Bone Machine (13 page)

Donovan sat in the back of the Vauxhall Vectra, saying nothing, staring out of the window. The rain hadn’t eased off. If anything,
it was coming down harder. The only other sounds were breathing. His and Katya’s. And, from the front, Nattrass and Turnbull’s.
Both twisted around, both staring at Donovan.

‘So you goin’ to tell us?’ Turnbull asked again.

Donovan just looked at him. Said nothing.

‘Well, well. Joe Donovan. My favourite gobshite do-gooder.’ The words Turnbull had used when Nattrass and Turnbull had appeared
at the door of the brothel. Donovan, knowing full well the history between himself and Turnbull, had mentally prided himself
on not rising to the words, and instead hustled them both outside. He wanted Noddy well out of earshot of anything likely
to be said. The detectives hadn’t been too happy about him doing that. But then they weren’t too happy about seeing him full
stop.

After Turnbull’s less-than-friendly greeting, Nattrass had stepped in. Businesslike, professional as usual. She had asked
Donovan and Katya to walk with them to the car, get inside. Katya was clearly terrified. The fact that they weren’t who she
had thought they would be, but police instead, didn’t make it any easier for her. She kept her hat pulled down, said nothing.
Donovan, trying to deflect attention away from her, attempted levity. Failed.

‘Good to see you again, Diane,’ he had said with as big a smile as he could muster. ‘How you keeping?’

‘Just get in the car, please, Joe. It’s pissing down.’

They got in the car.

Donovan noticed that Turnbull had been trying to look under Katya’s cap all the way across the road. He knew whom Turnbull
expected to find there. He knew he had to say something to stop him asking too many questions about her.

‘This is a new associate of ours,’ Donovan said, indicating Katya. ‘Her name’s Kate. She’s working for me at the moment.’

Katya, picking up the hint, gave a little nod, supported by a small smile.

‘Not Peta,’ said Donovan. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

Turnbull said nothing. Just looked like he wanted to hit Donovan.

In the car, riled now, he still wasn’t letting up.

‘Again,’ said Turnbull. ‘You want to tell us what you and your ladyfriend were doing visiting a known brothel?’

Donovan smiled. ‘Ladyfriend? I don’t think I’ve heard that phrase since England won the World Cup.’

‘Funny fucker.’ Turnbull’s face showed he found him anything but.

Nattrass flashed him a warning look.

‘I am,’ said Donovan. ‘Wait until you see my Tommy Cooper impression.’

Turnbull looked like overheating. Donovan expected to see steam rising from him. ‘Just tell me what you were doing there.’

‘I could ask you the same thing,’ said Donovan. ‘Why are two of Northumbria’s finest going about harassing innocent members
of the public for what they get up to in their own time?’

‘Boys,’ said Nattrass, a note of weary anger in her voice, ‘I’m about to choke on the testosterone.’

The two men quietened down. Turnbull kept staring daggers at Donovan. Donovan winked at him. Nattrass sighed.

‘Please,’ she said. Then turned to Donovan. ‘Let’s not go through all that again. It’s too tedious. We’re investigating a
murder. It’s been classified high grade. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.’

‘I have. I saw you on TV. You come across much better than Bob Fenton.’

Nattrass hid a smile. ‘Don’t try to flatter me, I’m working.’ Then back to business. ‘And the establishment you have just
emerged from has come up in the course of our enquiries. And it’s too much of a coincidence to find you there. So what’s going
on?’

Donovan smiled to himself. Good cop, bad cop. Perhaps they had started it as an act but, like wearing a mask for so long,
it takes on the contours of your features until you become it and it you; it was hard to tell when the act stopped and they
played it for real.

‘What a double act,’ he said. ‘Better than Eric and Ernie in their prime.’ He looked at Turnbull. ‘Go on, show us your short,
fat, hairy legs.’

Turnbull tried to get over the back of the seat and grab him. Nattrass stopped him. Turned to Donovan.

‘Don’t piss us about, Joe. We’ve got a job to do.’

‘I know,’ Donovan said. ‘But it’s fun. I’m working on the same case as you. For Janine Stewart.’

Distaste and disbelief fought for dominance on Turnbull’s face. ‘You? As what?’

‘An investigator.’

Turnbull snorted. ‘An investigator? You couldn’t find your arse with both hands.’

Donovan smiled. ‘Everything I know I learned from you. You’re my hero.’

Nattrass sighed. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ she said. ‘Can’t you two behave like adults?’

Donovan and Turnbull fell silent once more.

‘Thank you,’ said Nattrass. ‘Now. Again. Why are you investigating this case?’

‘Janine Stewart wants Michael Nell’s alibi double-checked. Just to make sure there are no discrepancies.’

‘Discrepancies?’ said Nattrass.

‘Yeah. You know what I mean. Michael Nell’s not just an arrogant twat, but a rich arrogant twat. Janine Stewart thinks there
might be a temptation to find him more guilty than he otherwise would have been.’

‘What?’ Nattrass’ eyes flared.

‘Only in an overzealous way to see justice done, of course.’

‘We would investigate this case like any other,’ said Nattrass. ‘Why should she want you to do it too?’

‘Like you said. It’s been classified high grade. And since Nell senior’s a rich man, some deaths are more important than others.’

Nattrass kept staring at him. Controlling her anger. ‘So why do you care?’

Donovan shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care. You know me. I just do what I’m told and pocket the cheque.’

‘Right.’ Nattrass gave him a look that said she believed he did anything but.

‘So what did you find out?’ asked Turnbull.

Donovan smiled again. ‘Can’t tell you. Client confidentiality and all that.’

Turnbull sighed. ‘Mouthy bastard. I’m gonna smack you one of these days.’

Donovan just looked at him.

‘Come on, boys,’ said Nattrass. ‘There’s no conflict of interest. We’re all on the same side here. Despite what Janine
Stewart might think. We want to either do him or exclude him.’

‘Then I think you might be excluding him,’ said Donovan. ‘The woman he photographed says he was with her on the night Ashley
disappeared.’

‘Can she prove this?’ asked Nattrass.

Donovan shrugged. ‘Says she can. Says she’ll put it in writing for me.’

‘So you take the word of some whore at face value?’ Turnbull sneered. ‘You’ll never make a proper investigator. You’ll never
make a copper.’

Donovan cast a glance to Katya. He saw her flinch when Turnbull said whore. Saw how upset she looked. This made him even more
angry. ‘And why would I want to? If they’re all cunts like you.’

‘Right, that’s it,’ said Nattrass. ‘Out of the car. Go on, piss off. That’s enough for one night.’

Donovan opened the car door, made to get out. Nattrass spoke again.

‘If I need to talk to you again, I know where to find you. And if I do, you’d better pray that I’m in a better mood.’

Donovan said nothing, got out. Katya followed.

They walked back to the parked Mondeo, got in. Donovan no longer knew whether the rain had eased or increased. He no longer
cared.

Jamal was waiting for them. ‘I tried to tell you who it was, man, but you cut me off.’

‘Sorry,’ said Donovan. ‘Thought it best to just run. But thank you for your concern.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Donovan turned to Katya, who was taking off her cap, letting her hair loose. ‘You OK?’

She nodded. ‘OK. But not an experience I want to go through again.’

‘Don’t blame you. Let’s go home.’

There was no argument with that. He started the car.

Unaware that the front curtain of the house he had just visited had been pulled aside, unaware that two faces were watching
him go. Making notes.

And phone calls.

Those who don’t learn from the past, the Historian had once read somewhere, are condemned to repeat it. And that was all he
could see. Around him. All he could ever see. The past repeating itself.

The dead souls. He would glimpse them in alleyways, doorways. On buses, the Metro. Sitting in pubs or in a cinema. They guided
him, spoke to him, gave him hope. Showed him the secret history of the city, where the past was hiding in the present. Gave
him his special route, his places to visit.

Some places were more important than others. They spoke to him more clearly. Like this one.

Friday night. The old Keep.

He sat on a bench amid the ruined old walls of the city, the stone crumbling, making its own patterns, looking down at the
Tyne. Just to his left was Long Stairs, a winding, twisting route down to the quayside. One of a number of a series of Georgian
steps linking the higher and lower aspects of the city. The stairs were winding, in poor repair and badly lit; they provided
ample camouflage for would-be muggers and rapists. They were often vomit dotted and provided good places for surreptitious
late-night sex. Signs announced that hidden CCTV cameras had been added. Whether they were effective or not, the Historian
didn’t know. He was neither a mugger nor a rapist. He would never vomit or have sex in public. He was something different.
Something special.

He looked down again. Through the old stone arch and down the stairs. And the flashback hit him, hard and fast: his father.
That vicious, hated bastard.

And he could see again that violent, abusive man taking one last drunken stumble down the stairs. Could see again the ten-year-old
version of himself watching him die.

His father lying there. Fear in his eyes, blood pooling beneath his skull. Asking for help. Remember picking up his father’s
head from the floor almost tenderly.

Dashing it back down as hard as he could.

Thinking how pleased his mother would be to know there was just the two of them now and he could never hurt them again.

He smiled at the memory. Could still feel the same warmth he had felt then.

A perfect moment.

He looked away. Loud music and flashing lights made their quayside siren calls up to those seeking drunken, drug-powered licentiousness.
Those who wanted to lose themselves, to forget their present. The Historian saw that as a dereliction of their duty as human
beings. He would never lose himself. He would never lose control.

He smiled, ignoring the rain. At his feet was one of his favourite parts of Newcastle’s history. A hidden oubliette, built
into the exposed stone flooring of the old fortifications. The council had put a new grate on it, bolted it firmly down so
no drunks could throw their friends down it on the way home from the pub just for a laugh. Instead it had become a litter
bin for those passing. Crisp packets, fast-food and sweet wrappers, old newspapers and soft drinks cans were all caught up
in it. Strewn rubbish floated in the accumulated rainwater at the bottom. He would sometimes come with rubber gloves, bag
up the litter and dispose of it responsibly. Bring a flask of instant coffee, a Tupperware of
sandwiches. Make a day of it. Or a night of it. Like a relative tending the grave of a departed loved one.

In a way, that was what it was. The countless souls who had died down there for crimes they either did or didn’t commit, or
on the whim of some corrupt feudal chief. Just rotting away in a space too small to even stretch your arms out.

He heard the cries, the screams, the entreaties. The hopeless sobs, the last breaths. Coming down the centuries like echoes
thrown up from a deep well.

He sighed. Thought of his experiment.

He had made notes, detailed and intricate, for that. It was almost ready to go ahead, the next stage. His plans were advanced.
He even had an idea of who the next one would be. He had singled her out, watched her, recorded her movements. It would be
so easy. He smiled. With all that was going on, he thought, you’d think people would be more careful. But some people never
learn.

He smiled. Those who don’t learn from the past are condemned to repeat it.

Or one in particular.

She would be the one. She would not just advance his theories; she would prove him right. He was sure of it. He could almost
feel the satisfaction that would come from it. The peace. The release.

The euphoria.

He heard footsteps, voices. Someone coming up the stone stairs. Laughing, joking. Walking unsteadily. A man and a woman.

They hadn’t seen him. He watched.

They stopped before they reached the top, the man pulling the woman into a shadowed alcove, kissing her exploring her with
his hands.

The Historian watched.

The woman reciprocated in kind.

The Historian could feel himself becoming aroused. He slid his hand in his pocket, felt the handle of the knife he always
carried, began to fondle it. He heard their gasps and sighs. He closed his eyes.

Then a scream.

The Historian looked up. The couple were looking directly at him; the woman fearful, the man angry.

The man was pulling himself together, crossing towards him.

‘What’s your game, eh? What d’you think you’re doin’?’

The Historian looked at him, said nothing.

‘That how you get your kicks, is it? Eh?’

The man stood over him. Even in the rain he was sweating alcohol and violence.

The Historian said nothing. Just looked at him, barely blinking.

The man kept clenching and unclenching his fists. He wanted to fight, to hit, but the Historian wasn’t making it easy. He
wasn’t playing along.

The woman crossed to him, put her arm around him.

‘Come on, Jeff. Let’s go. We’ll get a taxi, be home in twenty minutes. Come on.’

The man’s anger was diminishing. But he wasn’t moving.

‘Come on,’ said the woman again. ‘He’s just some weirdo. Come on.’

The man began to yield to her entreaties. He began to walk away. ‘Next time I catch you, though, next time …’

Clenching and unclenching his fists.

The Historian could see the encounter had left him unfulfilled. Perhaps his woman would bear the brunt of that later, he thought.

The couple walked away. The Historian watched them go, then resumed looking over the Tyne, at the oubliette.

He sighed. He could hear the voices now. They were coming to him strong.

He smiled. No longer alone.

Anita was trying to get used to this. Her second night of it.

She sat on a stool at a bar just opposite one of the quayside’s hotels, a hotel usually used by businessmen attending meetings
away from home. She was trying to pretend that she belonged there. Convince others of it too. She wore a full-sleeved black
dress, long enough to be modest, short enough to send out the correct signals, and sat with her black-stockinged legs crossed
at the ankles, sipping a gin and tonic. She took deep breaths, practised keeping her hands from shaking. Her expression was
as blank as she could make it. A stone wall she wanted no one to penetrate. Keep the screaming, tearful sad girl locked up
behind it, like an imprisoned princess heroine in a castle from one of her old romantic stories.

Doing what she had to do to survive.

No longer one of the lucky ones.

She had left Decca’s flat feeling more bereft than she had in a long time. She had phoned the two other girls she worked with
but they had been told to have nothing to do with her. She understood. Didn’t blame them. It was a fragile net that supported
them in this country, the slightest rip could send them all tumbling.

She had walked around, thought of spending her last bit of money on a hotel. Before she could do that, she had stopped in
a bar for a drink. She didn’t know which one. She just wanted somewhere she could sit and think.

She wasn’t alone for long. A man came to join her. She let him. He was middle-aged, overweight and red-faced. Wearing the
obligatory business suit. She looked at him,
caught glimpses of what his wife must have once found attractive about him.

He made it quite clear to her what he had in mind. She pretended to mull it over, weigh up his offer. All the while trembling
inside. She thought of her options. They had shrunk, right down to the man opposite her. She had no choice. Accepted his offer.
The only proviso being she had to spend the night. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Back to his hotel. She had done worse things. With worse people. At least she had a bed for the night.

When she left him in the morning, she gave herself seven hours to find something else, another way of getting by. With seven
hours up, she had failed. Every bar, shop and café she went into said they weren’t interested. They weren’t hiring. Not at
first: they would look at her face. It was a yes. Then hear her voice. A no. She was foreign. Eastern European. An asylum
seeker. A refugee. A tabloid hate figure. A pretty one, admittedly, but still. There were limits. They didn’t tell her she
was untrustworthy, perhaps even disease-ridden Inferior. They didn’t have to. She saw it all in their eyes.

So, with the evening coming down cold and hard like rain, she was back in the bar. She moved her arm to her drink, the fresh
cuts on her arms rubbing against the fabric of her dress. She moved her arms some more, just to feel them.

She had fended off several advances; none of them had struck her as being the right ones. Money, but no shelter. Then she
was approached. Middle-aged again. Short and balding this time. Suited, playing with his wedding ring like it weighed too
heavily on his finger. A salesman’s smile. An anonymous man.

He sat next to her, went into the routine. Asked her if the seat was taken. She responded with her own part of the
routine. He sat. Ordered drinks. They began talking. He lied. She lied. She didn’t know who lied the most. She didn’t care.
Then the questions by him. The artfully placed answers by her. Encouraging, but subtle. Like wearing black-lace lingerie beneath
a nine-to-five suit; offering only a tantalizing glimpse. A trailer of forthcoming attractions.

Then the negotiation. Her proviso offered, agreed to.

And off they went. He sweating and hot, she sweating and cold.

At the door, an unexpected piece of gallantry: holding it open for her. In return a smile like he had just bought her a huge
diamond ring.

Then walking back to the hotel, arm in arm.

At the doors, a final word. ‘You’re lucky you met me, you know.’

Feigning interest. ‘Why?’

‘Because there’s some right nutters out there, you know.’

She gives a nod. Agreement.

And in they went. The hotel doors closing silently behind them.

Sealing them in, like a castle drawbridge pulling up.