Speak No Evil (15 page)

‘Should it have done?'

‘I don't know. I'm just wondering whether that was what made you decide to move. A boy dies near to where you're living. Murdered. If people knew you lived there they might put two and two together.'

‘And come up with six.' She spits the words out.

‘I'm just speculating. That's all.'

She breathes in deeply through her nose, her nostrils flare as she does so. ‘I had nothin' to do with that boy's death. Nothin'. I didn't even know him, right?'

‘OK. I had to ask.'

She nods her head. ‘I know. An' I said I would be honest. An' I am bein'. It's just …' She sighs. Heavily. ‘You've got no idea. You're a nice bloke an' that, but you've got no idea.' She sighs again, reaches for the cigarettes. Her hand shakes.

‘Next question,' she says.

12

Abigail looked out of the window. She saw a river, hotels, a huge, rounded concert hall made of shimmering, undulating curves. An art gallery in an old flour mill. Landmark bridges. She saw a city she didn't know. Yet she felt safe.

She turned back to the living room she was in. The flat seemed like a hotel suite that a long-stayer had made himself comfortable in. It wasn't homely – there were very few books or CDs and nothing on the walls, things she measured homeliness and comfort by – but it seemed lived in. Like there was a real, warm human presence. She put her arms round herself, hugged. The borrowed T-shirt she had worn to sleep in had an image of the first issue of the X-Men on it. She looked at it, smiled. He hadn't changed.

She looked out of the window again. Sighed. Her heart felt heavy, her head confused. She had slept soundly last night, exhaustion claiming her to a near comatose degree, the stress of the last few days taking its toll, working its way out.

She was here now. She had made it. But she still didn't know what she was going to do next.

She heard movement behind her, turned.

‘Sorry,' he said, making his way into the room. ‘Didn't mean to wake you.'

‘That's OK,' she said, suddenly aware of herself to an awkward degree. ‘I was awake anyway.'

He nodded, stayed at the other side of the room, keeping his distance, giving her space. ‘I phoned …' He paused, the word he wanted unfamiliar to him. ‘Mum. Told her you were here.'

‘What did she say?' Quickly, suddenly alarmed.

He gave her an appraising look then his face broke into a reassuring smile. ‘Told her you were here. That everything was fine.'

She listened, nodded, said nothing. Then: ‘Did she … did she say anything?'

‘Not really. I said we'd talk later. When you'd rested. When we'd had a chance to talk properly.' He became suddenly tongue-tied. ‘Listen, Mum hasn't said anything yet. Do you … do you want to talk yet? About why you're here?'

She thought for a moment, deciding. ‘No. Not yet.'

‘OK,' he said, ‘that's fine.'

She saw the relief on his face, guessed his parenting skills were somewhat rusty. Relieved as well, she sat down on the sofa. ‘What happened to your house?' she said. ‘Why are you here?'

He scratched his ear, looked uncomfortable. ‘That's a long and boring story,' he said, aiming for offhand.

‘Well, make it short and interesting,' she said.

He gave her a direct look, slightly taken aback. Then laughed. ‘That's my girl.' He sat down at the other end of the sofa. ‘It burned down.'

She sat forward, looked alarmed.

He spoke before she could. ‘Well, it's OK, I'm OK. No damage done. Well, books, CDs, stuff like that. Stuff that can be replaced. But no real damage done.' He tried not to think of his son's face. Wondered whether he would ever see it again.

‘How did it happen?'

He didn't speak straightaway, as if rehearsing words in his head before letting them out. ‘Just … an accident. One of those things.'

‘So why didn't you tell us?'

‘I told your mother. She mustn't have mentioned it.'

‘She's had a lot on her mind recently.' The words said bitterly, an undercurrent of anger.

Donovan noted it, decided the time wasn't right to press further. ‘Anyway,' he said, ‘no real harm done. Jamal and I were OK.'

‘Who's Jamal?'

‘The lad who lives with me.'

She felt a seismic shift beneath her. She didn't know this man at all. ‘What? What d'you mean, lives with you?'

‘What d'you think I mean? He's seventeen, he had nowhere to live, so I took him in and gave him a job.'

She looked around. ‘So where is he now?'

‘Brighton. With the rest of the team. Working.'

‘Why aren't you there, then?'

‘I'm working on something here.'

She shook her head, not sure if she was taking everything in. He looked at her. ‘Problem?'

‘Well, it's just … your house burns down and I don't get to hear about it, plus you've got a boy living with you. A Muslim boy from the sounds of it.'

‘No, he's not.'

She stood up, exasperated. And if she was honest, a little bit afraid. ‘I just … I don't know you. A
boy
…'

‘OK.' His voice was calm. ‘When I met him he was living on the streets. Being bought and sold by perverts. He came to me because he needed my help. So Peta and Amar and I got him out of there. He's one of the bravest people I've ever met. So we gave him a home. And a job. And he's doing fine now. Fine.'

She looked out of the window again, struggled for words. ‘Well. You should have let us know. That's all.'

‘Abigail, are you angry at me or your mother?'

‘Both.' Plosively spat out, as only a teenager could. ‘Why didn't you tell me? Never mind her, why didn't you tell me?'

‘Well, the last time we met, you didn't exactly make me welcome.'

She felt anger rising again within her. ‘Can you blame me? You turn up at the house six months ago, I don't know why you're there or what you've been doing, you tell me you'll soon have news about …' She couldn't say his name. ‘Then nothing. Next time you call you behave like you never said anything, like nothing happened. And now this …'

He sighed. ‘Sorry. It didn't work out the way I thought it would.' He snorted a harsh laugh. ‘Story of my life.'

Her anger subsided at his words. She fell silent.

‘Right,' he said, standing up, ‘that's the air cleared. Let's concentrate on the present. You're here now. So what can we do with you today?'

‘Are you going to send me back? To Mum?'

‘Do you want to go back?'

She thought of what awaited her if she did. What had made her leave in the first place. ‘Not … right now.'

‘OK. Fine. Then you're welcome to stay.'

‘Thank you. How long?'

He smiled. ‘Long as you like. Treat it like your home. Or home from home. Your mother can contact your school, sort it with them. Don't worry.'

‘Right.' She looked out of the window again.

He started to walk away then turned back to her. ‘Hey, Abigail.'

She turned. ‘Yeah?'

‘Good to have you here.'

She smiled and felt relief and relaxation in that smile. She only nodded again, not trusting her voice to speak. She turned back to the window, looked out again.

‘Right,' she heard her father say behind her. ‘Breakfast …' He went into the kitchen.

Missing the tears that sprang into her eyes. Good. She didn't want him to see them.

She kept looking out of the window at the new city.

She smiled.

‘Thanks for coming. Short notice, really appreciate it.' Tess Preston had polished up and trotted out her best estuary accent in the hope it would impress. She was desperately trying to lose the Posh Bird tag the guys in the office had given her.

‘No problem, Posh Bird.' Well, that was a waste of time.

Tess looked at the man. Ray Collins looked like a street-fighting gnome. He was a seasoned old Fleet Street hack in his forties, with long, greased back shoulder-length dirty grey /blonde hair and matching beard, an oily, mottled complexion, wearing jeans, work boots and a battered leather jacket that, like its owner, had seen plenty of action in super soaraway skirmishes and various tabloid warzones over the years. He was, Tess knew, one of the best photographers she could get. Or get from the office at short notice.

‘What's the story, then?' Ray Collins's voice was authentic cockney geezer, gravelled and roughened by years of Benson and Hedges, whisky at all hours and screaming from the terraces at Upton Park.

They walked through the front doors of the hotel to the car park, Collins hefting his camera bag on to his shoulder, towards Tess's Golf. She was proud of her Golf. Not the biggest, best or fastest car but a damned good place to start. Unfortunately it also had dreaded Posh Bird connotations, but she couldn't manage everything.

They got in the car. At close range, Tess noticed Collins smelled of tobacco and old leather. Tess didn't mind. To her it was the smell of success. And success was what she was about. Especially now. She was so excited by what she had discovered she was practically buzzing.

‘What's it all about?' she said, heading the car east along the quayside. ‘I tell you. This is going to be the biggest story of the year. Huge.'

Collins nodded, said nothing. Took a cigarette out of the pack, stuck it in his mouth, lit up.

Tess grimaced immediately. She hated smoking. She wasn't that keen on drinking, but she knew they were things that had to be tolerated if she was to make it in this racket. Her fingers went to open the window but she stopped herself. That's not what a pro would do. A pro would grin and bear it. A pro would join in.

‘You got a spare one?' she asked.

‘These aren't Posh Bird fags.'

Collins exhaled. Tess found herself momentarily driving through fog.

‘You were sayin'. Biggest story of the year an' all that.'

‘Yeah.' Tess hadn't been able to get the woman she had seen out of her mind so she had spent the night going through her scrapbook. She carried it with her everywhere she went. It was her diary, how she measured her life. Proof of who she was and what she had achieved. If her house were on fire it would be the first thing she would save. It would be the only thing she would save.

She had leafed through it, hoping to find the story that went with the woman's image. She knew it was something big, something important, but she couldn't place exactly what. She went all through the book, left to right, right to left, open at random pages, nothing. There was no story. That got her doubting. Maybe it was someone off the TV after all. She thought even more. Went through her notes, her phone, her laptop.

And eventually she found it. The story. And she was right. It was a big one.

She had phoned her editor. She didn't care that it was the middle of the night, or that she wasn't senior enough to have her mobile number. This was news. Big news. She would thank her for it.

Once her editor had finished bawling her out for calling in the middle of the night, she said: ‘This better be fucking good. Or you'll be looking for another job in the morning.'

Tess assured her it was good. The best. ‘Remember a few years ago, that child killer?'

‘Which one?'

‘The female one. When she was a kid she killed another kid. In the Sixties.'

‘Mae Blacklock. As was. What about her?'

She swallowed hard, tried to keep the tremble out of her voice. ‘I know where she lives.'

‘Good for you. So does everyone. You'll get your P45 in the morning. Good night.'

‘No wait …' This was it. Make or break. She swallowed again, started. ‘That's right, yes. Someone found out where she was living. We all went down there. I can remember it because it was one of my first stories. I was a trainee at the time. Then there was this court injunction stopping us from printing. Because of her son, or something. He didn't know who she really was.'

‘That's right. So what?'

‘The kid's nearly sixteen. Or turned sixteen. They moved her but I've found her again.'

Her editor was interested, but she felt that interest could go either way.

‘And listen to this. There's been a murder. Right on her doorstep. A boy. Stabbed. Coincidence? I think not.'

She had her full attention now, she knew it.

‘Go on,' she said.

‘Well, I checked up on it. Where she last lived, in Hull, when she was nearly outed, there was a murder there, too. A boy. Knifed to death. She moved straight afterwards.'

‘Fuck …'

Tess allowed herself a small smile. ‘You see what I mean?'

‘You got a photographer with you?'

‘No, we're using agency for this.'

‘I'll get one sent up.' She paused. She could guess what she was thinking. ‘You sure about this? Definitely her?'

Tess thought of seeing the woman the night before. Was it coincidence she was on a part of the estate journalists wouldn't venture into? ‘As sure as I can be.'

‘Get some corroboration. And some photos. They got any floral tributes up? Any of that shit?'

‘Plenty at the school gates.'

‘See if you can get a snap of her beside them. Killer's guilt, or something.'

Tess felt a ripple of excitement running through her. Not a ripple – more like a wave. ‘Will do.'

She thought again. ‘Tess, the last time this fell apart because of the boy. Because the Press Complaints Commission said it wasn't in the public interest. So we couldn't publish. I don't want that to happen again. It needs to be airtight.'

‘What would you suggest?'

‘Get me photos, a story, someone close to her going on record. A testimony. “I let evil killer babysit my kids.” Something like that. Get me airtight, get me overwhelming public interest and we're good to go.'