Speak No Evil Read online

  ‘So that’s where Fenton Hall came into it.’

  ‘Right. But they didn’t know they were going to send me there. I think it was the last resort.’

  ‘And they … what? Gave you therapy? Cured you?’

  She looks down at the packet of cigarettes. It’s been joined by a mug of coffee. Steam rises from the coffee. She watches it curl up into the air and disappear.

  ‘They can treat me,’ she says, then looks up. He sees sadness and loss in her eyes. ‘But they said they can’t cure me. Ever.’

  7

  Jamal Jenkins leaned over the railing and looked along the beachfront. The wind coming in off the Channel was cold, harsher than he had expected. His Avirex jacket was getting old and worn now, but he was glad he had put it on. He pulled it round him, collar up, the thick leather doing its best to keep out the chill, pushed his hands deep into the pockets and tried to stop his teeth chattering.

  Brighton in November and it could be worse, he thought. At least it wasn’t raining. Yet.

  The pier was still lit up even though there weren’t many visitors, the amusement arcade all but deserted, the fish and chip restaurant nearly empty. The waves lashed the side of the pier, crashing and breaking. Jamal could taste the salt in the spray that made it to the seafront. It carried the smell of fried food and diesel fumes, alcohol and whatever dead things the sea brought with it. Behind him he could hear the throb of the bars, the weather not deterring the drinkers, the alcohol acting as their topcoats. He wished he could have joined them.

  The white earbuds of an iPod were in his ears, the wire running under his jacket. But he wasn’t listening to music. He was working.

  ‘How you doing?’ Peta said in his ear.

  ‘Man it be freezin’. I’m gettin’, like, hynothermia from standin’ here.’

  ‘Hypothermia,’ Peta corrected. ‘Won’t be for much longer now, don’t worry.’

  ‘Man, I ain’t worried. Just cold. An’ there’s nothin’ happenin’. I’ve done a circuit, peeked in through the back way. Nothin’.’ Another look round, then he spoke again. ‘Know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is, like, the first time I ever been to the seaside, you get me?’

  ‘Really?’ Peta was incredulous. ‘What, ever?’

  ‘Well …’ He thought for a moment. ‘I went to Southend once with some of my mates from the home I was in at the time. Bunkin’ off for the day. But it wasn’t like proper seaside. Just Tottenham with a waterfront.’

  Peta laughed. ‘Well. That’s Albion. We get all the glamorous jobs.’

  ‘Nah, man,’ Jamal said, suppressing another shiver, ‘you can keep it. Gonna be strictly urban from now on.’

  ‘Won’t be much longer.’ Peta cut out.

  Jamal looked along the length of the seafront, first one way then another. He checked the bar behind him. Nothing. No movement. He shivered, pulled the jacket close to him once more. Did what Peta instructed.

  Kept on working.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Donovan said. ‘Good to see you again.’

  Wendy Bennett smiled but it was frayed at the edges. ‘Well, I had no choice. Not after the way you sounded on the phone. What’s happened?’

  ‘First things first. Can I get you a drink?’

  She asked for a gin and tonic. He went to the bar to get one, adding another half of wheatbeer for himself.

  He was waiting for her in the Cluny. He had stood up from the battered, worn leather sofa when she entered, waved her over. She was dressed more casually today – jeans, boots, jumper and jacket – as if she hadn’t expected to be going somewhere after work. Which she hadn’t. Certainly not three hundred miles away.

  He had read the note, then hit the internet immediately, entering some specialist sites that the general public didn’t have access to but that Amar had ensured they did. Once he realized what the names and locations meant, he knew he had to phone in help. The rest of Albion were too far away and working, and as he was deciding what course of action to take, the phone rang. Wendy Bennett asking for a progress report. He told her about the latest development and she insisted on coming straight up. So, straight from the office via Stansted, there she was.

  He carried the drinks back over to her. She had sat down, taken her jacket off, made herself comfortable. She looked up at him as he approached, and there was that smile again. Tighter than the last time he had seen it, but there all the same. And it made him, despite everything, feel good.

  He set the drinks down, sat next to her. She spoke first. ‘So tell me. What have you discovered?’

  He took the note out of his pocket, handed it over. ‘Read that.’

  She did so, put it down. Looked at him, frowning. ‘What … what does it mean?’

  He leaned in closer. He could smell her perfume. ‘It arrived a few hours ago. I got straight on the internet to do some research.’ He smiled. ‘Sites that no mere mortal knows about.’

  She looked impressed. Despite everything, he liked the look she gave.

  ‘These names,’ he said. ‘And these locations. Guy Brewster, London. Adam Wainwright, Bristol. James Fielding, Colchester. Patrick Sutton, Hull. They’re all kids, boys, between about seven and twelve, who died.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘They were murdered.’

  Wendy sat back, visibly shocked by the news. ‘Oh my God …’

  ‘I know,’ said Donovan. ‘And it gets worse. I checked them against the report you gave me on Anne Marie. The boys were killed in places she lived in, while she lived there. And another thing. Every place, she left soon afterwards.’

  Wendy sat with her mouth wide open, her eyes roving the bar. It was clear that this was totally out of her world of experience.

  Donovan took out another sheet of paper. ‘I made these notes. Look.’ He put them on the table. They both leaned forward. ‘London. She lived in West London from her release in 1989 up until 1993.’

  ‘By which time she’s had Jack.’

  ‘Right. Now during this time, 1992 to be precise, Guy Brewster, a kid who lives right near her is killed. In 1993 she moves to Bristol.’ His finger moved down the list on the page. ‘In 1996 Adam Wainwright is killed. He lived in a children’s home nearby. From checking your report and the stuff I found out tonight there were some connections between her and it. Social workers, I think. Then after that she moves again. Colchester. And there’s a bit of a gap here. It’s not until 2000 that there’s another killing. James Fielding this time. A boy from the same estate as her. So she moves again. To Hull. Where in 2004 Patrick Sutton is killed. And then finally here.’

  Wendy sat back. ‘Oh my God …’

  ‘I know. And there was a murder here last night. On her estate. A teenage boy knifed to death.’

  ‘You don’t think …’

  ‘I don’t know what to think at the moment. I’m going to have to look further into it.’

  Wendy gulped her gin and tonic as if she was dehydrated. She put the glass down. ‘Are the methods of death …’ She couldn’t finish the question. She looked horrified that she had even thought of it.

  ‘I checked that too. All the same. Strangled then slashed.’

  Wendy looked very queasy. ‘Just like she did with …’

  ‘Yes. Sorry.’

  ‘No, no, it’s just … God … Didn’t … didn’t anyone notice this going on?’ Wendy said.

  ‘No. The boys were either from children’s homes or dysfunctional families. There was a history of abuse or neglect behind all of them. They were lost boys. The kind of dead kids that don’t sell papers.’

  Their stories, Donovan had discovered, made the local papers for a couple of days, a week at the most, but then the trails went cold, interest petered out. Occasionally there would be a follow-up piece by some diligent journalist six months or a year later reminding people what had happened, but nothing ever came of them. No new leads. No breakthroughs.

  ‘What about … DNA? CCTV?’

&n
bsp; Donovan shrugged. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So … what do we do now?’

  Donovan thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know. Keep doing what I’m doing with Anne Marie for the present, hopefully get confident enough with her to ask about them. But for the meantime …’ He looked at the list. ‘I think I’ll have to make a phone call.’

  He looked at Wendy. She was still reeling from the news.

  ‘Sorry’ he said. ‘You coming up here like this. But I had to tell someone.’

  The familiar smile made a slow return to her face. ‘That’s OK.’ She frowned. ‘But should we not tell the police?’

  ‘About what?’ said Donovan. ‘We have no proof that it was her. Just some anonymous letter. No, I think the best thing would be to look into it ourselves. Like I said, I’ll make a phone call. Get some of my team on it.’

  He liked the way she smiled at the words ‘my team’.

  ‘We might have something bigger on our hands than just Anne Marie’s life story.’

  Her eyes widened again.

  ‘I know it’s awful about those boys, but at the same time … this is all quite exciting, isn’t it?’

  Donovan smiled. ‘Welcome to my world.’

  They talked some more. Wendy wondered whether Donovan thought it would help to talk to Anne Marie in the morning. Donovan advised caution, told her to wait and see what Anne Marie came up with. Wendy said she would stay in Newcastle, see what developed.

  ‘Don’t you have to be getting back down to London? Meetings and contracts, that sort of thing?’

  There was that smile again. ‘Nothing that needs my urgent attention in the next couple of days. I checked before I came up. Besides, we have email and mobiles and hotels with wifi. So it’s not like I’m exiled to Alaska. Although the weather out there feels like it.’

  ‘There’ll be people out there with bare legs, in mini skirts and vest tops.’

  There was that smile again. ‘I didn’t know Geordie men were so in touch with their feminine side.’

  Donovan laughed. And they stopped talking about work and instead talked of other things. About the literary agency she worked for, the world Donovan once used to be a part of. For his part he told her about some of the work Albion had been involved in. Playing down, rather than bigging up his own involvement. Trying to relax, recharge.

  Last orders came. They had one more, then it was time to leave.

  ‘Did you manage to book into a hotel for the night?’ Donovan asked.

  She nodded. ‘Grey Street. Same as last time.’

  ‘Good.’

  Silence fell between them.

  ‘Look,’ Wendy began, ‘last time when I was here, I made a bit of a hasty exit.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Donovan. ‘You were tired, you said. You wanted to get up early the next morning.’

  She nodded, but that clearly wasn’t it. He waited.

  ‘The thing is, I wanted to keep drinking with you that night.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Your boyfriend.’

  ‘Not just that.’

  Donovan waited.

  She looked down at the empty glasses, a smile forming on her face. ‘You see, I remember you from before.’ She laughed. ‘Sorry. I shouldn’t even be saying this. Must be the gin. Very unprofessional of me. But yeah. When you were with us before. I remember you. And it was me who thought of you for this job.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. But you see …’ She looked away from him, an uncertain smile on her lips. She looked back at him. ‘Well, I used to notice you. A lot. I …’

  Donovan knew what she was trying to say. He wasn’t sure how to respond so he said nothing.

  She looked embarrassed. ‘Well, I suppose I liked you. I must have done. I mean, I did remember you after all those years.’

  Donovan smiled. ‘And have I changed much?’

  There was no mistaking what the expression on her face meant. ‘Only for the better.’

  Their eyes locked. He felt their bodies moving towards each other along the leather sofa.

  ‘You rushing off tonight?’ he said.

  She was just about to answer when his phone rang.

  He tried to ignore it, couldn’t. It kept ringing. ‘Sorry,’ he said reluctantly pulling away from her, ‘I’d better get that.’

  He tried to answer but the person on the other end, clearly distraught, wouldn’t let him. He listened, looked again at Wendy who was now staring at him with a look of concern. He turned away, tried to lower his voice so she couldn’t hear. He closed the phone.

  ‘Work?’ asked Wendy. ‘One of your Albion team?’

  Donovan shook his head. ‘Worse. Family.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her face.

  He sighed. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Right now. Sorry.’

  She nodded. Clearly disappointed.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ he said again, holding eye contact with her. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Good job you got that hotel room.’

  He arranged a cab for her and left as soon as he could.

  He would call Peta from the car. But right now, this was his priority.

  Jamal pulled his jacket around him. He really had had enough now. The bars were emptying, even the kebab shops were slowing down. And still there had been no movement.

  He opened the channel, spoke. ‘Had enough now.’

  ‘You’re right. Come on in and get warm. Joe’s been on the phone. Something’s happened with what he’s dealing with. We’ve got to talk about it.’

  ‘Right. Over and out.’

  He detached himself from the railings he had been leaning against and began to walk off. Looking forward to getting in the warm.

  ‘So tell me about Jack.’

  She sits back, folds her arms across her chest like a breastplate. ‘What d’you want to know?’

  He shrugs, tries to put her back at ease. ‘What sort of boy he is. What he’s like. That kind of thing.’

  She relaxes slightly but still keeps her arms crossed. ‘He’s a good lad. A really good lad.’

  ‘He doesn’t know …’

  She leans forward. ‘No. He doesn’t. And that’s the way I’m goin’ to keep it. Poor lad.’

  ‘Why poor lad?’

  She thinks f or a minute before responding. ‘When I think what … when I think about my childhood, if you can call it that … my upbringing. When I think about my mother …’ She waves her hands at him, sits back. ‘I don’t know. I can’t explain.’

  He leans back, at ease. ‘Take your time.’

  She nods, tries again. ‘A mother’s love is the strongest of all. Or it should be. Mrs Everett told me that. Joanne taught me that. The art therapist. She had a son. A stepson really, he wasn’t even properly hers. But she loved him and brought him up and she was, to all intents and purposes, his mother. And I used to think about that. About her. And my mother. My biological mother, the woman who gave birth to me. She …’ Her hands go to the table. The bandaged fingers start knotting and unknotting. She doesn’t look at them. ‘She …’ She sighs. ‘I just want him to have a good life. I don’t want him to go through what … what I had to go through. He didn’t ask to be bom. But he’s my responsibility. I’ve got to raise him right. Make him feel safe. Make him proud.’

  He nods. Knows there’s more. Waits.

  ‘It’s not a sickness, what I’ve got. What I did. It’s supposed to be because of my psychopathic personality. And that’s not somethin’ you’re bom with, I don’t think. It’s somethin’ that happens to you. But it feels like a sickness. Like somethin’s not right, in there.’ She points to her head. ‘Like the bad spirits are there just waitin’ for their chance to break through. Lookin’ for weaknesses, lookin’ for holes … I tell meself that it’s not that. It’s something psychological and treatable.’

  She sighs. He waits. She looks d
own at the table, at her bandaged hands, continues without raising her head.

  ‘But sometimes, the dreams, the voices … the bad spirits. They’re there. I know they are. I can feel them. Hear them.’

  ‘And what do these spirits tell you to do?’

  She keeps looking at the table. He waits.

  ‘They’re angry with me. Want me to do, to do bad things.’

  ‘What kind of bad things?’

  She looks at her hands. ‘Just … bad things.’

  ‘Hurt people? That kind of thing?’

  She nods.

  ‘And do you listen to them? Ever?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I keep them at bay. Whatever it takes, I keep them at bay. Because Jack’s there. And I have to protect him. I have to protect him no matter what.’

  She keeps looking at her hands. He waits.

  8

  ‘Is it much further?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, knacker, they might hear you.’

  Tess Preston closed her mouth, said nothing more. Renny led the three of them through the estate. Tess had started out trying to keep track of where she was headed but Renny had taken them this way and that, navigating through silent, shadow-laden cut-throughs, over-exposed patches of scorched earth grass and through a dingy, unlit, tunnel-like maze of streets and walkways, some of which looked so familiar she was sure she had been led through them at least three times. She had thought her army training would come in handy. If their plan was to disorientate her it was working.

  She had met them down the road from the school gates, away from any other lurking, predatory journos or paps. This was her lead. Let them get their own.

  ‘Right,’ Tess had said, looking between the two of them, ‘where we going?’

  ‘Money up front,’ said Renny, his eyes hard, his features studiedly blank, a next-generation inner-city recidivist in waiting.

  ‘Sure …’ Tess had hoped they wouldn’t mention it or be fobbed off with waiting for later but she knew from the boy’s expression that it wasn’t worth risking. She covered her irritation with a smile. It didn’t matter really. If they came up with a story it would be worth so much more than that.