Speak No Evil (18 page)

‘Hey, Renny,' he said in an approximation of a whisper which his naivety rendered indiscreetly loud, ‘we need that money. Yer dad took the last lot off you last night, didn't he? Gave you that black eye—'

Renny grabbed him by the collar, pushed him back in his chair. ‘Shut up … Shut the fuck …' He began spitting and hissing, his words inaudible.

Pez looked terrified. Tess gave a glance towards Collins who was watching the whole thing with surprised and bemused detachment. There would be no backup from him. Tess was scared that Renny would do something to the other boy. It was up to her to stop it.

‘Renny …' Tess's voice seemed smaller than usual when it should have been bigger. She cleared her throat, tried to remember her Sandhurst training, had another go. ‘Renny …'

The boy turned. His face was twisted, contorted with rage. He looked like a horror-movie vampire furious at being denied its prey.

‘I've got some other work. If you want it. Paid work.'

Renny stared at her, a struggle clearly going on within him. Reluctantly regaining control, he dropped the terrified Pez and gave Tess his attention. ‘What?' he said. It came out like a harsh bark.

‘There's a kid I want you to follow.'

‘Who?'

‘The one we saw last night.'

Renny thought. A smile played at the sides of his mouth.

‘Hey,' said Pez, ‘that's—' A punch from Renny silenced him. Pez looked sad, rubbed his arm.

‘What about him?'

Tess tried to appear nonchalant. ‘Just follow him. See where he goes, what he does. Where he lives. He goes to the same school, right? Should be able to get plenty on him.'

‘How much?'

‘Depends on what you come up with.'

Renny looked at her, deciding whether to push it further. An easy decision. ‘Money up front. Now.'

‘You'll have to wait until—'

Renny's expression hardened, his eyes blazed. ‘I said now.'

‘Do your job and you'll get your money.'

Renny fell silent. So did Tess. Ray Collins had spoken. Renny looked at the man, ready to argue but something in his eyes stopped him. Perhaps a stronger, fiercer personality, thought Tess? Perhaps recognition of a kindred spirit? She didn't know, but she was grateful.

Renny nodded. ‘OK.'

‘And make sure you find out where he lives. And quickly.'

Renny seemed about to argue but one look at Ray Collins changed his mind.

Collins gestured to the door. ‘Go.'

The boys got up, left.

Tess looked at Collins who sat watching the boys leave. Silence fell between them. Tess felt she had to break it.

‘Remind you of yourself at that age?' she said, smiling. ‘That it?'

Ray Collins stood up, walked towards the door. ‘Get the bill, Posh Bird,' he said.

Tess, the relief of a few moments ago turning to disappointment, did as she was told.

‘So how did the pocket of happiness come to an end in Bristol?'

She says nothing.

‘Who came along this time?'

She sighs, shrugs, her face contorts, like the words are going to have to be torn from her. ‘A friend. Or he said he was. And at first he was. But then … things started changin'. People never stay good for long. Not in my experience, anyway.'

‘When you say people, do you mean men?'

‘I mean people. Women can be bitches as well. But men, yes. Especially in this case.'

‘What happened?'

‘He was someone … who was supposed to help me. Look after me. But it got to be a bit more than that. Y'know what I mean?'

He nods. ‘So what happened? How did he turn nasty?'

Another sigh, another longing look at the cigarette box. She doesn't reach for it, though. Watching, he chooses to regard that as progress. ‘Him an' me … we were lovers. Not just a shag, but lovers. But then I found out some nasty stuff about him. And I didn't feel safe with him round. Round Jack.'

‘What kind of nasty stuff?'

She sighs, split between being honest and not wanting to dredge up unpleasantness from her past. Unpleasantness that can still damage her in the present. ‘There was a big case at the time. A children's home. Big scandal. You might have heard of it?'

‘Tell me more, I don't know.'

‘Well, they were abusin' the kids. All ages. Little ones as well.' She shakes her head. ‘I mean, I know what I did once was horrible. Really horrible, with no excuse.'

‘Apart from …'

‘Leave her out of this, you know what I mean. But this lot did it deliberately. They made a choice. Targeted the kids, got their trust, groomed them. Bastards. An' not just the men, it was the women as well. It didn't come out at the time, but I knew.'

‘How?'

She pulls back. She's said too much.

‘How?'

‘He told me.'

‘He was one of them?'

She nods, her hand snaking towards the cigarettes.

‘Yes?'

‘Yes. He was one of them. He told me about it. Laughed when he said it. Said he knew who I was, who I'd been. Thought I would like that kind of thing.'

‘How did he know who you were?'

She sits tight-lipped for a few seconds. ‘He just knew. I can't say how, he just did.'

He senses she won't say anything more in that direction so starts on a different track. ‘So what did you do when he told you that? Did you go to the police?'

She gives a harsh laugh. ‘Me an' the police haven't always seen eye to eye in the past, have we? Why should anythin' have changed?'

‘So what did you do?'

‘I did what they do in the old cowboy films. I got out of town. Well, got them to shift me.'

He nods, takes it all in. ‘So where is he now?'

‘I don't know. But I just want him as far away from me as possible. He's evil, that one. Real evil.'

‘He wouldn't be able to find you up here, surely?'

She looks right at him, her eyes boring into his. She's been crying. She looks like there are more tears to come.

‘He can find you anywhere. Anywhere. If he knows where you are, you're not safe.'

15

The café was on Park Street. Sweeping up from the waterfront and the cathedral to the huge, imposing university Wills Building, it consisted of the kinds of shops the inhabitants of Clifton liked to be seen in and that the rest of Bristol liked to be seen in if they wanted to be considered inhabitants of Clifton. Peta didn't blame them. If she had lived here she would have done the same. In fact, if time permitted she might just join them.

She had seen some T-shirts she liked and even a dress, although she didn't know when she would get the chance to wear that. Amar had seen loads of things from suits to T-shirts to trainers. But then, as she never tired of reminding him, he was a vain, shallow, self-obsessed clothes horse. He took that as a compliment.

The chrome, fake leather and Formica made the café as part Fifties diner, but the broken mosaic walls gave it away as part boho chic student hang-out. The menu, with its blue-cheese burgers and Ben & Jerry's milkshakes reflected that. Martin Flemyng sat at the opposite side of the booth, a coffee before him. Both Amar and Peta were hungry and had ordered burgers. Amar had even ordered a milkshake and tried to justify it on nutritional grounds. Peta hadn't been impressed but had secretly wished she could join him.

There were so many things in life she couldn't have. Alcohol being the most serious one, serious enough to send her to AA, and into a lifetime of recovery. But the milkshake didn't come with those kinds of associated problems. Just calories. She tried to work out how many hours she would have to put in at the dojo and the gym if she had that and lost count. She looked at Martin Flemyng, concentrated on the job in hand.

He sat opposite them open-faced, bland-featured, with a slightly curious smile. He seemed friendly enough but Peta knew from experience that the wrong question to a person could bring down a guard that might never be opened again. He was in his mid to late forties, she imagined, his sandy hair greying at the sides. Of medium height, he had kept himself in good shape and was comfortably dressed in jeans, trainers, sweatshirt and suede jacket. Peta quickly noticed he had a habit of intently peering forward and making eye contact with her when she spoke. She didn't know whether she found that unnerving or attentive.

‘OK,' said Peta, taking Amar's papers from him and placing them in front of her on the small table. They had agreed in advance that she would do most of the talking. ‘First of all, can I just say that we're really pleased you could meet us at such short notice.'

He smiled at her, crinkling his eyes at the sides. The smile came so quickly she couldn't decide whether it was genuinely warming or the expected response. ‘No problem. You caught me on a slack day. I don't have a class this afternoon.'

‘You teach at the university?' asked Amar.

Martin Flemyng nodded. ‘In the Humanities department. Social Care. I just hope none of my students are seeking me out.'

‘Do they do that?' asked Peta.

‘They do. Questions about their courses, that kind of thing. I always tell them the same thing. Try turning up to lectures. The answers are generally there.'

He laughed. Peta joined him although she didn't find it particularly funny.

She smiled, continued ‘Well, as my colleague' – she gestured to Amar – ‘said on the phone, we've been asked to look into the death of Adam Wainwright again and your name came up in the inquiry.'

Flemyng's smile faded. He became serious, businesslike. ‘By whom?'

Peta and Amar exchanged a glance. They had agreed a cover story for this, partly truthful, partly fabricated. Just enough to be plausible yet fanciful enough to quell suspicion.

‘There have been a series of murders around the country all bearing similarities to Adam Wainwright's. The police seem to discount this, so we've been asked by one of the families to investigate.'

Flemyng became interested, leaning even further forward. ‘Whereabouts? What murders?'

‘That's confidential, I'm afraid. Client privilege. Sorry.'

‘Please.' He leaned forward intently. ‘Just tell me where.'

‘Not round here,' said Amar. ‘Nothing to worry about. These are further afield.'

‘Where?' Urgency had entered his voice. ‘Tell me.' He sat back, and in a calmer tone said, ‘Sorry. I can remember it well. Still upsetting.'

Peta and Amar surreptitiously exchanged a glance. They had picked up on the change in his tone, so tried to ease back. Stick to the cover story. ‘OK, we'll tell you. But this is strictly between ourselves, right?'

Flemyng held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Absolutely.'

‘Right. Rotherham. Oldham. Taunton. Carlisle. Don't say another word to anyone.'

Flemyng sat back. Peta might have been mistaken but he seemed relieved. ‘Thank you,' he said.

‘No problem. Can we get on now?'

He nodded.

‘Good. As I said, we're looking into Adam Wainwright's death once more. Which is why we're talking to you.'

‘In what respect do you want to talk to me? Should I have a solicitor present?'

‘Oh no, nothing like that. Sorry if we gave that impression. It's just that you were his social worker at the time, is that right?'

He nodded, giving nothing away. Waiting to see what she was going to come out with next before committing himself to a full response.

‘Can you tell us a bit about him, then?'

Flemyng frowned. ‘In what way?'

‘Just general. What kind of boy was he, who his friends were, the progress he was making, that kind of thing.'

Flemyng nodded again, looked thoughtful. And relieved once again, Peta thought. Give the man a break, she thought. The boy was murdered when he was in his care. It's only natural he should be defensive.

‘He was … bearing in mind this was a long time ago, and if he had been anyone else he may not have sprung so quickly to mind.'

‘Sure.'

‘Adam was … difficult.' He smiled. ‘But then what child wouldn't be in his situation? Mother dead from drugs and AIDS, father unknown … you try to encourage the best of humanity to flourish but in that job, in that situation … it tends not to happen too often.'

‘Why d'you do it, then?' asked Amar. ‘The job?'

Flemyng took a mouthful of coffee, turned to him. ‘I don't do it now. Haven't done it since then.'

‘So he was difficult,' said Peta, keeping the interview on track. ‘In what way?'

‘The usual. Pushing the boundaries. Swearing, behavioural problems, violence. You know the kind of thing, I'm sure. Better a bad reaction than no reaction at all.'

‘Better to feel something bad than feel nothing at all. Isn't that from a Warren Zevon song?' Peta said, noting how thoroughly Donovan had indoctrinated her with the work of obscure American rock singers.

‘I wouldn't know,' said Flemyng.

‘Right.' Warren Zevon or not, it was a sentiment Peta could appreciate. She looked down at the papers before her. They were largely props, but she wanted to give Flemyng the impression that her questions were based on them and not the ones they had worked out in advance. ‘It says here that the police did a very thorough investigation both of you and the workers in the home and found nothing that pointed towards either you or the staff being the murderer. Is that correct?'

He nodded.

‘You must have been relieved when that happened?'

He smiled. It seemed genuine. ‘You can't imagine. That was one of the things that led to me leaving the profession. Seeing your colleagues' faces all the time, looking at you. Especially since the murderer was never found.'