Speak No Evil (6 page)

Jack said nothing, just stared at him.

Anger clouded the boy's vision. Jack hoped he wasn't going to try to hit him. He wasn't a coward and he was no stranger to fear. It was something he could use, turn outwards into violence. But he didn't want to. He wouldn't fight back, not because he was scared of being hurt, but because he didn't want trouble at this school. Trouble was something that followed him around.

Instead the boy turned away and walked off, his sidekick trying to keep up in the slipstream.

Jack watched them until they disappeared round the corner of the building.

He looked at his hands. They were shaking.

He thought about his mother's hands again, closed his eyes. Wished he was somewhere else. Someone else. Leading a better, happier life.

Knew it was never going to happen.

The bell rang. Break was over. He welcomed it.

Donovan turned away from the screen, the blue door still unmoving, and stared out of the office window as a Metro train went by on the viaduct overhead. When he had first moved Albion into the building he had thought their regular rumblings would have been a distraction but now he found them quite reassuring. The habitual rhythms gave him a sense of people going somewhere, of lives moving forward. At least that was what he told himself. Really, he probably just liked the sound.

Anne Marie had gone home. It had been a difficult, distressing day. Donovan knew that it would be hard to get her to talk honestly about her mother but he hadn't realized just how hard. Anne Marie had fretted, procrastinated, found displacement activities, in fact done anything but confront the memories of her mother head on. Donovan couldn't blame her. Anne Marie's childhood was the stuff of nightmares. And if he'd had a mother like her, he might have ended up the same way.

Monica Blacklock should never have been allowed to have children. Forced into prostitution at a depressingly early age by her father, she had grown up working the only way she knew how. By selling her body. Anne Marie, or Mae as she had been known then, had been born when Monica Blacklock was only seventeen and already her looks were fading due to years of abuse, her body tired and exhausted. But she still needed to earn so she had begun to specialize. S & M. Those punters cared less about looks and more about attitude. If she still had a bit of strength in her arm and a nasty way with her mouth they went away happy. Or at least satisfied.

But there was one thing she hated even more than herself. Mae. Because the older her daughter became, the more she reminded her of how much she was ageing. And Mae's increasing prettiness just contrasted with Monica's increasingly haggard appearance. She began to feel like the child was sucking what life she had out of her.

So Monica had tried, unsuccessfully, to give her away for adoption. When that failed she had, in desperation, left her with a childless couple and ran away. But Mae had been returned and Monica seemed to be stuck with her. So she resolved to kill her.

She made the acts out to be accidental: pills that resembled sweets left lying around, a first-floor window left fully open where she was playing. Neither worked. So, with nothing left to lose, she had put Mae to work servicing punters. The S & M ones.

Looked at in that context, the fact that Mae had, at the age of eleven, killed a toddler wasn't surprising.

Donovan had been presented with all these facts before he had started working with her. A literary agent had presented him with a report.

The call was unexpected but timely. Peta, Amar and Jamal were in the process of leaving for Brighton. There was no one else in the office so he answered it.

‘Hi. Can I speak to Joe Donovan, please?' A woman's voice.

‘Yeah, this is me.'

‘I'm sure you don't remember me,' she said. She was well-spoken, confident-sounding. Professional but enthusiastic. She clearly enjoyed her work and it showed in her voice. ‘My name's Wendy Bennett. I'm a literary agent with, well, you'd know them as Morgan and Rubenstein. I'm sure that rings some bells for you.'

It did. The words transported Donovan back to a time before Albion, before David went missing. When he still had a wife and family. A career. An agent for his freelance writing.

‘God. The last person I expected to hear from.'

‘I'm sure.' There was warmth in her voice too. ‘I was just an office assistant in those days. Too junior for you to bother with then, probably.' She laughed.

She was right. He couldn't remember her. She continued.

‘Are you still in the market for freelance work?'

‘What makes you ask?'

‘Well … we had an approach. A job. And I thought of you.'

‘After all this time? You've got no one else?'

She laughed. ‘It's a very specialized job. Would suit someone with your talents down to the ground. Let me tell you about it and you'll see why.'

She told him. And he did see why. Wendy Bennett was on the next train to Newcastle to discuss it with him.

The Living Room on Dean Street was a modern, stylish restaurant. Attached to a boutique hotel, it catered to an aspirational, urban, hip clientele. And – which was why Donovan had chosen it – expense accounts. The sleek, modern décor had been designed to complement the high-ceilinged Georgian architecture. It felt, he thought, catching glances of the ways in which the other diners surreptitiously managed to get themselves noticed, exactly like it was supposed to.

Wendy Bennett was, Donovan assumed, in her early thirties. She had brown hair, brown eyes and a wide, confident smile that showed perfect teeth and had engaged him immediately. She was full-figured, curvy in a way that he suspected could tip over into unwanted pounds if she wasn't careful. Not that something like that would ever bother him. She was also filled with an energy, joy and life that was positively stimulating. She had an appetite, he had discovered in conversation during the course of the meal, not just for food and wine, but for life itself. It was, he thought, hard not to be swept along by her.

They spent the ordering time and the first course talking about his old literary agent. Donovan had forgotten she existed. When Wendy talked of the agency and the world he had once been a part of, it seemed like she was talking of events in a foreign country that he had once enjoyed visiting and meant to return to, but because other things had got in the way had never got round to it.

‘Morgan and Rubenstein,' he said, watching the way the light caught the red wine as he swirled his glass. ‘Names I never thought I'd hear again.'

‘Well,' said Wendy, leaning forward, ‘it's not exactly M and R any more. Susanna Rubenstein's gone.' She smiled, savouring her next words. ‘It's Morgan and Bennett now.'

‘Right. Well done, you.'

She raised her glass. ‘Thank you.'

The waiter cleared away the start plates and they looked at each other. There was that smile again. It was hard not to return it. So he did.

‘So,' he said, reaching for his wine glass, ‘tell me about Mae Blacklock. And why I'm so crucial to the job.'

Wendy Bennett bent down, pulled out a folder from her bag. ‘It's all here. Mae Blacklock obviously isn't her name now. When she was eleven she killed a little boy. Trevor Cunliffe. Huge scandal at the time, big media circus.'

‘I remember.'

She looked at him and he was suddenly conscious of the gap in years between them. It wasn't huge but it suddenly seemed that way. ‘Of course,' she said. ‘Anyway, she was released about twenty years ago. Given a new identity, sent somewhere far away. She met a man, got pregnant, had a baby. A boy. Then she moved. And she moved again. And again. And now she's back in Newcastle. And she wants to tell her story.'

Donovan frowned. ‘Why? Why now?'

Wendy shrugged. ‘Who knows? But she came to us. And we didn't have anyone we thought could do that. And then someone thought of you.'

‘Someone?'

‘Well, me, actually'

Donovan smiled. ‘Thank you. And I have to say, I'm interested. But I'm not a journalist any more. I don't do that kind of thing now.'

‘Oh I know', said Wendy. ‘I know exactly what you do. I've been keeping tabs on you.'

‘You?'

She blushed slightly. ‘I meant we. The agency. We never forgot you. You did some good stuff. Back in the day.'

Donovan smiled again, loving the way young, middle-class professionals had appropriated aspects of urban culture to give them what they thought was a hip edge. ‘It was a blast,' he said.

‘Good. Well, let's hope this will be too. Are you interested? Will you do it? We've got a publisher lined up ready to pay the advance. I know that's unusual without actually seeing anything, but this is an unusual case.'

‘What's the money like?'

She told him. And he thought of the new Albion offices and the wage bill. And something else – how this might be just the thing to take his mind off Brighton.

He said he was in and asked for more details.

‘Right. Well, she now lives in Newcastle on the Hancock Estate in Byker.' She was going to continue. He stopped her.

‘Please don't do the Byker Grove thing.'

She looked slightly put out. ‘Why not?'

‘Because it's not funny any more. And because you'll mark yourself out as a southerner and you might get a smack in the face for it.'

She looked round. ‘What, even in here?'

He smiled. ‘Even in here. City hasn't been gentrified that long. Ancestral race memories and all that. Anyway. Please continue.'

‘Right. Well, she's up here now. She's moved about a lot. She's got her son with her, like I said, and a partner.'

‘And do they both know who she used to be?'

‘The partner does. The boy doesn't.'

‘Right. What's she like?'

‘Very bright, very sparky, highly intelligent,' said Wendy. ‘Self-educated, obviously. Did all sorts of studying inside. But, needless to say, that hasn't translated to a steady job or a happy life since then.'

‘Sure. High IQ doesn't always equal high self-esteem. Especially not when you've had her background.'

Wendy smiled. ‘You've met her boyfriend, then.'

Donovan raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh he's all right, I suppose. I'm sure he loves her. She's always saying how good he is to her. I'm sure he is.' Wendy took another mouthful of wine, looked at him, her face suddenly serious. ‘Do you think you would have a problem talking to her?'

‘Why? How d'you mean?'

‘She killed a little boy. And you … y'know.'

Donovan nodded, took another mouthful of wine. ‘I know,' he said. ‘Well, I don't know. Honestly. But I'd give it my best shot. Give her the benefit of the doubt. She was only a child herself when she did that.'

Wendy nodded. ‘I agree. I think everyone deserves a second chance. Well, most people, anyway.' She smiled again. ‘But that's good. In fact, that's exactly what I was hoping you would say.'

‘Good.' Donovan returned her smile.

The main courses arrived. They ate. He asked more questions about the job. What did they hope the book would achieve?

‘We don't want it to be sensationalist. Not the usual true crime kind of thing. Not just a ghosting job. More like what Gordon Burn did with the Yorkshire Ripper and the Wests. Your voice is just as important. That kind of thing. I'm sure that's right up your street.'

Donovan agreed it was. They worked out a rough schedule and working method. Interview Mae – Wendy still wouldn't tell him her new name at this point – wherever she felt comfortable. Start generally, work in deeply. Mae knew what to expect. She knew how emotionally challenging the questions would be. She was prepared. She was ready.

They finished their mains. The waiter cleared the plates away.

‘That was brilliant,' said Wendy. She leaned back in her chair. ‘Man, I'm stuffed.'

As she leaned back, her large breasts strained against the low-cut dress she was wearing. He tried not to, but couldn't help his eyes from dropping down there.

She sat forward again. Another smile. ‘This is so great to have you on board. I can't tell you how excited I am.'

‘Good. I hope I can do a good job for you.'

‘I'm sure you can.'

Was she coming on to him? He didn't know. But he didn't mind. She was very attractive. And he was unattached.

‘So …' he began. He was so out of practice. ‘What about you. Tell me about you.'

She looked slightly taken aback but a smile played round the corners of her lips. ‘I'm thirty-four, I work in publishing. I'm a literary agent. I love my job.'

Donovan was smiling. Enjoying himself for the first time in ages. ‘Anything else?'

‘Like what?'

‘Married? Kids?'

She blushed slightly. ‘There's … someone. We're not married, though.'

‘Is he in publishing?'

‘God no. Local government. Couldn't do that. Get enough of writers all day.' Then she looked at Donovan. ‘Sorry.'

‘No problem. I'm not a writer any more.'

‘But you will be again, I hope.' She smiled, but some of the sparkle seemed to have dissipated from her.

At the mention of the boyfriend, Donovan decided that pursuing interest in her was, unfortunately, a dead end. He brought the talk round to work again. ‘Trevor Cunliffe's mother's still around, you know', he said.

Wendy frowned. ‘How d'you mean?'

‘She pops up on TV now and again. Whenever there's a murder involving kids they trot her out for a quote. Whether she knows anything or not. Gets her face on TV, in the papers, radio. Everywhere.'

‘Is she an expert?'

Donovan shrugged. ‘I don't know. Her son was murdered. And she's had a lifetime of bitterness and pain to contend with because of that.'

‘Right.' Wendy's smile faded.