Speak No Evil (34 page)

‘All at once or gradually?'

‘Well …' She screws up her eyes, thinking back. ‘I don't remember. I mean, it's so long ago and all I think when I think of him is the bad stuff. Because all the rest of the time he was just acting. All the caring, Guardian-reading stuff was just an act. His true self started to come out. He hated his clients. They were weak, spineless, he said. He was a human dustman, clearing up other people's shit all the time. If he had his way, he said, he would have the whole lot of them sterilized so they couldn't breed any more. It would be no loss.' She starts to shake as she says the words.

‘So why did he have a baby with you?'

‘Power.' Her voice begins to break as she talks. She reins it in again, continues. ‘He wanted power over me. I was a killer, he said. A real-life killer. And he wanted power over a killer. He wanted her to have his baby. Because then it would make me weak. Really weak. One of the spineless lot, he said, queen of the spineless lot. He used to do this all the time, go on and on at me, grind me down, make me hate myself, make me worry that I'd do something to the baby.'

‘Did he hurt you? Physically?'

She shakes her head. ‘He didn't need to. He used words. He controlled me with words. He wasn't the person I thought he was. He was hard, horrible. Had these Nazi fantasies. Like the only way he could feel powerful was by bein' cruel to those he thought were weaker than himself.'

‘Like you.'

‘An' he was always askin' me, what was it like, how did it feel when I had my hands round Trevor's throat, what was I thinkin' when I cut him. All the time. Tell me, tell me, tell me …'

She starts to cry. Not sobbing this time, just tears flowing slowly and silently down her cheeks. She continues. ‘He said anyone could kill. That didn't take skill. It was harder not to kill. That was when I started havin' these blackouts.'

‘Sounds like they were stress-induced.'

She nods.

‘Did you not try to get away from him?'

‘I tried but …' She sighs. ‘Where could I go? He was the person I was supposed to go to if things went bad. And then when I thought they couldn't get any worse, they did.'

‘What happened?'

Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘He killed a boy.'

‘Guy Brewster.'

She nods. ‘Came back afterwards full of energy. Said it was easy, anyone could do it. Told me how much he enjoyed it, what a thrill it gave him' She spoke as if her mouth contained something harsh and bitter that she wanted to spit out. ‘Said he'd done a boy so that if anyone asked around, he could say it was me. And he kept a souvenir, he said. Somethin' that could be used to implicate me. Just in case I wanted to tell anyone.'

‘Oh God …'

‘And that was it. I knew I had to get away. For me. For Jack. So I went to his superior, told him about the killin'.'

‘You told him Haig was responsible?'

She shakes her head. ‘No. I couldn't do that. Just in case. I told him I had to move away. Because of my background. Told him I'd been blackin' out, getting panic attacks. Told him it was for safety's sake. And he agreed. Thankfully, he agreed. So I got moved to Bristol. And that's when I met Martin Flemyng.'

‘You've not had much luck, have you?'

She gives a weak smile. ‘Not really. But I did meet Rob. Eventually. But not till I moved to Hull. He's been great. I know some people don't think much of him but he's been great to me. I know he's got his problems, but he really loves me. And he'll do anythin' to make sure I'm all right.' She nods, still smiling.

His mobile rings. He ignores it, concentrates on Anne Marie.

‘So Bristol,' says Donovan, putting her back on track. ‘Adam Wainwright.'

She nods again and the smile fades. ‘Tom Haig caught up with me. Wanted money this time. I didn't have it. So I ran.' She sighs. ‘He hated the fact that I got away from him. Hated it. That's why he did what he did. Followed me. To Colchester. To Hull. He would get my phone number, tell me what he was goin' to do. Keep phonin' and phonin', sayin' stuff getting me into such a state that I would have another blackout, have nightmares. And he knew this so he would play on them, tell me it was me that had done it, keep on and on, so much so that I started to believe him myself …'

She shakes her head as if to clear it.

‘Thank God for Rob.'

‘And now Haig's found you again.'

Another sigh. ‘He's found me again.' She looks directly at Donovan. ‘Please stop him. Please.'

Donovan returns her gaze. Before he can answer, Anne Marie's phone rings.

27

Night-time on the Hancock Estate.

The
Evening Chronicle
had been published in several editions, the local news had been broadcast on radio, TV and the internet. Now everyone knew or was capable of knowing: Mae Blacklock was back in town. And, it was strongly implied, up to her old tricks.

Sylvia Cunliffe had been quoted everywhere, her undiminished bile and anger poured through every medium. The TV still wanted to interview her as the story threatened to become national. She insisted all interviews be done at the site of the latest murder, the Hancock Estate. Coincidentally, a hastily organized candle-lit vigil was going to take place outside the school gates where the piles of floral tributes still grew. That was where she would be interviewed, the TV people decided. The impact would be greater.

The vigil went on. Community leaders, religious representatives spoke. Pez's mother made a small appearance. She didn't stay long. She didn't feel able to. Once she left, the vigil broke up and a different mood overtook the crowd. As if they were only being polite for her sake.

The residents, they decided, had had enough. They were sick of the TV crews, the reporters everywhere. They were tired of seeing their estate portrayed as a place where lawlessness and criminality were endemic. But mostly, they were angry. At children dying. At killers getting away with it.

It didn't take long for these murmurs of unease and unrest to gestate, hatch and then spread. Mae Blacklock, Mae Blacklock. Spoken over and over, like a mantra of ever-increasing hatred. A target for their anger. A legitimate one, they felt.

The police had done nothing. They were protecting her. Who was there to protect the children who had died? She had more rights than the victims. It was a liberty. And someone should do something about it. Show them that they'd had enough. That they weren't going to be ignored.

They tried making assumptions as to whom she could be. Came up with parameters. She had to be new to the estate, or relatively new, someone who wouldn't be known to them. Who might have a secret. Someone mentioned the old goth woman, her alkie boyfriend and her long-haired son.

And it all coalesced.

It was time to direct that anger. Time to show her that if the police weren't going to do anything, they – the inhabitants of the estate, the
angry
inhabitants – would. This was their estate. And they were going to reclaim it.

They came with hastily made placards, chanting, shouting. Fuelled on anger and alcohol, the cold, dark night the perfect cover. They were out in the open, clear about what they wanted. The child murderer out.

By any means necessary.

They found the block of flats she lived in. Someone knew which floor she was on. They all went up the stairwell, stood outside the door. Starting banging on it, shouting. No reply.

‘She's inside, keep shouting,' was one such shout, rage's conviction overcoming the evidence.

They kept shouting, banging, hitting. The noise deafening. But she wasn't there. There was no sound, no movement, not even any light inside the flat. She wasn't there. They had done all this, and she wasn't there.

Their anger was unspent, still coiled collectively within them. It needed an outlet. They had to do something, make some kind of statement. Protest. One of the number had come armed with a washing-up liquid bottle full of petrol. Clearly prepared, he had done this kind of thing before. In the raging cacophony, he went up to the letterbox, squirted it through. Lit a match, threw that in afterwards. Risked a glance inside: it had taken. The hallway carpet had caught nicely.

They turned and, their anger gleeful almost to the point of orgasm, ran from the flat. They stood on the ground, outside the block, watching as the flames took hold. Neighbours started to appear from the other flats. Came and stood on the landing. Panicked and ran once they saw the fire had caught.

Some ran away, some came and joined them. Some phoned 999.

The fire took hold, clouds of black smoke belching out.

It started to spread to other flats, began to get out of hand.

The fire starters could do nothing but watch.

Rob was still in bed, CD player blaring, AC/DC's greatest hits reminding him of his glory days. He was drifting in that space between waking and dreaming, the zone where the subconscious was supposed to sort out the real world's problems. It wasn't working for him. Things were still complicated. But the rest was doing him good. It was the excuse, he told himself, for not getting up. What with everything that had happened recently, a day in bed, trying to relax, get his head together, was just what he needed.

He was trying to come to terms with so much: Anne Marie being exposed, them all having to move and, he was ashamed to remember, he had punched a woman. She was a journalist, yes, but still a woman. Although that was probably a good thing – it had stopped him from going further. If it had been a man he would have done a lot more damage.

There was an awful noise going on outside, sounding like someone having a huge party. He heard it over his music. He couldn't lie there any longer with all that going on so thought about getting up, making another cup of tea and maybe some toast, when he smelt burning. He knew he hadn't left anything on in the kitchen – all he had eaten all day was a bowl of cereal. So he knew something must be wrong.

He got out of bed and, wearing only the T-shirt and boxers he slept in, opened the bedroom door. Immediately he was engulfed by thick, black smoke.

Oh God, oh God …

He shut the door straight away, looked round, his heart hammering. Think. Think. The flat was on fire, what could he do? Phone 999.

He scanned the bedroom, looking for his phone. It wasn't there. He had left it in the living room.

‘Fuckin' hell …'

He looked at the door. Smoke was starting to curl in under the bottom. He could feel the heat, smell it. He was starting to panic. He had to get out of there, had to get away. If he stayed in the bedroom, he would die. That realization galvanized him into action. He had to open the door, find a way out.

Water. He needed water. If he could wet something, put it over his face like they did in films, then he might not get burned. But there was no water in the bedroom. He would have to go to the bathroom for that. If he could. He grabbed a T-shirt from the dirty laundry pile, took several deep breaths, opened the door.

The heat hit him like a solid, yet moving, wall. It pushed him back into the room. He fought it, knowing he had to move forward, had to go through it somehow, had to escape.

Then another thought occurred to him: Jack. Where was Jack? If anything had happened to him, not only would Anne Marie kill him but he would never forgive himself. The boy's bedroom was next door, further along the hall. The flames hadn't reached there yet, just smoke. He put the T-shirt over his mouth and ran, flinging open the next door along. He peered through the smoke into the room, called out.

‘Jack … Jack …'

No sign, no sound of the boy. He crossed to the bed, flung back the duvet. No Jack. Rob felt a momentary relief. The boy wasn't in the fire. That was something.

Rob went back into the hall again, looked round, quickly assessing his options. The fire seemed to be coming from the living room and that was the only way out He opened the bathroom door opposite, turned on the taps and thrust the T-shirt he was carrying under the water. Putting a bath towel into the sink alongside it, he turned the taps full on, soaking them. When they were good and wet he pulled them out and, dripping, put the towel over his head and the T-shirt over his mouth. It was hard to breathe through the wet material but preferable to inhaling smoke. Breathing as shallowly as he could, he entered the living room.

The hallway leading to the front door was completely impassable. Fire had all but devoured it. He saw Anne Marie's Spirit House in the corner, the gaudily painted wooden construction that she had bought in some hippy shop years ago that was supposed to trap bad spirits in, completely aflame. It was useless now.

He looked round, panic rising within him once more. He was trapped. No way out, without getting burned alive.

He let out a scream. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair …

Then stopped, tried to control himself. Think. There must be some way …

The window. It had a balcony. A small one, but a balcony, none the less. If he could just get out there …

He moved quickly to the window, flung it open, stepped out, dropping the T-shirt and savouring fresh air. He leaned out, checked both sides. No fire there. He looked over the rail. Fourth floor. A long way down.

He leaned further over the balcony. There was another one on the floor below, just underneath him. If he could climb over, lower himself down, swing in …

It was a risk. But it was better than staying in a burning flat.

Rob didn't mind heights. He was used to them after his years as a roadie with different bands. Shinning up lighting rigs held no fear for him – he had even done it when he was drunk and stoned and never had an accident. But that was years ago. When he was younger and felt immortal. Before he got fat and lazy.