, his runty sidekick at his right. The boy was pointing at Jack’s new trainers.
‘Present.’ Jack knew he should say as little as possible. Sometimes greetings like this meant they wanted to be friends. But most of the time it meant the opposite. Also, he didn’t want them to hear him speak. His lack of a Geordie accent, as much as his longish hair, already marked him out as strange. He didn’t know if he had become infected with the fear bug too or whether it was just self-protection.
The boy persisted. ‘Where from?’
Jack wanted to walk away, be left alone. But that was impossible. He shrugged. ‘Friend.’
The boy kept staring at him. Jack tried to look away. He didn’t know if that made it better or worse.
The boy kept staring, Jack kept ignoring him. It was time for the boy to make a move. Either that or walk away. And Jack didn’t think that was about to happen. The boy was a couple of years younger than Jack but that didn’t count for anything where meanness and rage were concerned. Jack tensed, expectantly.
‘Gis them.’
Jack looked up, caught the boy’s eye for the first time since he had spoken. ‘No.’
The word was spoken calmly and quietly but with force behind it. Jack’s hair might be long and his accent strange. But he knew how to fight. He had moved around so much in his short life, he had learned the hard way.
The other boy, not wanting to lose face in front of his follower, stood his ground. ‘You better gis them. Now.’ The words were growled, but Jack could detect the fear behind them.
‘No.’ More forceful this time, his eyes meeting the other boy’s.
‘You’d better do as he says, like.’ The runty boy spoke from behind the bigger one.
‘Shut up, Pez,’ said the bigger boy, clearly embarrassed by the outburst. He turned back to Jack. Jack knew the signs. The boy was looking for a retreat that would save face.
‘I’ll see you after school,’ he said. ‘I’ll have them then.’
Jack said nothing, just stared at him.
Anger clouded the boy’s vision. Jack hoped he wasn’t going to try to hit him. He wasn’t a coward and he was no stranger to fear. It was something he could use, turn outwards into violence. But he didn’t want to. He wouldn’t fight back, not because he was scared of being hurt, but because he didn’t want trouble at this school. Trouble was something that followed him around.
Instead the boy turned away and walked off, his sidekick trying to keep up in the slipstream.
Jack watched them until they disappeared round the corner of the building.
He looked at his hands. They were shaking.
He thought about his mother’s hands again, closed his eyes. Wished he was somewhere else. Someone else. Leading a better, happier life.
Knew it was never going to happen.
The bell rang. Break was over. He welcomed it.
Donovan turned away from the screen, the blue door still unmoving, and stared out of the office window as a Metro train went by on the viaduct overhead. When he had first moved Albion into the building he had thought their regular rumblings would have been a distraction but now he found them quite reassuring. The habitual rhythms gave him a sense of people going somewhere, of lives moving forward. At least that was what he told himself. Really, he probably just liked the sound.
Anne Marie had gone home. It had been a difficult, distressing day. Donovan knew that it would be hard to get her to talk honestly about her mother but he hadn’t realized just how hard. Anne Marie had fretted, procrastinated, found displacement activities, in fact done anything but confront the memories of her mother head on. Donovan couldn’t blame her. Anne Marie’s childhood was the stuff of nightmares. And if he’d had a mother like her, he might have ended up the same way.
Monica Blacklock should never have been allowed to have children. Forced into prostitution at a depressingly early age by her father, she had grown up working the only way she knew how. By selling her body. Anne Marie, or Mae as she had been known then, had been born when Monica Blacklock was only seventeen and already her looks were fading due to years of abuse, her body tired and exhausted. But she still needed to earn so she had begun to specialize. S & M. Those punters cared less about looks and more about attitude. If she still had a bit of strength in her arm and a nasty way with her mouth they went away happy. Or at least satisfied.
But there was one thing she hated even more than herself. Mae. Because the older her daughter became, the more she reminded her of how much she was ageing. And Mae’s increasing prettiness just contrasted with Monica’s increasingly haggard appearance. She began to feel like the child was sucking what life she had out of her.
So Monica had tried, unsuccessfully, to give her away for adoption. When that failed she had, in desperation, left her with a childless couple and ran away. But Mae had been returned and Monica seemed to be stuck with her. So she resolved to kill her.
She made the acts out to be accidental: pills that resembled sweets left lying around, a first-floor window left fully open where she was playing. Neither worked. So, with nothing left to lose, she had put Mae to work servicing punters. The S & M ones.
Looked at in that context, the fact that Mae had, at the age of eleven, killed a toddler wasn’t surprising.
Donovan had been presented with all these facts before he had started working with her. A literary agent had presented him with a report.
The call was unexpected but timely. Peta, Amar and Jamal were in the process of leaving for Brighton. There was no one else in the office so he answered it.
‘Hi. Can I speak to Joe Donovan, please?’ A woman’s voice.
‘Yeah, this is me.’
‘I’m sure you
don’t remember me,’ she said. She was well-spoken, confident-sounding. Professional but enthusiastic. She clearly enjoyed her work and it showed in her voice. ‘My name’s Wendy Bennett. I’m a literary agent with, well, you’d know them as Morgan and Rubenstein. I’m sure that rings some bells for you.’
It did. The words transported Donovan back to a time before Albion, before David went missing. When he still had a wife and family. A career. An agent for his freelance writing.
‘God. The last person I expected to hear from.’
‘I’m sure.’ There was warmth in her voice too. ‘I was just an office assistant in those days. Too junior for you to bother with then, probably.’ She laughed.
She was right. He couldn’t remember her. She continued.
‘Are you still in the market for freelance work?’
‘What makes you ask?’
‘Well … we had an approach. A job. And I thought of you.’
‘After all this time? You’ve got no one else?’
She laughed. ‘It’s a very specialized job. Would suit someone with your talents down to the ground. Let me tell you about it and you’ll see why.’
She told him. And he did see why. Wendy Bennett was on the next train to Newcastle to discuss it with him.
The Living Room on Dean Street was a modern, stylish restaurant. Attached to a boutique hotel, it catered to an aspirational, urban, hip clientele. And – which was why Donovan had chosen it – expense accounts. The sleek, modern décor had been designed to complement the high-ceilinged Georgian architecture. It felt, he thought, catching glances of the ways in which the other diners surreptitiously managed to get themselves noticed, exactly like it was supposed to.
Wendy Bennett was, Donovan assumed, in her early thirties. She had brown hair, brown eyes and a wide, confident smile that showed perfect teeth and had engaged him immediately. She was full-figured, curvy in a way that he suspected could tip over into unwanted pounds if she wasn’t careful. Not that something like that would ever bother him. She was also filled with an energy, joy and life that was positively stimulating. She had an appetite, he had discovered in conversation during the course of the meal, not just for food and wine, but for life itself. It was, he thought, hard not to be swept along by her.
Speak No Evil Page 4