‘Dogger Bank? Isn’t that outside Tynemouth? Didn’t the police raid it last month? I think I’ve been there.’
She sighed. ‘You can tell you don’t listen to Radio 4.’ She looked at the building before them. It was part of a low-level estate, social housing built as a response, and an antidote, to tower blocks like Trellick. There were signs that it had been the target of a recent overhaul. Replacement windows, unvandalized streetlighting, new front doors. Clean roads. It wasn’t utopia but it wasn’t the sink estate they had been expecting.
‘This is the house here,’ said Amar, consulting his paper once more. ‘This is where Guy Brewster used to live.’
Guy Brewster. The first boy to have gone missing. The first boy to turn up dead. Anne Marie had lived in the area, in the street Amar and Peta were now standing in, for four years. It was, by her own account, where her son, Jack, had been conceived and born.
‘Do we know who the father is?’ asked Amar.
Peta shook her head. ‘Apparently she never said. Even the birth certificate doesn’t say.’
Peta and Amar had read Donovan’s research. Guy Brewster had been nine years old. Already a lost boy, he had only been seen sporadically in school and spent most of his time roaming the estate and nearby railway line, committing acts of petty vandalism – throwing stones at windows, that kind of thing. He had been disruptive and violent in school so his teachers hadn’t been too bothered when he stopped turning up. Since his mother’s departure shortly after his birth, he had lived with his father, an alcoholic who had been violent and abusive towards him.
‘Going nowhere, really,’ Amar had said on reading the account.
‘Nowhere good,’ Peta had replied.
He had come to the attention of social workers but their reactive approach had ensured he wouldn’t be looked after until something serious had happened to him.
‘And something serious did happen to him,’ said Peta. ‘He was murdered.’
It was hard to pinpoint with any accuracy when he had actually gone missing since he spent most of his short life not being noticed. Even his death didn’t invite much attention.
His body was found at the side of the main railway line in an old, disused, concrete tool store. Some children had been playing there and kicked down the semi-rotted door to find Guy’s decomposing body. He had been strangled then slashed with a blade. There was very little forensic evidence since the playing children had contaminated the scene of crime, and it was an era before CCTV cameras.
The police had conducted door-to-door enquiries but nothing had come of it. It wasn’t the kind of area to be forthcoming. Guy’s father had been hauled in for questioning and, despite being as unpleasant as possible, was clearly not guilty.
Guy’s killer was never found. Eventually the police were needed elsewhere and the investigation was wound down, an open verdict recorded. An unpopular child was dead. Everyone agreed that, with his background and disposition, it had not been a question of if but when. The fact that it had been sooner rather than later was a little shocking, but there you go. Hardly unexpected.
But then something strange happened. Voices began to speak up on the estate. People were tired of living the way they were. In an area where semi-feral children could grow up and be murdered and no one was the slightest bit interested. Pressure groups were formed. Community action organizations took shape. In the absence of any real police presence, citizens’ committees took matters into their own hands. Drug dealers and other undesirables were made unwelcome. Councils were pressed into doing repairs that they had ignored for years. Collective responsibility was taken. A sense of community was engendered. And the estate became a better place to live.
‘Well, some good came of it,’ Peta said.
‘Wonder what Anne Marie made of it,’ said Amar.
Peta looked up the street. ‘I think we may be seeing someone who can provide the answer.’
Amar followed her gaze. A man was coming towards them, middle-aged, small, round. Grey hair bouncing with each step, stubbled, red cheeks. Wearing an anorak and jeans. He saw them, smiled.
He reached them. ‘You the two I’m supposed to meet?’
Peta smiled, stuck out her hand. ‘Tom Haig? I’m Peta Knight. This is Amar Miah. Thanks for arranging to see us at such short notice.’
‘No problem.’ He shook hands with her, nodded at Amar. He looked small and cherubic, with a face that seemed always ready to smile. Unapologetic London accent. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
‘You were Anne Marie Smeaton’s probation officer, is that right?’ said Peta.
He gave a small shrug. ‘Probation officer, counsellor, therapist, call it what you like. I was her one-stop shop for keeping her on the straight and narrow.’
‘Is that usual?’ asked Amar.
‘Pretty much. In cases like hers when they’re given new identities, new lives. They have a guardian angel with them, or at least on call, pretty much twenty-four seven.’
‘So you knew her well?’ Peta again.
Another cherubic smile. ‘I did. For a time.’
‘And this area?’ asked Amar.
Tom Haig looked round. ‘Lived here all my life. Changed a bit in the last few years, I must say. Used to be really bad.’ He nodded. ‘Really bad.’
‘You were around to see the change?’
‘I like to think I was part of it. Well, the probation service, not just me.’
‘What happened?’ asked Peta.
‘There was a boy murdered. Everything changed after that.’
‘Would that be Guy Brewster?’ asked Amar.
Tom Haig’s eyebrows raised. ‘It would.’ He smiled. Peta could imagine him propping up the bar in a local folk club, pint of real ale in one hand. ‘You’ve done your homework.’ His brow furrowed. ‘What is it you wanted, exactly?’
‘Just a couple of things,’ said Peta. ‘Like I said on the phone, we’re working with Anne Marie’s solicitors. Just a background check, that kind of thing. Here when she said she was, story checks out, blah blah, you know. And while we were doing that we found out about this unsolved murder. Just interested us.’
Another smile from Tom Haig. ‘So you’re going to solve the crime, that it?’
Peta smiled. ‘Sadly not. But I’m ex-police. Old habits die hard.’
He laughed. ‘Know what you mean. I’m ex-probation. Same thing. You can’t stop banging them up, I can’t stop trying to keep them out.’
He laughed, Peta joined in. Amar smiled.
‘Anyway, long time ago,’ said Tom Haig. ‘Nothing to do with Anne Marie, either.’
‘She didn’t know the dead boy or his father?’
Tom Haig shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, no.’
Peta looked at the house where Guy Brewster had lived. It had new windows, a well-tended patch of lawn in front. A shining front door. ‘I think we can assume Brewster Senior no longer lives here.’
Tom Haig followed her gaze. ‘He doesn’t. When the clean-up operation took off, so did he. No one’s heard of him since.’
‘And when did Anne Marie move?’
‘Let me think.’ He closed his eyes.
‘Around about the same time?’ asked Amar.
Tom Haig opened his eyes. ‘Might have been.’ A wary look came over his features. ‘You’re not suggesting she …’
‘No,’ said Peta quickly. Perhaps too quickly. ‘Not at all. Like I said, just interested.’
‘Right.’ The wary look hadn’t disappeared from his face.
‘How was she at the time?’ said Peta.
‘How d’you mean?’
Peta shrugged. ‘You know. Mentally, emotionally. That kind of thing. We’re just trying to build up a picture of her.’
Tom Haig didn’t look entirely happy, but he continued. ‘Fine, for the most part. As well as could be, you know.’ He thought for a few seconds. ‘Mind you, thinking about it, when that boy died, it changed her.’
‘In what way
?’ asked Amar.
Tom Haig gave his words careful consideration, like he didn’t know whether to trust them. Peta and Amar said nothing, waited.
‘She said she couldn’t live here any more. It was giving her nightmares. Said the boy’s death had triggered something.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t say. But she felt she would do something awful if she wasn’t moved. And she was pregnant by this time.’
‘So you moved her.’
Tom Haig nodded. ‘To Bristol. And that was when my involvement with her ended.’
‘There is something that puzzles me, though,’ Amar said. ‘If there’s a boy been murdered, and someone living nearby has just come out of prison for murdering a child, wouldn’t the police look at her first?’
‘I believe they did at the time,’ said Tom Haig. ‘Found nothing. Which is a good thing. For her. I mean, she’s done her time. What’s to be gained by persecuting her? She hadn’t done anything wrong.’
Amar nodded, said nothing. Tom Haig looked between the pair of them then at his watch.
‘So has this been any help? Only I’ve got to dash. Might be ex-probation but I still do consultancy for them. Still sit on their committees.’
‘No problem,’ said Peta. ‘Thanks for your time.’
They shook hands.
‘What’s it for, by the way? All these questions? You writing a book, or something?’
Peta smiled, aimed for breezy with her answer. ‘You could say that. Anne Marie’s collaborating on a book of her life. We just have to do the leg work, check out what she says is true.’
Tom Haig nodded, taking the information. ‘So how is she? Anne Marie.’
‘She’s … well,’ said Peta. ‘Doing well.’
‘And her boy? He must be … God, sixteen now?’
‘Nearly sixteen, yes.’
‘Jesus. Tempus fugit, ay?’
Peta agreed.
‘So where is she?’ he asked.
‘Sorry. Can’t say.’
‘No, course not.’ He laughed. ‘Well, never mind.’
He turned and made his way back up the street.
Peta and Amar watched him go. ‘Well, that was pointless,’ he said.
‘You never know,’ said Peta. ‘You have to do these things.’
‘What he said,’ said Amar. ‘About looking into the boy’s death. We’re not really doing that, are we?’
‘Not really. If we find out it’s her that did it, though, we’ve got them all solved.’
‘True. But it’s still a shame, isn’t it?’ He looked round. Some people live or die and no one cares.’
Peta nodded.
Amar seemed aware that his introspection was spreading so quickly snapped out of it. ‘Right. So where next?’
‘Where d’you think?’ she said. ‘Bristol.’
‘Why did you move away from the Powell Estate?’
‘Have you been there?’ She gives a weak smile.
He shakes his head. ‘You know I haven’t.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t ask if you had. Like I said, it was awful. No place to bring up a kid.’
‘No other reason?’
She shakes her head.
‘Anne Marie’s shaking her head,’ he says into the recorder. He leans back, wondering how to pose the next question. ‘What about Guy Brewster? Did his death have any influence on your leaving?’
‘Should it have done?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just wondering whether that was what made you decide to move. A boy dies near to where you’re living. Murdered. If people knew you lived there they might put two and two together.’
‘And come up with six.’ She spits the words out.
‘I’m just speculating. That’s all.’
She breathes in deeply through her nose, her nostrils flare as she does so. ‘I had nothin’ to do with that boy’s death. Nothin’. I didn’t even know him, right?’
‘OK. I had to ask.’
She nods her head. ‘I know. An’ I said I would be honest. An’ I am bein’. It’s just …’ She sighs. Heavily. ‘You’ve got no idea. You’re a nice bloke an’ that, but you’ve got no idea.’ She sighs again, reaches for the cigarettes. Her hand shakes.
‘Next question,’ she says.
12
Abigail looked out of the window. She saw a river, hotels, a huge, rounded concert hall made of shimmering, undulating curves. An art gallery in an old flour mill. Landmark bridges. She saw a city she didn’t know. Yet she felt safe.
She turned back to the living room she was in. The flat seemed like a hotel suite that a long-stayer had made himself comfortable in. It wasn’t homely – there were very few books or CDs and nothing on the walls, things she measured homeliness and comfort by – but it seemed lived in. Like there was a real, warm human presence. She put her arms round herself, hugged. The borrowed T-shirt she had worn to sleep in had an image of the first issue of the X-Men on it. She looked at it, smiled. He hadn’t changed.
She looked out of the window again. Sighed. Her heart felt heavy, her head confused. She had slept soundly last night, exhaustion claiming her to a near comatose degree, the stress of the last few days taking its toll, working its way out.
She was here now. She had made it. But she still didn’t know what she was going to do next.
She heard movement behind her, turned.
‘Sorry,’ he said, making his way into the room. ‘Didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘That’s OK,’ she said, suddenly aware of herself to an awkward degree. ‘I was awake anyway.’
He nodded, stayed at the other side of the room, keeping his distance, giving her space. ‘I phoned …’ He paused, the word he wanted unfamiliar to him. ‘Mum. Told her you were here.’
‘What did she say?’ Quickly, suddenly alarmed.
He gave her an appraising look then his face broke into a reassuring smile. ‘Told her you were here. That everything was fine.’
She listened, nodded, said nothing. Then: ‘Did she … did she say anything?’
‘Not really. I said we’d talk later. When you’d rested. When we’d had a chance to talk properly.’ He became suddenly tongue-tied. ‘Listen, Mum hasn’t said anything yet. Do you … do you want to talk yet? About why you’re here?’
She thought for a moment, deciding. ‘No. Not yet.’
‘OK,’ he said, ‘that’s fine.’
She saw the relief on his face, guessed his parenting skills were somewhat rusty. Relieved as well, she sat down on the sofa. ‘What happened to your house?’ she said. ‘Why are you here?’
He scratched his ear, looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s a long and boring story,’ he said, aiming for offhand.
‘Well, make it short and interesting,’ she said.
He gave her a direct look, slightly taken aback. Then laughed. ‘That’s my girl.’ He sat down at the other end of the sofa. ‘It burned down.’
She sat forward, looked alarmed.
He spoke before she could. ‘Well, it’s OK, I’m OK. No damage done. Well, books, CDs, stuff like that. Stuff that can be replaced. But no real damage done.’ He tried not to think of his son’s face. Wondered whether he would ever see it again.
‘How did it happen?’
He didn’t speak straightaway, as if rehearsing words in his head before letting them out. ‘Just … an accident. One of those things.’
‘So why didn’t you tell us?’
‘I told your mother. She mustn’t have mentioned it.’
‘She’s had a lot on her mind recently.’ The words said bitterly, an undercurrent of anger.
Donovan noted it, decided the time wasn’t right to press further. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘no real harm done. Jamal and I were OK.’
‘Who’s Jamal?’
‘The lad who lives with me.’
She felt a seismic shift beneath her. She didn’t know this man at all. ‘What? What d’you mean, lives with you?’
; ‘What d’you think I mean? He’s seventeen, he had nowhere to live, so I took him in and gave him a job.’
She looked around. ‘So where is he now?’
‘Brighton. With the rest of the team. Working.’
‘Why aren’t you there, then?’
‘I’m working on something here.’
She shook her head, not sure if she was taking everything in. He looked at her. ‘Problem?’
‘Well, it’s just … your house burns down and I don’t get to hear about it, plus you’ve got a boy living with you. A Muslim boy from the sounds of it.’
‘No, he’s not.’
She stood up, exasperated. And if she was honest, a little bit afraid. ‘I just … I don’t know you. A boy …’
‘OK.’ His voice was calm. ‘When I met him he was living on the streets. Being bought and sold by perverts. He came to me because he needed my help. So Peta and Amar and I got him out of there. He’s one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. So we gave him a home. And a job. And he’s doing fine now. Fine.’
She looked out of the window again, struggled for words. ‘Well. You should have let us know. That’s all.’
‘Abigail, are you angry at me or your mother?’
‘Both.’ Plosively spat out, as only a teenager could. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Never mind her, why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Well, the last time we met, you didn’t exactly make me welcome.’
She felt anger rising again within her. ‘Can you blame me? You turn up at the house six months ago, I don’t know why you’re there or what you’ve been doing, you tell me you’ll soon have news about …’ She couldn’t say his name. ‘Then nothing. Next time you call you behave like you never said anything, like nothing happened. And now this …’
He sighed. ‘Sorry. It didn’t work out the way I thought it would.’ He snorted a harsh laugh. ‘Story of my life.’
Her anger subsided at his words. She fell silent.
‘Right,’ he said, standing up, ‘that’s the air cleared. Let’s concentrate on the present. You’re here now. So what can we do with you today?’
‘Are you going to send me back? To Mum?’
‘Do you want to go back?’
She thought of what awaited her if she did. What had made her leave in the first place. ‘Not … right now.’
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