Speak No Evil (12 page)

He drove up the A1 to Northumberland, pushing the Scimitar as fast as it could go. He knew the car was a classic and was fast for its time, but there were times when he wished he had bought something more contemporary. More practical.

Donovan pulled up outside the remains of his cottage and looked at the boarded-up, blackened shell. It was so different from the place he and Jamal had renovated and decorated, made habitable. Now he would have to start all over again. If he had the strength to do so.

But that was something for another day. Right now he had more pressing things on his mind.

He turned off the engine, got out. Because he was so far out in the country and there was no streetlighting, he used the car headlights for illumination.

‘Abby …' He shouted, heard his voice echoing off into the darkness. He tried again. ‘Abby …'

Nothing. No response of any kind. No movement, no reply.

He shouted again and did a circuit of the house. No sign of her. She wasn't there. Wherever she was, she wasn't there.

He took out his mobile, scrolled through the numbers, looking for Abby's. Although Annie had said she had tried calling and the phone was switched off, she might pick up if she knew he was calling her. If she was actually here and looking for him.

He found her number, called it. Waited.

Voicemail.

‘Hi, Abby, listen it's …' It sounded so strange saying the word after so long. ‘It's Dad here. Your mum says you're up here. Looking for me. Well, guess what? I'm looking for you. Give me a call when you get this and hopefully we can meet up.'

He finished the call. Best to keep it light, he thought, try not to scare her off.

He gave a final look around. She definitely wasn't there.

He got back in the car, headed for the city.

Wondering where to try next.

Hoping she would turn her phone on so he could trace her.

Hoping she was OK.

‘So Jack's important to you.' Not a question, a statement.

‘He's the world to me. And I'll do anythin' to protect him. Anythin'.'

He nods. Understands.

‘D'you know what it's like? D'you know what I mean?'

‘I do.'

‘You've got kids, then.'

He nods.

‘How many?'

He doesn't reply straightaway. He doesn't know what answer to truthfully give. ‘A couple,' he says eventually.

She doesn't notice his hesitation, keeps on talking, looking at her hands all the while. ‘Then you know what I mean. You'll take any amount of shit for yourself to see them all right, won't you? Put yourself through anythin'. Because they're the world to you. Your world.'

He doesn't reply.

‘And you'll fight for them,' she says. ‘I'll fight for Jack. Tooth an' claw. I'll do anythin' to make sure he has a good future. Anythin' to make sure he doesn't end up tike me. Anythin'.'

She looks up at him.

‘An' you'd do the same, wouldn't you? For yours.'

‘Oh yeah,' he says. ‘Yeah. Course I would.'

She becomes thoughtful once again. He waits for her to speak. ‘I saw that Sylvia Cunliffe on TV I didn't recognize her. She looks rough, doesn't she?'

‘She's been through a lot.'

‘Is she famous? Why were they askin' her?'

‘Because of her son. Because of Trevor.'

She sits back, thinks. Then nods again. ‘I didn't even know that was his name, you know. Cunliffe. I just knew him as Trevor. It wasn't until the trial that they started talkin' about Trevor Cunliffe. I didn't know who they were talkin' about at first. Is she often on the news?'

‘Time to time. When there's been a teenager or a child murdered'

She frowns. ‘Is she an expert?'

‘Only from experience.'

‘So because I killed her son she's fuckin' Yoda?'

‘She's carrying a lot of grief and anger. When people haue that, they work it out how they can.'

‘Should have asked me,' she says. ‘But then they wouldn't ask me, would they? Some opinions are worth more than others.'

‘That's not true.'

‘Really?' She looks at him then straight in the eye. ‘You've got children?'

He nods. ‘Yes.'

‘How d'you think you'd feel if one of them
—'

‘Was murdered? You mean, would it make me an expert?'

She jumps slightly, taken aback by the sharpness of his answer. When she speaks her voice is soft. ‘I was going to say, was a killer. How would you feel if your son or daughter was a killer?'

He doesn't answer straightaway. ‘Depends on the circumstances.'

She nods, not believing him. ‘You'd have opinions, though. On what had happened. Do you think anyone would want to hear them? Or would they listen to the victim? Or the victim's mother?'

‘OK then,' he says. ‘What about that boy? Calvin Bell'

She looks up sharply, answers quickly. ‘What about him?'

‘He lived beside you. He got stabbed. Have you heard anything? D'you know why? What happened there?'

Her arms are folded against her chest again. Her face is set. She glances down to her bandaged hands then quickly back to him. ‘How should I know?' Her voice is a monotone. ‘What are you askin' that for?'

He shrugs, tries to keep it light. ‘I want your opinion. You're the expert from experience.'

He's angry now and he doesn't know why he did that. There are more things he wants to say, more questions he wants to ask about other dead boys but he's gone about it the wrong way, let his anger dictate the pace. So instead he says nothing, waits. Catches the timer on the recorder out of the corner of his eye, counts off the silent seconds.

Anne Marie looks at him, says nothing.

10

James Dean and young Elvis looked down on her like unattainably handsome angels time-trapped in a faraway world. Marilyn Monroe smiled from the far wall, the smile telling her life had its heartache and dark secrets and made her weary beyond endurance but, baby, wasn't it just great anyway? Her plate sat in front of her, the food mountainous and oil-laden enough to give even older Elvis pause, and the creepy guy who had sat down opposite was really starting to scare her.

The Stateside diner on Pink Lane was one of the few places in the city centre still open well after midnight that didn't involve drinking, dancing or pulling. Retro-fitted in an approximation of an American Fifties diner complete with red vinyl booths, chrome-edged Formica tables, black and white checked floor and rock ‘n' roll jukebox, it was open almost twenty-four hours catering from early breakfasts to post-clubbing munchies and everything in between. Naturally it attracted more than its fair share of dispossessed, transient souls who, for one reason or another, couldn't or wouldn't go home.

She had seen him before. He had sat behind her on the coach. In his thirties as far as she could tell, dressed in the accredited casual chav about town uniform of long-sleeved shirt and jeans accompanied by spiked, gelled hair and a range of cheap, flashy, chunky finger and neck jewellery so extensive that it spoke of a personal account at Elizabeth Duke. The waitress behind the counter kept glancing over, clearly concerned, but not enough to actually intercede.

‘Well, well, well,' he had said when he sat down opposite her, ‘fancy bumping into you here. That's a coincidence, isn't it?'

Abigail doubted it.

‘I really like girls with long brown hair. And you've got lovely hair. Needs a wash', though.' He gave what he probably thought of as a smile. ‘So what's yer name, then?'

She kept her attention on her food: a burger the size of a child's head with a pile of fries large enough to host a colony of gerbils. Beside that a token clump of salad fought and failed to make its presence felt. Comfort food. And she needed comfort right now. More than anything.

She gave a quick glance round: there were other people at the tables, some just stopping in on the way to their, or hopefully someone else's, homes, some who were on the way somewhere else for the evening and a few who seemed to have no intention of leaving, whose vacant expressions spoke of some kind of fatal flaw in their brains' hard-wiring. At least her unwanted dining companion didn't fall into that category Although, knowing that he had probably been following her for a whole day and night just for the opportunity to sit next to her, she thought that maybe he was something worse.

She speared a chip into her mouth. Chewed, swallowed. Not bad. She couldn't remember when she had last eaten and it almost fell into her with a resounding, ravenous echo that suddenly rekindled her appetite. She forked in two more. Then two more.

‘Hey,' the gold-plated chav said, his smile souring unpleasantly at the edges, ‘I asked you a question. It's not polite to ignore people. What's your name?'

‘Abigail,' she said automatically, then instantly regretted it.

He sat back, smiling once more in triumph. He had made her speak, his smile said. She was his now, he owned her. Abigail kept her head down, concentrated on eating.

She had walked round the city all day. Looking, unsuccessfully for the Albion offices. The estate agents wouldn't release the information without first checking that she was who she said she was. That was no good: she didn't want him warned. He might contact
them
, make them take her back. So she had just walked.

She had found the Stateside diner and sat inside, wondering what to do, where to go next., She didn't want to use the credit card again in case they found out where she was. It had been a risk to use it the first time. She couldn't use it in a hotel for the same reason. If she went to sleep she would wake up with
them
at the end of the bed. Or worse. The police, even. But on checking her phone she found a message from her father. A recent one. Her first response was to panic, delete it. They had got to him. He knew. He was looking for her on their behalf. But instead she listened. And to her relief, it didn't sound like bad news at all. In fact, his words had given her hope.

She should call him back. But it was still a big step after everything that had happened between the two of them. And, reluctant though she was to admit it, she needed his help. But she also needed food. So she ate.

‘Abigail,' he said. ‘That's a nice name. Really pretty. D'you want to know mine?'

She kept her eyes on her food.

‘Gavin. Can I have a chip.'

‘Get your own,' she said, the words surprising her, finding a strength she didn't know she had.

He sat back, shocked. The smile disappeared momentarily to be replaced by a hard-edged anger.

‘No need to be like that,' he said. ‘We can be friends, you and me. I'm a kind man. You'd like me. Why don't I buy that for you? Eh? Your dinner.' He glanced at her bag. ‘Now I've gone to a lot of trouble to find you. Because I thought you looked lost. And I was right. I can give you somewhere to stay for the night too. Come on, it'll be fun.'

Clearly he had his mind made up. Her or nothing. And he wasn't going to settle for nothing.

‘No thanks,' she said, picking up her burger and biting into it. She could barely get her mouth round all of it and had to press it down.

He leaned forward over her plate, watched her lips as she ate. ‘That's not polite. That's not very nice.' His voice was wheedling. He made another attempt at a smile. ‘Come on, be nice.'

Emboldened, she found her voice. ‘Get away from me or I'll tell the management and they'll have you thrown out.'

He thought for a few seconds, digesting her response, then laughed. ‘I see. Like that is it? You little whore. Who do you think you are?'

Abigail was scared now, really scared. She was a polite, good-natured middle-class teenage girl from a comfortably well-off area of North London. This was so far outside of her experience that she didn't know how to handle it. She even wished her dad were there. Things must be bad, she thought, to want that. Then mentally corrected herself. They were.

‘I'm going to tell them,' she said, her voice sounding as unsteady as she felt.

‘They won't do anything,' he said, leaning in closer and hissing in her ear while still maintaining the smile, ‘they'll think you're just my girlfriend and we've had a fight. Or I'm your pimp and you won't hand over the money you've made to me.'

The breath left her body. She was shaking, like she was about to faint.

‘So you get me thrown out. Then what? I'll be waiting for you. Because you've got to leave sometime. So what's it going to be?' He then sat back and opened his arms expansively. ‘Come one, I'm not such a bad guy. And you'll have somewhere to stay for the night.' He leaned forward again, placed his left hand over her right. ‘Could be a lot worse. A lot worse. Come on. It'll be fun. You know you want to.'

Without pausing to think or question her actions, she picked up her fork and, channelling her fear and anger into strength and force, she slammed it down into the back of his hand.

At first he didn't react. Then the pain hit. He jumped back, staring at his hand with the fork still sticking out. Blood was starting to pump out, dripping on to her half-eaten burger. That was the end of her meal.

He then realized what she had done and his face rapidly changed. All pretence of friendliness was gone, in its place just feral hatred.

‘Bitch! Fuckin' bitch!'

He lunged at her over the table. Abigail was aware of the rest of the diner reacting in shock as his hands, now balled into fists, were flung in her direction. She tried to shrink back into the booth. As she tried to dodge the blows he was inexpertly swinging at her her drink and the plate went flying.