Bone Machine (9 page)

Janine Stewart, being led in by a uniformed officer.

He got up off his bunk, crossed the floor to her.

‘Is that it?’ he said, hope rising desperately within. ‘Can I go now?’

Stewart gave him an understanding smile. ‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’

Hope was extinguished within him, quicker than a candle in a force-nine gale. He physically slumped as if he had been hit.

‘This is a legal visit,’ she said. ‘We’re going to talk.’

Nell sighed, said nothing. Then: ‘I’ve said enough.’

‘Michael, look at me.’ She placed her hand on his chin, turned his face to look at her. Her eyes were hard, businesslike.
‘You’ve messed the police around, messed your father around and now you’re messing me around.’ She spoke as if he was a naughty
child needing admonishment. ‘And this won’t do.’

Nell said nothing.

‘Right now they’re arranging for a special magistrates’ court hearing for tomorrow morning. I’ll apply for bail, but it’s
going to be turned down. After that you’ll be remanded in custody while the police tear your flat and your life apart. Now
if you want me to get you out of this place you have to cooperate. You have to talk. Got that?’

She waited. Nell eventually nodded.

‘Good. Now this gentleman is going to close the door and leave me alone with you in here. And when I’m ready I’ll knock on
the door to be let out. How long I spend in here depends on you. And what you tell me. If you’re not cooperating, I’m knocking
on that door. Are we clear?’

Nell nodded again.

‘Very well.’ She nodded at the uniform, who turned and left the cell, closing the door behind him. ‘Right, Michael. Start
talking. And don’t fuck me around.’

Nell blinked, startled to hear her swear. She returned his gaze, unblinking.

He started to talk.

Joe Donovan sat back in the chair, tried to look relaxed, knowledgeable, in command. With his brown-leather jacket creaking
and squeaking against the leather upholstery every time he moved, it was difficult.

Janine Stewart sat behind her desk in a large glass-walled cubicle of an office in her law firm. The office, and the whole
floor of the building belonging to the firm, was bright and airy, the design minimalist and geometric, corners of desks and
shelves sharp enough to draw blood. Walking through, Donovan felt that the firm exuded simplicity and confidence. And money.
He looked around the office. No family pictures, nothing of sentimental value. Just a few law books on the shelves, and even
these seemed to have been chosen for their colour coordination rather than their relevance. The computer on the desk, like
the desk itself, was slim and efficient. Like Janine Stewart, too, thought Donovan.

Stewart was reading an open file on her desk, aware that Donovan was waiting. Her blouse light turquoise, artfully crumpled
and ruched silk, her skirt and jacket crushed, iridescent dark satin, she looked every inch the poster girl for the legal
profession.

He knew of her by reputation. Ambitious, hard-working and quite brilliant at her job. On her way to becoming a big hitter.
Out of deference, he hadn’t worn his Green Lantern T-shirt.

She looked up, smiled. It was meant to contain warmth
and friendliness to dazzle the recipient, but Donovan had dealt with solicitors before. It held all the long-lasting promise
of a pre-performance lapdancer asking for money.

Not to seem impolite, Donovan returned the smile.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Just checking where we are.’ She gave him her full attention, turning up the wattage of her
electric-blue eyes.

Contacts, thought Donovan. Got to be.

‘What has Francis Sharkey told you?’ she said. ‘Has he brought you up to speed?’

‘Not really,’ said Donovan. ‘I just got a phone call from him last night telling me I had an appointment with you today. Here
I am. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

Sharkey had also told Donovan that there would be big money involved, but that was something he could only mention later.
Donovan had argued that he didn’t want to go; he had no time. Katya had spent her second night at his house, the case involving
her not moving fast enough. Donovan also wanted professional help for the woman. Counselling, health checks. Nothing had been
forthcoming as yet. But, as Sharkey had reminded him, he wasn’t in a position to turn down work.

‘I understand you’re an—’ Stewart referred to her notes ‘—an information broker.’

Donovan nodded.

‘What does that mean, exactly?’

‘I find things out. Either as part of a team or as an individual.’

Stewart nodded. ‘I see. Like a private detective.’

‘Not exactly,’ said Donovan.

‘What’s the difference?’

‘That conjures up images of fat, greasy, corrupt ex-coppers with heart conditions turning blind eyes to villains to pay off
their CSA debts or their ex-wives.’

A look of amusement crossed Stewart’s face. ‘Really?’

‘That’s the British type.’

‘Are there any others?’

‘The American one. The private eye.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘An unworkable stereotype in this country.’

‘I see.’ She gave a small laugh.

‘So I’m an information broker.’

‘Good.’ Stewart leaned forward in her seat. ‘Well, my usual … information broker, private detective, call him what you will,
is indisposed at the moment.’

‘Can I ask why?’

She hesitated, as if not wanting to divulge the information. The amused look played across her features once more. She carried
on. ‘A little problem with perjury. Not one of my cases, thankfully.’

‘Must have been CSA and an ex-wife,’ said Donovan, smiling wryly.

‘Quite. Which brings us to you. You come very highly recommended. Impeccable references.’

Donovan nodded. ‘By Sharkey,’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘By the way,’ said Donovan, ‘how d’you know Francis Sharkey? I didn’t think he had many contacts up here.’

‘Francis,’ she said, her face taking on an expression Donovan couldn’t read, ‘is – shall we say? – very well connected. Especially
if there’s money involved. And even though he’s no longer a practising solicitor in the legal sense, it’s still his world.
His milieu, you might say.’

You might, thought Donovan; I wouldn’t bother.

‘I see,’ he said.

Stewart sat back in her chair. Donovan noticed that her breasts were straining against the silk material of her blouse. Donovan
thought he might have been expected to notice.

‘Let me tell you about this job I have in mind. See what you think.’ Her eyes roved over him, taking in his leather jacket,
Levi’s, skate trainers. His hair longish, slightly greying, his stubble growing in likewise. Her assessment stopped at his
shirt, black and unbuttoned, and his T-shirt underneath. It wasn’t Green Lantern. It was the Clash: London Calling.

‘Let me tell you about it, then,’ she said again. ‘See if you’re the right man for it.’

Donovan sat back, tried to get comfortable. The leather let out sustained squeaks. Stewart affected to ignore the noise.

‘Ashley Malcolm’s body was found two nights ago in the old cemetery on Westgate Road.’

She paused, waiting. Donovan could have said that he knew Diane Nattrass, the detective investigating. But he, too, said nothing,
waited for her to continue.

‘A man has been charged. Her boyfriend, Michael Nell. They’re trying to build a case against him now. They’ve kept him overnight
and extended it to thirty-six hours. If they don’t find anything then, they have to either apply to a court for an extension
or let him go. Obviously I’m hoping for and working towards the latter. There’s a lot of pressure on the police to make this
stick. A lot. Michael Nell is my client. I think it prudent to build a counter-case. In the interests of … fair-mindedness,
shall we say?’

Donovan frowned. ‘Doesn’t that usually happen nearer the trial date? Part of putting together a defence?’

Stewart sketched a smile. ‘Michael Nell has not been the most … cooperative of clients, shall we say? And he comes from a
rich family. His father is a very influential man.’ Stewart toyed absently with her fountain pen. Donovan tried not to find
it erotic. ‘There could be a circus aspect to any trial. We think it best to get everything sorted out as quickly as possible.
Forewarned is forearmed, as they say.’

Donovan nodded.

‘We wouldn’t want there to be any misunderstanding. At a later date.’ She stroked the shaft of the pen. ‘Any mistake.’

‘Right.’

They looked at each other.

‘So,’ Donovan said eventually, ‘what d’you want me to do?’

Stewart put the pen down. Picked up several sheets of paper from a file on her desk. Handed them across to him.

‘This is Michael Nell’s statement. It says where he was on the night of Ashley Malcolm’s disappearance. And the night her
body was discovered. This is his alibi.’

Donovan glanced at the paper, picked out a couple of words.

‘If it can be proved,’ he said.

‘I’m sure it can.’

‘Won’t the police be doing this?’

She smiled. It contained many things, but no warmth. ‘I’m sure they will. Such a high-grade case. They’ll want to get their
man.’

She slid a brown envelope across the table.

‘What’s this?’

‘Also his alibi. Photographs. You don’t need look at them now. It’s all self-explanatory.’

Donovan put the paper and envelope on his lap, looked at her. ‘So why d’you want me for this?’

Stewart sat back. Returned the look. ‘I’ve checked you out, Mr Donovan. You used to be quite a brilliant investigative journalist,
from all accounts. Incisive, courageous. Award-winning. Then there was that unfortunate incident with your son. I was sorry
to hear about that.’

Donovan shrugged. ‘Not your fault.’

‘Nevertheless, it’s not something one would want to happen to them. It must have been difficult.’

Donovan said nothing, his face impassive. Unblinking. She picked up the pen again. Not erotically; more to give her fingers
something to do. When she spoke again it was with a slight hesitation.

‘Francis tells me … you’ve rebuilt your life. That the company you’ve got now has great potential. He says you’re the best
at what you do.’

‘What can I say?’

‘I don’t know. Is there any reason why he would lie to me?’

‘I take it if I work for you he gets a cut out of this?’

She nodded. ‘A small one.’

Donovan sat back, smiled. ‘There’s your reason.’

Stewart scrutinized him. Smiled in return, eventually. ‘I like you, Mr Donovan. And if you would like this job, it’s yours.
Would you like this job?’

‘You do know I have a job already? Something my team and I are working on?’

‘Yes, I do. But I’ve been assured that it’s something long term. This would be a much shorter-term job. There would be no
conflict of interest that I could see.’

Donovan nodded. ‘OK. I’ll take it.’

‘Good.’ She put the pen down. ‘Any questions?’

‘Yeah,’ said Donovan, leaning forward. ‘A few. Technical ones. Who I report to, when, that sort of thing.’

‘Nothing major, then. Anything else?’

He shook his head.

‘Good. Then let’s talk money.’

Donovan smiled. This was the part he had been looking forward to.

‘So, in summing up, what have we got?’

The Prof looked at his whiteboard, underlined words he had written earlier in magic marker as he spoke.

‘Social withdrawal. Antisocial behaviour. Inability to take criticism.’ He smiled. ‘That could be you, Jack Carson.’

A polite ripple of laughter went around the class. Jack Carson gave a look of mock aggrievement. The Prof continued.

‘Hypochondria. Or other attention-seeking behaviour. Such as wearing outlandish or strange clothes.’

‘That’s you, then,’ shouted Jack Carson.

Another ripple of laughter. The Prof pulled proudly on his lapels. ‘You must learn to recognize style when you see it, Mr
Carson. Right.’ Then back to the whiteboard and the underlining. ‘An abnormal relationship with the mother. A delusional mind.
A general feeling of emptiness. No faith in the future …’

He talked on. Peta was making notes, although she knew most of what he was talking about. Years of police-force training courses
had ensured that. But it was still interesting.

The deviant psychopathology of the serial killer. The title of the lecture.

The students were hungry for it. Lapping it up.

A student dead. Her boyfriend in custody. The university awash with media. Students finding an academic method of excusing
the hunt for prurient detail. Staff too. This lecture had already been chosen before those events happened.

‘Of course,’ the Prof was saying, ‘these are just general points. You could still have the majority of these things and not
be a serial killer.’

‘What would you be, then?’ a student called out.

The Prof gave a small, sad smile. ‘Just a very unhappy person.’

Another ripple of polite laughter.

The Prof put the marker down. ‘Anyway, you all know where to go for further reading. I would suggest Ressler, as you know.
Canter and Apsche are good too. I’ll leave it to you to find them. You’ll know where. Just play detective.’

He looked at his watch.

‘Well,’ he said, looking around the seminar room, ‘I believe it’s that time again. Thank you for your attention. I’ll see
you again on Thursday.’

Chairs were scraped, coats put on, books replaced in bags, lunch arrangements made.

‘Remember,’ said the Prof over the din, ‘essay. Profiling a deviant mind through geographical psychology. A week today. Thank
you.’

He turned, began putting his books back into his antique briefcase.

Peta watched him. She still couldn’t make him out. He was so unlike all the other lecturers and tutors in the university.
They seemed to fall into three categories: those whose job it was to teach and took it professionally, those who had the answers
and imparted that knowledge in as overbearing and stentorian a manner as possible, and those who behaved as if they were still
students themselves, keeping up with the latest trends in fashion and music, their receding hairlines and bigger beer bellies
giving them away. The Prof was none of these. And while Peta liked him, or thought she did, she just couldn’t make him out.

Perhaps it was her policewoman’s training, she thought.
To treat people only as types. Compartmentalize. Pigeonhole. Saved time in the long run. She could hear her old boss telling
her that. She shook her head. That was what she was trying to get away from.

‘You coming to the refectory?’

Peta looked up. She hadn’t noticed Jill next to her. She checked her watch.

‘You not meeting Ben?’

Jill made a face. ‘Uh, no. Me an’ Ben are over. Footloose again. So, you comin’?’

‘Sorry, Jill. Got to meet someone for lunch.’

Jill gave a teasing smile. ‘Oh, yeah? Handsome?’

‘Hadn’t really thought about it, Jill. He’s just a friend. Someone I … someone I’ve worked with before.’

‘Really?’ Jill’s eyes opened wide. ‘Then why are you blushing?’

‘I’m not,’ said Peta. Her face felt hot. She must have been imagining it. ‘He’s just a friend. That’s all.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she said. ‘Well, suit yourself. See you later.’ She began to walk off, turned. ‘Hey, give him one for me, will
you?’

Peta laughed, shook her head. Kept packing.

‘Did you enjoy that?’

Peta looked up, startled. The Prof was standing right next to her, dressed in his overcoat and hat, antique paisley-patterned
silk scarf around his neck. She hadn’t heard him approach.

‘What?’

‘The seminar. Did you enjoy it?’

‘I did. Yes. Very much.’

The Prof smiled, nodded, almost to himself. He sat on the edge of the desk next to her, his face ruminative. ‘You used to
be in the police force, am I correct?’

‘You are,’ she said. ‘I was.’

‘Suppose you find all this a bit … boring, then. Going over old ground.’

‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘It’s fascinating. Just what I wanted from this course.’

The Prof smiled, his eyes crinkling at the sides. It wasn’t, she thought, unattractive.

He moved his hands on the desk. She looked at the damaged one, the scars no longer livid, but unmistakably there. He sensed
her looking, pulled it back. She looked away, busied herself with her bag.

‘I’ve been involved in a couple of investigations,’ he said, his voice almost distant.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘As a consultant psychologist? An expert witness?’

He smiled. ‘Not really. More … in a journalistic capacity. The police were involved eventually. Naturally I gave as much help
and support as I could. They were very good to me.’ His hand twitched involuntarily. He pulled it completely away. ‘Very positive
experience of working with them, all things told.’

‘I’m pleased.’ Peta had her bag over her shoulder, was ready to walk out of the class. ‘Well, I’ll …’ she said, gesturing
to the door. The Prof made no attempt to move.

‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ he said again, ‘the course. I was worried. About you benefiting. Fitting in. Because you’re
… I don’t mean this in a disparaging way, but, older. Mature.’

Peta smiled. ‘It’s not disparaging. It’s true. I’m officially a mature student. And very happy about it. And I’m enjoying
the course.’

‘Good, good.’ The Prof still made no effort to move.

Peta stood there too.

‘Listen,’ the Prof said. It sounded as if, for once, he was
having difficulty with his words. Peta waited. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be interested …?’

Peta said nothing. The Prof, haltingly, continued.

‘Wilco.’ Peta’s face must have been blank. ‘The American band. Jeff Tweedy. Alt country. Very good. Strong songs. They’re
playing the uni. The other uni. Monday night. I was wondering … I’ve got two tickets … I was …’ He faded out.

Peta didn’t know what to say. He looked up at her. Briefly. His eyes jumped to hers, then flitted away.

‘Monday?’ she said. ‘Next Monday? I don’t know. Honestly. I … work as well. As well as coming here. I don’t know if I … I’m
free on Monday.’

‘OK.’ The Prof nodded to himself, got up off the desk. ‘OK.’ His head was down, eyes on the floor.

Peta felt her face redden again. Definitely this time. ‘No, seriously, I … it would be nice. I’ve just … work. I’ve got to
work.’

‘OK.’

The Prof was picking up his briefcase, making his way to the door. Eyes anywhere but on her.

‘Maybe … maybe another time,’ said Peta, a note of desperation in her voice. ‘A drink, or something …’

But the Prof was gone, out of the door and away.

Peta sighed. Shook her head. She felt bad letting him down. She liked him. She just couldn’t figure him out.

‘And now I never will,’ she said aloud.

She looked at her watch. She was going to be late for meeting Joe Donovan.

Thoughts of the Prof cast aside, she hurried out of the door.

‘So tell me again,’ Peta said through a mouthful of panini. Her next words were lost as she sprayed breadcrumbs and chicken
over the table.

Donovan ducked, then gave her a pitying look, shaking his head. ‘Hello, Mum, this is Peta. No, she can’t help it. Congenital.
Should see her eat pasta.’

‘Piss off,’ she said, laughing.

Amar just shook his head, gave a theatrical sigh. ‘Children, please.’

Peta ignored him, swallowed, took a gulp of sparkling water. ‘I said, tell me again. From the beginning.’

Donovan looked around. Pani’s was doing its usual brisk lunchtime trade in Italian deli sandwiches, the stripped wooden floors
and rough plaster walls echoing with the sounds of business conversation, clinking cutlery and hurrying, black-clad serving
staff who barely had time to show off their perfect, gym-honed bodies and cod-Italian accents.

It was fast becoming one of Donovan’s favourite haunts. Especially for meetings. Of the tax-deductible variety.

‘Sharkey phoned last night,’ he said, taking a swig from his bottle of beer. ‘Told me I had a meeting today with Janine Stewart.’

Peta frowned.

‘Solicitor in charge of the defence for the kid accused of Ashley Malcolm’s murder.’

‘Why did she want to see you?’

Donovan smiled. ‘You mean apart from my natural good looks and charming personality?’

‘Obviously,’ said Amar, yawning loudly.

Donovan looked at him. He looked tired, drawn, his eyes red-rimmed.

‘Keeping you up?’ Donovan asked.

‘Working late last night,’ said Amar. ‘Private contract. Didn’t get much sleep.’

The atmosphere at the table changed, became darker.

‘Private contract. Thought you’d given them up?’ said Donovan, a genuine note of concern in his voice.

‘I didn’t say I was giving them up,’ Amar said, defensiveness creeping into his voice. ‘I said I was just … slowing down.
Being more selective.’ He sniffed, shook his head sharply. ‘And I am.’

The other two looked at him.

‘I can handle it, OK?’ His voice was louder than he had intended. Several nearby diners looked over. When he spoke again he
was much quieter. ‘I can handle it. Now tell me what happened.’

Donovan and Peta exchanged glances. It was clear that Donovan was going to talk more, give him a lecture even, but Peta shook
her head. Not the time or the place. Donovan let it go and, in a much heavier manner than he would have done a few minutes
previously, told them of his meeting with Janine Stewart.

He finished, sat back.

‘Another contract,’ said Peta. ‘Good old Sharkey.’

‘Sod him,’ said Donovan.

‘So what’s his alibi, then?’ asked Peta.

‘Prostitutes,’ said Donovan. ‘The rougher the better, from what his statement says.’

‘Him to them or them to him?’ asked Peta.

‘Him to them, apparently. Liked to take photos too.’ He patted his jacket pocket. ‘Got them here if you want a look.’

‘Lovely,’ said Peta.

Donovan shook his head. ‘Right little charmer, this one is. But he says he didn’t kill Ashley Malcolm and that’s what we’re
being paid to prove.’

Peta smiled. ‘We need a strategy.’

‘Any ideas?’

Donovan looked at Amar. His eyes were closed. ‘Look, Amar, go home and get some sleep.’

Amar opened his eyes, jumped slightly at the sound of his name being said. ‘No.’M all right.’

Donovan looked at Peta. Her face was filled with concern. ‘Go home, Amar,’ he said. ‘You’re no use to me or Albion in this
state.’

Amar looked sullen, withdrawn. His face was reddening, his eyes igniting. Donovan and Peta didn’t know what he was going to
do next. Amar looked between the pair of them. Sighed.

‘OK.’ He stood up. ‘’M going. Just tired, that’s all.’

He grabbed his parka from the chair back, walked to the door and through it, never once looking back. At the table, Peta sighed
and shook her head. Donovan looked at her, frowned.

‘What’s going on?’

Peta took a while before speaking. ‘He promised me he’d given up his nocturnal adventures. He hasn’t. That rich pervert he
knows pestered him into making his private gay porn films for him again.’

‘And he’s said yes.’

Peta nodded.

‘Is he looking after himself?’

Peta looked him in the eyes. ‘Does it look like it to you?’

‘So he’s back on the charlie?’

‘And other stuff too, probably.’ She sighed, ran her fingers through her long blonde hair. ‘You know him. He can’t just be
behind the camera. He has to join in. With everything.’

Donovan shook his head, looked away. Their table was like an island of silence amid the noisy wash of the lunchtime tide.
Eventually Donovan spoke.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing to Michael Nell’s statement, ‘we’ve got to get this sorted out. Amar or no Amar.’

Peta reluctantly agreed. ‘Strategy,’ she said. ‘We’ll divide it up. I’ll have a word around campus. Get a list of his friends,
Ashley’s friends even. Talk to them, see if they know
anything about his proclivities, anything that can point us in the right direction.’

Donovan smiled. ‘Proclivities? That university education must be doing you the world of good.’

‘Piss off, patronizing college boy.’

Donovan laughed. ‘Right. Well, you do that. In the meantime I’ll try to work out who and where the charming Mr Nell has been
paying for sex.’

‘Perfect. Should be right up your street.’

‘Hardly. Never paid for sex in my life and not about to start now.’ Donovan sat back, hit by a sudden inspiration. ‘But I
know somebody who might be able to help.’ He smiled to himself, shook his head in self-admiration. ‘What a brilliant idea.
Proud of that.’

Peta just looked at him, waiting to be let in on his inspiraton.

Donovan just looked at his plate, showing only crumbs, then at Peta’s plate with its half-finished sandwich.

‘So brilliant, it’s made me hungry again.’ He pointed at her plate. ‘You want that?’

Peta made her way back to college. She walked up Northumberland Street, dodged shoppers, charity muggers and invitations to
take part in a survey, ignored the stares of the bored, ASBOed teenagers hanging around the Haymarket Metro station, scowled
at the surreptitious, yet evidently appreciative, glances at her breasts by a couple of hurrying, besuited, middle-aged men
and turned right on to St Mary’s Place.